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.’
