Lucia Borgino had not banked on there being other people in Bill Hewson’s studio that afternoon. Using some pretext she had intended to drop in casually when he was there alone, and if the chance arose have a swift scout round for the vase. Indeed she had confidently hoped that if she played her cards right she would be able to wheedle it out of him there and then.
Thus when she arrived and found several visitors including Dr Burgess and the rather stuffy Blanchett woman, she was distinctly peeved. A general tea party had not been her idea at all! But as always with such social gatherings she adapted accordingly and assumed her customary air of patronage and brittle charm. Sympathy over her recent bereavement was met with brave smiles and a stoical shrug.
The apartment intercom had buzzed: and busy with guests Hewson asked if she would mind answering it. The voice at the other end was female and English. She surmised it might be the British Museum person. All the more the less merry, she thought irritably.
As she had guessed, it was indeed the Gilchrist woman. Lucia appraised her. Quite attractive in a rather pallid way she supposed. Legs were good as were the features, but the straight hair and shortish stature was hardly Vogue material. A good six inches taller and willowy in black, Lucia flashed the newcomer a superior smile and then drifted away hoping to catch sight of the vase.
A large area, and cluttered as it was with people and painting paraphernalia, the studio did not lend itself to easy surveillance. To Lucia’s frustration a couple of easels draped in dust sheets now stood in front of the mantelpiece – as did Dr Burgess and some other man. They were deep in conversation. She tried to get a glimpse of the wall behind them but her vision was entirely blocked. Maddening! She hovered by the window waiting for them to move away. Perhaps then she could edge round the easels and take a quick peek; although quite possibly it wouldn’t be there anyway – it was nearly two months since she had last been at the studio and Hewson could well have moved it. She glanced across the room to where the painter was talking volubly to the Gilchrist girl. The latter looked a bit bemused and Lucia guessed he might be explaining one of his pet theories. Hewson had a lot of pet theories and in Lucia’s estimation few of them held much water.
She returned her gaze to the pair by the far wall. Good, they were moving off. She weaved her way towards the easels and took a quick glance sideways … Yes! Amazingly the vase was still there and displaying a wilted geranium stalk and a couple of pencils. Nobody was looking. If she was quick she could sweep the whole lot into her straw holdall and it would be gone in a trice. She unclipped the fastening.
‘Ah, Lucia,’ cried Daphne Blanchett. ‘How nice to see you; thought you might have left for your poor brother’s funeral.’
‘My flight is tomorrow,’ replied Lucia soberly, hating the Blanchett woman with all her being.
Meanwhile Rosy was rather enjoying herself. Like Lucia, she had been surprised by the crowd; but in a way was glad. Amusing though he could be she felt Hewson’s extravert personality was something to be taken in small doses; and after the recent ‘tantrum’ at lunch she wondered if he was quite as carefree as he seemed. Thus the presence of others (English and Italian mostly) made for a relaxing diversion. A few were obviously prospective purchasers, but like herself most were there simply out of interest or were friends who had dropped in for a casual chat. Among the latter she was glad to see Mrs Blanchett and Dr Burgess who were helpful in making introductions.
‘We don’t know him terribly well,’ Daphne Blanchett said, ‘but I did once buy one of his early paintings of Torcello at dusk which pleases me very much; although,’ she added lowering her voice, ‘I have to say that his later work is not entirely to my taste.’
‘She means,’ Burgess explained, ‘those pictures outside your bedroom – or for that matter those over there.’ He gestured towards a couple of indeterminate abstracts propped against the wall. ‘He says they are all about form and texture.’
‘And then what?’ asked Rosy.
‘Exactly. And then what?’ Burgess echoed.
She wandered around eying some of the unfinished canvases and inspecting the completed ones displayed on the walls. Like Daphne Blanchett, she found the occasional one distinctly compelling, whereas the majority struck her as a trifle bland and the recent ones raucous. There seemed a curious lack of direction and she wondered if Hewson would have done well to follow the habit of established musicians and retain the guidance of a professional mentor.
She asked him about his current work and was given a fulsome account of its concept and aim. His words were not especially enlightening but she assumed the fault lay with herself rather than the confident exponent. Despite Cedric’s suspicion and the cryptic nature of Edward’s note, Rosy felt that there was a frankness and lack of subtlety about Bill Hewson which made him an unlikely target for blackmail. Still, as directed, she would endeavour to carry out a ‘reconnaissance’ for the wretched Murano thing. According to Lucia’s remark in Tonelli’s it was supposed to be on the mantelpiece. Well, she would take a look once that tiresome woman had got out of the way.
She stared across the room at Lucia Borgino standing by one of the draped easels. The cool aplomb with which she had greeted Rosy at the door seemed to have entirely vanished. She looked strangely ruffled, agitated in fact. The pale cheeks were flushed and she bore the look of a punter whose horse had fallen in the last lap. Huh! Rosy thought, with luck someone has snubbed her. At that moment there was a tap on her shoulder. ‘Hello,’ said Guy Hope-Landers, ‘good to see you again.’
Having been variously waylaid by other guests and forced to listen to more condolences re her brother, it had taken Lucia some while to regain her original position by the mantelpiece. When she did so she had the shock of her life: the bloody thing wasn’t there! Where the vase had been there was now only the geranium stalk and a single pencil – the other having fallen on the floor. She stared in angry astonishment. What had happened? Surely that old fool Hewson hadn’t suddenly taken it into his head to put it somewhere else. That seemed hardly likely at a time like this with everyone milling around and chatting inanely. Besides he was being the genial impresario and showing off the paintings and answering earnest questions about his technique; he would scarcely have had a moment on his own. And in any case why suddenly decide to conceal the damn thing now? Could it have been Daphne and her sidekick Burgess? Possible but unlikely: far too smug and staid to pilfer their host’s paltry ornament!
She glared across the room and saw the Gilchrist girl talking to Guy who had come in late still wearing that awful old reefer jacket he kept for his sailing trips. She regarded it with distaste. She would make sure he got rid of it once they were together – and the awful boat with it! But what about the girl smiling up at him so angelically? Being after the Bodger book maybe she too was aiming at the vase. A million pounds would set her up for life and she wouldn’t have to work in that stuffy museum any more … Lucia’s eye swept the room taking in the twenty or so other guests. Hell it could have been any of them!
For a few seconds she seethed with angry frustration and then gave a careless shrug: nothing to be done now. She must get home and pack for the flight and the funeral … and also plan how she was going to curry favour with her grandfather to see if she couldn’t squeeze a little more money out of the old miser. Thus snapping her handbag shut (it had been reopened in preparation for the vase) she bid goodbye to her host; and smiling coldly at Rosy and blowing a lavish kiss at the intended fiancé, removed herself from the scene.