Christmas at Candleshoe (25 page)

All this – which may have been felt by some as not altogether incongruously touched by the canons of eighteenth-century romance – is listened to with close attention by everybody on the terrace of Candleshoe. Or by everybody with one exception. Dr Rosenwald – understandably in view of his own just elevation above the vulgar concerns of common life – takes very little interest in the denouement of our comedy. At first he sits in abstraction in the garden chair, presumably planning that campaign by which he will eventually secure for the happily recovered Leda and Lollia a record price for Lord Scattergood and a record commission for himself. Then he gets up, prowls about, and presently takes a condescending look at the undistinguished treasure-trove which the Christmas box has afforded. He turns over the old neglected canvases, dusting his fingers gloomily between each. He arrives at the Diana and Actaeon, pauses on it, peers, scratches, peers again, and surprises the company by giving vent to a sudden loud cry.

‘God bless my soul! I don’t believe that fellow can be sober yet.’ Lord Scattergood is apologetic. ‘Arthur, do you think we could have Rosenwald taken away? I am afraid he has fallen into some sort of alcoholic delirium. It must have been all that whisky. Perhaps they don’t drink it in Rome.’

‘He certainly appears to be extremely excited.’ Arthur Spendlove glances in perplexity at Dr Rosenwald, who is now waving his arms in what must be either mystical exaltation or agony.

Mr Archdeacon is also alarmed. ‘His behaviour is certainly very aberrant. Would it, one wonders, be occasioned by a sudden abnegation of the ratiocinative faculty?’

‘Off his rocker – eh–?’ Lord Scattergood is concerned. ‘Oughtn’t to have left him in that car all night. Delicate, no doubt – that sort.’

‘It is, in my opinion, nothing less than possession.’ Mr Armigel offers this. ‘Mark – a sure sign of such a state – the confusion of tongues. Pandemonium, after all, is an international settlement.’ Mr Armigel takes out his watch, glances at it, and walks away.

It is certainly true that a remarkable medley of the languages of Europe is tumbling from Dr Rosenwald’s lips. But presently he controls himself sufficiently to point a trembling finger at the Diana and Actaeon, and to produce an approximation to intelligible sense. ‘That that! It is whose…what…yes?’

‘Whose, sir?’ Miss Candleshoe is swift to have no doubts on this point. ‘That painting, as you must yourself have heard Lord Scattergood acknowledge, is my property. Not, possibly, in an absolute sense. I am not altogether clear that it may not be entailed upon the issue of my late nephew – that is to say, upon Jay. It is Candleshoe property. Let that suffice.’

‘And a Schiavone, you know.’ Mr Archdeacon nods his head sagely. ‘He is known to me as a painter of some little–’

‘Schiavone!’ Dr Rosenwald utters the name as a sort of howl in which are weirdly mingled derision, rage, and ecstasy. ‘That painting is by Giorgione.’

‘Is that so?’ Lord Scattergood is a little crestfallen on Miss Candleshoe’s behalf. ‘But, my dear fellow, it should have some little value, all the same?’

This time Dr Rosenwald’s howl is even more heavily loaded with conflicting emotions. Then, as with a supreme effort, he delivers himself tonelessly of two sentences. ‘Giorgione is the greatest painter in the history of European art. And this will unquestionably be acknowledged as his greatest work.’

There is a blank silence. Jay, who has been sitting on the edge of the terrace staring deep into some world of his own, now turns round and addresses the Roman connoisseur gravely. ‘The painting is worth a lot of money?’

‘Yes, my child.’

‘Enough to repair Candleshoe?’

Dr Rosenwald throws up his hands in disgust. ‘It is worth more than any other painting in the world.’ Then he brightens. ‘Put it in my hands, and I will get you enough to build a Benison Court, if you want to.’

Jay rises. ‘We shan’t want to do that.’ He brings his large watch from his pocket, looks at it, and then walks over to Miss Candleshoe. As he does so, from beyond the battered house, a cracked bell begins to sound. Miss Candleshoe hears it, bows majestically to Mrs Feather and the gentlemen assembled on the terrace, takes the arm of her young kinsman, and walks away.

(Both Series & ‘Stand-alone’)

Published by House of Stratus

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