Unfinished Portrait (31 page)

Max? Rona's brain struggled to make sense of that.

‘And that, I might tell you, rang alarm bells big time. Because if, trying to placate Elspeth, she pretended she'd no feelings for me and I was pestering her, it was just possible doubts could arise. Elspeth herself didn't worry me; if she'd known anything she'd have accused me long since, and in any case, she's probably dead herself by now. But you were a different matter; you dig out facts for a living, and sooner or later you were bound to read the letters and make the fatal connection. You might even have already done so – witness your behaviour today – but unless you could produce them, you'd have no proof. Clearly, I'd no choice but to remove them a.s.a.p.'

Rona stared at him, her mind spinning out of control.

‘So,' he continued, ‘the next day I went to Elspeth's house to get them. Her
empty
house. Simple enough, you'd think. But that bloody woman was there, wasn't she, and had to stick her nose in. And after all that, I couldn't even
find
the bloody things. The only possible conclusion was that you had them.'

He smiled, and a chill ran down Rona's spine. ‘I couldn't believe my luck when I saw you just now, the more so since it was clear at once that you suspected me.'

She shook her head violently, trying to stand, but her limbs felt leaden and refused to respond.

‘I'm sorry about this, Rona, though more for Max's sake than yours. We go back a long way. However, self-preservation is the order of the day, and it's clear drastic action's required yet again. I must say, it's becoming quite a habit.'

He watched impassively as she tried again to rise. ‘No point in struggling,' he told her. ‘I emptied tranquillizer capsules into your coffee. You'll be out of it soon.'

Rona's mouth felt dry and oddly fluffy. ‘The letters,' she tried to say. ‘There was nothing—'

‘Too late, I fear; even in your present state, you must realize you know too much. So,' he placed his mug on the table and stood up, ‘you were anxious to leave, weren't you? Let me help you on your way.'

Powerless to resist him – to do
anything
– Rona was pulled to her feet and her arms – seeming not to belong to her – pushed into the sleeves of the jacket she'd removed on arrival. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep, but though she tried to tell him so, he didn't seem to understand.

His voice echoed in her head. ‘Here's your bag, and we mustn't forget your parcels, though you'll have to carry them; I'll need my hands free to support you.'

She'd no idea what he was talking about, and was beyond caring. With his arm round her waist all but carrying her, they left the studio, descended in the lift, and went out into the winter street. Briefly, its cold air revived her a little and her eyes fluttered open as she tottered along, one foot dragging after the other. She was aware of people about her – why weren't they helping her? – and the nearby roar of traffic.

‘A liquid lunch, I'm afraid!' Nathan's disembodied voice apologized, as they lurched into someone.

More crowds. Louder traffic noise, and the draught of its passing on her face. She stumbled as Nathan changed his hold, easing her in front of him, but the pressure of his body and the closeness of people on either side kept her upright. She swayed dizzily, the edge of the kerb beneath her feet. Then, suddenly, pandemonium.

She felt a sharp jab in the small of her back, and, simultaneously, a violent tug on her arm pulling her sideways, so that she fell heavily against the people beside her. Screams, an ear-piercing screech of tyres and brakes, shouting, and, finally, oblivion.

It was some time before she came fully round, to find herself lying on a narrow bed in a cubicle. At her involuntary movement, a nurse appeared, smiling down at her.

‘Where . . .?' Her mouth and throat were bone-dry, and the attempt to speak made her cough. Gratefully, she drank the full glass of water handed to her.

‘You're in a Medicentre, in Oxford Street,' the nurse told her. ‘You were involved in an incident, but don't worry, you're not hurt.'

Rona stared at her. ‘Oxford Street?' she croaked.

‘You don't remember? Never mind; some . . . people are waiting to speak to you, but I'll tell them you're not ready yet. Just lie and rest for a while. Your friend is on his way.'

‘My . . . friend?' A blurred picture of Nathan formed in her mind, bringing a wave of panic, and she struggled to sit up.

The nurse put a restraining hand on her shoulder. ‘Mr Allerdyce; he's listed as an emergency contact in your pocket diary.'

‘Max!' Rona relaxed. ‘He's my husband,' she said.

‘Oh, I'm sorry. With the name being different . . .'

Rona nodded. Too much effort to explain. ‘He . . . laughs at me . . . for . . . filling that in . . . every year.'

‘He won't again,' the nurse said darkly. But Rona's thoughts had moved on. She had to know . . .

‘I . . . was with someone,' she began cautiously.

There was a subtle change in the woman's manner. ‘No more questions, now, till you're feeling stronger. Settle down and go back to sleep till your husband arrives.'

And she did. The next thing she knew, Max, white-faced and anxious, was bending over her.

‘God, Rona, are you all right?' he demanded, stooping to kiss her.

‘I think so. But Nathan—'

‘Nathan? Nathan Tait? What's this got to do with him?'

He waited for her to answer, and when she didn't, repeated, ‘Where does Nathan come into it? All I know is you were involved in some kind of “incident”, and the police are waiting to speak to you.'

It was coming back now, the nightmare studio and Nathan's eyes intent on her.

‘He told me he killed Chloë and Mary Strong,' she said flatly, ‘and I think he tried to kill me.'

‘
What
? Darling, that can't be right! He's our
friend
!' Max was staring at her, convinced she was still confused, but when she nodded confirmation, he said heavily, ‘We'd better get the police in.'

So Rona went through the story – meeting Nathan at the viewing, his insisting they go to his studio for coffee, the tranquillizers dissolved in it, and his bizarre confession. Whether or not his story could be verified, she neither knew nor, at that stage, cared. All she could think was that she must let Elspeth know Chloë hadn't killed herself.

‘Do you think they believed me?' Rona asked Max in the car on the way home.

‘God knows; I had difficulty believing it myself. You're still a bit woozy, and it
was
a tall story. But I've now learned a bit more; when I went for the car, a reporter was hanging around, wanting to know how you were. He told me he'd been speaking to an eye witness, who swore the man you were with – Nathan, presumably – tried to push you under a bus. I still can't get my head round that.'

The jab in the back. The sideways jerk.

He glanced at her, but she made no response.

‘He – the reporter – kept saying “allegedly” – covering his back, I suppose – but the man he spoke to noticed you both particularly, you, because you looked ill and Nathan, because he seemed so tense. There was a crowd of people waiting to cross, but he pushed his way to the kerb, where he manoeuvred you in front of him. The witness thought this odd, as you seemed pretty unsteady; then, as the bus approached, he swears he saw Nathan brace himself and give you a shove.'

Max drew a deep breath. ‘The terrifying thing is, if he hadn't happened to be watching, it would have been written off as an accident, and you'd . . . almost certainly have been killed. As it was, he instinctively grabbed you and pulled you clear, and with you suddenly removed, Nathan stumbled forward himself.'

Rona gazed at him, horror-struck. ‘Under the bus?'

Max nodded.

‘Is he . . . dead?'

‘I don't know; apparently he was rushed to hospital.'

It was too much to take in, and, after struggling with it for a while, Rona gave up and thankfully sank back into sleep, only regaining consciousness long enough to stumble upstairs and into bed, where she slept solidly for ten hours, till the last of the barbiturates were out of her system.

SEVENTEEN

‘
A
ny news of Nathan?' Rona asked Max anxiously, when he brought her breakfast in bed the next morning.

‘The paper's not come yet.'

‘He said you told him about Chloë's letters. Is that true?'

Max frowned. ‘Not that I— oh, hang on; I might have said something. He phoned me at Farthings one day when I'd just mixed some paint, and frankly my only concern was to get him off the line as quickly as possible.'

‘But what did you say?'

‘He asked about the bio, and if you'd come across anything to do with Chloë, and I said I thought there were some letters. That's all. Why?'

‘That's why he went to Elspeth's,' Rona said flatly, ‘to get them.'

Max stared at her. ‘Oh my God.'

She reached quickly for his hand. ‘You weren't to know. There's absolutely no way you can blame yourself. Max,' she went on quickly, to distract him, ‘before all this happened, there was something else bothering me, about the Castillo. I was trying to work it out when Nathan suddenly appeared, and he assumed my uneasiness was down to him.'

‘What about the Castillo?'

‘It was very odd. I . . . kind of
recognized
it.'

‘Well, that's hardly surprising; it's been in the papers and on television.'

She was shaking her head. ‘No, I mean I'd seen it
personally
, but it . . . wasn't in colour.'

Max shrugged. ‘Perhaps you're thinking of some of his other work? He did a lot of court portraits.'

She buttered her toast, unconvinced. ‘If only I could
remember
!' she said helplessly, brushing a fly away from the marmalade.

Max swotted at it. ‘I thought these things were supposed to die out in winter,' he said.

Rona straightened suddenly, eyes widening. A fly on the windowpane. A sheet of paper of the floor beneath.

‘God, Max! Oh my God! I know where I saw it! In Elspeth's studio, in Craiglea!'

He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Darling, that's simply not possible.'

‘It was the fly that reminded me,' she insisted. ‘I was trying to guide one out of the window, leaning over the back of the chair, and this sheet of paper was on the floor behind it. It was a pencil sketch. I only had a brief glimpse, but I
swear
it was the same as the Castillo – the bent head, the missal in her hands.'

‘A coincidence, that's all. There might be some vague similarity, which your memory exaggerated. I've done the same myself.'

Down in the hall, Gus gave a sudden bark.

‘Sounds as though the paper's arrived,' Max said. ‘If my reporter pal did his stuff, there might be news of Nathan. Incidentally,' he added, nodding towards some carrier bags propped against the wall, ‘not content with saving your life, your Good Samaritan even rescued your parcels and put them in the ambulance with you. We must find some way of thanking him.'

Rona ate her toast thoughtfully, her mind still on the sketch. She
wasn't
imagining the resemblance, she was sure. Damn it, except for its size and the fact that it wasn't in colour, it was
identical
to the Castillo portrait.

Max came slowly into the room, the newspaper in his hands, and something in his expression started her heart thumping.

‘Max, what—'

‘You're not going to believe this,' he said heavily. ‘How's this for a headline?
Art world rocked by doubts thrown on masterpiece
.'

Rona gazed at him wordlessly, coffee cup in hand.

‘
In a dramatic move last night
,' he continued, ‘
Meredith's Auction House withdrew the much-acclaimed portrait of Doña Inez de los Reyes from its forthcoming auction after doubts concerning its authenticity were expressed by an eminent art specialist
.'

He lowered the paper and they met each other's eyes.

Carefully, Rona put down her cup. ‘She wouldn't!' she whispered.

‘She just might,' Max replied.

‘But . . .
why
?'

‘To prove she could, that she could be accepted as an Old Master. It's possible that what you saw was a preparatory sketch.'

‘I was going to hand it back to her,' Rona said aridly. ‘I wonder what she'd have done, if I had.'

Max ran a hand through his hair. ‘We mustn't jump to conclusions, though. For one thing, this expert could be proved wrong. For another, it might have nothing whatever to do with Elspeth. It was just seeing the headlines immediately after you . . .' He broke off, then added, ‘But if we
are
right, we can guess what that phone call was about – someone warning her the murmurs had started. No wonder she wanted you out.'

He sat down on the bed and took her hand. ‘Remember my advice, when the Harvey biography fell through? Only to write about people who've been safely dead and buried for a hundred years? Pity you didn't take it.'

She could only agree.

That week seemed totally surreal. Rona felt on the brink of an avalanche, not daring to move in case it precipitated disaster. Her main dread was that Naomi would contact her, and, if so, what she could say to her. But there was no word, nor, logically, any reason for one, since Naomi had no way of connecting the art scandal with her sister.