Sitting in Milford’s boardroom, in her chair at the head of the long walnut table, Emma felt the same fear she had experienced on her very first day in the office. Back then it was nerves and a fear of the unknown. Today it was the more unsettling fear that, increasingly, she was losing control of the whole situation. And there was still the nagging feeling that perhaps someone in this room actually wanted her dead. Emma cleared her throat and looked at the shareholders around the table. Not one of them met her gaze.
‘You know why we’re all here,’ she said. ‘I believe Roger called this meeting in order to have me removed as CEO due to my supposed criminal activities.’
There was a deathly silence.
‘So what are you going to do, Emma?’ asked Virginia finally.
She pointed to the grey-haired man on her left.
‘Magnus Anderson, Milford’s company lawyer, is attending on my instructions. Magnus?’
The solicitor looked up and nodded deferentially to Roger.
‘Roger is quite correct, the Articles of the company clearly state that a convicted criminal cannot be a director of the company.’
There was a murmur around the table as people whispered to their neighbours.
‘But,’ Magnus held up his hand, ‘the key word is convicted. At this point, Emma hasn’t even been charged.’
‘But she has been arrested over some very serious allegations,’ insisted Roger. ‘The story is all over the media and it paints the company in a very bad light.’ He looked around the table, appealing
for support. ‘Isn’t the point of the board to make decisions based on what is best for the business?’
Emma looked at Roger, feeling her flesh crawl, wondering if it had been him driving the car, him who had poured the petrol through the letterbox? Whether he’d tried to kill her or not, there was something very dark and deceitful about him. But she just couldn’t argue with what he had just said. What would her colleagues at Price Donahue, what would she, recommend to a tarnished CEO? At best, she would tell them to lie low and ride out the storm. Ideally, she would recommend that they quietly step aside and wait for the scandal to pass. She smoothed down her skirt nervously and glanced at Ruan who smiled encouragingly.
‘Very well. In the best interest of Milford, I will take a two-week leave of absence from the company. By then the police should have further results of forensic tests and I’m confident I will be fully cleared. In the meantime, Ruan will be acting CEO.’
Everyone turned to look at Roger anxiously.
‘A strong decision, Emma, best for everyone all round,’ he said, with an oily smile. ‘I’m sure everyone will join me in giving Ruan our full support at this difficult time.’
Suddenly everyone started talking at once, asking Emma questions, congratulating Ruan, calling for more information from Magnus.
Roger held up a hand and the hubbub died down.
‘Actually, there is something else I wish to discuss since all the shareholders are here,’ he said, pausing for a moment. ‘I would like to sell my shareholding in Milford.’
Every face in the room turned to him, every mouth open in surprise.
‘In accordance with our shareholders’ agreement, I am giving you twenty-eight days notice to buy them,’ continued Roger. ‘Then I will be looking for other buyers on the open market.’
The uproar began again and Roger looked over at Emma triumphantly. He knew that as a suspect in an arson and attempted murder case, Emma would be unable to raise such a large amount of money and with her out of play, a sale of his shares to an outsider would bring a windfall of millions.
‘Very well,’ said Emma quietly, cursing herself for being outmanoeuvred. She declared the meeting closed. The shareholders filed out excitedly, unable to believe what they had just seen and heard.
Stella and Tom walked down Oxford’s High Street holding hands; the cold air nipped their noses, but they were enjoying the warmth of each other’s touch. In preparation for their meeting with Walter Maier to discuss the feasibility of a Christopher Chase exhibition, Stella had asked to meet up with Julia to get the lowdown on the German gallery owner. She was keen to make the best possible impression – both on Walter and on Tom’s mother. Stella was excited but nervous as they turned off the High Street where Julia’s little gallery The Hollyhock nestled in a quiet, scholarly mews.
‘How does your mum feel about not showing my father’s exhibition herself?’ asked Stella, cuddling up against Tom, trying to shelter from the arctic wind.
‘I think she was a bit disappointed when she heard you wanted to go with a big London gallery,’ said Tom honestly. ‘But she agreed it was probably for the best; she hasn’t really got the client-base to make a success of such a show. Plus, I think she’s trying to negotiate some commission with Walter so she gets something out of it.’
‘Good for her,’ said Stella. She had been feeling guilty about the arrangement, especially after hearing how Julia had bailed Tom out of his Ibiza debts. But at the same time, her opinion of Tom’s mother had increased enormously. A bell tinkled as they walked into the gallery and a forty-something man dressed in black came over to them.
‘Thomas. How are you?’ he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
‘Fine, thanks, Jacques. Is my mother around?’
‘Sorry, she went to London first thing this morning. She said
she’d be back by 3 p.m., but that appears not to be the case,’ he said tartly.
Tom disliked the implication as he knew Julia treated her staff very well.
Poisonous little queen,
he thought.
‘I imagine she’ll be visiting my sister,’ said Tom in a mild tone. ‘I don’t know if you heard, but she was almost killed a few days ago. Perhaps you’ll excuse her if she has more important things to worry about, especially when she pays you a great deal of money to manage the gallery for her.’
Jacques tutted loudly.
‘Do you mind if we wait here a little while? She might be back at any time and I need to pick her brains.’
‘Very well,’ said Jacques rolling his eyes. ‘But you might prefer to stay in the back,’ he added, looking pointedly at Tom’s jeans and old parka. ‘Hélène Brose is coming in at 4 p.m. She’s a very important art consultant and I’m sure she would prefer to see the space without any encumbrances.’
Stella suppressed a smile.
‘Let’s go and get a cup of tea somewhere,’ she whispered.
‘There’s a coffee machine in the office,’ said Tom. ‘Jacques. We’re going upstairs for ten minutes.’
‘If you must.’
Upstairs was just like any other office. There was a large, glass desk strewn with catalogues and photographs, a pot of pens and a big Rolodex. There were a few photographs on the wall of Julia at various art fairs, smiling with bigwigs from the art world whom Stella vaguely recognized. On the window sill was the largest photograph of all. It was a framed picture of Julia, Tom and Cassandra taken with Winterfold in the background. Stella walked over and touched the frame, looking at the younger Tom and smiling.
‘Was it hard being brought up by just your mum?’
‘No, she did a great job,’ said Tom, as he busied himself making the coffee. ‘Look at the way she went running off to see Cassandra. She dotes on us. We couldn’t have asked for more, honestly.’
Stella picked up a Hollyhock Gallery brochure and leafed through it.
‘She’s had some good shows recently.’
‘Want a private view?’ said Tom, nodding towards a door behind her. ‘That’s where she keeps pieces from previous exhibitions that haven’t sold or are waiting to go to their new owners.’
‘Are we allowed?’
‘Not really,’ said Tom, opening the desk drawer and taking out a key. ‘But seeing as it’s you …’
Behind the door was a cramped storage room crammed with oil paintings, lithographs and sketches, some swathed in bubble wrap, some propped against the walls or on shelves.
‘It’s usually grouped into exhibitions,’ said Tom, moving a large canvas out of the way to get to the back of the room.
‘Here we go: a Terry Frost signed lithograph.’ He pointed to the pencil mark in the corner next to the signature. ‘“A/P” – that means that this one is the artist’s proof of that particular lithograph; it’s one of the ones he kept for himself or to give to friends. I’d say it’s a good investment.’
‘I’m too poor to be investing in art,’ smiled Stella. ‘I’m not Tom Ford yet, you know. Gosh, there must be hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of stuff in this room,’ she added excitedly.
‘Not really. That Frost lithograph is about as expensive as it gets. She mostly deals with stuff under a thousand pounds. I think me and Cass and then Ruby got in the way of making Hollyhock a more important gallery than it is now. She always put us first.’ He fell silent for a moment, and Stella knew he was thinking about how his mother had bailed him out yet again at a cost to her own ambitions. Then Tom suddenly looked up, laughed and pointed to a low door at the back of the room which was set into the slope of the roof.
‘Still, I bet my mum wouldn’t let me play in here any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I was little and Mum had to bring me into the office with her, I used to play in here and hide in that little cubby-hole. I’d call it my space shuttle.’
‘Ahh, sweet,’ said Stella, stroking his arm affectionately.
Tom crouched down and lifted up a loose flap of carpet. Underneath was a key. Tom grinned at Stella and unlocked the little door.
‘Fancy playing doctors and nurses in the space shuttle?’ he asked. Stella giggled as Tom bent over and popped his head inside. ‘Hmm … might be a little dusty for that …’
He was straightening up again when something caught his eye: a large painting leaning against the wall.
‘Hang on,’ he said and then reached into the space and pulled it out.
‘Hey, do you recognize this?’ he asked, beckoning Stella over. ‘I think this is by the same guy as that stuff at your dad’s house.’
‘You mean Ben Palmer?’ said Stella nodding. ‘Yes, I’m sure it’s by him – the colours and shapes, the little boat, that red sky are all right. No, it couldn’t be anyone else, I’ve been looking at those paintings in Trencarrow for years now. The style is identical.’
‘What on earth is it doing in here?’ he said, holding it aloft by its frame.
‘Hang on, there’s something on the back,’ said Stella.
Tom turned it over.
‘Another painting,’ said Stella. ‘I don’t think that’s Ben Palmer, it’s too messy. Maybe it’s by another artist?’
The picture on the back wasn’t completely finished, but they could see that it was painted in a more brutal style: energetic brushstrokes and thick daubs of dark paint were emphasized with bright flesh tones and bottle greens.
‘That’s odd, isn’t it? Why would someone paint on the back?’
Stella thought for a moment.
‘Do you remember Dad saying that Ben Palmer was really poor? Didn’t he say he used to paint on anything he could find lying around the studios? Why don’t we show this to him? I bet he’ll be interested.’
She reached into her bag, took out the camera she carried everywhere and snapped both sides of the painting.
‘He loves Ben Palmer’s stuff. When he gets some money from his exhibition maybe he could buy it.’
Tom put the painting back in the space shuttle. ‘It’s stuffed in here so she probably won’t want much for it. He’s got a computer, hasn’t he? Why don’t you send over the photos and see if he likes it?’
She turned and gave him a long kiss.
‘What’s that for?’
‘For being nice about Dad. And for the Space Shuttle.’
Tom beamed.
‘O K, enough romance, let’s scarper,’ he said quickly. ‘Jacques will get all queeny if he thinks we’ve been mucking about in here.’
Stella was spending a relaxing evening in front of the fire with Tom after their chilly Oxford trip. They were just reading magazines and sharing a bottle of Chardonnay when the phone rang.
‘Hello, Stella, it’s your father,’ said a rich baritone at the other end of the line.
‘Oh, hi, Dad. How are you?’
‘Muddling through,’ he said grumpily, but Stella could detect a slightly more upbeat tone in Christopher’s voice.
‘Have you heard from Chessie?’ she asked gently.
‘A few letters from the lawyers,’ he sighed. ‘Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll be OK, sweetheart, don’t you worry.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Stella, smiling into the phone. ‘Anyway, did you get the images I sent you?’
‘Yes, I did and that’s what I’m calling about,’ said Christopher. ‘Where did you find this painting again?’
‘In Julia’s gallery. We thought it might be by the same artist as the ones you have at Trencarrow.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is; I’m certain it’s Ben Palmer. Have you asked Julia about it?’
‘Not yet. Did you like it?’
‘First of all, are you entirely sure it is Julia’s to sell?’
‘As I said, we haven’t spoken to her about it. Why?’
‘Well, if it’s Ben’s work, then I’m certain it belonged to Saul,’ said Christopher cautiously. ‘Bless him, but Ben didn’t sell very many paintings, so I doubt they’re from the open market. I certainly know Ben gave Saul some paintings at about the same time as me in about 1959 or 1960. I’m convinced this is one of them.’
Stella moved off the sofa and went to sit on a chair by the window, out of earshot of Tom.
‘Do you think Julia was willed them in Saul’s estate? Or perhaps Emma has given them to Julia to sell.’
‘Well, whoever owns that painting has something very valuable on their hands; something very valuable indeed,’ said Christopher.
Stella frowned and glanced over at Tom, who was engrossed in his magazine.
‘You’ve always said that the Palmer painting is only valuable for sentimental reasons.’
‘
My
Palmer painting, yes. But the work you sent me …’ and he paused. ‘You saw the painting on the back?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure it’s the work of Francis Bacon.’
‘The
Francis Bacon? Really?’
‘Yes. Bacon worked in the Porthmeor Studios in St Ives for a short period around the same time as Ben gave us his paintings. Ben was very hard up and used to paint on whatever he could find: boards, card, even other artists’ canvases. Bacon was famous for destroying or throwing away anything he wasn’t happy with and I’m sure he’s painted on some of Bacon’s discarded work.’
‘Why would he give a valuable Bacon painting away to Saul? If Ben was so hard up, why didn’t he keep it for himself?’
‘Who knows? Ben never thought much of Bacon’s work, called him a “dauber” and anyway, he might not even have identified it as Bacon’s work. Bacon was in quite an experimental stage when he worked in St Ives and the painting is barely finished. Certainly, none of us had any idea how valuable his paintings would become decades later.’
‘So you think it
is
valuable?’
She heard her father laughing slowly down the phone.
‘The price of Bacon’s work has gone through the roof. Ten, twenty million or more. As I said, Bacon’s work in St Ives was an important experimental period for him, so even though it’s unfinished, it’s of huge cultural and developmental significance. Even if it doesn’t get authenticated by the Bacon estate, I’m sure someone, somewhere, will pay a fortune for it.’