The interruption might well have been fatal. For one thing, Bobby felt he ought to make noises deprecating the notion of his staying to lunch at all. For another – and when this had been briskly brushed aside – it became evident that Billington was to remain in attendance throughout the meal. It seemed possible that this might exercise an inhibiting effect on the flow of his employer’s reminiscences. But nothing of the sort occurred. For Billington was very much a confidential retainer. As well as rivalling Sir Thomas as a connoisseur of Rugby football, it soon appeared that he was something of an oracle on Carrington family history as well.
‘Fact is that I possessed a Stubbs,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘Ought to possess it still. But there was this damned joke. That right, Billington?’
‘Well, Sir Thomas, we can’t be all that clear. About the picture ever having been genuine for a start, that is. We have to recall your late mother’s temperament, in a manner of speaking. And very rum it was, sir, to speak with all respect.’
‘Perfectly true.’ Sir Thomas paused to consume several spoonfuls of soup – a feat which the character of his moustache rendered one of considerable virtuosity. ‘My mother had a very good seat, mark you, and could take her fences with the best of them. But she was certainly rum. Billington – that’s a very good word for her. Rum.’
‘Thank you, Sir Thomas.’
‘Finished in Paris, you know, Appleby. Regular thing. None of those damned Swiss places in her time. But she broke out. With the drawing master, it seems. And the interest never left her. Always dabbling with her paintbox. Jokes, too. Painted something deuced indecent once – a couple of heathen goddesses quite starkers – and passed it off as by some desperate old Italian.
‘But nudes,’ Bobby said, ‘aren’t really indecent, are they?’
‘My dear boy, they are when cooked up by a Victorian baronet’s lady. That right, Billington?’
‘Undoubtedly, Sir Thomas.’
‘So in the end I couldn’t be quite certain about this Stubbs. It was my mother who came on it, you see, poking around in the stables.’
‘The stables?’
‘Right place for a painting of two uncommonly fine Arabs, I’d say. Take the kitchen at Christ Church. Had a splendid painting of a butcher’s shop in my day, by some top-ranking painter of the Resurgence.’
‘The Renaissance,’ Bobby said automatically – for he had lately been tending to pick up some of his tutor’s habits.
‘That’s right. And an inspiration to the college chef, if you ask me. Not there now, I’m told. Shoved into some picture gallery. Billington, what was I talking about?’
‘The unfortunate matter of the George Stubbs, Sir Thomas.’
‘So I was. Perhaps we ought to get back to Rugger. Interest you a good deal more – eh, Appleby?’
‘I’d like to hear about the end of Stubbs first, sir.’
‘Not much to tell. We all liked this picture my mother had found – or said she had found.’
‘You were doubtful about that at the time?’
‘Lord, no. She was an old woman then, and the notion of one of her jokes never entered our heads.’
‘Did your mother say it was by Stubbs?’
‘I really don’t know, my boy. She may have done. Name wouldn’t have conveyed much to us, except perhaps as that of the chap who wrote the book.’
‘The Anatomy of the Horse? Yes, of course. But what happened then?’
‘Nothing at all, until my father died – which was years after the death of my mother, and of my poor wife, too, for that matter. My father lived to a tremendous old age. Billington, I’m right there – eh?’
‘Certainly, Sir Thomas. The late Sir Thomas was ninety-six at the time of his regretted decease.’
‘Billington knows,’ Sir Thomas said with approval. ‘Well, when my father died, we had to have fellows in to value things. Probate, you know. Damned iniquitous death duties. One of them was a picture-wallah. Spotted the Stubbs, and congratulated me on it. Seemed surprised I didn’t know the thing meant money.’
‘I see. So this chap concluded that it was a Stubbs, and valued it accordingly?’
‘Just that. Mind you, it seemed a snap job. Didn’t scratch at the thing, or anything of that kind. Just took a quick look at it and said “Nice little Stubbs”.’
‘But how did you come to lose it, Sir Thomas? Did this man you’re telling me about have anything more to do with it?’
‘Nothing at all. Billington – that correct?’
‘Not exactly, Sir Thomas. The gentleman did suggest that he take away the painting and have it cleaned for you.’
‘To be sure, so he did. Reasonable thing, I suppose. Splendid brutes: crests thin, fetlock joints large, shoulders lying well on the chest. Show up better if one got off the dirt.’
‘But you didn’t let him have it?’
‘No, I didn’t – although I can’t remember why. But yes I can. Billington advised against it. That right, Billington?’
‘That is correct, Sir Thomas. If the picture was worth a mint of money, then caution was indicated.’
‘Just so. Well, the fellow went away. But he must have told his discovery to some of the top people in his own line. And then they played this joke on me. Queer business. None of us has ever got to the bottom of it – not even Billington. Damned embarrassing, just at the time. Rather forgotten the details now. But Billington knows.’
‘I am moderately informed, Sir Thomas.’ Billington, who had been in the act of replenishing his employer’s glass with brandy (which appeared to be drunk as a matter of course throughout this meal), turned impressively towards Bobby. ‘We had a communication, sir, from the President of the Royal Academy–’
‘Only we hadn’t.’ Sir Thomas’ memory seemed to have cleared. ‘Because it wasn’t from him at all.’
‘I shall come to that, sir.’ Billington was reproachful. ‘The letter was about a very ’igh-class show to be held at Burlington ’ouse in London.’ Billington paused, as if obscurely aware of having mislaid something. ‘Very high-class indeed,’ he said, ‘as all such at Burlington House are.’
‘So I packed the thing up,’ Sir Thomas said, ‘and sent it off. Not actually to Burlington House, but to some place where the letter said they were collecting everything.’
‘I see,’ Bobby said.
‘So there you are.’ Sir Thomas paused. ‘And that brings us to the Varsity Match.’
‘To the Varsity Match!’ Bobby felt dismay. ‘But won’t you first–’
‘The last that Billington and I went up for. And being in town, I thought we’d drop in on these Royal Academy fellows and have a word about the picture. Billington, carry on.’
‘Yes, Sir Thomas. A very courteous secretary, there was. More of a gentleman, in a manner of speaking, than a person moving in hartistic circles. ’e said the Stubbs ’ad never been ’eard of.’ The excitement of his narrative was gaining on Billington. ‘Well, Sir Thomas wasn’t pleased, and rightly so. ’e spoke his mind.’
‘So I did.’ Sir Thomas appeared delighted by this commendation. ‘But fellow was very civil, as Billington says. Turned the place upside down, and there the damned picture was, after all. Had arrived that morning. Eh, Billington?’
‘Yes, Sir Thomas – and with a letter purporting to be from yourself, offering your Stubbs for the exhibition in what might be called an unsolicited way. And at that moment, in comes the President himself. Of the Royal Academy, that’s to say. Affable as you please, and with an ’andle to his name.’
‘Picked up a K, I suppose, for having painted Cabinet ministers.’ Sir Thomas chuckled indulgently. ‘Nice enough chap.’
‘Tactful, I thought ’e was. Clearly some misunderstanding, ’e said, but they’d be delighted to ’ang the Stubbs.’
‘Did the President call it a Stubbs?’ Bobby asked.
‘That, now, I wouldn’t swear to. But Sir Thomas’ picture would be gratefully accepted, and fortunately there was a place for it in the Gents.’
‘The Gents?’ Bobby, not unnaturally, was surprised.
‘There was to be a small overflow in the Gents.’ Billington paused, as if vaguely aware of something wrong with this expression. ‘It’s a place very much frequented during these shows, it seems. On account of art lovers being mostly elderly.’
‘But that was why there was the outrage.’ At this point, Sir Thomas appeared to be surprisingly on the spot. ‘If it had been in one of the main galleries, you know, this demonstrating scoundrel, who was after Votes for Women–’
‘Banning the Bomb,’ Billington said.
‘Something of that kind. He’d have been nabbed before he slashed the thing. As it was, the whole affair was deuced awkward. For the Stubbs turned out to have been painted on top of something else. It was made to appear that I’d offered this show a damned fake.’
‘As was natural and proper,’ Billington said, ‘Sir Thomas ’e raised ’ell. Scotland Yard, and all that.’
‘But then we thought better of it. Billington’s idea, really. He saw we were going to appear damned fools. Better to call off the coppers, and let be. Well, that’s the story.’
Luncheon with Sir Thomas Carrington had come virtually to its end. Bobby Appleby glanced dubiously at something like two inches of brandy still in the glass before him. He had to keep a clear head to sort all this out. He also had to drive a car. But Billington had turned aside to prepare coffee, and for a moment Sir Thomas was obscurely occupied with his moustache. In the middle of the table was a small bowl of anemones. Bobby deftly tipped his brandy into it, and then raised his glass with great ostentation to his lips. Sir Thomas, glancing up, noted with approval a young man capable of gulping spirits a gill at a time.
‘Another drop of brandy?’ Sir Thomas said.
‘No, thank you very much – but I’ve enjoyed it enormously.’
‘Another stiff tot, dear boy, might go very well with that long chat we’re going to have about the scrum.’
‘Or Benedictine,’ Billington suggested hospitably. ‘Or we have a very nice Green Chartreuse.’
‘I think I’d rather not.’ Bobby spoke quite nervously. It seemed to him that something was happening to the anemones. He could have sworn that they were changing colour and stirring drunkenly. ‘It looks – doesn’t it? – as if there’s no telling whether there was ever a real Stubbs or not.’
‘One is aware of alternative hypotheses, sir.’ Billington articulated these words with prudent precision. ‘Either the late Sir Thomas’ lady was having a bit of a joke in the first place, or there was a proper Stubbs and it vanished between this and Burlington’ – Billington paused impressively – ‘House.’
‘That’s it,’ Sir Thomas said, and his glance wandered across the table. ‘Nice flowers these, eh? Striking colours.’
‘Lovely,’ Bobby said, his nervousness increasing. He realized that, from Sir Thomas Carrington’s point of view, the topic of the Stubbs had exhausted itself. And clearly a great deal of talk about Rugger was going to follow. Having been given a very decent lunch in the expectation of this, he couldn’t with any honesty now think to cut and run for it. And Rugger, after all, still interested him quite a lot. But it did seem important to make at least one further bid for any remaining facts about the picture business that might be lurking either in Sir Thomas’ mind or in Billington’s. Bobby tried to think of the sort of questions his father would ask. Perhaps there was some single and vital question that hadn’t occurred to him. It would be very annoying to return to Dream and almost immediately have his father saying incredulously, ‘You mean to say you didn’t ask that?’ Perhaps he had been rash to feed all that brandy to the anemones. Perhaps one additional swig at it would have produced inspiration. ‘About the fellow who came to value your pictures,’ he heard himself say. ‘He wanted to take away the Stubbs – if it was a Stubbs – and have it cleaned for you. Do you remember anything else about him?’
‘Don’t want to remember him at all, my dear lad.’ Sir Thomas sounded impatient, but checked himself. ‘Not that he seemed at all a bad fellow. Gent, and all that. And went up in the world shortly afterwards. ‘That right, Billington?’
‘Yes, Sir Thomas. You remarked it in The Times. What they call the University News, it was in. And it was Oxford or Cambridge he went to, not one of the modern hestablishments. Very well-spoken, ’e was – very well-spoken and polite. Name of Sansbury, I remember.’ Billington turned to Bobby, ‘Ever heard of him, sir? An intellectual, ’e was. Mightn’t be your type.’
‘I’ve heard of him from my father, as a matter of fact.’ Bobby noticed that the anemones, their phase of inebriation over, were now curling up exhausted. Bobby felt rather exhausted too. But he braced himself, and turned to Sir Thomas. ‘And now about handling the scrum,’ he said.