Rollo Rolandson walked into the foyer of the Grand Hotel and consciously deposited his domestic cares along with his coat and hat in the cloakroom. He adored being a father, but by Jove, it was harder work than he’d ever imagined. Being a first-time father at fifty was not for the faint-hearted. He had to admit that when Yazzie had announced she was pregnant, he had assumed she was joking. He had married her when she was forty-two when she was an already well-established career woman. They had been sleeping together on and off for years, so all that happened after the wedding was that Rollo moved into her luxurious flat in Mayfair on a more permanent basis. But their lives continued much as they had done before. They both worked and loved their jobs, and he had kept his rooms near Fleet Street for when he was doing an all-nighter at the paper – or having a lucky run of poker at the club. But when she had convinced him that she was not, in fact, in jest, and after he had digested the news with a large whiskey, he had warmed to the idea, imagining the fun he could have with the kid on his days off.
Yazzie announced early on that she would be going back to work after her confinement – he expected nothing else – and they agreed that on their substantial joint income they could more than afford a nanny or two to help out. His fantasy was only slightly disturbed when it was announced that there would be two little Rolandsons, and only just a bit more when his wife almost doubled in size. His fantasy also survived Yazzie’s mood swings – so uncharacteristic of the woman he had married – although it took a bit more of a knock with her new-found aversion to sex.
But then reality hit with a bang. A double bang. Despite having two full-time nannies, a cook, a butler, and a maid, the Rolandson household had been chaos for the last fourteen months. Sometimes joyful chaos, sometimes scream-into-the-pillow-at-night chaos, but always chaos. And Rollo, if he were perfectly honest, wasn’t quite sure how he’d survive it. So he took every opportunity he could to escape – just for a while. And this was one of those opportunities. He had hoped he would be much busier than he had been following the story of Agnes Robson’s murder, which was why he had insisted on coming up to Newcastle instead of staying home in London with the children. But there wasn’t actually that much to do here. Yasmin was taking centre stage. He realized that that was as it should be – she was Grace’s lawyer – but it still irked him. He was a news hound and if he didn’t have the chance to follow a scent he would soon start howling at the moon.
So he crossed the foyer of the Grand Hotel with a self-confident swagger, ignoring, as he always did, the stares of people who weren’t used to seeing dwarfs outside of the circus. At the reception desk he asked if Gerald Farmer and Gus North were in and was told the gentlemen were in the bar having a drink. Dandy! He would be glad of a stiff whiskey.
Rollo spotted Gus and Gerald in a high-backed booth at the far end of the room. He ordered his whiskey – a double – and made his way towards them. One of the advantages to being only four-and-a-half feet tall was that he was not easily spotted above the clutter of tall chair backs. Of course, sometimes this was a disadvantage, but not today. Gus and Gerald, their heads bowed, did not see him approach, and as he got into earshot he heard Gerald say: “For heaven’s sake, Gus, you can’t just run. They’ll think you’re guilty.”
Then Gus answering with his not-properly-formed, but still recognizable, words: “But I am guilty. We both are.”
Rollo, stunned at what he was hearing, slipped into a nearby booth, not wanting to interrupt the confessional flow. He noted that there were no other customers at this side of the room – no doubt why the two men felt able to talk so freely.
“Look Gerald, the only reason I came back was to convince you to come with me. Will you?”
“I don’t think it’s wise, my boy, I really don’t.”
“They will arrest us!”
“They haven’t yet…”
“Then that’s our chance to leave. I’ve been checking out the ferries to Amsterdam. There’s one leaving tomorrow morning. We can check out of here, book in somewhere near the Port of Tyne under assumed names, and be at the ferry first thing.”
“I am not going with you to Amsterdam, Gus.”
“For Pete’s sake, why?”
“Because I think we have a chance to clear our names. What we did wasn’t so bad, was it? In fact, I don’t think charges can even be laid against us, now that Agnes is dead.”
“We committed fraud, Gerald. I produced paintings, pretending to be Agnes, and you sold them under her name.”
“I only suggested doing it that time when we had the order from Buenos Aires and Agnes was in one of her moods, unable to work, unable to deliver. How I hated those moods of hers. It was so hard to run a business like that – when you couldn’t guarantee to buyers they’d get what they ordered.”
“She was an artist, not a production line, Gerald.”
Rollo took a sip of his whiskey and swilled it round in his mouth. He would have lit a cigar, but the smell would alert Gus and Gerald to his presence. This was interesting, very interesting…
Gus continued: “Besides, it wasn’t just that one time. You know it wasn’t. And you said yourself, that copper has been asking you about Lilies and The Railway Family.”
“Oh my boy, it was those paintings that got us into trouble in the first place! Why, for heaven’s sake, did you let Sherman pressure you into bringing them up? And why, now that I think of it, did you try to slip The Railway Family into the Tate exhibition?”
“I didn’t try to slip it in. Agnes chose it.”
“So you say.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Gerald?”
Rollo heard Gerald take a deep breath, then emit a rattling sigh. He imagined the large man’s chins wobbling as he did so. “No Gus, I’m not. I just think perhaps you might have made an error of judgment, that’s all.”
“An error of judgment? And that from the man who asked me to forge his client’s paintings?”
“Touché, Gus, touché. But I still can’t believe Agnes submitted that painting herself, knowing that only half of it was hers. Did she tell you why she’d done it?”
It was Gus’ turn to sigh. “She did, yes. She came in one day when I was doing some of my own painting. The railway line was one of her abandoned canvases. You know how she would do that. Start something then change her mind. She’d asked me to get rid of it. But I didn’t. There was something that drew me into that painting. So I decided to finish it.”
“Why the mother and child?”
There was silence. Then Gerald replied: “Oh I see.”
Damn. Rollo wondered if Gus had slipped into sign language. If he had, that would be pretty much the end of his eavesdropping. But to his relief, after a few moments, he heard Gus speak again. “She said she loved it. She wasn’t angry with me at all. She said that I had finished the sentence she had started. That she hadn’t known how to complete it. She was… well… she started crying, Gerald.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. But it was her decision to submit it for the Tate exhibition. I told her then that if she did she should acknowledge that it was only partly hers.”
“I wish she’d listened to you.”
“So do I. And I wish I’d insisted. But she told me that she didn’t want to muddy my name with hers. She told me that she believed in my talent and wanted to help me launch my own career. She said I should produce a couple of dozen originals and when I was ready to let her know she’d see about helping me get my own exhibition. Or joining in with one of those ‘new talent’ shows her friend Roger Fry arranged. So I backed down.”
“Yes, Roger would do wonders for you. I hope he still will. He helped launch Agnes’ career, you know.”
“Yes, she told me.”
There was silence again. Rollo drummed his fingers against the whiskey tumbler. How he wished he could nudge the conversation in the direction he needed it to go.
“So…” said Gerald eventually. “Have you changed your mind about leaving? I really think we could explain all this, you know. The police don’t know anything about the Buenos Aires painting. It’s just the lilies and the railway one. And you have an explanation for that.”
“But not for the lilies. I painted that one for Sherman when he asked for it because I knew Agnes wouldn’t be up to it.”
“You still haven’t explained why he asked for it.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Don’t you think you should? Particularly if you want me to leave the country with you. What is it you’re running from, Gus?”
Another deep sigh from the younger man. “Sherman knows about the Buenos Aires painting. And the other one I did for that dealer in Leeds.”
“Oh Lordy! I’d forgotten about the Leeds one.” A bang on the table clattered glasses and startled Rollo.
“You’re not telling me he knows about both those paintings?”
Silence.
“Oh dear God. How?”
Silence.
“What the hell was he doing searching my office? How did he get in?”
Silence.
“All right, so he has threatened to expose us? Why didn’t you tell me, Gus?”
Silence.
“Oh my boy, bless you. Bless your kind and loving heart. But you really should have told me. We could have dealt with Sherman together, instead of you having to suffer under his blackmail. What did the swine want with those two paintings anyway?”
Silence.
“All right, all right. So that’s why you want to leave the country? To get away from Sherman?”
“Yes.” To Rollo’s relief Gus spoke again.
“Is that the only reason?”
“Of course. What other reason could there be?”
“Well… now Gus, I don’t want you to get upset now. And I hope you know that I will do anything for you. Anything to protect you. You know that, don’t you?”
Silence.
“Well I do. And it’s true. And that’s why I never told the police what I really saw the night Agnes died.”
Rollo’s jaw dropped. Surely it can’t be…
“What did you see?” Gus’ voice was defensive.
“Oh my boy, don’t make me say it. You know what it is. You and Agnes leaving together. Out the back door. But then, only you returned – later. Before Poppy came back and told us Agnes was dead. I didn’t mention it to the police, of course, but – oh Gus – did you? Did you kill Agnes?”
There was silence. A deathly silence. Rollo’s hand gripped the tumbler until his knuckles turned white.
Then, eventually, Gus spoke, his voice quivering on the verge of tears.
“I cannot believe you asked me that. I just can’t.”
Then he stood, catching Rollo off guard. The little editor slipped off his seat and under the table, praying to the God he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t be seen.
“I’m checking out now, Gerald. You can come with me if you like. Or you can go to the police and tell them what you know. I don’t care. I don’t care at all.”
Rollo, under the table, now had a clear view under the bench between his and the next booth, and saw Gerald struggling to get up. But his large frame would not shift easily.
“Gus! Please! Don’t be like that. Talk to me – please! I’m sorry if it’s upset you, but I need to know. I promise I’ll stand by you either way.”
“Goodbye Gerald.”
Rollo watched the younger man’s legs stride away, then waited to see what Gerald would do. But all he did was weep.