Restless Nights. CATHERINE GEORGE

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      ‘Amen to that,’ she said, then looked him in the eye. ‘Mr Dysart—’

      ‘Adam!’

      She steeled herself. ‘I must apologise for my—my attitude this afternoon. If you’ll bring your painting back tomorrow I’ll see what I can do. If, of course, you trust me to do a satisfactory job on it.’

      Adam looked at her in silence for a moment, a wry twist to his mouth. ‘This is unexpected. Earlier on you just about ran me off the property.’

      ‘That was this afternoon,’ she snapped, then reined herself in. Humble pie, humble pie, she chanted silently, and gave him a conciliatory smile. ‘Of course if you prefer to take your work elsewhere I quite understand.’

      He shook his head emphatically. ‘No way. Harry says you’re even better than he is, which is good enough for me.’ His lips twitched. ‘This change of heart is his idea, I take it?’

      ‘Yes. He got very agitated because I’d refused you. So please bring your picture back, Mr Dysart—’

      ‘Adam.’

      ‘Right. Is your painting likely to be valuable?’

      He shrugged. ‘My gut feeling says it is. Though I bought it for a song at auction in London this morning.’ He leaned forward, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘I’m positive that under the layers of dirt and overpaint there’s something interesting. So far the only thing visible is a head and shoulders of a girl. But something about it says 1820s to me.’

      ‘Any ideas about the artist?’ said Gabriel, her interest caught.

      ‘Dirty though my lady is, what I can see of the skin tone suggests William Etty possibly—’

      ‘The man known for nudes,’ she said quickly, winning a look of respect from Adam.

      He drained his glass and sat back in his chair, looking very much at home. As he was, Gabriel reminded herself. Drinking beer with her father at this table was probably a more regular occurrence for Adam Dysart than it was for Harry Brett’s daughter.

      ‘It’s hard to explain,’ he told her, ‘but I get a certain tingle at the back of my neck when I spot a possible sleeper.’

      ‘The unidentified goodies that slip past the auctioneers.’

      ‘Exactly.’

      Gabriel looked at him curiously. ‘But you’re an auctioneer and valuer yourself. Have you let anything like that get away?’

      ‘Not yet,’ he said, without the slightest trace of conceit. ‘But before I joined the firm officially we didn’t do so much in the fine art line. My father’s specialties are furniture and silver. But lately Dysart’s are beginning to make quite a name for themselves with paintings, too.’

      ‘All down to you?’

      ‘Absolutely.’ Adam looked across at her in amusement. ‘You think I’m a right prat, don’t you? Sitting here singing my own praises.’

      Gabriel shook her head. ‘I’m good at my craft, too. No point in selling oneself short.’

      He looked at her in silence for a lengthy interval. ‘I’m curious,’ he said at last. ‘Why did you turn me down this afternoon?’

      She flushed. ‘Due to Dad’s illness there’s a backlog of work outstanding, and the three of us are working flat out to meet commitments. But, if you want the real reason, I was annoyed because you took it for granted we’d drop everything just to suit you.’

      Slight colour crept up Adam’s face to match hers. ‘Which I did, of course,’ he admitted stiffly. ‘My turn to apologise.’

      ‘I suppose my father gives you top priority every time you turn up with one of your finds,’ said Gabriel, resigned.

      ‘It’s not that big a problem for him because they don’t turn up very often,’ he assured her, ‘otherwise I’d be a millionaire by now. But when they do Harry usually lets me sneak to the head of the queue.’

      ‘Something he made very clear tonight,’ she assured him. ‘He said you had an auction coming up soon.’

      ‘We do.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you can’t manage it by then I’ll leave it with our security people and wait until you’re free to work on it.’

      She eyed him in surprise. ‘You’re convinced it’s that valuable?’

      He nodded. ‘I may be wrong. But I don’t think so. Half the canvas is obscured by overpainting, which must be hiding something, maybe another figure, or a landscape. No sign of a signature, but hopefully that will appear when it’s cleaned.’ He smiled. ‘We’re not talking big bucks like a Van Gogh, Gabriel Brett, but one thing’s certain—even with your fee for the restoration I can’t fail to make some profit on the price I paid for it.’

      ‘How much?’

      ‘One-fifty, with some faded watercolours and a foxed old map thrown in. No one else was interested in Lot 13.’

      ‘Your lucky number?’

      Adam shrugged, a wry twist to his smile. ‘If it isn’t I won’t have lost much—at least not in money.’ He sobered. ‘But indirectly it cost me one of my oldest friends.’

      The bleak look in his eyes roused curiosity in Gabriel. ‘Sounds as though you could do with another beer.’

      ‘Would you share one with me?’

      Gabriel fetched another can from the fridge, and half filled a glass before pouring the rest into Adam’s. ‘How did you pay so little for a picture in London?’

      ‘It was a pretty downmarket sale, mostly flotsam and jetsam from a house clearance. The cream had gone up west, to the main auction house, but the branch was selling off stuff from the kitchens and attics.’

      ‘Do you go to places like that often?’ she asked curiously.

      ‘As often as I can. It’s surprising what you can pick up. But oddly enough I came across this sale quite by accident.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Would you care to hear my tale of woe, Miss Brett? Or am I keeping you from your bed?’

      Far from it, thought Gabriel. ‘What happened?’ she asked, her curiosity whetted by the mention of woe.

      Adam smiled without mirth. ‘I went to a party in London the night before last. I was on my way to the train yesterday, nursing a hangover, when I spotted a sign across the road, advertising a sale the following day.’

      Adam had promptly dropped the arm he’d raised to flag down a taxi, fished an old cricket hat from his overnight bag and crammed it on, then dodged swiftly through the London traffic. After loitering a while, pretending to read the headlines outside the newsagent’s next door to the saleroom, he’d pulled the hat down to meet the dark glasses protecting his hangover, and gone inside to wander through the chaotic saleroom, feeling the familiar anticipation as he’d cast an eye over the jumble of uninspiring goods on display. This was the rough end of the market, with some СКАЧАТЬ