The Complete Pratt (94 page)

‘Now do you see what I have to fight, why I see it as my personal mission to defeat these dark forces?’ said Colonel Boyce-Uppingham.

‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ said Henry.

‘And will you print all this, in your newspaper, to help me?’

‘Oh yes! Yes, I will,’ said Henry.

On Wednesday afternoon, there having been no reply to Henry’s second letter signed ‘First Angry Schoolmaster’, Colin typed a second letter signed ‘Second Angry Schoolmaster’.

The phrases rolled off Henry’s rickety old typewriter. ‘The Chief Torch Bearer of the Ark …’ It had turned out to be that kind of ark. ‘… of the Golden Light of Our Lady told me, with astonishing frankness, of his secret desires.

‘“I want to exploit women for money,” he told me. “I want to open filthy clubs …”

‘… instead of giving way to these impulses, Colonel Boyce-Uppingham is countering them by leading a nationwide fight against pornography.

‘Perhaps, as the man who knows no fear can never be truly
called
brave, so the man who knows no temptation can never truly be called good.’

He handed his first full-length feature article to Terry Skipton, who read it with increasing astonishment.

‘He really said all that?’

‘Every word.’ He showed Terry his notebook. The news editor read it carefully.

‘This is dynamite,’ he said at last.

‘I know.’

And off Henry went, well pleased with himself, to the private view at the Gusset Gallery.

His air of triumph was quickly flattened by the need to look out for falling crates. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, knowing that someone was trying to kill you.

At last he reached the comparative safety of the gallery. Safety? Man killed by falling painting. Constable lands on journalist.

The Gusset Gallery was situated next to the court house, beside the Town Hall. It was built in the Italianate style, as if it had been hoped that something of that nation’s artistic greatness would rub off on it.

He climbed an impressive staircase, past the bust of Sir Joshua Gusset, liniment maker and philanthropist, past early paintings of the Thurmarsh School, some of which, unfortunately, had not been restored, and others of which, even more unfortunately, had.

The white-walled rectangular gallery was bare of furniture except for a trestle-table with a white cloth, behind which a man with a bow-tie was dispensing wine, and two wooden benches, one facing each long wall, set in the middle of the room directly beneath a skylight. Skylight! Assassin lurked in skylight, inquest told.

Men in dark suits and women in two-piece costumes with extravagant hats were standing around and talking. A few artistically attired people were even looking at the pictures.

A large lady approached him like an overdressed waterspout.

‘Hermione Jarrett,’ she said. She seemed to think no further explanation was necessary.

‘Henry Pratt.’ Two could play at that game.

‘Ah!’ She was puzzled.

‘I’m from the
Argus
,’ he said, relenting.

‘Oh! What’s happened to our nice Mr Ackerman?’

‘He’s in London.’

‘Oh!’ Hermione Jarrett’s expression suggested that they had been unforgivably let down by hitherto nice Mr Ackerman. ‘Well, never mind. You’d like a catalogue, of course.’

Her ‘of course’ triggered his perversity. ‘Later,’ he said grandly. ‘When I review exhibitions, I usually like to remain unencumbered by the kind of preconceptions that titles give.’

He took a glass of red wine and tried to look as if assessing paintings was something he did every week.

There were forty-two pictures. They were modern. They were colourful. They were bold, sometimes even violent. There seemed to be a Cubist influence. They were, he thought, not terrible. But were they good? He had no idea.

He began to see certain things in certain of them. He began to see strange seascapes, with blue still seas beneath black, thundery clouds. One picture seemed to be of a barometer, with a serene, empty face set before a background of purple storm clouds. A glimmer of an idea came to him. Perhaps the pictures represented complacency, blue seas failing to reflect stormy skies, man failing to find a message on the face of the cosmic barometer. He began to see this theme all round him, but was it Johnson Protheroe’s or his own? If only he hadn’t so pretentiously denied himself access to the catalogue.

He listened to other people’s comments, hoping for guidance. ‘Look, Edgar, that’s exactly the colour of our clematis,’ wasn’t much help. ‘He’s as daft as a brush,’ seemed more promising, until he heard the reply, which was ‘Aye, well, he would be. Red setters often are.’

Were there usually people so ignorant of art at private views? Or were these people hired hoods, with forged invitations, whose task it was to wipe Henry out?

He decided to stick closely to Hermione Jarrett, for protection. She topped up his glass, and gave him a catalogue. The pictures had no titles. No help there! He was out of his depth.

‘They’ve no titles,’ he said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Apparently he regards titles as the labels of prejudice. He’s an uncompromising man. Of course he has been described as the harbinger of a new brutalism.’

Henry felt that he must make some reply. What reply could he make? He hadn’t even been aware that there had been an old brutalism. His nerves felt shredded. He couldn’t cope with all this.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘he could hardly be more brutal than life.’

‘That’s not bad,’ said Hermione Jarrett. ‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, young man. Well, under dear Mr Ackerman, to be precise.’ She remembered dear Mr Ackerman’s proclivities and visibly regretted her choice of phrase. ‘Come and meet a keen patron of the arts, Mr Hathersage.’ She led Henry, at a cracking pace that permitted no escape, straight towards the man who was very probably trying to kill him.

‘Henry Pratt!’ said the diminutive property developer. ‘Greetings, young sir!’

Oh no. Another member of the ‘young sir’ brigade.

Like many a hostess who has solved the problem of two guests whom she doesn’t like by introducing them to each other, Hermione Jarrett scuttled off with all the joy of a freed rabbit. The eyes of the two people whom Hermione Jarrett didn’t like met, and Henry’s blood ran cold.
Was
this man trying to kill him?

‘So what do you think of them?’ said Fred Hathersage.

‘I think they’re very interesting,’ said Henry cautiously, cravenly.

‘I think they’re crap,’ said Fred Hathersage savagely. Was his savagery really aimed at modern art, or at Henry? ‘I like English painters of the old school. I’m thinking of people like …’ He paused. ‘… Constable.’

Henry was seeing hidden meanings everywhere now. Did Fred Hathersage mean, ‘Don’t go to the police’?

‘And Turner.’

Did he mean, ‘Or you’ll be turning in your grave’?

‘And Sir Alfred Munnings.’

Did he mean, ‘If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up as dead, lifeless horseflesh’?

Henry shuddered. He felt that he couldn’t remain in the same room as Fred Hathersage a moment longer. He fled, back to the
warm
licensed womb in Leatherbottlers’ Row, and just missed hearing a broad-beamed lady in an aquamarine suit say, ‘It says “Toronto” upside-down on that one. How very strange!’

Next morning, before going to court, Henry typed up his review. He imagined that Denzil would approve of his intro, which read: ‘If Ceri Richards is the Welsh Vlaminck, can Johnson Protheroe be said to be the Braque of Canada? Or even … intriguing thought!… her Sisley?’

He imagined Denzil nodding approval of: ‘There is a series of bold, disturbing seascapes here. The seas are as blue as a de Wint door, yet the skies are heavy with the menace of thunder! Is this the
sturm und drang
of a transatlantic Klimt? Or is it a Hogarthian statement about mankind’s condition?’

Henry himself quite liked: ‘Another picture (a kind of
faux-naïf
Cubism of the Rockies!!) explores this
leitmotif
in an even more specific way. It shows a barometer hanging on a wall. The background says, clearly, “Stormy”. Significantly, the barometer does not!’

He bashed out his final paragraph. ‘If all you know of Canadian painting is of the likes of Tom Thompson, Jock Macdonald and A. Y. Jackson, with perhaps a vague notion about the Automatistes of Montreal … I must confess I’m shamefully vague about them!… then hurry along to the Gusset.’

He handed his review to Terry Skipton, with a third letter signed ‘First Angry Schoolmaster’. The news editor read the review slowly, his heavily lidded eyes seeming to bore through its pathetic pretensions.

‘Not bad at all,’ he said.

Henry tried to hide his surprise and relief.

‘Really not at all bad.’

Henry tried to hide his delight.

‘In fact it’s just like the incomprehensible twaddle Mr Ackerman writes,’ said Terry Skipton.

‘Have whatever you like,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘Though personally I’ll stick to the
table d’hôte
.’

The exceptionally mild weather was continuing, and it was
uncomfortably
warm in the restaurant of the Midland Hotel. All the lights were on, for the day was grey.

‘It’s very difficult to prove that a fire isn’t arson,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘You can prove it is, and if you don’t prove it is, you assume it isn’t.’

The waiter approached.

‘What is the
potage
today?’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

‘Oxtail, sir,’ said the waiter.

‘Right. Oxtail soup and I like the sound of the cheese omelette,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

‘Soup for me, too,’ said Henry. ‘And what are the
rillettes Thurmarshiennes
?’

‘Rissoles, sir.’

‘The lamb chop, please.’

‘They do quite a nice choice, don’t they?’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘The fire people can add nothing to what was said at the inquest. All you have to go on, Henry, is one overheard comment. Heard from Hilary lately?’

‘Of course,’ said Henry. ‘We write almost every day.’

‘It’s wonderful the effect you’ve had on that girl. Wonderful. I’ve talked to Peter Matheson and Fred Hathersage. We’ll allow you to uncover, as a scoop for yourself, the development plans, the architect’s model, the fact that Fred owns some of the property. All above board. Nothing denied. If anybody wishes to make allegations, let them try to find proof. A great story for you, Henry. We didn’t want to unveil it yet, but you’ve been too clever for us. Kudos for you. No problems with Hilary. How about it?’

‘Somebody’s trying to kill me,’ said Henry.

‘Two oxtail?’ said the waiter.

‘Yes,’ said Howard Lewthwaite faintly. ‘What did you say?’ he said, when the waiter had gone.

‘I went to see Bill Holliday on Monday,’ said Henry.

‘Bill’s all right.’

‘So everybody says.’

‘He’s a very generous supporter of children’s charities.’

‘So what’s he hiding? I’ve grown up this last year. I was interviewing him for “Proud Sons of Thurmarsh”.’

‘Did your piece on me well, incidentally.’

‘Thanks. I vaguely threatened him. A threat that was pretty meaningless if he wasn’t guilty. Immediately, he threatened me. And the very next day, I was nearly killed by surgical trusses.’

‘Surgical trusses?’

Henry gave Howard Lewthwaite the details, breaking off as the waiter removed their plates to say, ‘Mr Tintern thinks Hilary might get a first, if she works hard.’

‘It could have been an accident,’ said Howard Lewthwaite, when the waiter had gone.

‘So could the Cap Ferrat,’ said Henry. ‘It isn’t likely, though, is it? It’s all too damned convenient. God knows, Mr Lewthwaite, I’m not brave. And I can’t bear the thought of losing Hilary. But what can I do? Run away? Give up? Fine husband and father I’d make.’

The waiter returned.

‘Who’s for the chop?’ he said.

‘Both of us, probably,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

HALFWAY THROUGH HIS
coffee and toast, there was a knock on his door.

‘It’s me,’ said Ginny. ‘I’m not well.’

He opened the door. Her face was pale and puffy. He felt it incongruous that a future war correspondent should have a pink dressing-gown with fluffy pom-poms.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

‘Prawn curry.’

‘What?’

‘I had a prawn curry at the Shanghai. I’ve got food poisoning. Will you tell Terry?’

‘Right.’

She hurried off, unaware that a prawn curry might have saved her life.

There was pale, watery sunshine, but already high clouds were drifting in from the west. Dennis Lacey was also on his own.

‘Is your friend ill?’ he said.

‘She’s got food poisoning,’ said Henry. ‘How’s … er … Marie, isn’t it?’

‘By heck, you’ve got a memory.’