Unfinished Portrait (32 page)

Were
she and Max right in their deductions? Rona prayed not, but, as the story continued to dominate the press, the pencil sketch haunted her. Yet, even if it were what she suspected, there was no way she could betray Elspeth. Particularly since, thankfully, no one had paid out any money for the painting.

Max agreed. ‘It's still possible you were mistaken,' he reminded her, ‘which could lead to a court case and God knows what else. Let the experts hammer it out. If it does prove a fake, more likely than not they'll never know who did it, and, as you say, at least it was caught in time.'

But suppose somehow they
did
find out, Rona worried, and it
was
Elspeth? How would that affect the biography?

Thursday brought news with an even more personal impact, reporting that ‘Well known artist Nathan Tait, who was involved in an incident in Oxford Street on Monday', had died in hospital without regaining consciousness. Police had been waiting to question him. A summary of Nathan's career followed.

So much for Rona's hope he might corroborate her story. Now the burden of proof rested solely on her, and she'd not much hope of a positive outcome. The police might find dregs of the tranquillizers in her mug at his studio; but that would prove only that he'd drugged her, which they already accepted. There was nothing to back up the motive behind it.

She would have to accept there was no way of reversing the verdict on Chloë's death; she'd already sent a hurried note to Elspeth, repeating what Nathan had told her, and hoped it would prove some crumb of comfort in the maelstrom in which Elspeth now found herself. But the Pynes also had a right to the truth, and she resolved to see them at the earliest opportunity.

The same went for Bill Strong. His was a much more recent grief, but knowing who had killed his wife, and why, would at least answer questions and hopefully help the healing process.

The third and final bombshell of that momentous week came with the six o'clock news on the Friday, as Rona and Max sat in the kitchen with pre-dinner drinks.

‘The body of a woman recovered this morning off the west coast of Scotland has been identified as that of the renowned artist Elspeth Wilding, who dropped out of circulation in May last year. An overturned rowing boat was found nearby. Miss Wilding's career began . . .'

It was totally and incontrovertibly the last straw, and Rona, increasingly traumatized by the week's events, finally burst into tears.

The following Wednesday's post brought a letter forwarded by her publishers, Jonas Jennings. The original postmark, she saw incredulously, was Craiglea, Dunbartonshire, and the date 3
^rd
December, the day before Elspeth's body was found. Rona's legs gave way, and she sat down suddenly on the stairs. It took an effort of will to slit open the envelope and withdraw its contents.

Rona sat on the stair for a long time after she'd finished reading, going over what she'd learned. There'd been no mention of her note about Nathan's confession; that it hadn't arrived in time was an additional sadness. Her overriding emotion, though, was deep anger towards Crispin Ryder; his amoral behaviour had contaminated a great artist, who, in the normal scheme of things, should have had many productive years ahead of her. What a waste! What an appalling waste!

But what of Naomi? And Richard? And their parents? She'd already written letters of condolence, but how would the scandal affect them? Would they want her to continue with the book? And if so, how could she request their memories of Elspeth, when their grief and shame would far outlast the writing of it?

Thankfully, it would be up to her publishers to reach a decision, but whatever it might be, on a personal level, Rona herself would never, now, be able to create the word-portrait of Elspeth she'd been hoping for.

Gus, surprised by her continued immobility, nudged her hand, and she leaned forward to hug him, aware that the central heating had gone off and she was cold. She was also very much in need of company. She and Max would discuss the letter this evening, but he was busy now, and for the moment she wanted her sister. She went to the phone.

‘Linz, it's me. Any chance of slipping out for a coffee? . . . Bless you! Ten minutes at the Gallery? Perfect.'

So once again her professional life was on hold. Well, she thought philosophically, she'd weathered that crisis before and would again. Barnie, bless him, would have something to occupy her in the meantime, but, for the moment, she'd take a leaf from Scarlett O'Hara, and think about it tomorrow.

Reaching for Gus's lead, she went to meet her sister.