Money from Holme (23 page)

‘You can do what you please. I’ve got money. I’ll fight.’

‘The sensation will be all the greater. You’ll even acquire fame of a sort, Cheel. Like that Dutch rascal, van Meegeren – whose own painting was hopelessly third-rate, but who forged Vermeers superbly.’

‘No – not that!’ Cheel’s voice rose in a scream. ‘Anything but that!’

‘Then come quietly. It is convenient that you have that powerful car at the door. We have some way to go.’

‘Blackheath and Shooters Hill,’ Rumbelow said, when they were in the Rolls. ‘The road having been made by the Romans – it is in fact Watling Street – remains very tolerable. We then continue down the A2 to Cobham. Were our expedition one of pleasure, we might visit the parish church there and inspect the brasses. They are perhaps the finest in the country. I am remarking the controls as you drive, by the way. You understand that I shall be returning alone.’

Cheel was in no mood for antiquarian conversation. As for Rumbelow’s returning alone, he was wondering, on the contrary, whether he couldn’t turn down a deserted country lane, batter the old fiend’s head in, and bury him. But such crude crimes, he remembered, seldom pass undetected. Moreover there were those other people: Braunkopf, Hedda, the nasty Wuggles. He couldn’t liquidate the lot.

These considerations obliged him to abandon any thought of violence as impracticable. This was a pity, since their eventual destination – which was, of course, Rumbelow’s retreat in the heart of Kent – held a dismal seclusion just right for crime. They got out of the car between a small wooden cottage and a large wooden barn. There was nothing else in sight.

‘The cottage,’ Rumbelow said, ‘is in some disrepair. The roof leaks – but not to any point of positive inconvenience. Ample water may be pumped from the well at the bottom of the garden.’ He led the way inside. ‘For cookery of the simpler sort, as you will see, the facilities are not unreasonable. It is possible that I may provide a second saucepan.’

‘What the devil do you think this has to do with me?’

‘These, Cheel, are your living quarters for the next two years. My age asks ease; and for the completion of my colossal canvases for the Wamba Palace of Industry I am constrained, unfortunately, to employ an assistant. This the Wamba authorities understand. I have explained to them that it was the practice of many Old Masters. You, Cheel, are to be my assistant. You will work strictly to my instructions – and, of course, on the more routine and detailed parts of the work. We will now go into the studio.’

Numbly, and as a slave behind his master, Cheel followed Rumbelow into the barn. It had been provided with a large north light and a small oil stove, but appeared otherwise untouched. Down two of its sides were enormous canvases on elaborately braced stretchers. Rumbelow paused before the first of these.

‘Her Majesty the Queen,’ he said, ‘reading the Speech from the Throne on the occasion of the State Opening of Parliament. As you will see, most of the Lords are already completed. But some hundreds of Commons, standing at the Bar of the House, have yet to be filled in. Their photographs are available. Now look at the next. It is the new road bridge over the Firth of Forth, viewed from the east and through the cantilevers of the old railway bridge. I flatter myself that the design is intricate and pleasing. But, of course, the number of rivets requiring representation is almost burdensomely large. No doubt you will pass alternately between the rivets and the faces of the MPs. They are about equally expressive, after all.’

Cheel was now weeping quietly.

‘But I can’t,’ he wailed. ‘I just
can’t
!’

‘Not at all. Your abilities are very respectable. If honestly applied, they shall receive suitable recompense. I shall, I need hardly say, impound your cash and your cheque-book. It would be foolish to encourage you in the futile notion that flight is a possibility open to you. Your provisions will be delivered by an old woman from the village. She is deaf as well as blind, I am sorry to say. But she finds her way about remarkably well. There will be unlimited bread, cheese and milk. Should your progress merit it, there may later be a small weekly supply of bottled beer. Nothing more, I think, need be said at present. Except to impress upon you, Cheel, that I act out of a reformatory as well as a punitive intention. In two years’ time I hope you will be a better man. At least you can hardly be a worse.’

There was a long silence. Then Mervyn Cheel braced himself for one more struggle to make terms.

‘Please’ – he said piteously – ‘you won’t
tell
? That’s all I stipulate for.’

‘You are not in a position to stipulate for anything.’

‘It’s all I beg. That nobody should
know
.’ He pointed, blindly and not very tactfully, at the two vast canvases. ‘That nobody should ever know that I have set a hand to these things.’

‘Very well. There is no reason why my assistant – although his existence must be admitted – should not retain his personal anonymity. Therefore I agree – subject to your good conduct, of course.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Cheel was finding that rage and malignity appeared to have been battered out of him. His punishment – what this dreadful tyrant thought of as his punishment – was going to consist of discomfort, boredom and humiliation. Yet, staunch to himself, he was rational to the last. It was all very horrid. But it was better than being put in gaol.

Five minutes later, he watched Rumbelow climb into the Rolls and drive away. Then he turned back to what Hildebert Braunkopf would have called the voonderble vorlt of art.

Published by House of Stratus

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