By the Pricking of My Thumbs - Agatha Christie [53]
‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder. What sort of a man was he?’
‘I didn’t know him personally. Before my time. Pleased with himself by all accounts. Thought he was a better painter than he was, probably. Put on a bit of side. Kindly, quite likeable. Eye for the girls.’
‘And you’ve no idea where this particular piece of countryside exists? It is England, I suppose.’
‘I should think so, yes. Do you want me to find out for you?’
‘Could you?’
‘Probably the best thing to do would be to ask his wife, his widow rather. He married Emma Wing, the sculptor. Well known. Not very productive. Does quite powerful work. You could go and ask her. She lives in Hampstead. I can give you the address. We’ve been corresponding with her a good deal lately over the question of this show of her husband’s work we’re doing. We’re having a few of her smaller pieces of sculpture as well. I’ll get the address for you.’
He went to the desk, turned over a ledger, scrawled something on a card and brought it back.
‘There you are, Tommy,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what the deep dark mystery is. Always been a man of mystery, haven’t you? It’s a nice representation of Boscowan’s work you’ve got there. We might like to use it for the show. I’ll send you a line to remind you nearer the time.’
‘You don’t know a Mrs Lancaster, do you?’
‘Well, I can’t think of one off-hand. Is she an artist or something of the kind?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She’s just an old lady living for the last few years in an old ladies’ home. She comes into it because this picture belonged to her until she gave it away to an aunt of mine.’
‘Well I can’t say the name means anything to me. Better go and talk to Mrs Boscowan.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘She was a good bit younger than he was, I should say. Quite a personality.’ He nodded his head once or twice. ‘Yes, quite a personality. You’ll find that out I expect.’
He took the picture, handed it down the staircase with instructions to someone below to do it up again.
‘Nice for you having so many myrmidons at your beck and call,’ said Tommy.
He looked round him, noticing his surroundings for the first time.
‘What’s this you’ve got here now?’ he said with distaste.
‘Paul Jaggerowski–Interesting young Slav. Said to produce all his works under the influence of drugs–Don’t you like him?’
Tommy concentrated his gaze on a big string bag which seemed to have enmeshed itself in a metallic green field full of distorted cows.
‘Frankly, no.’
‘Philistine,’ said Robert. ‘Come out and have a bite of lunch.’
‘Can’t. I’ve got a meeting with a doctor at my club.’
‘Not ill, are you?’
‘I’m in the best of health. My blood pressure is so good that it disappoints every doctor to whom I submit it.’
‘Then what do you want to see a doctor for?’
‘Oh,’ said Tommy cheerfully–‘I’ve just got to see a doctor about a body. Thanks for your help. Goodbye.’
II
Tommy greeted Dr Murray with some curiosity–He presumed it was some formal matter to do with Aunt Ada’s decease, but why on earth Dr Murray would not at least mention the subject of his visit over the telephone, Tommy couldn’t imagine.
‘I’m afraid I’m a little late,’ said Dr Murray, shaking hands, ‘but the traffic was pretty bad and I wasn’t exactly sure of the locality. I don’t know this part of London very well.’
‘Well, too bad you had to come all the way here,’ said Tommy. ‘I could have met you somewhere more convenient, you know.’
‘You’ve time on your hands then just now?’
‘Just at the moment, yes. I’ve been away for the last week.’