Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 (32 page)

She prised open the lid, stood on tiptoe, and slowly poured the thick liquid on to the roof of the car. Once she was convinced that not a drop was left, she stood back and enjoyed the sensation
of watching the paint slowly trickle down each side as well as over the front and rear windows. It should have dried long before Alex returned from his dinner. Susan had spent some considerable
time selecting which colour would blend best with racing green, and had finally settled on lilac. The result was even more pleasing than she’d thought possible.

It was her mother who’d spent hours going over the small print in the divorce settlement and had pointed out to Susan that she had agreed to return the car but without specifying what
condition it should be in.

It was some time before Susan dragged herself away from the garage to go up to the third floor where she intended to leave the car keys on his study desk. Her only disappointment was that she
wouldn’t be able to see the expression on Alex’s face when he opened the garage door in the morning.

Susan let herself into the flat with her old latch key, pleased that Alex hadn’t changed the lock. She strolled into his study and dropped the car keys on the desk. She was about to leave,
when she noticed a letter in his unmistakable hand on the blotting pad. Curiosity got the better of her. She leant over and read the private and confidential letter quickly, and then sat in his
chair and read it more slowly a second time. She found it hard to believe that Alex would sacrifice his seat on the board of Barrington’s as a matter of principle. After all, Alex
didn’t have any principles, and as it was his only source of income other than a derisory army pension, what did he expect to live on? More importantly, how would he pay her monthly
maintenance without his regular director’s fee?

Susan read the letter a third time, wondering if there was something she was missing. She was at a loss to understand why it was dated August 21st. If you were going to resign on a matter of
principle, why wait a fortnight before making your position clear?

By the time Susan had arrived back in Burnham-on-Sea, Alex was bending the ear of the field marshal, but she still hadn’t fathomed it out.

Sebastian walked slowly down Bond Street, admiring the various goods displayed in the shop windows and wondering if he’d ever be able to afford any of them.

Mr Hardcastle had recently given him a raise. He was now earning £20 a week, making him what was known in the City as a ‘thousand-pound-a-year man’, and he also had a new
title, associate director – not that titles mean anything in the banking world, unless you’re chairman of the board.

In the distance he spotted a sign flapping in the breeze,
Agnew’s Fine Art Dealers, founded 1817.
Sebastian had never entered a private art gallery before, and he wasn’t
even sure if they were open to the public. He’d been to the Royal Academy, the Tate and the National Gallery with Jessica, and she’d never stopped talking as she dragged him from room
to room. It used to drive him mad sometimes. How he wished she was there by his side, driving him mad. Not a day went by, not an hour, when he didn’t miss her.

He pushed open the door to the gallery and stepped inside. For a moment he just stood there, gazing around the spacious room, its walls covered with the most magnificent oils, some of which he
recognized – Constable, Munnings and a Stubbs. Suddenly, from nowhere, she appeared, looking even more beautiful than she had when he’d first seen her that evening at the Slade, when
Jessica had carried off all the prizes on graduation day.

As she walked towards him, his throat went dry. How do you address a goddess? She was wearing a yellow dress, simple but elegant, and her hair was a shade of natural blonde that anyone other
than a Swedish woman would pay a fortune to reproduce, and many tried. Today it was pinned up, formal and professional, not falling on her bare shoulders as it had done the last time he’d
seen her. He wanted to tell her that he hadn’t come to see the pictures, just to meet her. What a feeble pick-up line, and it wasn’t even true.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

The first surprise was that she was an American, so obviously she was not Mr Agnew’s daughter as he had originally assumed.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you had any pictures by an artist called Jessica Clifton?’

She looked surprised, but smiled and said, ‘Yes, we do. Would you like to follow me?’

To the ends of the earth
. An even more pathetic line, which he was glad he hadn’t delivered. Some men think that a woman can be just as beautiful when you walk behind them. He
didn’t care either way as he followed her downstairs to another large room that displayed equally mesmerizing paintings. Thanks to Jessica, he recognized a Manet, a Tissot and her favourite
artist, Berthe Morisot. She wouldn’t have been able to stop chattering.

The goddess unlocked a door he hadn’t noticed that led into a smaller side room. He joined her to find that the room was filled with row upon row of sliding racks. She selected one and
pulled it out to reveal one side that was devoted to Jessica’s oils. He stared at all nine of her award-winning works from the graduation show, as well as a dozen drawings and watercolours
he’d never seen before, but which were equally seductive. For a moment he felt elation, and then his legs gave way. He grabbed the rack to steady himself.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, her professional voice replaced by a gentler, softer tone.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she suggested, taking a chair and placing it beside him. As he sat, she took his arm as if he was an old man, and all he wanted to do was to hold on
to her. Why is it that men fall so quickly, so helplessly, while women are far more cautious and sensible, he wondered. ‘Let me get you some water,’ she said, and before he could reply,
she’d left him.

He looked at Jessica’s pictures once again, trying to decide if he had a favourite, and wondered, if he did, if he would be able to afford it. Then she reappeared, carrying a glass of
water, accompanied by an older man, whom he remembered from their evening at the Slade.

‘Good morning, Mr Agnew,’ said Sebastian, as he rose from his chair. The gallery owner looked surprised, clearly unable to place the young man. ‘We met at the Slade, sir, when
you came to the graduation ceremony.’

Agnew still looked puzzled until he said, ‘Ah yes, now I remember. You’re Jessica’s brother.’

Sebastian felt a complete fool as he sat back down and once again buried his head in his hands. She walked across and placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Jessica was one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘And I’m sorry to be making such a fool of myself. I only wanted to find out if you had any of her pictures for sale.’

‘Everything in this gallery is for sale,’ said Agnew, trying to lighten the mood.

‘How much are they?’

‘All of them?’

‘All of them.’

‘I haven’t actually priced them yet, as we had hoped Jessica would become one of the gallery’s regular artists, but sadly . . . I know what they cost me, fifty-eight
pounds.’

‘And what are they worth?’

‘Whatever someone will pay for them,’ replied Agnew.

‘I would give every penny I have to own them.’

Mr Agnew looked hopeful. ‘And how much is every penny, Mr Clifton?’

‘I checked my bank balance this morning because I knew I was coming to see you.’ They both stared at him. ‘I’ve got forty-six pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence in my
current account, but because I work at the bank, I’m not allowed an overdraft.’

‘Then forty-six pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence it is, Mr Clifton.’

If there was one person who looked even more surprised than Sebastian, it was the gallery assistant, who’d never known Mr Agnew to sell a picture for less than he’d paid for it.

‘But there is one condition.’

Sebastian wondered if he’d changed his mind. ‘And what is that, sir?’

‘If you ever decide to sell any of your sister’s pictures, you must first offer them to me at the same price you paid for them.’

‘You have a deal, sir,’ said Sebastian as the two men shook hands. ‘But I would never sell them,’ he added. ‘Never.’

‘In that case, I’ll ask Miss Sullivan to make out an invoice for forty-six pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence.’ She gave a slight nod and left the room. ‘I have no
desire to bring you to tears again, young man, but in my profession, you are lucky if you come across a talent like Jessica’s twice, perhaps three times in your life.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so, sir,’ said Sebastian as Miss Sullivan returned, carrying an invoice book.

‘Please excuse me,’ said Mr Agnew. ‘I have a major exhibition opening next week, and I still haven’t finished the pricing.’

Sebastian sat down and wrote out a cheque for £46 12s 6d, tore it out and handed it to the assistant.

‘If I had forty-six pounds twelve shillings and sixpence,’ she said, ‘I would have bought them too. Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she quickly added as Sebastian bowed his
head. ‘Will you take them with you, sir, or come back later?’

‘I’ll come back tomorrow, that is, if you’re open on a Saturday.’

‘Yes, we are,’ she said, ‘but I’m having a few days off, so I’ll ask Mrs Clark to take care of you.’

‘When are you back at work?’

‘Thursday.’

‘Then I’ll come in on Thursday morning.’

She smiled, a different kind of smile, before leading him back upstairs. It was then that he saw the statue for the first time, standing in the far corner of the gallery. ‘
The
Thinker
,’ he said. She nodded. ‘Some would say it’s Rodin’s greatest work. Did you know that it was first called
The Poet
?’ She looked surprised.
‘And if I remember correctly, if it’s a lifetime cast, it must be by Alexis Rudier.’

‘Now you’re showing off.’

‘Guilty,’ Sebastian admitted, ‘but I have good reason to remember this particular piece.’

‘Jessica?’

‘No, not this time. May I ask the cast number?’

‘Five, of nine.’

Sebastian tried to remain calm, as he needed to get the answers to some more questions, but didn’t want her to become suspicious. ‘Who was the previous owner?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no idea. The piece is listed in the catalogue as the property of a gentleman.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The gentleman in question doesn’t want it to be known that he’s disposing of his collection. We get a lot of customers that way: the three Ds, death, divorce and debt. But I
must warn you that you won’t get Mr Agnew to sell you
The Thinker
for forty-six pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence.’

Sebastian laughed. ‘How much is it?’ he asked, touching the statue’s bent right arm.

‘Mr Agnew hasn’t quite finished pricing the collection yet, but I can give you a catalogue if you’d like one, and an invitation for the private view on August
seventeenth.’

‘Thank you,’ Sebastian said as she handed him a catalogue. ‘I look forward to seeing you again on Thursday.’ She smiled. ‘Unless . . .’ he hesitated, but she
didn’t help him, ‘unless you’re free to have supper with me tomorrow evening?’

‘Irresistible,’ she said, ‘but I’d better choose the restaurant.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I know how much you’ve got left in your bank account.’

‘B
UT WHY WOULD
he want to sell his art collection?’ asked Cedric.

‘He must need the money.’

‘That much is obvious, Seb, but what I can’t work out is
why
he needs the money.’ Cedric continued to flick through the pages of the catalogue, but was none the wiser
by the time he’d reached
A Fair at l’Hermitage near Pontoise
by Camille Pissarro, illustrated on the back page. ‘Perhaps the time has come to call in a favour.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Who, not what,’ said Cedric. ‘A Mr Stephen Ledbury, the manager of the Midland Bank, St James’s.’

‘What’s so special about him?’ asked Sebastian.

‘He’s Martinez’s bank manager.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘When you’ve sat next to Major Fisher at board meetings for over five years, it’s amazing what you pick up if you’re patient and willing to listen to a lonely man.’
Cedric buzzed through to his secretary. ‘Can you get me Stephen Ledbury at the Midland?’ He turned back to Sebastian. ‘Ever since I discovered he was Martinez’s bank manager
I’ve been tossing Ledbury the odd bone. Perhaps the time has come for him to fetch one back.’

The phone on Cedric’s desk rang. ‘Mr Ledbury on line one.’

‘Thank you,’ said Cedric, then waited for the click before pressing the loudspeaker button. ‘Good afternoon, Stephen.’

‘Good afternoon, Cedric. What can I do for you?’

‘I think it’s more what I can do for you, old chap.’

‘Another good tip?’ said Ledbury, sounding hopeful.

‘This is more in the helping-to-cover-your-backside category. I hear that one of your less salubrious clients is putting his entire art collection up for sale at Agnew’s in Bond
Street. As the catalogue describes the collection as “the property of a gentleman”, which is a misnomer by any standards, I assume that for some reason he doesn’t want you to find
out about it.’