Unfinished Portrait (30 page)

‘What's she like?' Max asked curiously, as they sat over dinner at Dino's.

‘Not at all what I expected. Very small, for one thing – about five foot, I'd say – and she's had her hair cut really short. It suits her, but it's certainly not the image everyone has of her.'

‘Apart from her appearance, though, people had widely differing opinions. How did she fit with those?'

‘I wasn't with her long enough to judge.'

Max topped up her glass. ‘Do you think she has a thing going with Crispin Ryder? She doesn't sound his type.'

Rona shrugged. ‘They could just be friends. I wonder if he visits her up there? According to the press, he's still hitting the London scene pretty regularly.'

‘But you think it was him on the phone?'

‘I could be wrong, but Richard said she's changed her mobile, and as far as I know, no one else has the number.'

‘Are you going to tell the family you found her?'

Rona considered, sipping her wine. ‘I have her permission, but I think I'll wait till the opportunity arises. It's not as if they're still worried about her, after all. But enough of all that: what did you get up to while I was away?'

‘Apart from the all-night orgies, you mean?'

‘Apart from those.'

‘Not a lot. I took Gus for a long walk this morning up in the woods, and had a pub lunch on the way back. They've got all the Christmas decorations up.'

‘That reminds me, we really must speak to everyone about Christmas lunch. I'd meant to look in the Craiglea gift shops, too, but I was so thrown by Elspeth's volte-face, it went right out of my mind. I think I might take a day off on Monday, and make a start on Christmas shopping before the shops get too manic.'

‘Rather you than me,' Max said.

The following morning, Rona phoned round the family with her invitation, with mixed results. Lindsey accepted with thanks; Dominic hadn't mentioned Christmas, but she was sure he'd be ‘doing his pater familias thing'. Tom gently broke the news that he'd be spending Christmas Day with Catherine's family in Cricklehurst, but softened the blow by offering to host Boxing Day lunch. And Avril took the wind completely out of her sails by asking if Guy Lacey might be included in the invitation.

‘Of
course
, Mum!' Rona assured her, masking her surprise. ‘That would be great! What about Sarah?'

‘She's just become engaged, and is going to her fiancé's parents. Guy will see her on Boxing Day.'

Which seemed to be the form for fathers this year.

‘We really ought to fly up to Newcastle soon, and see your family,' she said to Max, having relayed all this.

‘Oh, I meant to tell you – Cynthia's invited us for New Year. Father will be staying with them over the festive season.'

‘When did this come up?'

‘She phoned on Friday evening, just after I'd spoken to you. Then all your goings-on put it out of my head.'

‘Well, it'll be good to see them all, and it'll save us having to dash up before Christmas. You'd better organize the flights, though; you know how booked up they get.'

Over breakfast on Monday, Max glanced up from his paper. ‘Wish I was coming to London with you; I see this is a viewing day for the Spanish paintings auction. If you get tired of shopping, go and have a look at the famous Castillo. It's in Bond Street, so wouldn't be out of your way.'

‘I might well do that.'

‘What train are you catching?'

‘The first after the rush hour. Nine-something. Wish me luck!'

‘Oh, I do!' he said.

Rona had a successful morning, managing to cross several names off her presents list, though she regretted the Rennie Mackintosh clock she'd seen in Craiglea; it would have looked just right on Lindsey's mantelpiece, in place of the one she'd relinquished to Hugh.

She had a salad lunch in Oxford Street, checking her list again, and admitted to herself that she'd run out of steam. She'd made a good start; perhaps she'd leave the rest for another day, and trawl some of the Guild Street shops at home. And since it was still only two o'clock, she'd follow Max's suggestion and go to have a look at the paintings.

Having left her parcels in the auction house cloakroom, she was directed to a sale room on the first floor. It was very crowded, and though the walls were covered in paintings, the largest group was clustered round a picture at the far end. Rona could guess which it was. She elected to work her way down to it, in the hope that by the time she reached it, the crowd might have diminished slightly.

Having bought a catalogue to take home to Max, she flicked quickly through it. Ribera, Murillo, El Greco, Velázquez – all were represented, and she moved slowly down the room, delighting in the still lifes and the rich clothes of saints and noblemen. The treatment of materials was a special interest of Max's – the bloom on velvet, the sheen on satin, the drape of a skirt, and she knew he'd have revelled in this display. Too bad he'd not been able to accompany her.

And so she came at last to the canvas in pride of place, where a crowd was still gathered, and checked it in the catalogue. The painting itself had been afforded a whole page, printed in colour, and Rona paused for a moment, frowning, before glancing at the information on the opposite side.

Felipe Castillo
, she read:
1602–1669. Doña Inez de los Reyes. Oil on canvas 59.5 x 90 CM: 23½ x 35 IN
. The estimate given was £500,000–£750,000.

She manoeuvred herself into a position where she was able, between heads, to see the picture that had caused such a stir. And a little frisson she couldn't analyse ran down her back as she studied it more closely.

The painting was of a seated woman, half in profile, wearing a richly embroidered gown of red velvet, her head reverently bent towards a missal held in both hands. What was there about it that disturbed her? she wondered, half-listening to the comments from those about her. Why did it—?

‘Rona!' exclaimed a voice just behind her. ‘We must stop meeting like this!'

Still preoccupied, she turned in bewilderment to see Nathan Tait smiling at her.

‘Oh . . . Nathan,' she said lamely.

He examined her face, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes . . . yes, fine. I . . . just wasn't expecting to see you, that's all.'

‘Not too unpleasant a shock, I hope,' he said, an edge to his voice.

She forced a laugh. ‘Of course not.'

He took her arm and drew her out of the mêlée around the painting. ‘I admit I had the advantage of you: I
was
half-expecting to see Max here, with or without you.'

‘He'd have loved to come, but he couldn't manage today. I've combined my visit with Christmas shopping.'

‘No wonder you're a bit fraught. My studio's just round the corner; come back for a cup of coffee, and you can tell me how you're getting on with the biography.'

‘Oh, thanks, but I'd better not. I . . . should be getting home.'

‘Nonsense! It's barely three o'clock, and you look in need of a rest. Do you good to draw breath before being plunged back into the crowds.'

‘Really, Nathan, it's good of you, but—'

‘No buts.' He hadn't relinquished her arm, and now his grip tightened as he started leading her back up the room.

‘Nathan, really—'

He ignored her, guiding her on to the staircase as they descended against the flow of the crowd. ‘Don't worry, the studio's only two minutes away.'

‘I must at least collect my parcels,' she protested, as they reached the foyer, and he waited while she redeemed her cloakroom ticket. Blast the man! Rona thought; he'd obviously taken offence at her lack of enthusiasm on seeing him. Heaven preserve her from the artistic temperament! But if the only way of soothing ruffled feathers was a cup of coffee – which, actually, she felt in need of – then so be it. Although she'd have liked longer to study the painting she'd come specifically to see. Again, that odd little niggle of unease.

Nathan took possession of her parcels, and they emerged on to Bond Street.

‘Just along here,' he said encouragingly, turning back towards Oxford Street. Then, ‘You got that photo of Chloë?'

‘Yes, it was good of you to send it. I did thank you, didn't I? By email?'

He made a dismissive gesture. ‘She
was
beautiful, wasn't she? I wasn't exaggerating?'

‘She was lovely, yes. You . . . must still miss her.'

‘Oh, I do. Every day. This way.' They turned into a little side street, and, halfway along it, stopped in front of a narrow door. Nathan took out a key and unlocked it, ushering her ahead of him into a small hallway containing only a lift and a flight of stairs.

‘The studio's on the second floor,' he told her. ‘Normally I use the stairs, but since you're tired, we'll take the lift.'

They rode up in silence, rising above one hallway, visible through the open grill, and clanking to a halt on the next one. A corridor led towards the back of the building, and Nathan unlocked the third door along. The room they entered was, Rona saw, a typical artist's studio – paints, trolleys, stacked canvases, easels. There was also a chaise longue draped in velvet – presumably for the use of models – and, behind it, a counter containing an electric kettle, a microwave, mugs and a jar of instant coffee, reminding her of Elspeth.

Nathan waved her towards the chaise, and, as she somewhat reluctantly seated herself, commented, ‘You really didn't want to come here, did you?'

She looked up apologetically. ‘It wasn't that, it's just that I like to catch a train well before the rush hour, added to which, as you said, I am a little tired. Christmas shopping's an exhausting pastime.'

‘All the more reason to relax for a while. You've an hour before you need worry about the rush hour.' He moved behind her to the counter. ‘Coffee OK?'

‘Lovely, thanks.'

There was a click, and music filled the room, from a CD player, Rona guessed. She forced herself to relax, letting the soothing strains wash over her as her thoughts drifted back to the painting. Why should she—?

‘There you go.' Nathan pulled over a small, paint-stained table and plonked down a mug. ‘Milk? Sugar?'

‘Neither, thanks. I'm in need of undiluted caffeine!'

He half-smiled and perched on a stool opposite her, his own mug in his hands. The coffee was steaming, but Rona lifted hers at once and took a sip. The sooner she drank it, the sooner she could leave.

‘So, how's the biography progressing?'

‘Well, the thing you soon learn is that you can't hurry them. It's some time since I did one, and I confess I'm finding it rather frustrating.'

‘Especially with the subject being, as it were, out of the picture.' He smiled thinly at his own joke.

‘Yes.' She'd no intention of telling him about Scotland. ‘But there are plenty of people who
are
around, and I'm working my way through them. Including,' she added incautiously, ‘Chloë's parents.' Immediately, she could have bitten her tongue out. She really must concentrate on what she was saying. Forget the picture, she could think about that in peace, once she was on the train.

Naturally, Nathan pounced. ‘You've seen the Pynes?'

Rona nodded and took a hasty gulp of coffee, burning her mouth, but giving herself time to dissemble. ‘They've known Elspeth since she was a child. I wanted their opinion of her.'

‘And what was it?'

‘Much the same as yours,' she said, hoping to recover lost ground. ‘That she manipulated Chloë.'

‘What did they say about me?' he asked softly.

Rona brushed her hair off her face, feeling suddenly uncomfortably hot. ‘That you'd . . .'

‘That I'd what?'

She took a long drink of coffee. Not much left now, and then she could go. Think! Think! He must be right – she was more tired than she'd realized. ‘. . . been devastated by her death, and attended her funeral.'

‘That's not what you were going to say, is it?'

Rona looked at him, blinking to clear his image, which was unaccountably blurring round the edges. He leaned forward suddenly, his eyes intent on hers.

‘Let's stop playing games,' he said. ‘You know, don't you?'

‘Know – what?'

‘That I killed her.'

She gasped involuntarily.
What
had he said?

‘By . . . making her choose between you and Elspeth?' Her voice sounded slurred.

‘No, by pushing her under the train.'

Oh God! Oh my
God
! And like a distant echo came Lindsey's comment on hearing of Chloë's death:
Murdered, no doubt?

‘I was hardly going to let her dump me in favour of that . . . that
lesbian
, now was I?' Nathan demanded viciously. ‘What would people
think
? And I wanted Wilding to suffer as much as I was doing. Which,' he ended with satisfaction, ‘she most certainly did.'

Rona tried with increasing desperation to marshal her thoughts. He couldn't possibly mean it literally – could he?

‘All went according to plan,' he was continuing. ‘No one doubted for a minute that it was suicide. But then you had to come along and stir things up again. So I made it my business to meet you, and after doing so, concluded, wrongly, that I could still contain it. Which, God help me, I went on believing, until Max mentioned that Elspeth had some of Chloë's letters.'