had to die with his head in the fireplace – and why the doctor is puzzling over the odd position of the body.’
‘The sergeant of police,’ Gryde said, ‘isn’t puzzling over that footprint. Because you trampled it out of existence.’
There was a long silence while three exhausted fishermen stared at a retired Metropolitan Commissioner.
‘It will be thought,’ Appleby said, ‘that Vivarini was shot by some professional criminal who had an eye on our wallets, and who knew he had major charges to face if he was apprehended. Something like that. The police don’t always end up with an arrest, but they never fail to have a theory of the crime.’
‘Is it going to be safe?’ Gryde asked.
‘Fairly safe, I’d suppose.’ For the first time since his arrival at Dunwinnie, there was a hint of contempt in Appleby’s voice. ‘But safe or not, I judge it decent that this particular comedy of Frederick Vivarini’s shall never be played before a larger audience than it has enjoyed tonight.’
The Conversation Piece
Lord Pendragon was a British civil servant of the old school. A King’s Scholar at Eton, an Open Scholar of Christ Church and for a leisured two years a Fellow of New College, he had entered the Treasury and risen as far as they rise – taking with him much literary cultivation, artistic connoisseurship, musical taste and the like, in the acquirement of which he had conceivably been assisted by his substantial private fortune. As a young man Pendragon had worked for Cabinet Ministers out of his own stable. He used to exchange with them, when they lost their jobs, suitable memorial trifles: perhaps a book bound for Jean Grolier against one bound by Samuel Mearne. Later, he worked with the same perfect discretion and good humour for New Men (as they were called at his club) whose private interests, although perfectly reputable, were of a somewhat different order. And now here he was, retired and silver-haired, perhaps the most eminent guest at this small gathering at the Lyle Gallery, distinguished from his fellows only by a slight excess of that air of perfect diffidence which marks the English gentleman.
The Lyle is, of course, one of the major picture galleries of the world, and this was why Lady Finch had chosen it to receive her Conversation Piece. The gift was in memory of her late husband, Sir Gabriel Finch, the eminent financier. Sir Gabriel had clearly been the life and soul of the convivial occasion depicted. The ladies had withdrawn; the male guests were clustered round their host at the foot of his dining-table; and the brilliant talk to which they were listening was agreeably symbolized or concretized in the crystal and gold which the Finches abundantly commanded for the service of dessert. Word had gone round the small gathering at the Lyle that what was particularly to be admired was the trompe-l’oeil effect with which the artist had rendered the cherry stones and walnut shells on the silver-gilt plates. Some of the more self-assured of Lady Finch’s friends were affecting to make this aesthetic discovery for themselves.
Of course there were levels of appreciation, each with its own vocabulary. The Director of the Lyle murmured to Judith Appleby that nobody would have expected the poor devil to turn himself into a quadraturista . The poor devil was the painter, Gwilym Lloyd. Lloyd – whom the uncharitable wit of the studios had nicknamed Mungo long before his death – had as a young man been regarded as the most promising painter of his generation. Then he had married, surrounded himself with a numerous progeny, and settled down as a ruthless manufacturer of boardroom portraits. Mungo Lloyd ended up as an RA – he, like Lord Pendragon had risen as far as they rise – and it was possible that the Conversation Piece had been the turning-point in his career. So the picture had, for the informed, a certain sombre historical interest. Moreover, extremely few people had ever seen
‘The sergeant of police,’ Gryde said, ‘isn’t puzzling over that footprint. Because you trampled it out of existence.’
There was a long silence while three exhausted fishermen stared at a retired Metropolitan Commissioner.
‘It will be thought,’ Appleby said, ‘that Vivarini was shot by some professional criminal who had an eye on our wallets, and who knew he had major charges to face if he was apprehended. Something like that. The police don’t always end up with an arrest, but they never fail to have a theory of the crime.’
‘Is it going to be safe?’ Gryde asked.
‘Fairly safe, I’d suppose.’ For the first time since his arrival at Dunwinnie, there was a hint of contempt in Appleby’s voice. ‘But safe or not, I judge it decent that this particular comedy of Frederick Vivarini’s shall never be played before a larger audience than it has enjoyed tonight.’
The Conversation Piece
Lord Pendragon was a British civil servant of the old school. A King’s Scholar at Eton, an Open Scholar of Christ Church and for a leisured two years a Fellow of New College, he had entered the Treasury and risen as far as they rise – taking with him much literary cultivation, artistic connoisseurship, musical taste and the like, in the acquirement of which he had conceivably been assisted by his substantial private fortune. As a young man Pendragon had worked for Cabinet Ministers out of his own stable. He used to exchange with them, when they lost their jobs, suitable memorial trifles: perhaps a book bound for Jean Grolier against one bound by Samuel Mearne. Later, he worked with the same perfect discretion and good humour for New Men (as they were called at his club) whose private interests, although perfectly reputable, were of a somewhat different order. And now here he was, retired and silver-haired, perhaps the most eminent guest at this small gathering at the Lyle Gallery, distinguished from his fellows only by a slight excess of that air of perfect diffidence which marks the English gentleman.
The Lyle is, of course, one of the major picture galleries of the world, and this was why Lady Finch had chosen it to receive her Conversation Piece. The gift was in memory of her late husband, Sir Gabriel Finch, the eminent financier. Sir Gabriel had clearly been the life and soul of the convivial occasion depicted. The ladies had withdrawn; the male guests were clustered round their host at the foot of his dining-table; and the brilliant talk to which they were listening was agreeably symbolized or concretized in the crystal and gold which the Finches abundantly commanded for the service of dessert. Word had gone round the small gathering at the Lyle that what was particularly to be admired was the trompe-l’oeil effect with which the artist had rendered the cherry stones and walnut shells on the silver-gilt plates. Some of the more self-assured of Lady Finch’s friends were affecting to make this aesthetic discovery for themselves.
Of course there were levels of appreciation, each with its own vocabulary. The Director of the Lyle murmured to Judith Appleby that nobody would have expected the poor devil to turn himself into a quadraturista . The poor devil was the painter, Gwilym Lloyd. Lloyd – whom the uncharitable wit of the studios had nicknamed Mungo long before his death – had as a young man been regarded as the most promising painter of his generation. Then he had married, surrounded himself with a numerous progeny, and settled down as a ruthless manufacturer of boardroom portraits. Mungo Lloyd ended up as an RA – he, like Lord Pendragon had risen as far as they rise – and it was possible that the Conversation Piece had been the turning-point in his career. So the picture had, for the informed, a certain sombre historical interest. Moreover, extremely few people had ever seen
Similar Books
