Nothing Ventured(31)

“I haven’t found the right opportunity yet.”

“Will you ever?” sighed Clare, before adding, “I looked up the word ‘reactionary’ in my OED, and your father’s name appeared in the footnotes.”

Grace laughed. “I’ve told my mother all about you, and she couldn’t have been more supportive. She asked if you’d like to join us for lunch on Sunday, and let Dad work it out for himself?”

“Who do you think your father would be more happy to propose as a member of the Garrick—a mass murderer or a lesbian?”

“Mass, I couldn’t be sure about,” said Grace as she placed the folder on the bedside table and turned out the light.





12


They sat together on the top deck of a bus heading for Notting Hill.

“Do you have a plan, Detective Constable Warwick,” asked Beth, “or are we just winging it?”

“We’re winging it,” admitted William. “But I’m hoping that by the time we get back on the bus I’ll know who painted the copy of the missing Rembrandt.”

“Did you manage to dig up anything interesting about the gallery?”

“It was founded twelve years ago by two brothers, Malcolm and Zac Knight. It started out as a portrait gallery, but they soon found there wasn’t a profit in that and moved on to producing unsigned copies of famous paintings for customers who couldn’t afford the real thing, but want a masterpiece on their wall for a thousandth of the price. That was when the business really took off. How about you?”

“I asked around my arty friends. A lot of them don’t approve of the gallery, although one or two did admit that it’s given some struggling artists a reasonable living they wouldn’t otherwise have had. Apparently some of the copies are of exceptional quality. But I’d still rather have an original.”

“Then you’re going to have to steal one. Or marry a very rich man.”

“Neither will be necessary,” said Beth. “I already live with some of the finest artists on earth, and my latest boyfriend is practically penniless, so that doesn’t look too promising.”

“But most of those artists are dead Dutch men, so your boyfriend must be in with a chance.”

“Not unless he finds my Rembrandt.”

“Is that why you tried to pick me up?”

“It was you who tried to pick me up, in case you’ve forgotten. And on our second date, you didn’t even show up.”

“I’d already heard the lecture,” said William, taking her hand.

“Well, I hope you’re not thinking of leaving the Art and Antiques squad before you’ve found my Rembrandt.”

“I won’t be moving for some time yet. But if I pass my sergeant’s exam, in a couple of years’ time they’ll probably move me to another department.”

“You’re not going anywhere until my Rembrandt is back in its frame, otherwise I shall transfer my affections to whoever takes your place.”

“Lucky man. But if we find out who copied The Syndics, we’ll be one step nearer to discovering what happened to the original.”

The bus came to a halt, and William stood aside to allow Beth to go ahead of him.

“Not many men bother to do that nowadays,” Beth commented as she made her way down the stairs. “I can’t wait to meet your father. He must be an old-fashioned gentleman.”

“That’s something I’ve always taken for granted,” admitted William, “and have only begun to appreciate recently.”

“You’ll remember Mark Twain’s comment about his father,” said Beth as they stepped off the bus. “‘When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he’d learned in seven years.’” William laughed, and Beth asked, “Do you have any idea where you’re going?”

“No,” said William, “but I’ve seen someone who might.” He stopped a passing bobby and asked him if he knew where Abbots Road was.

“Second on the right, sir.”

“Thank you,” said William.

“Were you ever in uniform?” asked Beth.

“I spent a couple of years on the beat in Lambeth.”

“And are the public always as appreciative and polite as you?”

“Not always,” said William quietly, before bowing his head.

“What did I say?” asked Beth, suddenly anxious.

“You brought back the memory of an old friend who should have been out on the beat this morning,” said William as they turned the corner.

“I’m sorry,” said Beth. She took his hand, aware that they still had so much to learn about each other.

“You weren’t to know,” said William.

As they strolled into Abbots Road, William spotted a colourful sign swinging in the breeze.

“Try not to sound like a policeman,” whispered Beth as they entered the gallery.

A man dressed in an open-neck pink shirt, blazer, and jeans stepped forward to greet them. “Good morning,” he said. “Zac Knight. I’m the proprietor of the gallery. May I ask if you were looking for anything in particular?”