Bayber entered the room. He was as tall as Stephen, only slightly bowed with age, and he moved deliberately, not as if the act of walking required specific effort, but as though strategy was associated with each step. His eyes darted among the company gathered as he navigated his way toward a chair next to Finch. He settled into it without a word and held out a hand, into which Finch promptly placed a glass. For the first time, Stephen pitied the professor. He performed the role of lackey seamlessly, and Stephen understood that he and Cranston were witnessing behaviors finely honed from years of repetition.
The air in the room was stifling. Unable to control the tickle at the back of his throat, Stephen coughed emphatically, his face flushing as he tried to find the glass he’d set down earlier.
‘Perhaps, Mr. Jameson, it would be prudent to switch to water at this point,’ Cranston admonished after thumping him hard on the back.
‘Yes,’ Stephen said, running his thumb between his shirt collar and his neck. ‘That would be prudent. My apologies.’
Finch and Bayber looked at each other and to Stephen’s profound humiliation, began laughing. He felt the flush in his face deepen as whatever confidence and enthusiasm had shored him up earlier ebbed away.
‘I apologize, Mr. Jameson, but it’s as true now as it ever was. Another’s misfortune is always the easiest way to break the ice. Regardless, I am delighted to finally meet you.’
Bayber’s voice carried the resonance of a well, and in spite of Stephen’s resolution to remain indifferent he was entranced by the man staring at him intently. He knew Bayber was in his early seventies and had assumed, perhaps because he’d been out of the public eye for such a long period, that the artist’s physical stature would have diminished. But aside from his complexion, which was deathly pale, and a degree of hesitation in his movements, he was much as he was in the pictures Stephen had seen: tall and lean, his head erect, his hair now a thick crest of white. His manner was imperious but at the same time charming.
‘I knew your mother through the gallery, Mr. Jameson, though not your father. He was a rare man, I believe, someone worth admiring. The world would be a kinder place for artists, indeed, for people in general, were there more like him. Allow me to express my sympathies.’
It was unexpected to hear his father mentioned at the precise moment Stephen was thinking of him, his fingers rubbing the cuff links he kept in his jacket pocket. His father would have been thrilled to be in such company: his friend Finch, the pompous Cranston, and Bayber, a man whose talent he had lauded in spite of the artist’s renowned moral lapses. If only he’d allowed me that much latitude, Stephen thought, quickly ashamed of himself. Bayber was studying him. To think the man had been in his father’s gallery and Stephen had never known.
Bayber cleared his throat. ‘Pleasantries aside, let’s get down to business, shall we, gentlemen? I have a painting I want to sell. I’m assuming it’s a painting you will be happy to sell for me, yes?’
‘Once we have an opportunity to examine the piece and verify its authenticity, we would be delighted,’ Cranston said.
Bayber held his hands together as if in prayer, the tips of his fingers resting against his lips. Stephen realized he was attempting, poorly, to hide a smile.
‘Of course, Mr. Cranston. I would expect nothing less. And here we have with us, in this very room, two men who should be able to provide you with a definitive answer as to the authenticity of the piece, do we not? Mr. Jameson, would you mind?’
Bayber gestured to the corner of the room, where a pile of tarps covered the floor. Stephen walked over and gingerly lifted a corner of the top tarp, only to find another beneath it. He rolled back five in total before the faint gleam of a gilt edge made him catch his breath.
The room was silent. Stephen shook his head and fixed himself firmly in the moment, shutting out all but the work in front of him. Fighting the desire to pull the entire tarp away from the painting, he focused initially only on the frame, and gently nudged the tarp to the side until the entire vertical edge of it was exposed.
‘Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet,’ he recited half under his breath. He began every examination with some rhyming nonsense to quiet his mind and aid his concentration. Finch had been right, it was a large piece. The frame itself was a thing of beauty: a cassetta frame in the Arts and Crafts style of Prendergast, featuring a hand-carved cap with a gently coved panel and reeded ogee lip, furnished in water-gilt, twenty-two-karat, genuine gold leaf.
‘Eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider …’ The gold had been agate burnished over dark brown bole on the cap and lip and left matte over green bole on the panel. The corners of the frame were punched and incised with an acanthus leaf motif, and the gilding had been given a light rub to expose the bole. The joinery appeared solid, and the overall condition of the frame was good. With its size, the frame might be worth ten to fifteen thousand or more.
He glanced over his shoulder. The other three watched him intently. He pushed the tarp away from the painting and pulled a pair of cotton gloves from his jacket pocket. After removing his watch, he waved a second pair toward Cranston, saying, ‘Your watch will need to come off, and your cuff links, as well.’ He looked up at Bayber.
‘Where?’
‘Here, I think. Against the wall.’
Cranston nodded at Stephen, and the two of them lifted the painting cautiously and carried it to the far wall, where a small bit of sun spilled into the room. They gingerly rested the painting there, then stepped back and stood alongside Finch, and Bayber, who had risen and was clutching the back of the chair. Stephen wondered if he felt any anxiety, or if insecurity had long ago left him. But the man looked more pained than anxious, as if his memories of the piece were not happy ones. The three of them looked at the painting and with raised brows, looked at Bayber, studying him quickly before turning to look at the painting again.
A tarnished plate on the bottom edge of the frame read, ‘Kessler Sisters.’ The scene was of a living room in what appeared to be a large cabin—rough-paneled walls, wood floors, a high ceiling with a sleeping loft. A late summer afternoon. Open windows ran across the back of the room, and the curtains had been painted to suggest a breeze. Stephen could almost feel the breath of it on his neck. A fringe of ivy softened the window’s perimeter; a sliver of water was visible in the far distance. Diffuse light dully illuminated various surfaces: a slice of the faded Oriental carpet covering part of the floor, the face of a grandfather clock, the open pages of a book on a coffee table. The room was crowded with objects, each limned with an eerie glow, no doubt from the underpainting, as if everything carried an equal importance.
Three people anchored the center of the painting: a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, and two younger girls. Stephen’s skin prickled. The young man was clearly Bayber. Whether it was the expression on his face or the way the girls were positioned next to him he couldn’t decide, but Stephen felt a flare of discomfort as he studied the canvas.
The artist had captured his own youthful arrogance, rendering himself in an honest if unflattering light. In the painting, Bayber lounged on a love seat, one pale ankle balanced on the opposite knee; there were scuff marks visible on his boat shoes. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and the neck unbuttoned, and well-lived-in khakis, the wrinkles and shadows of wrinkles so expertly wrought that Stephen had to fight the urge to reach out and touch the fabric. Bayber’s hair was long, with dark curls framing his face. A throw covered the top of the love seat; one of Bayber’s arms stretched out across it, the other arm rested on his thigh. His expression was certain—that was a kind word for it; smug, a less kind word. He
