Verbalization precedes resolution

VERBALIZATION precedes resolution, said Dr Parry in his Principles of Psychotherapy – and he was right. Now that Pat had expressed her fears over her father’s engagement to the mercenary Czechess, Anichka, her agitation seemed to abate. Matthew thought too that her mind had been taken off her troubles by their hatching of the plan to use Bruce Anderson as bait in a honey trap. Bruce was Matthew’s occasional drinking companion in the Cumberland Bar, a surveyor, echt narcissist, proponent of clove-scented hair gel, and former pupil of Morrison’s Academy in Crieff. He was not to everybody’s taste, but there was little doubt as to his attractiveness to women, who flocked to him as moths to light, fascinated by his aura of seething sexuality, his chin, his en brosse hair style, and his smooth, moisturised skin. Pat, like everybody else, had fallen for all that, although she had woken from the trance in time to avoid the eventual distress felt by most of Bruce’s conquests once he moved on – “Actually they’re not really conquests,” Bruce, said suavely. “They surrender without firing a shot. Unconditional surrender. Odd, but there it is.”

But with their plan conceived in principle, Matthew did not wish to dwell on Bruce or on the other problem barely adumbrated by Pat. He suspected what that other problem was, but, rather than get tied up in her emotional affairs, he was keen to show her his new pictures, the first of which was leaning against his desk, still wrapped in brown paper with a protective layer of bubblewrap within.

“I’ve got hold of a few new pictures,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. “Some rather nice things, actually.”

“The Bonham’s auction?” asked Pat. There had been an auction in Queen Street at the end of the previous week and Matthew had left a few successful bids with the auction house.

“No, Miranda Grant’s holding on to those for me,” he said. “These ones I …” Pat looked at him expectantly. I can’t say I found them, thought Matthew. You didn’t find pictures like that, unless of course you used find in a metaphorical sense.

“Yes?” said Pat. “A private sale?” people were always coming into the gallery keen to negotiate the private sale of pictures they did not wish to sell publicly. In some cases they had the pictures copied before they consigned the originals for sale, thus allowing their friends to think they still possessed them. These newly-minted copies were hung in the originals’ exact position and in most cases nobody was any the wiser – except sometimes. Matthew remembered going to dinner at a house in Heriot Row and inadvertently touching the surface of a small Cadell only to find that the paint was still slightly wet. He had gasped, and the host had caught his eye, guilt and embarrassment writ large on his face.

Matthew almost said, “Obviously a very late Cadell,” but stopped himself in time, thus allowing the host the opportunity to say, “We had a leak. It’s attended to now, but one or two of the pictures got a bit wet.”

“Cadell’s the sort of artist who can take a spot of rain,” said Matthew charitably.

A friend had later told him the full story. “The poor chap invested a lot in expensive clarets just before the market collapsed. People stopped using them for bribes in China, and nobody wanted Chateau N’importe Quoi at however many thousand pounds a case. He had to sell his Cadell to recoup. So he very understandably had a copy made by one of those firms that will reproduce anything for a couple of hundred quid and pop it in the post from Shanghai. Amazing. He put the copy on the wall and sold the original rather well.” “Such a sad tale,” said Matthew. “Edinburgh is full of such stories,” said his friend. “Hidden suffering …”

Pat repeated her question. “You bought them?”

Matthew shook his head. “Not quite. I’ll come to that later … Let me show you first.”

He unwrapped the painting and held it up so that the light from the large window fell squarely upon it. Pat leaned forward to examine it.

“But it’s lovely,” she said. “Absolutely charming.”

Matthew beamed. “Yes, isn’t it?”

Pat leaned further forward to scrutinize a corner of the picture. “Those lovely reds,” she said. “They’re …” “So rich?” supplied Matthew. “Yes. Exactly that.” “Let me guess who it is,” said Pat. “Don’t tell me – let me guess.” “Of course.” Pat sat back in her chair. “It’s not Moira what’s her name?…” “Moira Beaty? No, it’s not her.” “Could it be Sarah Longley? Remember those rather nice paintings of hers we showed a little while ago? She did something quite like that.” “It’s not Sarah Longley,” said Matthew. “Adam Bruce Thomson? He painted the occasional kitchen.”

Matthew shook his head. “Nyet. Don’t think Scottish. Think … well, maybe think French.”

Pat’s eyes widened. “French? Well, it can’t be Vuillard, although it definitely looks like him. Follower of Vuillard, shall we say?”

Matthew lowered the painting, his arms beginning to ache from holding it up. He smiled widely. “Vuillard,” he said. “It is Vuillard.”

Pat let out a shriek of delight. “But Matthew,” she exclaimed. “How do you know?”

“I looked it up in the catalogue raisonné,” he said. “It’s there. There’s a picture of it. It gives the date he painted it and there’s a note on the subject. Then it says: current whereabouts unknown.” Pat frowned. “It could be a copy.” Matthew hesitated. “Yes …” he began tentatively. “It could be, but no, I think it’s the real thing. It’s got that … that feel.”

Pat knew what he meant. There were people who could sense the genuine, and she had always thought that Matthew was one. It was a sixth sense that enabled those who had it to raise the alarm well before anybody else had started to doubt. “Can you get confirmation?” “Yes,” said Matthew. “I’ve already spoken to Belinda Thomson. She’s agreed to look at it.”

Pat seemed satisfied with that. She had been a student of Belinda’s at the University and she knew of her interest in Vuillard. But then she said, “But tell me how you got hold of it. Do you actually own it or are you going to sell it on commission.” “It’s mine,” said Matthew. He spoke so quickly, and so firmly, that Pat immediately doubted him.

“You’re hiding something,” she said. “I can tell.”

Matthew sighed. “I think it’s mine,” he said.

Pat groaned. “That means it’s not. If you only think you own something, then you probably don’t.” She paused. “I think you need to tell me about it.”

It was a moment or two before Matthew began. “You see,” he said, “our new house has a concealed room …”

It was not a good beginning. “Oh come on, Matthew. Spare me the Famous Five stuff.”

“I always liked the Famous Five,” said Matthew.

“They were very middle class,” said Pat.

“So are you,” snapped Matthew. “And so are most of the people who sneer at others for being middle class.”