Deadlight-Hall(4)

He sounded unsure, so Nell said, ‘Not if you’d rather not. I could take some photos right away. Some close-ups of the hallmark, particularly. Then you can keep the figure until we know a bit more about it.’

‘That would be very acceptable. And you could arrange its sale?’

‘Yes, certainly I could, in fact I’d love to handle the selling of something so unusual and beautiful, but, Professor, are you sure you want to part with this? It’s such a wonderful heirloom, and it’s obviously part of your family’s history – and of your religion.’

She hoped this was not a tactless remark, but Rosendale only said, ‘I am quite sure. It’s very nice of you to ask, though.’ He smiled at her.

It was a strange thing, thought Nell, that Leo Rosendale was not a particularly good-looking man, apart from his eyes, which were very nearly mesmerizing. But when he smiled, such extraordinary sweetness touched his face that you wanted to keep looking at him.

He said, ‘It has, you see, rather mixed memories for me, and sometimes one can carry memories around for too long. I believe it’s time to put those memories away for good.’

‘Then I’ll very happily deal with it for you. I think, though, that it would do better at auction. Would you be all right with that?’ He nodded. ‘Good. Then what I’d like to do is sound out an auction house where I’ve got a couple of good contacts. They’re called Ashby’s. They aren’t quite Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but I think they’d do a good job of selling and their commission is very reasonable.’

‘I regard you as my agent,’ he said, and the smile came again.





TWO


Michael spent the first half of the morning with a first-year student who was wrestling with the intricacies of prosody, and the second half rescuing Wilberforce from an attic. Investigation indicated that Wilberforce had got into the attic by means of a decorator’s ladder, from which he had prowled curiously through a hatch inadvertently left open by them. He appeared to have spent a pleasant interval diligently ripping some roofing felt to shreds, most of which fell on still-wet paintwork, then discovered, to his indignation, that the ladder had been carried away, by a tidily inclined painter.

It was unfortunate that Wilberforce’s vociferous demands for assistance reached the ears of the Bursar who had looked in to check the progress of the painting, and who investigated the banshee-like caterwauling. Michael, abruptly dragged out of the world of Elizabethan word-rhythms, reinstated the ladder, and spent ten minutes coaxing an indignant Wilberforce down. He then spent a further fifteen minutes placating the ruffled Bursar, who said Michael should remember that decorators were (a) expensive, (b) booked up for months ahead, and (c) apt to take umbrage if their handiwork was plastered with roofing detritus. He added crossly that the entire wall would have to be sanded down and done again, and demanded to know what use Wet Paint signs were if people paid them no attention.

Michael cursed Wilberforce, bundled him into his own rooms, and offered to foot the bill for the extra painting, to which the Bursar said, well, perhaps they did not need to be quite as penny-pinching as that, but please see it doesn’t happen again, Dr Flint. By this time it was midday and the first-year student had gone off to keep a pressing appointment in the Turf Tavern. Michael went along to Professor Rosendale’s rooms to tell him he was heading for Deadlight Hall and would call back when he returned.

‘And Nell is finding out about an auction sale,’ said the professor. ‘What a delightful lady – so knowledgeable and helpful. I’m very grateful to you both.’ He paused, then said, ‘I’m glad you’re going out to the house. A firm called Hurst & Sons are dealing with the renovations. They’re an old local family firm, I think.’ He hesitated. ‘What will you say if they ask about your visit?’

‘That an acquaintance mentioned the renovations, and I’d be interested to have a quick look round,’ said Michael.

‘Yes, that’s exactly right.’

‘And truthful,’ said Michael, with a grin.

The Hall was, as the professor had said, only about fifteen minutes’ drive from Oxford, on the outskirts of a village, which Michael found after taking only one wrong turning. It was a tiny place, with a little straggle of shops in the main street – including a greengrocer’s and a pharmacist’s, all of them with pleasingly old-fashioned frontages. There was a small square with a green and a stone cross war memorial.