his work. That sort of practice always makes a painter more special – it’s his rarity. Now, to the point. I believe this painting of yours is what we call a sleeper.’
‘A sleeper?’
‘Yes, it’s been lying in wait for us, overlooked for years. We’re looking at 1936, perhaps,’ Reede continued. ‘The fact there is no frame is unfortunate. You can learn a lot from a frame’s quality. I assume Robles wouldn’t have had access to many, if he was back and working in the south of Spain. But if this is by Robles, and I think it is, then it was painted as he reached the cusp of his powers before war came. Look at the colours, the surreal narrative, the playfulness. It’s highly unusual. I see why he was so prized at the time.’
‘What happened to him?’ Lawrie asked.
‘War happened, Mr Scott. There are several theories. One is that he went north to join forces with other Republicans as Franco’s troops inched up from the south. They never found a grave, but at that time, it wasn’t uncommon. He was from the south, Andalusia, and he lived and worked in Malaga for a time, fairly unsuccessfully. He travelled to Madrid and Barcelona – there are a couple of his lithographs there, fairly minor.’
‘I see.’
‘But at the time this photograph was taken, Robles wouldn’t have been so worried about war. He was working well. He’d abandoned his idealistic, figurative aesthetic once he was back home, and it appears that he started to paint quite differently. A few months before Spain cracked apart, he painted a work that caused a real stir. It’s called Women in the Wheatfield. Have you heard of it?’
‘No.’
Reede turned towards the door, and I swore he looked at the keyhole. I froze.
‘It’s not particularly famous, but it’s a special painting,’ said Quick, and Reede turned back to her. Gradually, I edged my heart back down my throat.
‘Why is it so special?’ asked Lawrie.
‘I’ve done a little investigating,’ Reede went on before Quick could say anything more. ‘We know that Robles sold Women in the Wheatfield in Paris, around the time this photo was taken. A man called Harold Schloss sold it.’
‘I see,’ said Lawrie. Even through the keyhole, I could see that he was uncomfortable.
‘It went to New York for a while, and now hangs in Peggy Guggenheim’s house in Venice. I’ve seen Women in the Wheatfield myself,’ Reede went on, ‘and it has similar qualities to yours. Extraordinary in the flesh.’ He touched the edge of Lawrie’s painting. ‘Sometimes, I think he would have been a genius, had he carried on.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s not always easy to define. But you see, with most artists, you have one thing or the other – the visionary with sub-standard technical skills, or a short time frame of astonishing output that diminishes in quality, for one reason or another. These fellows have no training in composition, and most of them can’t therefore subvert it. Or, you have the excellent trained draftsman with no imagination, who will never paint the world anew. It’s actually quite hard to find someone who has it all. Picasso has it – you should see his early works. It’s subjective, of course, but I think Robles had it too. And I think your painting demonstrates his skills to a higher level than Women in the Wheatfield. Some say his scant works are political; others find them to be escapist tours de force. That is the quality they have – perpetually interpreted, yet always standing up to every iteration. Robles has lasted. You don’t get bored. You see new things. Moreover, on a basic aesthetic level, they wash gorgeously over the eye whilst never being twee.’
‘But you can’t prove this is a Robles,’ Quick said.
Reede narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Right at the moment, I can’t, Marjorie. But there are avenues. He painted other pictures. It’s a case of tracking them down and lining this up with them. Your mother is – recently deceased, I understand, Mr Scott?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I wonder – do you think she kept receipts?’
‘Receipts?’
‘Yes, of things she bought. Paintings, for example.’
‘She wasn’t the sort of woman who kept receipts, Mr Reede.’
‘Pity.’ Reede looked thoughtfully at the painting. ‘Anything you have regarding the purchase would be very useful. I ask about the provenance, not just in the instance of your wishing to sell the picture, or us perhaps to exhibit—’
‘Exhibit?’ Quick said.
Reede blinked at her. ‘That’s right. I ask, Mr Scott, because this painting may be