walls, miniatures and tiny works of art on one side, and on the other, a large painting of flowers. Three pristine beds and minimal furniture in this room, bathroom off. It would have been a dormitory, once.
Descending the alternative stairs, he found three large, higher-ceiling rooms. Doors interconnected the rooms and there were also doors into a corridor; all the rooms were made to move through, and move round; it was if every room in this house had two doors. He was already lost, had stopped looking at the pictures and was thinking instead of how well it would have worked as a public space. These rooms had no particular dedication: study rooms, bedrooms,elegant whatever they were, always with one door in and one door out.
Raymond could not understand why the corridor curved, but curve it did.
The next floor down housed the gallery. It was formed, mainly, of two huge rooms, again with doors, more interconnecting doors between them as well as those leading on from the corridor. Raymond could see one room as the headmaster’s office, perhaps, with its grander accoutrements, the other as a classroom. They merged together when the doors were flung open. Brilliant rooms with long windows, full of grey light. The gallery room, the heart of the place. Thomas’s old partner’s desk was in the finer end, complete with computer and files of neatly assembled paperwork. It was a library room, shelved in oak down one wall, while the rest of the walls were covered in pictures. Thomas’s ancient office chair was a Victorian model, precursor of the modern equivalent in terms of comfort, but with twice the authority. There were fireplaces at each end; he could imagine them blazing. Today there was a distinct chill in the air, a different temperature to the rooms above and below. Despite the magnificent view of the sea outside and the pictures within, Raymond could understand why Thomas had abandoned this place of command for the snug downstairs at the back, at least for the winter.
‘You know what Thomas wants, of course,’ Di said. ‘It’s to be a gallery, museum, for everyone, but especially for children who wouldn’t otherwise ever
see
real paintings.’
Raymond could see it: for the first time, he could see it.
‘And is that what you want?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And sometime along the line, his daughters are going to see it, too, and be proud of him.’
Fat chance
, Raymond thought.
They think it all belongs to them anyway. They think it’s theirs. They will
snatch. The word stuck in his mind, a mean word,
snatch,
reminding him of a sneak thief who came up behind and punched, hard.
‘We did a complete inventory of the existing paintings,’ Di said, handing him a copy from the desk. ‘You don’t need to do it again, just check it. The valuations are pure guesswork, except for the recent stuff. I’m in the process of writing descriptions, my own record, writing sketches of paintings, if that makes sense, so I remember them. Saul’s making a proper catalogue. I wish I knew where he was.’
Raymond nodded. The inventory would be correct, insofar as it went, with whatever omissions the client chose. If Thomas had not already hidden things, he would be markedly different to any other client Raymond had had. Likewise, he was sure there would be immaculate accounts, fit for the severest scrutiny. Thomas knew his tax law. He had planned for death long before it came over the horizon, planned it for years to make sure that Di got governance of the lot, the tax man got the least and the children nothing at all. There was simply not enough to do everything. The pot of money was deep, but not bottomless.
Raymond consulted his favourite painting above the fireplace on the left in the gallery room. A swagger portrait of a man about town, circa 1880, the man dressed in evening clothes and cloak, lounging in a chair, one hand in his lap and the other resting on a cane. There was a red flower overflowing from the lapel of
Descending the alternative stairs, he found three large, higher-ceiling rooms. Doors interconnected the rooms and there were also doors into a corridor; all the rooms were made to move through, and move round; it was if every room in this house had two doors. He was already lost, had stopped looking at the pictures and was thinking instead of how well it would have worked as a public space. These rooms had no particular dedication: study rooms, bedrooms,elegant whatever they were, always with one door in and one door out.
Raymond could not understand why the corridor curved, but curve it did.
The next floor down housed the gallery. It was formed, mainly, of two huge rooms, again with doors, more interconnecting doors between them as well as those leading on from the corridor. Raymond could see one room as the headmaster’s office, perhaps, with its grander accoutrements, the other as a classroom. They merged together when the doors were flung open. Brilliant rooms with long windows, full of grey light. The gallery room, the heart of the place. Thomas’s old partner’s desk was in the finer end, complete with computer and files of neatly assembled paperwork. It was a library room, shelved in oak down one wall, while the rest of the walls were covered in pictures. Thomas’s ancient office chair was a Victorian model, precursor of the modern equivalent in terms of comfort, but with twice the authority. There were fireplaces at each end; he could imagine them blazing. Today there was a distinct chill in the air, a different temperature to the rooms above and below. Despite the magnificent view of the sea outside and the pictures within, Raymond could understand why Thomas had abandoned this place of command for the snug downstairs at the back, at least for the winter.
‘You know what Thomas wants, of course,’ Di said. ‘It’s to be a gallery, museum, for everyone, but especially for children who wouldn’t otherwise ever
see
real paintings.’
Raymond could see it: for the first time, he could see it.
‘And is that what you want?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And sometime along the line, his daughters are going to see it, too, and be proud of him.’
Fat chance
, Raymond thought.
They think it all belongs to them anyway. They think it’s theirs. They will
snatch. The word stuck in his mind, a mean word,
snatch,
reminding him of a sneak thief who came up behind and punched, hard.
‘We did a complete inventory of the existing paintings,’ Di said, handing him a copy from the desk. ‘You don’t need to do it again, just check it. The valuations are pure guesswork, except for the recent stuff. I’m in the process of writing descriptions, my own record, writing sketches of paintings, if that makes sense, so I remember them. Saul’s making a proper catalogue. I wish I knew where he was.’
Raymond nodded. The inventory would be correct, insofar as it went, with whatever omissions the client chose. If Thomas had not already hidden things, he would be markedly different to any other client Raymond had had. Likewise, he was sure there would be immaculate accounts, fit for the severest scrutiny. Thomas knew his tax law. He had planned for death long before it came over the horizon, planned it for years to make sure that Di got governance of the lot, the tax man got the least and the children nothing at all. There was simply not enough to do everything. The pot of money was deep, but not bottomless.
Raymond consulted his favourite painting above the fireplace on the left in the gallery room. A swagger portrait of a man about town, circa 1880, the man dressed in evening clothes and cloak, lounging in a chair, one hand in his lap and the other resting on a cane. There was a red flower overflowing from the lapel of
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