Restless Nights

‘Something he made very clear tonight,’ she assured him. ‘He said you had an auction coming up soon.’

‘We do.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you can’t manage it by then I’ll leave it with our security people and wait until you’re free to work on it.’

She eyed him in surprise. ‘You’re convinced it’s that valuable?’

He nodded. ‘I may be wrong. But I don’t think so. Half the canvas is obscured by overpainting, which must be hiding something, maybe another figure, or a landscape. No sign of a signature, but hopefully that will appear when it’s cleaned.’ He smiled. ‘We’re not talking big bucks like a Van Gogh, Gabriel Brett, but one thing’s certain—even with your fee for the restoration I can’t fail to make some profit on the price I paid for it.’

‘How much?’

‘One-fifty, with some faded watercolours and a foxed old map thrown in. No one else was interested in Lot 13.’

‘Your lucky number?’

Adam shrugged, a wry twist to his smile. ‘If it isn’t I won’t have lost much—at least not in money.’ He sobered. ‘But indirectly it cost me one of my oldest friends.’

The bleak look in his eyes roused curiosity in Gabriel. ‘Sounds as though you could do with another beer.’

‘Would you share one with me?’

Gabriel fetched another can from the fridge, and half filled a glass before pouring the rest into Adam’s. ‘How did you pay so little for a picture in London?’

‘It was a pretty downmarket sale, mostly flotsam and jetsam from a house clearance. The cream had gone up west, to the main auction house, but the branch was selling off stuff from the kitchens and attics.’

‘Do you go to places like that often?’ she asked curiously.

‘As often as I can. It’s surprising what you can pick up. But oddly enough I came across this sale quite by accident.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Would you care to hear my tale of woe, Miss Brett? Or am I keeping you from your bed?’

Far from it, thought Gabriel. ‘What happened?’ she asked, her curiosity whetted by the mention of woe.

Adam smiled without mirth. ‘I went to a party in London the night before last. I was on my way to the train yesterday, nursing a hangover, when I spotted a sign across the road, advertising a sale the following day.’

Adam had promptly dropped the arm he’d raised to flag down a taxi, fished an old cricket hat from his overnight bag and crammed it on, then dodged swiftly through the London traffic. After loitering a while, pretending to read the headlines outside the newsagent’s next door to the saleroom, he’d pulled the hat down to meet the dark glasses protecting his hangover, and gone inside to wander through the chaotic saleroom, feeling the familiar anticipation as he’d cast an eye over the jumble of uninspiring goods on display. This was the rough end of the market, with some of the lesser lots consisting of prosaic lampshades and kitchen chairs and boxes of miscellaneous china and kitchen utensils. Exactly the kind of hunting ground that Adam Dysart, with the blood of three generations of auctioneers and valuers in his veins, had relished all his life.

But for once he’d been about to admit defeat when he’d spotted a small stack of pictures leaning against the wall at ground level, almost hidden from sight in a corner. He’d cast a quick glance through some small faded watercolours, an antique map with a rash of the brown spots known as foxing, and behind them had found a framed portrait in oil, so blackened with dirt and overpaint it was only just possible to make out the head and shoulders of a girl to one side of the canvas.

The familiar adrenaline rush had raised the hairs on Adam’s neck. He’d turned away at once, forcing himself to go back over every undistinguished lot on offer once again before he returned to Lot 13, when a second glance at the portrait had reinforced the feeling that under the layers of grime and overpaint lay buried treasure.

Adam had gone outside into the noisy street, hangover forgotten, the familiar excitement fizzing through his bloodstream like champagne bubbles. Something about the hair and pose, obscured though they were, hinted at early nineteenth century. And had struck such a chord he wanted the portrait. Badly. In which case there would be no point in going home to Friars Wood. An afternoon in the Courtauld Institute would be a better idea, browsing through the endless green box files in the Witt Library to throw light on his find. If the painting had been photographed it would be there amongst the archives. But even if it hadn’t he could spend a happy hour or two researching other painters of the time to throw light on his mystery lady. Because his she was destined to be, Adam had known beyond all doubt.

Without the artist’s name to go on the afternoon’s search had been difficult. But in the end Adam had felt that his lady might possibly have been painted by William Etty, an Academician known for allegorical subjects, landscapes and portraits, but most celebrated for nudes which looked surprisingly modern to the present-day eye. Elated, Adam had taken a taxi back to Marylebone, bought flowers and wine and returned to Della Tiley’s flat.

After two prolonged blasts on the buzzer, followed by a lengthy wait, the door had opened and an eye had peered at him through it in horrified dismay. ‘Adam?’ gasped Della. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came back to beg a bed for the night.’

‘Who is it?’ called a male voice.

Adam’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back, his teeth showing in a tigerish smile. ‘Ah! Bad move on my part, obviously. So sorry to intrude.’ With a mocking bow he held out the flowers. ‘A little token of appreciation for the party. See you around, Della.’

‘Adam—wait!’ She hugged a dressing gown around her and opened the door wider, looking at him in desperate appeal. ‘It’s not what you think.’

But when a large male figure hove into view, draped insecurely in a towel, Adam, feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach, shook his head in disgust. ‘Oh, come on, Della. It’s exactly what I think. Hi, Charlie. Still here, I see.’

Charles Hawkins, a friend of Adam’s since student days, swore in voluble anguish, a startling shade of brick-red rising from the low-slung towel to the roots of his hair. ‘We thought you’d gone home—’

‘I have now.’ Adam thrust the flowers at Della, stowed the wine in his hold-all, and took himself back down the stairs into the hot summer evening to find a taxi.

‘And so,’ he said now, smiling wryly at Gabriel. ‘I went off to stay the night with my sister in Hampstead, bid for the picture this morning, caught the first train available, then drove straight round here this afternoon, only to meet rejection once again. But, far worse than any of that, you told me that Harry was ill. Other than snapping up the portrait for a song, not a happy interlude in the life of A. Dysart, Miss Brett.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘WERE you in love with the lady?’ said Gabriel, quite liking the idea of Adam Dysart, betrayed lover.

‘Lust, not love,’ he said bluntly, and shrugged. ‘I’m a sight more cut up about Charlie than Della.’

‘Maybe there was a perfectly logical explanation,’ said Gabriel after a pause. ‘Perhaps he was just taking a shower.’

Adam shook his head. ‘Della had a certain look about her. At the risk of embarrassing you, Miss Brett, it was blatantly obvious that Della had just emerged from a hectic session in bed with Charlie Hawkins.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Which she was perfectly entitled to, of course. But I’m not into sharing in that context.’ His eyes met hers. ‘You think I’m unreasonable?’

‘Not in the least.’

Adam drained his glass and stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, and the sympathetic ear—hope I haven’t bored you rigid.’

‘You haven’t,’ she assured him. It was infinitely pleasing to know that the path of Adam Dysart’s life failed to run smooth at least once in a while.

‘Harry told me you lived in London.’ He looked round at the big, low-ceilinged room. ‘How do you like it out here in the wilds?’

She smiled wryly. ‘I’m used to city traffic outside my window, so I find it a bit quiet in this part of the world.’

‘Isn’t there anyone who could come and keep you company?’

She shook her head. ‘My mother lives in London. She runs an employment agency. And no one else is available. Not at this moment in time, anyway.’

He looked sceptical. ‘But there must be some man in London missing your company right now?’

‘There is someone,’ she admitted. ‘But Jeremy also has a business to run. Besides, he suffers withdrawal symptoms if he’s away from city pavements for long.’

Adam subjected her to a lengthy scrutiny from the mane of fair hair to her feet and back again. ‘If you were mine, Gabriel Brett, I wouldn’t let a little matter of city pavements keep me away.’

She stared at him, startled into silence.

‘This afternoon it was hard to know what you looked like in your working gear, though it was obvious you’d changed a lot since last time we met,’ he went on, enjoying her reaction. ‘But you must have noticed I was totally poleaxed by the vision who opened the door to me tonight.’

Gabriel knew perfectly well that she could hold her own in the looks department when she exerted herself. And she’d had no trouble in registering Adam Dysart’s satisfying reaction at the sight of her. But she’d never thought of herself as a vision. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

‘Normally, Gabriel, I’d invite you to stay at Friars Wood,’ he went on, surprising her again, ‘but at the moment I’m in sole residence, so I know you’ll turn me down. My parents are in Italy with my sister Jess and her family, and Kate is away, educating the young.’

‘Three sisters? And just you to be the centre of their attention?’

‘Actually it’s four. Fenny’s in her first year at university. Though I doubt that any one of them sees me in that light,’ he said, grinning. ‘In any case, even when they’re around I don’t live in the bosom of my family. I’ve got a converted stable block all to myself.’

A piece of news which stopped Gabriel’s thaw towards him stone-dead. Spoilt brat, she thought bitterly. ‘Thank you so much for coming round,’ she said aloud, her voice suddenly so frosty Adam frowned. ‘By the way, Dad’s in Pennington General. He’d quite like a visit if you fancy calling in. Only if you have time, of course.’

He gave her a baffled look as he walked out past the door she held open for him. ‘Of course I’ll have time.’

‘Then I know he’ll be pleased to see you. And if you bring the portrait round first thing in the morning,’ she added briskly, ‘I’ll have a look at it, give you an idea of how much time needs to be spent on it.’

‘Right,’ said Adam, his manner chilly as hers. ‘Shall we say nine? Thanks again for the beer. Goodnight.’

Gabriel closed the door on him, feeling thoroughly out of sorts. Her slice of humble pie had not been remotely humble enough for someone beholden to Adam Dysart for keeping a roof over her father’s head. Nor had it given her any enthusiasm for her supper. But preparing something would at least postpone going to bed a bit longer. Gabriel assembled a salad, made an omelette, then switched on the small portable television in the corner and watched the news while she ate. And found, ten minutes later, that most of the food was gone, the newscast was over, and she hadn’t paid attention to either, because she’d been thinking of Adam Dysart. Not least of his compliment. His reaction to his first proper sight of her had been deeply satisfying after his callous indifference all those years ago. Her eyes flashed. But if he was expecting her to massage the ego his faithless Della had injured he’d be disappointed, roof or no roof. Though it wasn’t as impossible a prospect as it should have been. Resent him or not, she could see that to most women Adam Dysart would be a pretty irresistible male specimen.

With the television on for company Gabriel made a batch of almond biscuits to take in to her father next day, then forced herself to go outside with a torch to make sure that the barn was securely locked, even though she knew perfectly well she’d seen to it as soon as Wayne and Eddie had left for the day. Afterwards she scooted inside at top speed, locked the door, switched off the television, checked that the alarms were functioning, then went on a tour of the brightly lit house before she went to her room, armed with a cup of tea and a couple of still-warm biscuits.

Sitting up in bed later, with the radio on high to drown out the creaks and groans of the old timbers as they adjusted to the falling temperature, Gabriel promised herself that when Adam Dysart arrived in the morning she would be all sweetness and light. Otherwise he might complain to Harry Brett. Who would give his daughter hell for alienating someone who was not only his favourite client but his benefactor, and endanger his own recovery in the process.

Gabriel was up early next morning, after her usual restless night, and by eight-thirty she was zipped into a fresh white cotton coverall, her hair pinned up under the baseball cap, face bare of anything other than moisturiser, and looked a lot different from the ‘vision’ of the night before. She opened up the barn, prepared her workbench with a thick, doubled blanket, and laid out the tools of her trade alongside a book sheet magnifier mounted on a wooden stand, ready to receive Adam’s mystery lady. Afterwards she went back to the house to unlock the vault in the cellar, and took out the prints Wayne and Eddie had been working on the day before. Both young men were only a couple of years out of art college, but to her relief the work they were doing under Harry Brett’s tutelage was of a standard high enough to please even his daughter’s demanding eye.

When both young men arrived on Wayne’s beloved Harley-Davidson, they were pleased, and not a little startled, to receive warm praise for their work of the previous day.

‘Thanks, Gabriel,’ said Eddie. ‘How’s your dad?’

‘Better. Much better,’ Gabriel assured him, smiling.

‘Brilliant!’ said Wayne with relief. ‘In that case, could we pop in and see him for a minute on the way home?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ she said. ‘Do him good to talk shop with you two. Oh, and by the way, I told him about Adam Dysart. And you were quite right.’ She pulled a face. ‘Feel free to crow. Dad insists I start work on the latest Dysart find right away, and leave the rest until I’ve finished it.’

‘We’ll do anything we can to help,’ said Wayne eagerly.

‘Thanks. I’ll need all the help I can get,’ said Gabriel ruefully, then looked up at the sound of a car approaching. ‘Right. Whose turn to make the coffee?’

A workmanlike estate car cruised slowly down the lane and came to a halt outside the barn. Adam Dysart got out, dressed in conventional jacket and tie in contrast to the night before.

‘Good morning, Miss Brett,’ he said coolly.

‘Good morning,’ returned Gabriel, wrong-footed by his formality. ‘Have you brought the portrait?’

‘Why else would I be here?’ he countered, and bent to remove the swathed canvas from the car.

Right. Forget sweetness and light. ‘Would you bring it inside?’ Gabriel directed him to the padded table under the north light. ‘Lay it down gently, please.’

Adam gave her a scathing look. He removed the covering and laid the painting down, then moved slightly so that Gabriel could stand alongside him to look at the portrait.

She scrutinised it carefully for some time, then took a hand magnifier and made a closer inspection. After a lengthy interval she turned the picture face down on the blanket.

‘Would you take some notes, Eddie?’ Gabriel asked. ‘The canvas is dark and grimy, but fine-woven, and the stretchers are good quality, straight-grained wood. The frame is contemporary, but with no labels or indications as to origin.’ She turned the painting back again and with infinite care rubbed the extreme corner with a gentle fingertip. ‘The paint is dry and flaky, remains matt, and the painting as a whole has many fine, random cracks. This rules out acrylic, and confirms age.’

‘So it could be 1820s?’ said Adam.

‘Possibly,’ Gabriel said cautiously. ‘Eddie, note that the subject occupies only half the canvas, the rest of which is obscured by thick dark paint applied by a different hand. As though someone wanted the rest of the painting obliterated.’

‘So you agree there may be something—or someone—else under there,’ said Adam with satisfaction.

‘Otherwise it’s certainly a great waste of canvas,’ agreed Gabriel, and gave him a polite smile as Wayne came in carrying a tray. ‘Will you have some coffee, Mr Dysart?’

‘I won’t, thanks. I must be off. I’ll be at Dysart’s all day, so ring me there if you need to contact me. Otherwise I’ll be home about seven.’ Adam took a card from his wallet and handed it to Gabriel. ‘All three numbers on that, Miss Brett, including my mobile.’

The two young men discreetly retreated to a far corner of the barn with their coffee, leaving Gabriel in unwanted privacy with Adam.

‘I’ll make a start straight away,’ she said briskly. ‘But, as you well know, initial cleaning can be a painfully slow process.’

‘Take as much time as you want. One thing, though. Your father’s accustomed to frequent visits on my part to check on the work in progress.’ He looked down at her quizzically, obviously expecting her to object. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Come whenever you like,’ she said indifferently. ‘By the way, if this picture turns out to be as valuable as you think, will you be taking it away every night? Or will you trust it to Dad’s new vault in the cellar?’

‘That’s what I’ve always done in the past. Harry takes out hefty insurance, so I’d rather you kept it here to save time.’ Adam’s eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘Unless that’s a problem for you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for taking the work on.’

‘No need for thanks.’ Gabriel shook his hand briefly. ‘I’m just following orders.’

His jaw clenched. ‘You make that blatantly obvious, Miss Brett.’ He called a goodbye to the boys, nodded formally at Gabriel and strode from the barn.

She stared after him for a moment, then turned her attention to his painting. She began by removing the nails rusted into the frame, using pincers and painstakingly gradual leverage to avoid harm to the stretchers. Then she got to work on the brass securing tacks, which were green with age and so deeply embedded it took patience and time before the canvas was free. To Gabriel’s relief there was no sign of the mould which could lift paint film from its support. But neither was there any sign of a signature or framer’s label.

‘No clues at all,’ she told her hovering aides, ‘other than its obvious age—’

‘How old?’ said Wayne eagerly.

‘Too early to say. But probably early nineteenth century, as Adam hopes. And the original work is definitely by a skilled, professional artist. Unlike the paint slapped on the rest of the canvas.’ Gabriel smiled at them. ‘Right, then, let’s take it out into the sun. You hold it while I peer through my trusty magnifying glass.’

Satisfied that there were no gashes, or signs of old restorations, Gabriel took a photograph of the painting, then retired with it to her corner of the barn under the north skylight and set to work. She supported the canvas with blocks of plywood secured with carpet tape, pulled on a builder’s mask and the binocular headband, then moistened a cotton swab in white spirit and made a start on the preliminary cleaning.

By the time the boys were finished for the day Gabriel was surrounded by a sea of used swabs, her eyes and back ached, and both Wayne and Eddie were disappointed that she had so little to show for her labours.

‘I’m just taking off the dirt, remember. A couple of centuries of it at a guess,’ said Gabriel, yawning. ‘You’ll only see a difference when I get to the overpaint.’

Wayne and Eddie had accompanied her to the cellar vault with the portrait, along with everything else valuable enough to need security, before Gabriel remembered Adam Dysart’s request to inspect her progress. Too late now everything was locked up for the night and she was alone. She’d surrendered about giving Adam priority, but otherwise he’d have to play to her own rules. Her working day at Brett Restorations ended at five-thirty sharp, to give her time for a bath and some glamourising before she paid her nightly visit to Pennington General. If Adam wanted to check on his property he’d just have to make time during his own working day.

Armed with the cookies, and dressed in a yellow shirt and a short denim skirt which displayed the tan her legs had acquired over the weekend, Gabriel breezed into the four-bed ward later that evening to find that her father already had a visitor. Adam Dysart rose to his feet, with a smile that dared her to object to his presence.

‘Hello, there,’ said Gabriel brightly, and bent to kiss her father. ‘And how are you today, Dad?’

‘All the better for seeing you, pet.’ Harry patted her cheek. ‘You’re late. Not that it matters. Wayne and Eddie dropped in, then Adam came to entertain me with tales of his latest find.’

‘I’ve had a busy day working on it, which is why I’m late.’ Gabriel smiled sweetly, then turned away for a word with Mr Austin as usual, before taking the chair Adam pulled up for her.

‘Am I allowed to ask how you’re getting on?’ he asked.

‘Very slowly.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t been round to check, Adam,’ said Harry. ‘You’re always breathing down my neck.’

Adam gave Gabriel a wry look. ‘I think your daughter would object if I tried breathing down hers.’ He stood up. ‘Time I was off. I’ll look in again, Harry.’

‘Before you go—Adam,’ said Gabriel, determinedly pleasant, ‘when you do come round to check on the portrait could you make it before five-thirty? We pack up for the day then.’

Her father looked at her in surprise. ‘As early as that? I usually put in another couple of hours after the boys go. The light’s good at this time of year.’

But she’d have to go down to the cellar on her own afterwards. ‘If I did I wouldn’t make it here to see you,’ she said lightly.

‘True,’ he said, sobering. ‘Anyway, pet, how is the work coming on?’

‘I’m just removing the first layer of dust and grime.’ She looked at Adam. ‘Not much to show yet.’

‘I’ll come round tomorrow,’ he said promptly. ‘If that’s convenient—Gabriel.’

‘Of course.’ She gave him a smile so honeyed it won a cynical look from him before he left her alone with her father.

Harry Brett shook his head in disapproval. ‘What is your problem with Adam?’

‘What problem?’ she said innocently.

‘Come on, this is your old dad you’re talking to! For some reason you don’t like Adam. Why?’

‘I don’t have to like your clients to work for them.’ She patted his hand. ‘It’s nothing personal, Dad. I suppose we rather got off on the wrong foot because he expected me to drop everything to work on his precious sleeper. If that’s what it turns out to be,’ she added.

‘Do you think he’s right?’ said Harry.

‘Quite possibly. The canvas is certainly old enough. I’ll report my progress tomorrow night.’ Gabriel looked at him in appeal. ‘Dad, I’m sorry I can’t make it in the afternoons as well—’

‘My dear child, you’re doing far too much as it is. Don’t worry. Mrs Austin’s daughter brings her in every afternoon.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘The ladies see I’m not neglected.’

‘Did they bring you that enormous basket of fruit over there?’

‘No. Adam brought that—plus a new thriller. And now you’ve got that look on your face again,’ he said, shaking his head at her.

‘Sorry, Dad. He lends you money, brings you expensive presents—I suppose I’m just plain jealous.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Actually, it was very good of Adam. Though his offerings rather put my homemade biscuits in the shade.’

‘Not to me,’ said Harry, so lovingly Gabriel had to swallow a lump in her throat and pretend interest in the new novel to disguise it.