For God’s sake.
“It was a nickname! It was their private joke! Her name was Sadie, OK? Sadie Lancaster. I’ll write it down. And I know it was her because…” I hesitate momentously. “This is my great-aunt.”
I’m expecting a gasp or something, but the woman just gives me a dubious look.
“Goodness, dear. That’s quite a claim. What makes you think she’s your great-aunt?”
“I don’t think she is, I know she is. She lived here in Archbury. She knew Steph-I mean Cecil Malory. They were lovers. It’s definitely her.”
“Do you have any evidence? Do you have a photograph of her in her youth? Any archives?”
“Well… no,” I say, a little frustrated. “But I know it’s her, beyond a doubt. And I’ll prove it somehow. And you should put a sign up saying her name and stop calling her Mabel-” I pause mid-track as something new and startling occurs to me. “Hang on a minute. This is Sadie’s painting! He gave it to her! She lost it for years, but it’s still hers. Or, I suppose, Dad’s and Uncle Bill’s now. How did you get it? What’s it doing here?”
“I’m sorry?” The woman sounds bewildered, and I give an impatient sigh.
“This painting belonged to my great-aunt. But it was lost, years and years ago. The family house burned down and she thought the painting was destroyed. So how did it end up hanging on this wall?” I can’t help sounding accusing, and she recoils.
“I’m afraid I have no idea. I’ve worked here for ten years and it’s certainly been here all that time.”
“Right.” I assume a businesslike air. “Well, can I please talk to the director of this museum or whoever’s in charge of this painting? At once?”
The woman gives me a wary, puzzled look. “Dear… you do realize this is only a reproduction, don’t you?”
“What?” I feel wrong-footed. “What do you mean?”
“The original is four times the size and, dare I say it, even more splendid.”
“But…” I look at the painting in confusion. It looks pretty real to me. “So, where’s the original? Locked up in a safe or something?”
“No, dear,” she says patiently. “It’s hanging in the London Portrait Gallery.”
TWENTY-FOUR
It’s massive. It’s radiant. It’s a million times better than the one in the house.
I’ve been sitting in front of Sadie’s portrait in the London Portrait Gallery for about two hours. I can’t drag myself away. She’s gazing out at the gallery, her brow clear, her eyes a velvety dark green, like the most beautiful goddess you’ve ever seen. Cecil Malory’s use of light on her skin is unmatched in its artistry. I know, because I heard an art teacher telling her class half an hour ago. Then they all went up to see if they could spot the little miniature portrait in the necklace.
I must have seen a hundred people coming and looking at her. Sighing with pleasure. Smiling at one another. Or just sitting down and gazing.
“Isn’t she lovely?” A dark-haired woman in a mac smiles at me and sits down beside me on the bench. “This is my favorite portrait in the whole gallery.”
“Me too.” I nod.
“I wonder what she’s thinking?” the woman muses.
“I think she’s in love.” I look yet again at Sadie’s glowing eyes, the flush in her cheek. “And I think she’s really, really happy.”
“You’re probably right.”
For a moment we’re both quiet, just drinking her in.
“She does you good, doesn’t she?” says the woman. “I often come and look at her in my lunchtimes. Just to cheer myself up. I’ve got a poster of her at home too. My daughter bought it for me. But you can’t beat the real thing, can you?”
There’s a sudden lump in my throat, but I manage to smile back. “No. You can’t beat the real thing.”
As I’m speaking, a Japanese family approaches the painting. I can see the mother pointing out the necklace to her daughter. They both sigh happily, then adopt identical poses, arms folded, heads tilted, and just gaze at her.
Sadie’s adored by all these people. Tens, hundreds, thousands. And she has no idea.
I’ve called for her until I’m hoarse, over and over, out the window, up and down the street. But she doesn’t hear. Or she doesn’t want to hear. Abruptly, I stand up and consult my watch; I have to go, anyway. It’s five o’clock. Time for my appointment with Malcolm Gledhill, the collections manager.
I make my way back to the foyer, give my name to the receptionist, and wait among a swarming crowd of French schoolchildren until a voice from behind says, “Miss Lington?” I turn to see a man in a purple shirt, with a chestnut beard and tufts of hair growing out of his ears, beaming at me with twinkly eyes. He looks like Father Christmas before he grew old, and I can’t help warming to him instantly.
“Hi. Yes, I’m Lara Lington.”
“Malcolm Gledhill. Come this way.” He leads me through a hidden door behind the reception desk, up some stairs, and into a corner office overlooking the Thames. Postcards and reproductions of paintings are everywhere, stuck up on the walls and propped against books and adorning his massive computer.
“So.” He hands me a cup of tea and sits down. “You’re here to see me about Girl with a Necklace?” He eyes me warily. “I wasn’t sure from your message quite what the issue was. But it’s clearly… pressing?”