He remembered very well the first time his mother had taken him to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. It was the winter after he had turned nine, and he had loudly objected that he had better things to do. He could not remember now what those things were.
His complaints had turned to pouting and obstinacy. Walking with her from the house, he remained five or ten feet behind. He had taken to refusing to hold her hand, having grown too big for that. But he had always liked the feel of her hand on his. It was his loss forever now.
The outside of the museum building did not impress him—a boxy structure within a black iron fence. There were no fountains, or stone lions, or even flags. Years would pass before he understood that only the treasure inside mattered. He had moaned out loud after they entered, making an ugly echo in the inner courtyard. The tempered light beneath the high glass which enclosed the courtyard intrigued him. He moaned again to hear the change in his voice. He had smuggled a toy in his pocket, a small racing car, and wanted to hold on to it when they checked their coats. For one of the few times he could recall, his mother had lost her patience and told him to stay there, in the exit hall, and wait for her beside a sad figure in a suit of armor. He had folded his own arms in defiance.
There was a door there, across from the coat room. He thought of it often as he passed it afterward. It was plain by comparison to so many of the great and wonderful doors which had been salvaged by “Mrs. Jack,” as they called her. She had brought the doors from castles and palaces across Europe to Boston and preserved them throughout the museum. However, that door just happened to be the one through which Henry passed from his childhood into the difficult years of his youth.
In later times he would often walk up and down the long gallery on the third floor—that high and narrow space of letters and books, paintings, busts, gilded chairs, and the dark menace of wooden church stalls, all of which ended at the salvaged altar of a medieval chapel and the firework of stained glass illuminated by sunlight—as if it were his personal arcade.
How many hours had he watched the still figures of the tapestry there as if waiting for them to move—knights in armor astride their horses, the hounds just ahead, and maids in their funny caps and bright gowns left behind at the castle wall.
But that very first day he had wandered no further than that one small room at the bottom—the Blue Room, they called it—not at all impressive with its poor light and low ceiling. This, Henry came to realize, was the best room of all; an afterthought, crammed with its marvels like the accidental accumulation of a basement. It was a perfect room for the boy he had been and tried now to remember.
There, set high against the wall and at least as large as he was then, another boy stood, forlorn: “The Standard Bearer of the Harvest Festival,” forgotten in his task, upholding a staff of tattered flowers and wheat, dressed in the heavy cloth of an uncomfortable costume. Henry immediately knew that boy very well, and knew his thoughts. And below the boy's sandaled feet, beneath the ornate frame with the name of the artist Antonio Mancini, the dark wood of a glass-fronted bookcase secured the space—this not quite as high then as Henry's chest.
A mixed assortment of books, some upright, others on their sides, a casual presentation, intrigued him. He would have quickly pulled a volume out had the case not been locked to prevent this.
Who was this Henry Adams? What kind of “education” did he get? Henry strained to see the darkened titles through the glare of the glass. There was a name he knew: Omar Khayyam, with gilt decoration on the spine. And another: a plain brown Nathaniel Hawthorne. His mother had read some of the Tanglewood Tales to him once, but he had fallen asleep. These books were in the case at home as well—no, not these books: cheaper editions.
Who was Okakura Kakuzo? Was Claudius a name or a place, or perhaps a Latin word for the weather?
He asked the guard. The guard looked at him as the troublesome child he was and did not answer. Henry sat on the polished wood of the floor in response—not unlike the floor in the parlor at home—directly in front of the case of books and read each title, in order, occasionally looking up again at the eyes of the unhappy standard-bearer above, who must be very tired by now from holding that cumbersome staff. Henry imagined that the boy's legs might ache. His fingers would itch where they grasped the bulky decorations bound to the wood of the pole. The boy could switch hands, of course, but in his other hand he held a dark fabric bag—perhaps his regular clothes, which he longed to put on instead of those he wore.
Henry lost his count of the books then, with the thought of what the boy's bag contained, and he stood instead to wander the room. The guard moved with him, a shadow at his left eye, and Henry refused to acknowledge the presence in return for the man's rudeness.
The people in the paintings were, most of them, unhappy, or just sad. Perhaps from waiting. There was a camp in the woods, the white billow of canvas wrapped on Aspen poles. That seemed a happy place, but abandoned. A woman sat on an omnibus, dressed for a day on the town—or coming home perhaps, a shard of sun on her cheek. She seemed distressed. Another woman stood in flowing white robes over a pot of incense, her veil held out to catch the smoke. Was this self-punishment? The incense Henry knew from the holy days at St. Mary's made him choke.
A sour priest looked over the room from above the door; another woman with white hands and white face seemed buried in the black of mourning clothes. Nearby, a young woman in a white dressing gown brushed the wild fall of her red hair—in privacy perhaps ... Wasn't that the same picture he had imagined when Peter had spoken of his eccentric mother? And wasn't the reason he remembered it so well, that he had once watched at home as Miss Williams, the student boarder across the hall, had combed her hair like that—her door drawn open by the summer air from the window when he had closed his own. She had been naked. The first naked woman he had ever seen from head to foot. She brushed methodically, in quick strokes, eyes closed, her breasts bouncing as the bristles pulled free at the ends. Her unraveled hair, which he had thought was black, as it was usually tied in a tight bun on her head, had transformed in the light of the window and against her pale skin, and he saw that it was really a very dark red, as was the short red nest of hair between her thighs. She had opened her eyes just then, had seen him, and with a smile, had closed the door again. This had stirred him at the time, only months before his visit to the museum, in new ways, and stirred him now with the memory.
The guard had cleared his throat for attention. Henry moved on around the room. In another frame, a woman in a dark dress holding an umbrella for shelter made her way on a snowy street in old New York. It was a small picture by Childe Hassam, and Henry remembered standing in the spot and imagining the moment in the picture long enough for the guard to again be worried.
A phone rang. Henry started.
Below the half-size reproduction of the Standard Bearer on the wall, a light flashed in a small panel above a neat desk. The secretary returned from wherever she had gone at least ten minutes before and answered the phone, speaking while looking critically at Henry where he sat on the couch. She seemed especially unhappy with his jeans. He had worn them a few days longer than he should to avoid doing his laundry. He returned her glance by developing an opinion of her legs, which were bare from above her knee, where the pleats of her gray wool dress stopped short. He could not be so critical of what he saw. He settled on the possibility that she worked out regularly in a gym.
She hung up the phone and turned and then turned again. “It could be a while longer. He's still on the phone with a client."
Henry's eyes went to the buttons on the panel by the phone. None were lit. Her eyes followed his, and then she turned her back and disappeared down the hall.
There were other pictures from the Blue Room which had stayed with him since that first visit. There was a picture of a young man with a bandage on his head by Denman Ross. Henry had always associated it with Ernest Hemingway. Somewhere he had seen a picture of Hemingway bandaged, and even though the author and the subject of the picture were physically different, it was the fellow in the picture who had filled the role of Hemingway's hero in Henry's mind when he had read A Farewell To Arms.
The athletic legs suddenly filled the frame made by the small rug on the wood floor. Henry looked up at cold eyes.
The receptionist said, “Mr. Charles is free. You can go in now."
He walked down the hall behind the undulation of indelicate curves which filled the back of the gray dress.
Mr. Charles did not stand. Henry accepted the hint and sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk without being asked.
The Realtor spoke perfunctorily after looking at Henry's clothes a moment too long.
"What can I do for you?"
The voice was high and nasal, as if bored by routine. The man had a mustache on a thin upper lip which exaggerated a mouth already too wide.
Henry checked the art reproductions on the office wall to see if any others were from the Gardner as he answered, but none were familiar. “You were the broker for Morgan Johnson's condominium on Marlborough Street."
An eyebrow as thin as the mustache rose slightly.
The Realtor said, “I still am."
Henry tried to keep the tone of his own voice disinterested. “Not if Arthur Johnson thinks too much about the fact that the sale was being done without his knowledge."
"Never take disrespect lightly,” his father often said. “Respect is the measure of a relationship. If someone shows you a lack of respect, show him something he'll remember for the next time."
Mr. Charles sat just a little bit straighter in his chair. “What business is it of yours?"
Henry studied the copy of a painting of an old man just to the left of the Realtor's head. It was a perfect distraction for the moment.
"I'm a friend of the family. I'm worried that people are being taken advantage of. There's been a murder, as you know. The estate is in probate. It could stay in probate for a long time if the situation is not resolved quickly. You won't be seeing any broker fees if there's a contest."
Mr. Charles's mustache turned down as Henry spoke, and then turned up at each end when Henry sat back in his chair.
"Yes. Well. That would be a pity for everyone concerned, wouldn't it? But what is it I can help you with, Mr.... Sullivan?"
Henry wondered if the man had actually forgotten his name. The realtor's voice had lowered in both tone and octave. Henry tried to look as serious as he could manage.
There was in fact a painting in the Dutch room at the Gardner, near the Rembrandt self-portrait and also painted by the master—An Old Man in Military Costume. It would fit Mr. Charles quite well, if the real-estate man's lip had not been so thin.
Henry said, “What was the price Morgan was asking on the condominium?"
This would be public information if Henry knew where to look for it, but more easily had now by asking.
The mustache barely moved with the answer. “Three and a quarter."
Henry asked, “And what was the offer?"
Now, this was more difficult. He was not at all sure the Realtor would tell him this much, but he might as well try.
The mustache moved, stopped, and moved again.
"There ... There were two offers. One for that amount, and one for three and a half."
Henry made a guess. “Isn't that a little low?"
"Well, yes. But Mrs. Johnson wanted to sell it before the end of the year. She had some plans."
Henry nodded, and let a beat of time pass before asking, “And why wasn't anything signed?"
The broker's eyes closed too slowly and opened again with some effort.
"We had a verbal agreement...."
Henry smiled. He had tried not to. He had not wanted to. It was reflexive. “You told Arthur you had an agreement."
The Realtor repeated, “A verbal agreement."
Henry said, “Arthur thought otherwise."
"He misunderstood. Nothing was filed."
Henry offered a half-truth. “So we noticed."
The Realtor sat forward. “It was my intention—I had an appointment with Mrs. Johnson the day she was murdered. I was going to have her sign then."
Henry could not help raising an eyebrow. “You were there?"
It was the wrong question.
The Realtor sat back in his chair again. “I arrived in time to spend an hour or two with the police. It was very unpleasant."
Henry tried to turn the conversation back. “I don't imagine Arthur will want to go along with your verbal agreement."
The Realtor bounced just slightly in his seat.
"Mr. Johnson does not seem to be in much of a hurry."
Henry asked, “Have you spoken with him recently?"
"I haven't been able to reach him."
Henry said, “He's been busy."
"Is there a problem?"
Henry said, “The price."
The man's cheeks tucked in slightly between his open teeth, and he came forward again. “But there is an agreement."
Henry said only, “Verbal."
The Realtor shook his head once, “Yes, but—"
Henry was not prepared to argue real-estate law. He interrupted. “What did Detective O'Connor think about it?"
The Realtor sat back now, as if to avoid any sense of confrontation. “He's a very suspicious man. His job, I suppose. But everything was perfectly legal and aboveboard."
Henry answered that quickly enough. “Except for the matter with Arthur."
The man came forward once more, this time with both hands attached to the edge of his desk.
"Well, the property at that time was hers, not his. She had told me not to tell him. Mrs. Johnson seemed very concerned about it. I'm not sure why. She said several times that I should not talk to him about it. I was only following her wishes.... The offer is solid. The buyer is completely legit. He might be willing to go up slightly to get the deal done. He wants to move in by the first of the year if it's at all possible."
Henry shifted his chair back as if to leave. “I'll tell Arthur, but I don't think so."
The Realtor answered quickly, “The buyer might pay a premium if—"
Henry had left the impression he wanted, but if he started negotiating, he might be caught in some level of fraud. “I'll tell Arthur. Don't speak to me about that. But I do want to know what Morgan said. Why did she want to sell so quickly?"
"Taxes. I think it was for tax reasons."
This seemed probable to Henry. It had been suggested before, and he had encountered it many times. People often sold off entire estates at reduced values just to escape the reach of the Internal Revenue Service or reduce the hit of the Massachusetts Department of Revenue. Morgan was facing a large financial loss in the current year with Heber's medical bills and death. A large sum of money had been given to Peter for his wife's medical care. The donation of the books to Boston University would amount to a considerable deduction. She wanted to sell the condominium while the loss was fresh. With Heber's death in June, a great many things had begun to change very quickly. The will was probably made as a temporary measure. It would be just like Morgan to have all the bases covered.
But the issue remained: she was keeping secrets from her only son.