By the Pricking of My Thumbs - Agatha Christie [52]
‘Officiated’ was the only word to use because the air of sympathetic interest, the hushed voice, the pleasurable smile, all seemed highly ecclesiastical.
A fair-haired young man detached himself and came forward, his face lighting up with a smile of recognition.
‘Hullo, Tommy,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time. What’s that you’ve got under your arm? Don’t tell me you’ve been taking to painting pictures in your old age? A lot of people do–results usually deplorable.’
‘I doubt if creative art was ever my long suit,’ said Tommy. ‘Though I must admit I found myself strongly attracted the other day by a small book telling in the simplest terms how a child of five can learn to paint in water colours.’
‘God help us if you’re going to take to that. Grandma Moses in reverse.’
‘To tell you the truth, Robert, I merely want to appeal to your expert knowledge of pictures. I want your opinion on this.’
Deftly Robert took the picture from Tommy and skilfully removed its clumsy wrappings with the expertise of a man accustomed to handle the parcelling up and deparcelling of all different-sized works of art. He took the picture and set it on a chair, peered into it to look at it, and then withdrew five or six steps away. He turned his gaze towards Tommy.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what about it? What do you want to know? Do you want to sell it, is that it?’
‘No,’ said Tommy, ‘I don’t want to sell it, Robert. I want to know about it. To begin with, I want to know who painted it.’
‘Actually,’ said Robert, ‘if you had wanted to sell it, it would be quite saleable nowadays. It wouldn’t have been, ten years ago. But Boscowan’s just coming into fashion again.’
‘Boscowan?’ Tommy looked at him inquiringly. ‘Is that the name of the artist? I saw it was signed with something beginning with B but I couldn’t read the name.’
‘Oh, it’s Boscowan all right. Very popular painter about twenty-five years ago. Sold well, had plenty of shows. People bought him all right. Technically a very good painter. Then, in the usual cycle of events, he went out of fashion. Finally, hardly any demand at all for his works but lately he’s had a revival. He, Stitchwort, and Fondella. They’re all coming up.’
‘Boscowan,’ repeated Tommy.
‘B-o-s-c-o-w-a-n,’ said Robert obligingly.
‘Is he still painting?’
‘No. He’s dead. Died some years ago. Quite an old chap by then. Sixty-five, I think, when he died. Quite a prolific painter, you know. A lot of his canvases about. Actually we’re thinking of having a show of him here in about four or five months’ time. We ought to do well over it, I think. Why are you so interested in him?’
‘It’d be too long a story to tell you,’ said Tommy. ‘One of these days I’ll ask you out to lunch and give you the doings from the beginning. It’s a long, complicated and really rather an idiotic story. All I wanted to know is all about this Boscowan and if you happen to know by any chance where this house is that’s represented here.’
‘I couldn’t tell you the last for a moment. It’s the sort of thing he did paint, you know. Small country houses in rather isolated spots usually, sometimes a farmhouse, sometimes just a cow or two around. Sometimes a farm cart, but if so, in the far distance. Quiet rural scenes. Nothing sketchy or messy. Sometimes the surface looks almost like enamel. It was a peculiar technique and people liked it. A good many of the things he painted were in France, Normandy mostly. Churches. I’ve got one picture of his here now. Wait a minute and I’ll get it for you.’
He went to the head of the staircase and shouted down to someone below. Presently he came back holding a small canvas which he propped on another chair.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Church in Normandy.’
‘Yes,’ said Tommy, ‘I see. The same sort of thing. My wife says nobody ever lived in that house–the one I brought in. I see now what she meant. I don’t see that anybody was attending service in that church or ever will.’
‘Well, perhaps your wife’s got something. Quiet, peaceful