Richard Jury: The Stargazey Part 10

Jury sat back, shaking his head. "Good lord! Emily Perk-that was a decade ago. How can you still remember?"

"Accomplished liars always remember. It's time for our sweet." Melrose had taken a coin from his pocket and flipped it now.

"Heads," said Jury.

It came up heads. Melrose said, "Okay, you get first choice."

"I say . . . treacle tart."

"And I say some kind of pudding."

As if they had suspended all thought of murder and war, the two sat quietly until Young Higgins approached with the tray. He removed their plates to a side table and set dishes of pudding and custard before them with a trembling hand.

Melrose said, "I win, it's Spotted d.i.c.k!"

Jury shook his head. "You don't win. You never said Spotted d.i.c.k."

"We didn't establish any rules. And you should have objected when I said 'some kind of.' You can't object now."

Jury took out his billfold, thumbed out a tenner, slapped it down. "You're a stickler for details."

"I should think you would be too, you being a policeman." Melrose held the ten-pound note up toward the light of a wall sconce, snapped it.

"Oh, very funny," said Jury, slapping down the hand that held the note.

"One can't be too careful, can one?" Melrose folded the note and pocketed it. "Let's a.s.sume these people at the gallery-"

"Fabricant. Sebastian and Nicholas. They're the owners of record, although I'd be surprised if Mum hasn't chipped in a few quid. I get the impression she has the money. I also get the impression she's extremely clever. Smarter than her sons. She's in her seventies, but she's a hand-some woman. Doesn't show her age."

Melrose spooned custard over a bite of pudding. "well, there are some people, some women, who seem to flower in their seventies." He ate the bite of pudding. "Look at Agatha."

Jury laughed. "Talk about flowering."

13.

Byten o'clock the following morning, Melrose was standing outside of the Fabricant Gallery, admiring the painting-a single painting, made more effective by its not having to share the limelight. That is, Melrose appeared to be admiring it, since the picture had blessed little about it to admire. It looked like a poor Pica.s.so spin-off, body parts roving all over the canvas instead of being collected into one (or perhaps two) ordinary-looking people.

The gallery was located down a short street in the Shepherd Market section of Mayfair in Wl, one of the more expensive areas of London. It was here that wealthy tourists ganged together to take on London shopping and West End theater.

A door buzzer loud enough to broadcast a prison break sawed on Melrose's aching head (he shouldn't have helped put away that second bottle of Chteau Boring-the cheap thrills of cheap wine!), but the headache calmed down when there was a click and he was able to enter the quieter environs of a smallish room that served as a foyer, dimly lit. Through a white archway, he saw a long hall. The gallery was larger than it appeared to be from the outside.

No one came forward immediately to attend to him, for which he was just as glad. The carpeting and lack of custom were responsible for the hush that descended when he was in the presence of Art. He would not, however, faint (he hoped) as poor Stendhal had done after viewing too much of it.

The deep honey-colored carpet permitted someone to materialize eerily at his shoulder with no warning. "May I help you?"

Startled, Melrose jumped. "Oh, how do you do? Didn't hear you come up. I'm just having a look round." He was speaking to an extraordinarily handsome, youngish man with coloring much like the carpet. Honey-colored hair and amber eyes in a handsome, high-cheekboned face, with a hardy build but an effete manner, which Melrose imagined the man might have cultivated because he was an art dealer. His hooded eyes and sleepy smile gave him a dreamy quality that set him apart from the pragmatic and utilitarian.

And he was pleasant enough. "Well, we're delighted you came in. Take all the time you like." He waved a lithesome hand. The "we" in this case smacked of the Royal, as there was no one else backing him up here.

There appeared to be two rooms on the left in which the art was displayed, with a hall leading back past a large desk where the money changed hands. A computer sat there. The paintings hanging against the off-white walls were of quite different "schools" (whatever that meant) or influences or genres. Here was a still life of dew-beaded pears and apples. He had never had much feeling for still lifes, unless it was food that made his mouth water. He moved on to the next one, also a still life, but of flowers, a bowl of peonies; they too had beads of water clinging to their petals. Both paintings were arty and unrealistic, which seemed weird, since they were completely representational. But the only way those fruits and that flower could look as if they'd just sat out in a dew-filled early morning would be to have done just that. And obviously arranged on a cobalt blue platter or a mahogany table, that was impossible. Why was he bothering to sort all this out, for G.o.d's sake? And why didn't anyone ever paint a still life of a gla.s.s of port or a tumbler of whisky or a Diane Demorney martini? There was a challenge! It was Melrose's belief that martinis were beloved because of their aesthetic appeal: the clear lake-water look of the gin or vodka in the fragile, thin-stemmed gla.s.s, with a green olive bobbing in its depths or a curled sliver of lemon peel drifting on its surface. . . .

"Do you like this one, then?"

Melrose jumped again at the sudden appearance of the young man.

"You seem quite struck, quite smitten!"

"Oh. But one does, doesn't one?" That meant nothing, of course, but this gallery person would accede to just about anything, living as he did in the cradle of ambiguity.

The handsome dealer shoved his hands into the pockets of his wheat-colored deconstructed jacket (whose soft Italian lines Trueblood would gladly kill for) and c.o.c.ked his head. "Umm. Yes, I expect you're right."

Right? About what? It occurred to Melrose that they could hang about here all day trading meaningless words. "Are you Mr. Fabricant? I mean, as in the gallery's name?"

"Right. I'm one of two. My brother and I are co-owners. I'm Nikolai Fabricant. How do you do?" He thrust out his hand.

Melrose shook it and introduced himself-or what used to be himself-and handed the man his card. Nikolai (whom Melrose had already decided to call "Nick" at the earliest opportunity) Fabricant took it, looked at it deeply, mouthed a t.i.tle or two, before he looked up, clearly savoring Melrose's presence. No matter what egalitarian beliefs people gave lip-service to, Britain could not erase (or eschew) cla.s.s consciousness. Melrose said, with an apologetic brush at commonality, "It takes me rather a long time to view a painting." Oh, how pretentious! What a sn.o.b! Yes!

But Fabricant was all for it. "As well you should. I wish more were like you. I'll let you alone." Melrose smiled and nodded, and, as the other man slipped away over the quiet carpet, he turned to contemplation of a flagrant and amateurish J.M.W. Turner imitation: Venice's Grand Ca.n.a.l at either sunrise or sunset. The light in this work appeared gratuitous, seemed to explode at the end of the ca.n.a.l, in some poor, poor attempt to Turner-ize light. Still, it saddened Melrose, for it reminded him of Vivian's absence.

He moved on to the next painting, which he a.s.sumed had been done by the artist who had painted the one in the window. The only difference he could detect was in the rearrangement of body parts. The eye in the forehead here was drifting at the bottom. Ye G.o.ds, he hoped this artist's were not the paintings he was supposed to purchase! He went closer to read the identifying card: no, the name of the artist wasn't Ralph Rees but Carol Brick. Carol had named her work Afternoon in the Forest, and the brothers Fabricant were asking two thousand quid for it. Melrose could hardly contain his shock and struck his palm against his head as if he would clear his eye and mind of this nonsense and come up with a more reasonable figure: say, twenty quid. Afternoon in the Forest? Carol, surely you got your little name cards mixed up, or the gallery people did. Now he felt challenged to see something woodsy in it, but try as he might he couldn't see a tree either in the body parts or in the bright, ba.n.a.l colors. That small purple thing could be a gla.s.s of port and that brown oblong a half pint. She should rename it Afternoon in the Jack and Hammer.

He moved along. Once again he reared back, but for an entirely different reason: he had come upon what looked like an honest-to-G.o.d genuine painting. It was a small work, a scene from which it was hard to look away. Indeed, Melrose couldn't look away, though he wanted to, for it was unbearably sad: two women, dressed in dark gray, one old, one young, standing on a rocky shelf by the sea in what (given the light and water) seemed to be a calm that followed a tremendous storm. There was sea wreckage. The women were facing one another, or would have been had their heads not been bowed. The colors were astonis.h.i.+ng. How much variance there could be in gray and brown had never occurred to him. He moved up to look at this card, hoping it might be Ralph's: no, again. It was called The Storm, and the artist was- Beatrice Sloc.u.m.

Melrose stepped back a few paces, thinking surely his eyes had deceived him. Beatrice Sloc.u.m? It must be "his" Beatrice Sloc.u.m; how many could there be who were also painters?

He was simply stunned. She who had loved J.M.W., which was how she referred to Turner. He looked from The Storm to the Venetian scene and thought how very odd that the Venice painting was so clearly derivative and hers wasn't, not for all of her looking at J.M.W. Turner's paintings in the Tate.

He shook his head. Bea Sloc.u.m. White Ellie. Ash the Flash. He'd discovered she "painted" but had no idea she could turn out a work that was superior to anything he'd seen so far. He hadn't seen Rees's paintings, but they'd have to be d.a.m.ned good to beat The Storm, which was selling for-he went to the card again-a measly five hundred quid. Only five hundred, while the dreadful preceding ones were being sold for thousands?

The shadow of Mr. Fabricant seemed to hover back in another room. He called it over.

"Found one you liked?"

"For starters, this one."

"Ah, Sloc.u.m. Sweet little thing, isn't it?" Nicholas Fabricant cheerily agreed.

Melrose wanted to send a right to his jaw. How condescending could one be? He defended the painting. "I wouldn't say that about it. It's much too powerful. And I have a question: Why is this one going for only five hundred when some of these others, which do not appeal to me at all, and are not-you'll forgive me-nearly as good, why are they going for five times the amount?"

"Ah. Well, you know, it's supply and demand." Fabricant peered more closely at the Sloc.u.m painting, a puzzled look on his handsome face, a look of Could-I-have-missed-something?

"Yes, I realize that. But that's only putting my question in another way. Why would there be a demand for this Brick person's work, or that sentimental and derivative depiction of Venice, over something like this?"

"Um. Carol Brick is extremely popular," he said, still not answering.

"So is my dog, but that doesn't mean he can paint."

Nicholas Fabricant was beginning to get defensive. "Well, you know, a painting appeals or doesn't appeal."

That about covered the whole shebang, thought Melrose. Art dealers were like horoscopes-excepting, of course, Diane's-something nice for everyone.

"The critics seem to like Brick's work," added Nicholas, bolstering the gallery's position.

Critics? Melrose merely nodded. It was obvious he wasn't going to get a sensible answer: possibly, Fabricant didn't know himself; he wasn't, after all, responsible for public taste. Melrose had got so caught up in the two gray-garbed women, he had forgotten why he was here. He didn't think he wanted to ask about Ralph Rees; that would make it appear he'd come deliberately to see his work, and he wanted his coming here to seem accidental and spontaneous. "I'd like to keep looking round, if you don't mind."

"Mind? I should think not." Fabricant laughed. "Take your time. I'll just get this ready for you. You'd like to have me deliver it somewhere?"

"No, no. I'll take it with me."

Nicholas took the painting down, carefully, and started off. "I wonder if you'd be interested . . . we're still doing a show here, a number of paintings by Ralph Rees. I wonder if you'd like to see them?"

Touchdown. Goal. Or whatever you say. "I'm afraid I don't know his work."

"He's just breaking out. The show's got some rave reviews. It's back there"-Nicholas gestured with his head-"in the other room. We had it out in this room, the front room, when it opened two weeks ago. We've just moved it."

"Yes, of course, I'd enjoy seeing it."

"Fine. Follow me."

Melrose followed him down the short hall where the desk and computer were located. Nicholas turned, still holding Bea Sloc.u.m's painting. "In here. I would like to know what you think."

"All right. Thanks."

When he walked into the room and took a quick look round, his stomach sank and every last drop of adrenaline went with it. On three walls were hung five paintings. And, except for a variance in size, they were all the same. Literally.

Again, Nicholas came up behind him, having divested himself of The Storm. Apparently, he just had to be in on Melrose's reaction.

Too bad for him. "These paintings," said Melrose, "are white. All of them."

Nicholas did not pick up on the reproachful tone, he being so eager to show the work off. "Yes, remarkable, isn't it? The most original collection we've had in some time."

Melrose was a pretty good liar (he did have to agree with Jury on this score), but he wondered if he'd be able to do it in this case. How in h.e.l.l was he going to work up the enthusiasm he'd need to buy one of these white rectangles? The only thing different about them was their size. Except, he saw in the last one (No. 5, it was labeled), a thin black line down in a corner and barely visible. It looked more as if Bub or Sally had defaced it, in giggling enthusiasm, than it did the artist's attempt to-to what? What on earth was the asking price? He was afraid to look.

Nicholas misinterpreted Melrose's slack-mouthed look as one that Balboa, perhaps, might have given upon finding the Pacific. Wonder. Delight. Discovery.

Horror. Hands behind his back, Melrose was moving from one to another, not trying to see what the gallery folk saw in all of this (for there was nothing to see) but trying to work out what he could say. He was right to have been fearful of the prices, too. Not one of them under a thousand pounds, and one he had pa.s.sed had been three thousand. How had they arrived at these variations? Who was kidding b.l.o.o.d.y whom?

Nicholas mistook Melrose's stunned look for appreciation, for one struck speechless in the face of brilliance.

Well, he was half right: Melrose was struck speechless. He could not in any way, shape, or form imagine anyone's admiring this lot, could not imagine a painter seriously turning it out or a gallery who would hang it on its walls. On each identifying card was written a name and a number. The numbers varied; the name didn't: Siberian Snow: Five Ways of Seeing.

Nicholas Fabricant said, "It's possible we've found another Ryman or even Rothko."

It was worse than Agatha. Blind Auntie he could forgive, but not this gallery owner, this art maven. Melrose squeezed his eyes shut, appalled at this coupling. Although he had never understood Rothko, right now he felt like making a pilgrimage to the Museum of Modern Art to bow down before his paintings in return for hearing him thus maligned. But he had to swallow the various ripostes clamoring for expression; he had, after all, been given the charge of buying one of old Ralph's paintings, so he would have to muster his courage. Jury had never seen them; otherwise, Melrose would never have forgiven him.

Nicholas, standing by his elbow, said, "Siberian Snow. That's the series."

It was true he was good at dissembling, but- He had a small epiphany. Diane Demorney was a champion of all things white. Her house was white, her living room was completely white-furniture, objets d'art, cus.h.i.+ons-her cat was white, her car was white: all white. Indeed, Diane had a white painting above her white marble mantel: it was a painting as white as the whitest of Ralph's; h.e.l.l, maybe it was Ralph's.

For as he'd been looking at them, Melrose had noticed, besides that d.a.m.ned twig thing, a slight gradation of pigment emerge in the narrow border of the fifth. He could just see the white becoming cream, becoming bone. Meaningless nuances, he decided.

Diane, at least, knew white when she saw it.

"I have a friend-" Melrose stopped to savor this announcement. It had, predictably, the effect upon Nicholas Fabricant of making him breathless with expectation.

"Yes?" Nicholas prompted.

"-who would adore this work. But, I wonder. . . . "

Again, Nicholas prompted. "Yes?"

"What would be the effect, if it's a series, of the removal of one? I mean, wouldn't it spoil utterly the effect of the whole? By the same token, wouldn't one painting by itself misconstrue the meaning of the whole?" He should shoot himself for playing along. But he loved the way Fabricant was running his thumb back and forth across his brow in puzzlement, as if this hadn't occurred to him.

Melrose went on. "Perhaps one should simply take the entire series." And pigs might fly! Ah, well, he should not be cruel to the poor fellow.

Nicholas was saved from answering by the appearance of a second man gliding across the carpet. You couldn't hear a person bearing down on you in this place.

The young man eagerly introduced his brother. It was clear that Sebastian Fabricant was delighted (and as expectant as his younger brother) to hear the "Lord Ardry" part of the introduction.

"Lord Ardry wonders about removing a painting from the series." Nicholas repeated what Melrose had said.

"Ah," said Sebastian, unruffled. "No, for each one is self-contained. Each has its own integrity. Each one-"

Is b.l.o.o.d.y white, Melrose wanted to scream.

"-speaks separately."

What Melrose couldn't decide, though, was whether they themselves believed in what they were saying or whether the whole thing was a hoax or something. He came down on the side of their believing it; no one could say what Sebastian had said without laughing.

"Well, then, I'll have one," said Melrose, as if he were standing with a fruit vendor choosing a banana. He'd sooner have been.

"Which one, Lord Ardry?" asked Nicholas.

The question was redundant as far as Lord Ardry was concerned. He was about to say, Number five, but there was that twig. It was beginning to obsess him. He decided to let price be his guide and chose the mid-priced two-thousand-pound one: Number four.

"Excellent choice," said Sebastian.

How did Melrose know he'd say just that? "But a difficult choice, Mr. Fabricant. Difficult." That was true enough.

"It's an interesting technique Rees uses. He uses a thin sort of sandpaper to overlay the canvas. Gives it that rough texture. I see you also are taking the Sloc.u.m."

But what a relief to express true enthusiasm. "She's remarkable."