Corduroy Mansions Page 0,76

don’t know,” William said. “When I was Eddie’s age, I don’t think I would have liked my father to open my private parcels.”

Marcia was dismissive. That was the trouble with William: he was frightened of Eddie. Eddie! That complete waste of space! William needed stiffening up—needed more backbone. Or bottom. That’s what people said, was it not, when they talked about courage? Bottom. He needed more bottom.

“Come on, William,” she said. “Bottom. More bottom.”

William looked at her in astonishment. He blushed. “I beg your pardon?” he stuttered.

“In the sense of courage,” Marcia said coolly. “‘Bottom’ means courage.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,” said Marcia, beginning to unwrap the parcel. “You have a perfect right to see what’s in here. What if it’s something …?”

She did not finish. Released from its string binding, the brown paper wrapping fell away to reveal a small, exquisitely executed painting.

Now Marcia finished her sentence. “Stolen,” she half whispered. “What if it’s stolen …”

It was more of a statement than a question. And when William took the painting from her and began to examine it, he knew that what Marcia feared was surely correct. Eddie had never expressed any interest in art and it was inconceivable that he would have bought a painting, especially a painting so beautiful and so obviously expensive as this.

“Oh no,” he groaned, staring at the tiny scene depicted in the painting: the expulsion from Paradise. God, stern as a righteous magistrate, pointed the way; Adam and Eve, chastened and aware now of their nudity, looked back over their shoulders at what they were leaving behind them. It looked a little like the private gardens near a friend’s house in Notting Hill, thought William, but without the signs telling you what the committee decreed you should not do. And we were all expelled, he thought, from something.

“It must be stolen,” said Marcia. “Why else would Eddie hide it under a pile of sweaters in his wardrobe? And why else would Freddie de la Hay …?”

The tension that had been building up within William now came flooding out. “Oh don’t be ridiculous, Marcia,” he snapped. “How could Freddie know that a painting was stolen? He’s only a dog, for heaven’s sake!”

Marcia was not one to be put down in this way. “Oh yes?” she challenged. “Then why did he point to it? You saw him—he pointed to it.”

“He must have smelled something,” said William. “Maybe there’s something on one of those sweaters. Eddie spends time with a young man called Stevie. I’m sure that Stevie smokes all sorts of things. In fact, I’d be highly surprised if he didn’t.”

Marcia’s response to this was to bend down and pick up the pile of sweaters. Separating them, she passed each in turn under Freddie de la Hay’s nose. Each time, the dog sniffed briefly at the wool and then, after appearing to think for a moment, shook his head.

“There!” said Marcia triumphantly. “You see? Freddie has given the sweaters a clean bill of health.”

“This is ridiculous,” said William. “Absurd.”

“I don’t think so,” said Marcia. And with that, she snatched the painting from William and bent down again to hold it in front of Freddie de la Hay’s snout. Almost immediately, the dog stiffened and began to growl. Finally he lifted a paw and pointed at the painting.

“There!” said Marcia. “That proves it.”

William was perplexed. Freddie de la Hay had certainly reacted to the painting, but what could that mean? Perhaps he had had another job before he had been posted to the sniffer-dog unit at Heathrow Airport—perhaps he had worked with the Metropolitan Police’s art squad. Anything, he mused, was possible.

“I need to think,” he said. “This is getting very confusing. I really need to think.”

“Of course you do,” said Marcia soothingly. “Of course you do, darling.”

William looked down at Freddie, who gazed back up at him with unambiguous affection. The possibility occurred to him that Freddie de la Hay was merely trying to please; after all, that was what dogs did, and it really was the only possible explanation for Freddie’s behaviour. He turned to Marcia and suggested this, but she discounted it out of hand.

“Highly unlikely,” she said.

William said nothing, but thought, What does Marcia know about dogs? The answer, of course, was that Marcia knew nothing. And now she was going to be living with him.

I have a criminal son. I have lost my assistant. My domestic arrangements have been turned upside down. My future, he thought, is markedly crepuscular.

54. Polar Bears and Vitamin A

DEE’S SATURDAY was