End of Spies by Alex Gerlis (popular ebook readers .txt) 📕

Cork Street. He made sure he took his time, strolling along without any apparent care in the world and visiting at least three other galleries before finally coming to Bourne and Sons. Only two days previously, one of Gilbey’s men – something of a know-all on art by all accounts – had visited the gallery and written a most helpful brief for him.

A bell rang uncertainly at the back of the small gallery as he entered. It was darker inside than he’d have expected, though there were lights above some of the paintings. His shoes echoed loudly on the wooden floor and the room had a musty smell. For a moment or two he was alone, though he did hear some movement at the back. He soon spotted what he was looking for and made sure he was studying it when a figure appeared at his side.

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ What Sir Roland noticed wasn’t so much the accent, more the tone of voice, the keen-to-oblige, very slightly servile tone, one that wanted to assure the listener that the speaker was of a certain class.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I was wondering if I could help you, sir?’

Sir Roland Pearson was now Anthony Hawke – Hawke being his maternal grandmother’s maiden name. He’d decided that Hawke should be not nearly as clubbable as Pearson, so he muttered something unintelligible and continued to stare at the painting as he removed his spectacles and put them on again. Then, without looking at the other man, he pointed at it and nodded approvingly.

‘A Richard Wilson, I see.’

‘Indeed, sir: the father of English landscape painting.’

Hawke shot him a questioning look. ‘Wilson was Welsh.’

‘Indeed, sir, but very much the father of the early English school of landscape artists.’

‘If one disregards Gainsborough,’ said Hawke. He laughed and the other man gratefully joined in, then asked his visitor’s name.

‘Anthony Hawke: Hawke with an “e”.’

‘You certainly are most knowledgeable, Mr Hawke. One does so appreciate meeting a connoisseur.’

‘And may I ask your name?’

‘It’s Ridgeway, Donald Ridgeway. Are you by any chance interested in the Wilson?’ Ridgeway was fidgeting with his cuffs and clasping and unclasping his hands in a hopeful manner.

Hawke didn’t reply, but moved deeper into the gallery, where he spotted the painting Gilbey’s man had briefed him about.

‘I say, is this a Joseph Wright of Derby, by any chance?’

‘It is indeed, sir, very well spotted if I may say so. The signature is hard to decipher, but we do have full provenance, I can assure you.’

‘I do so admire Wright’s bold use of light and dark: his landscapes are quite exquisite. This is a fine example – the hills almost seem to move. May I ask…?’

‘The price, sir? Yes, of course: it is two hundred and thirty guineas, but I’m sure…’

His voice tailed off as Hawke nodded in a manner to suggest disappointment. ‘My brother-in-law paid a hundred guineas for a Wright of Derby landscape before the war.’

‘Before the war indeed, as you say, sir, and if I may mention, quite a number of landscapes are attributed to Wright of Derby rather than being certified as having been painted by him.’

Anthony Hawke said he quite understood and went back to look at the Wilson. After a few minutes, he asked Ridgeway if he had any George Lamberts.

‘No, sir, but I may be able to find one if you’re interested. You are an admirer of landscapes, I see.’

Anthony Hawke said that indeed he had a weakness for English landscapes, and Ridgeway said yes, but did he have the wallet for them, and chuckled before apologising, but Hawke said no, not at all.

He paused and moved back to the Joseph Wright and decided now was the time. It was a small oration Sir Roland Pearson had very much enjoyed preparing, and he spoke quietly with just the slightest catch of emotion in his voice as he told Ridgeway how English landscapes in particular evoked for him the true essence of England, of a country and a time fast fading like a watercolour, along with its traditional values and its… morals. He apologised for being sentimental and said he wondered what on earth we’d just wasted the best part of six years fighting a war for when… then hesitated before adding, ‘Can you really call it a victory?’

Ridgeway had moved closer to him, shuffling from foot to foot but remaining silent.

‘I’m terribly sorry; I’m probably speaking out of turn,’ Hawke continued. ‘My wife does warn me to bite my lip, but when one sees what is happening in Europe and one is told by those who are running matters to accept what is going on, one does really question the outcome.’

He coughed and walked over to a portrait of a man in eighteenth-century dress. Ridgeway had dutifully followed.

‘I’m pleased to see you have nothing by the likes of Pissarro.’ He phrased it as a question and looked at Ridgeway for an answer.

Ridgeway shook his head. ‘We make a point of not selling paintings by Jewish artists – nor indeed Soviet ones, not that there are any!’

Sir Roland smiled but didn’t reply: he’d gone as far as he dared. Ridgeway came uncomfortably close and grasped Hawke’s hand in his own, which was bony and slightly moist. He shook it enthusiastically, taking too long to let go.

‘It’s a great honour, Mr Hawke, to meet someone of your standing with whom one so clearly agrees. I too feel that maybe…’ He stopped and looked at the door and then towards the back of the gallery. It was clear that he wanted to be certain they were alone and was unsure whether to continue.

‘You feel what, Ridgeway? I’m sure we can be frank with each other, eh?’

‘There are like-minded people I’m sure you would enjoy meeting: people who view the world in the way you and I do and who endeavour to do something about it.’

Anthony Hawke stepped back. ‘I say, Ridgeway, I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of collaborator?’

‘Good heavens