The Goldenacre

Episode 47

Catherine Peters carried on: “The Goldenacre is available for observation.” Her voice was as inflexible as stone. Tallis couldn’t place the accent. “That is good news. Where and when?” “At the Public Gallery Stores. I have already made the appointment with Sir Dennis. You can attend. Receive the details from his private office.”

Tallis smiled and took the receiver in his other hand. He laid his other hand on the warm cup of tea. “Well, I shall attend – it is, after all, my duty to review the painting. I shall also invite Roberta Donnelly, the head of conserv–”

“There is no need for Ms Donnelly to attend.”

“With respect, Ms Peters, it is also Ms Donnelly’s duty to inspect the painting before it can be officially transferred to the ownership of the Public Gallery.”

“I shall discuss with Sir Dennis.” “No, I shall discuss it with Mr Carver. Ms Donnelly would also like to know where the painting has been conserved and who has done the work. It is very important we know all the details of its recent history as well as its life since 1927.”

“Everything is in order. Goodbye, Mr Tallis.”

The line clunked. It was dead. Tallis sighed and made a diary note. “Stop talking about me, Mr Tallis,” a deep voice said. A large man entered the room – Theseus Campbell.

“How goes it, Thomas?”

His voice boomed around the room. He sat at the table and opened the Mackintosh book.

“So, Friday: you will come to our house about seven?”

“That would be lovely – but I also said I would go to the Summoning event on Calton Hill.”

“Ah yes, Vorn’s event. Well, interesting,” Theseus said.

“I may not go myself. But come for dinner. I have emailed you our address. I hear your visit to Denholm House yesterday was both surprising and unfortunate.”

“Yes. Perhaps Bobby told you. The Goldenacre wasn’t even there. All very curious. But my feeling is that the brother and sister aren’t exactly communicating.”

“I also heard that,” Theseus said. it should be

He held a small book in his hands, an old tome on van Gogh and his brother.

“I have heard that the son, the brother, is into all kinds of business. I guess inherited wealth isn’t enough.”

“The house itself is a mix of falling down and spectacular,” Tallis said.

“There are these ornamental gardens which, if rebuilt, could be a tourist attraction of some kind...”

“There is a reckoning to be had,” Theseus said. He looked out of the window.

“You know, my friend, it is going to rain. I hope the rain does not arrive for the Summoning. How many acres would you say the Lords Denholm own? Here in Scotland and down south?”

“I literally have no idea, Theseus. There seemed to be a lot of it yesterday. The place is surrounded by acres of woods. There is a lake.”

Theseus nodded. “Coal mines in Wales and former plantations in the West Indies. That is the bulk of the source of their historic wealth. I looked it up. It’s a hobby of mine, these kinds of unwelcome investigations,” he rumbled.

“That is how they build these edifices and collect this art. Historically, that is. I am not blaming Annunciata and Frederick, whatever their names are, personally.”

“Perhaps unfair to,” Tallis said, attempting to slow the monologue, but Theseus carried on.

“But let us not feel too good about removing their duty to pay twelve million in tax just so we can have another Mackintosh in our collection. Another pretty picture to be viewed by the whitehaired, white middle classes who take public art for granted but would recoil at the deadly work it took to build the wealth to own it in the first place.”

Tallis smiled. “You should speak to my aunt. She feels roughly the same as you.”

“She sounds very wise, young Thomas,” Theseus said, and, with a little bow, left the room.

Tallis looked out onto the parkland. No one seemed to be moving on the grass and amid the sculptures. The car park had a few staff cars, and a taxi with its light on.

In the corner of the park was a large white four-by-four. He peered at it.

It was at some distance, and partially hidden by trees. There was a driver. It looked like a large man, with grey hair cut close to his huge head.

Another man was walking towards the car. He was thin and in a grey suit. Tallis could not see his face. The men talked – the driver through the drawn-down window – before it began to rain hard, and the man in the grey suit ran back to the gallery.

Water on the windows sluiced down in a veil, another distorted pane of glass.

Nothing Tallis could see was as it really was. The water bent light about its surface. The huge white car ground out of the car park and drove away, into the pitiless rain.

His mobile phone buzzed. It was a text from Astrella:

Gretchen said you called.

He stared at it for a while, and did not know how to answer.

-o10.03pm. I wonder if your voice message system is overfull, and this will be automatically deleted. If so, how apt. Today wasn’t a good day. I must say. I have had better, albeit not recently.

I had a dream; it was a memory. Some memories are dreams.

This dream was real.

I was with some babysitter. One of the many. You were away, doing your thing. Being secret. Maybe you were in Moscow or Berlin. Washington DC. East Germany.

It was a sunny day. The babysitter had a boyfriend, and he was driving this truck.

The girl and I sat on the back, a flatbed, and he drove fast along the road, and my hat flew off.

There was no way for us to hold still as the truck moved – she was holding me, but we were sliding all over the flatbed, and giggling, and I was screaming with laughter, or just screaming.

The trees rushing by in a blur.

There are these ornamental gardens which, if rebuilt, could be a tourist attraction of some kind

More tomorrow.

Philip Miller lives in Edinburgh. An awardwinning journalist for 20 years, he is now a civil servant. The Goldenacre, published by Birlinn, follows his previous novels, The Blue Horse and All The Galaxies. His latest novel, The Hollow Tree, is to be a sequel to The Goldenacre.

By Philip Miller