interpreted his emotions with little more than a passing glance. ‘You feel sorry for him.’ He smiled. ‘You’re right about Cranston, of course, wretched piece of puffery that he is. But if you called Jameson, Denny. If you gave him the opportunity …’
How could Thomas have known? Dylan Jameson had been a longtime acquaintance, someone Finch liked and respected, the sort of friend artists long for: a champion of the unknown and overlooked, a man whose gallery was warm with the sound of laughter and kind praise, and whose opinion was delivered thoughtfully and with great seriousness. When he was alive, he’d run interference for his son, softening Stephen’s spells of verbosity, tempering the impatience and the arrogance others perceived in him. As people were genuinely fond of the father, a degree of latitude was afforded the son. Stephen was in his early thirties now, drifting since his father’s death, an odd duck, socially inhibited and overly sensitive. He possessed a near-photographic memory as far as Finch could tell, and an encyclopedic bank of knowledge. If rumors were to be believed, he had squandered his opportunities with an unfortunate affair.
Finch had taken Stephen out a few times after his father died, repaying old debts, he told himself, but the truth was he enjoyed having something penciled in his agenda. The man’s company could be invigorating in spite of the fact that he often vacillated between morose and brooding, or became obsessive when arguing a point. After a glass or two of Bushmills, Stephen would wax rhapsodic over something he’d seen in Europe, or goad Finch into a debate on the merits of restoration versus conservation.
‘Look at India. Those laws hamstringing resources in the private sector. It’s obvious public projects require talent unavailable to them. The work can only be done in-house, yet most institutions don’t have the necessary resources, so their art languishes in museum basements,’ Stephen had said, slamming his glass on the bar and pulling his hands through his hair. ‘The humidity, the poor storage facilities, all the pieces I’ve seen with tears and pigment damage. It’s criminal. As good as treason. I can’t understand why they won’t move forward.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be happy to take your opinions under advisement, Stephen, especially considering the benign manner in which they’re offered.’
Their confrontations rarely ended in consensus, as that would have required compromise and the younger Jameson seemed overly fond of his own opinions. But Finch relished their exchanges nonetheless. His meetings with Stephen kept him on his toes; they also gave him a reason to get out of the apartment, shoring up the remains of his dignity by allowing him to turn down a few mothering visits from Lydia without having to invent assignations.
How Thomas would have gotten wind of any of this was beyond Finch. He assumed little in the way of a social life for the artist, imagining him confined twenty-four hours a day to the dark, brooding apartment from which Finch now longed to escape.
‘Jameson doesn’t have the authority to take the piece. You know that.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why involve him?’
‘I’ve heard he’s good at what he does.’ Thomas turned his back to Finch and asked, ‘Or should I be using the past tense?’
‘You already know the answer, or you wouldn’t have suggested him. Why don’t you just deal with Cranston directly if you’re committed to selling the piece? And why Murchison & Dunne? What aren’t you telling me, Thomas? I’m not in the mood for games.’
‘I want a party who will devote the appropriate amount of attention to the work. And who can be completely impartial.’
It was Thomas’s questioning of his impartiality that drove Finch to the door. What a relief it would be to be done with all this, to finally put this chapter of his life behind him, where it belonged, and move on to something else. But Thomas trailed after him.
‘You aren’t looking at this objectively, Denny. Wouldn’t it seem strange if after all this time, what with my living conditions being as they are, you were the one to ‘find’ another painting? If you were the one to authenticate it, after resolutely documenting my life’s work?’
‘All your work I knew of.’
‘Precisely my point. This way no one can question your motives, cast aspersions on your reputation. I’ll be the guilty party for a change, Denny. We both know I’ve had too much practice and taken too little credit in that department.’ Thomas’s hand rested on his upper arm, the weight of it light, tentative. ‘I’ve long ago depleted my bank of favors. Whether you believe me now or not, I wouldn’t trust this to anyone else. I need your help.’
Claire would have cautioned him. It’s not that you’re gullible, Denny; you just prefer to trust the best part of a person, no matter how small. even when there may not be any best part left to merit your trust.
Finch was exhausted, every one of his sixty-eight years weighing on him. He had never heard Thomas sound so nakedly in need of something. He looked at the man, the sucked-in hollows of his cheeks, the rattle with each inhale of breath, and capitulated. ‘Fine.’
‘Your word?’
Finch nodded. ‘I’ll call Jameson. But if this isn’t legitimate, Thomas, you won’t be doing him any favors. There’d be plenty of people happy to see him fall and not get back up.’
‘Burned some bridges, has he?’
‘Socially, he’s a bloody bull in a china shop. Cranston hasn’t made it easy for him, not that he’s obliged to. He did give him a job, after all.’
Thomas sniffed, as if he’d gotten wind of a noxious aroma. ‘I imagine that fool’s getting more than his money’s worth. But I wouldn’t want to cause the young man further difficulties. Tell him to bring Cranston along. And thank you, Denny, for your promise to help. I’m indebted to you, more so than I ever intended.’
Finch squirmed under the word promise, a string of unease threading itself into his skin.
Thomas seemed to sense his discomfort, and smiled. ‘The best way to slow the march of time, Denny, perhaps the only way, is to throw something unexpected in its path. I believe it will be a most interesting meeting. For all of us.’ And with that, Thomas Bayber shuffled back into his bedroom, laughing.
Stephen Jameson shook the rain from his umbrella, stepped into the ancient elevator, and punched the button for the twenty-second floor with his elbow while carrying a thermos cup of coffee, his briefcase, and several manila folders. The doors closed, and he was enveloped in humid, clotted air, thick with the smells of mold and other people’s body odor and a trace of something sweet and slightly alcoholic, like a rum drink. The car lurched. As it headed up, he gazed wistfully at the button marked ‘57,’ where the executive offices of Murchison & Dunne, Auctioneers and Appraisers of Fine Art and Antiques, were located.
His office—the only one on the twenty-second floor—was directly adjacent to the elevator shaft, which meant the hours of his day were punctuated by the creaks and groans of transportation, as the elevator ferried those individuals
