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

is to be taken seriously so that I can find out what they’re up to, then his interest in art must be demonstrated to be a genuine one through the purchase of a painting.’

‘If it helps, Tom, the money need not come from your budget; I’m happy to cover it from central funds. After all, it’s not as if Roly’s going to keep the painting, is it? Once this is all over, we can sell it. We may even make a profit.’

They all laughed, and Gilbey said in that case maybe he could see the merit of the idea, and he’d have a word with their man at Coutts and ensure there was an account opened that afternoon in the name of Anthony Hawke.

‘You’ll have a chequebook by lunchtime, and then you can head off to Cork Street. We only had time to give you a fairly basic backstory, as you know, so one hopes they don’t dig too deeply. I doubt they’ll be up to that, though – certainly as long as you give them no cause for concern, eh?’

‘And our objective?’ It was a classic Roland Bentley pronouncement: straight to the point. Both he and Pearson looked at Gilbey.

‘To see whether these fellows are involved in funding the Kestrel Line. If Roly believes they are then he’ll say he wants to make a small donation and we can see how matters develop from there. No heroics, please, Roly: I’ll have a couple of chaps outside the gallery just in case.’

‘I’m not sure what you think I’m going to do, Tom. I sense they may indeed want to me to make a donation to their cause – that’s the most likely outcome, wouldn’t you have thought? In which case you’d better make sure there are sufficient funds in the Coutts account.’

‘How much did you have in mind?’

‘Twenty-five pounds should open a door or two: plus the cost of the painting, of course.’

Sir Roland Pearson’s return visit to Bourne and Sons did not start well. He was shocked as he approached the gallery on Cork Street to see a silver-grey Jaguar sports saloon parked more or less outside the building. It was obvious to him that the two middle-aged men in the car – both reading newspapers – were Gilbey’s ‘chaps’, as he called them, there ‘just in case’.

He hoped they were not as obvious to other people.

When he entered the gallery, there was no sign of Ridgeway. No sooner had the bell rung as he opened the door than a man appeared from the rear. He was shorter than Ridgeway and about the same age, wearing a black suit with a grey waistcoat and a bow tie.

‘May I help you?’ He sounded more confident than Ridgeway, less servile. Pearson said he had met a Mr Ridgeway here two days earlier who had suggested he return around this time.

‘And for what purpose, may I ask, sir?’

Pearson hesitated. He had no idea who this man was. ‘I was interested in purchasing a painting, actually: the Wright of Derby landscape.’ He’d moved in front of the painting, admiring it once again. It was actually a fine piece, one that would look good in his study. Maybe Bentley would let him have it at a discount once this was all over.

‘An excellent choice, sir, a very good example of Wright’s work, and I have little doubt a painting like this will appreciate considerably in value. You will of course understand that its excellence is reflected in its price.’

‘Of course.’

‘We are asking two hundred and thirty guineas for it, sir. May I know your name?’

‘Hawke – with an “e”. Anthony Hawke.’

‘Ah yes, indeed, Donald did say you had shown interest in this particular painting and might be returning. Are you by any chance related to the Dorset Hawkes?’

‘No, Westmorland actually, though my wife and I are in the process of moving to the North Riding. We’re rather between the two at the moment.’

‘The Pennine Hills, then?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The Pennine Hills – they’re between Westmorland and the North Riding.’ The man chuckled in a self-satisfied manner.

‘Oh, I see, yes – jolly good.’ Pearson was bending down to study the painting in closer detail, trying to remember that Anthony Hawke was not meant to be jovial. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I caught your name?’

‘I do apologise, I ought to have introduced myself: Charles Bourne – as in Bourne and Sons.’

‘One of the sons?’

‘Grandson, actually.’

Pearson nodded and stepped back from the painting, frowning as he looked at it. He caught a movement at the window and was sure it was one of Gilbey’s men peering in, which was really not good enough. ‘I think I would consider anything above two hundred guineas to be too steep.’

‘Perhaps if we were to suggest two hundred and twenty, sir?’

He was concerned that in the absence of Ridgeway this would turn out to be a futile visit, but he could hardly leave now. ‘Would two hundred and fifteen be agreeable to you?’

Bourne said it was, and enthusiastically rubbed his hands as he removed the painting from the wall and carried it over to a large table. He said he’d wrap it and prepare the provenance and the invoice.

Ridgeway looked around and lowered his voice, ‘Donald said you spoke most movingly of your love for England when you were here before.’

Anthony Hawke grunted as he removed his Coutts chequebook from his pocket. ‘I make the cheque out to Bourne and Sons, I presume?’

Bourne said indeed, and added that he very much shared the sentiments he understood Mr Hawke had so admirably articulated to his colleague.

‘There we are, Bourne.’ Hawke passed the cheque across the table. ‘One of course has one’s views on where this country is going and how the war turned out, and I do rather despair, but I very much doubt there’s very much one can do about it.’

Bourne paused and wondered whether Mr Hawke would join him in his office so they could finalise the