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wasn’t it?”
William confirmed this, and added, “I think … well, I have to say that I think it’s stolen—how else would it be here?”
“He may have bought it in an antique shop,” ventured Caroline. “Sometimes you see paintings hanging up in such places. They often have no idea what they’ve got.”
William thought this unlikely. “Those characters—the dealers—know what’s what. If they see anything remotely interesting, they show it to an expert. It’s inconceivable these days that any antique dealer would let something like this slip through their fingers.” He paused. He had more to say on the subject of the painting’s provenance. “I should tell you, by the way, that I found a site on the Web. It lists stolen paintings, and there was nothing by Poussin, I’m sure. So—”
“If the owner knew that it was a Poussin,” James interjected. “What if this had simply been an attractive painting hanging on his wall? He might have had no idea at all what he had. Then along comes somebody and steals it.”
William winced. That somebody could have been his only son.
86. Terence and Berthea
“IT’S ENTIRELY UNSUITABLE,” said Berthea Snark. “You told me that you were buying a Peugeot. Now look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve bought a Porsche. What am I to think, Terence? Honestly, you tell me—what am I to think?”
It was Tuesday morning, and Berthea was at breakfast in the garden room of her brother’s Queen Anne house on the edge of Cheltenham. It was a fine morning and the sun was streaming through the large glass windows, making brilliant the white tablecloth, glinting off the cutlery laid at each end of the breakfast table. It was a day that made Berthea glad that she had postponed her return to London and still had two weeks to spend in the bucolic surroundings of Cheltenham, even if looking after Terence was proving to be a frustrating task. One does not expect one’s brother to have a near-death experience when one goes to spend a few days with him; nor does one expect him to buy a totally unsuitable Porsche, when up to that point he has been perfectly content to drive a Morris Traveller.
Terence, who was cutting the top off his boiled egg, seemed unconcerned. “It’s a lovely little car,” he said. “It used to belong to Monty Bismarck. So I know it’s been well looked after.”
Berthea made a face: Monty Bismarck sounded a completely unsuitable man from whom to buy a car. “And who exactly is this Monty Bismarck? You’ve mentioned him before,” she said.
“Monty is Alfie Bismarck’s son,” he explained. “Alfie has racehorses. A terribly nice man. He’s offered me a share in a racehorse on several occasions but I’ve never taken him up on it. Maybe I shall sometime in the future.”
Berthea sighed. “I don’t think so, Terence. But tell me—why did you want a car like that? Is it a …” She hesitated. Terence was sensitive to criticism from her, but there were some questions that just demanded to be asked. “Is it a potency issue?”
Terence looked at her in puzzlement. “I really don’t see what a car has to do with potency, of all things. What a funny thing to say, Berthy! You really are a silly-billy!”
Berthea busied herself with the buttering of a piece of toast. “Well,” she said briskly, “don’t say that I didn’t warn you. I’ve had so many middle-aged male patients for whom the purchase of a car has been the first sign of something going awry. It’s the new car first and then it’s infidelity. New car, new girlfriend. It’s all so predictable.”
Terence sighed. “But I don’t have anybody to be unfaithful to, Berthy. You know that.”
Berthea’s hand was poised above the toast. Terence was not one for self-pity, and the absence of that unattractive quality made the words he had just uttered all the more poignant. Berthea looked at her brother and reflected on how we allow loneliness in others to escape our attention. The lonely are often brave, putting on the pretence of being content in their condition but all the time wanting the company of another. Was that how it was for Terence? Did he sit by himself in this morning room, contemplating empty days in which there would be nobody to speak to? Did he yearn for telephone calls that he knew would never come? She realised that his telephone never rang—indeed she had had no idea where it was until she had been obliged