TWELVE

The Red Lion was still quiet at noon, the lunchtime crush at least half an hour away. The pub was close enough to Ryder Street for me to imagine Eldritch had been a frequent customer during his seven weeks of gallery-minding back in 1940. The cramped interior didn’t look as if it had changed in a hundred years, let alone thirty-six. Catching my reflection in a mirror, which was difficult to avoid given how many of them there were, I seemed to see Eldritch’s younger face, hair slicked, mouth curled, gazing ironically back at me.

Then the old man with the stoop and the furrowed skin and the antique suit that Eldritch had become walked in behind me. And only the irony remained, a ghost in his wary gaze.

He ordered his habitual Scotch and joined me by the window. ‘Been having fun?’ he asked, coughing as he lit one of his Sobranies.

‘I took another look at the Picassos,’ I said, uncertain how soon I should tell him about Rachel Banner. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘I went to the General Register Office. It’s not called that any more and they’ve moved it from Somerset House. But I tracked down what I wanted in the end.’

‘They’ve been gone from Somerset House for a few years now. I could have told you that if you’d said where you were going.’

He smiled. ‘Indulge me, Stephen. There are still a few things I can do on my own. And I expect you were glad to be rid of me for a morning. Meet any nice girls at the Royal Academy?’

I must have looked at least half as shocked as I felt. ‘Sorry?’ I spluttered through a mouthful of beer.

‘I used to find art galleries were excellent for picking up pretty girls. They tended to be of a … sensuous disposition.’ He chuckled. ‘Intelligent too, of course, which could be a mixed blessing.’

‘What were you looking for at Somerset House?’ I asked, eager to change the subject.

‘St Catherine’s House. Remember? They’ve moved. As you could have told me.’ He seemed highly amused, which I had to hope was because he thought me embarrassed rather than guilty. ‘Well, I wanted to see what they had on Desmond Quilligan.’

‘Was there anything?’

‘Yes. I suspected he’d never have gone back to Ireland. He needed to be close to his son. And the IRA would have regarded him as a renegade for renouncing the armed struggle. So, he stayed in London. At all events he died in London. Twenty years ago, aged fifty-seven. Alcoholic poisoning. What a way to go, hey? But it does mean we have a last address for him. I suggest we have a spot of lunch here, then go and see if he’s still remembered there.’

I probably should have reported my encounter with Rachel to Eldritch over lunch. But something held me back. It was inconceivable on a practical level that he’d managed to spy on me and burrow through old death certificates in the course of the morning, but I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that somehow he had. And it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It wasn’t pleasant at all.

Desmond Quilligan’s address at the time of his death in 1956 was a bay-fronted pebble-dashed semi in Dollis Hill, located halfway along a street full of bay-fronted pebble-dashed semis. The Irish patriot had bowed out in inner suburban obscurity. Eldritch rang the doorbell and, getting no immediate response, rang again. The chances that anyone would be at home in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon had never been better than fifty-fifty, of course. He squinted through the frosted oval of glass set in the door at eye-level and grunted negatively.

At that moment, a car pulled on to the farther side of the shared driveway serving the pair of garages that separated one set of semis from another. A plump, frizzy-haired woman in some kind of medical uniform clambered out, shopping bags in hand. I smiled across at her.

‘Looking for Brenda Duthie?’ she called.

‘Has she lived here long?’ I called back.

‘Brenda? Goodness, yes. Since before the war, I think.’

‘Then, yes, we are looking for her. Do you think she’ll be back soon?’

The neighbour reckoned Brenda would be back before too long. We settled to wait. Eldritch sat on the low front wall, with his back to the privet hedge, while I walked up and down the pavement. Time inched by. The afternoon grew grey and cool. Eldritch coughed his way through a couple of cigarettes. Suddenly, I felt exhausted by the effort of holding out on him.

‘I met Meridor’s granddaughter at the Royal Academy this morning,’ I announced, stopping in front of him.

He looked wintrily up at me. His gaze narrowed suspiciously. ‘Who?’

‘Meridor’s granddaughter. Her name’s Rachel Banner. None of her family is Twisk’s client, Eldritch. She has no idea who might be. She’s been trying to—’

‘You told her about Twisk?’

‘I told her what we’re doing and why.’

He jumped up, the effort seeming to wind him so badly he had to grasp the gatepost beside him for support. He coughed raspingly, then found the breath to give me his opinion of my behaviour. ‘You idiot. What in God’s name did you think you were doing? You might have … might have endangered everything.’

‘What’s there to endanger? I’m trying to make progress. She gave me a lot of valuable information.’

‘Not half as valuable as what you gave her in return, no doubt. How did she just happen to be at the Royal Academy at the same time as you?’

‘She goes there to look at the Picassos, to dream of how much better life would have been for her – and for her brother and her mother and her grandmother, Meridor’s widow, who’s still alive, you might be interested to know – if you and Cardale hadn’t cheated them out of their inheritance.’

‘You had no right to discuss my affairs with her.’

‘They’re my affairs too. I’m not going to lie to anyone, certainly not her, on your account.’

‘You should have guarded your tongue until you’d consulted me.’

‘Well, I’m consulting you now. She expects you to meet her tomorrow. I expect you to meet her too.’

‘I won’t be—’

‘Good afternoon,’ a voice cut in.

I whirled round to see a small, slightly built woman of seventy or so, dressed in raincoat and headscarf, a string-bag full of groceries in one hand, a handbag in the other, frowning at us in puzzlement. Despite the frown, a smile seemed also to be present on her face. She had chipmunk cheeks and laughter lines aplenty round her green-grey eyes. Grey hair curled out from beneath a headscarf.

‘If you’ve something to argue about,’ she continued, ‘could I ask you to do it somewhere other than my front gate?’

I was on the point of apologizing, but Eldritch got in first, stepping forward and doffing his hat to her. ‘Mrs Duthie?’ He was all smooth gentility now and had spotted the band of gold on her ring finger much sooner than I’d have done. ‘Please excuse us. It was more of a misunderstanding than an argument. My name’s Swan – Eldritch Swan – and this is my nephew, Stephen Swan.’ He was evidently betting Quilligan had never mentioned him to Mrs Duthie, whose expression suggested he was betting right. ‘We’re looking for someone I knew a long time ago. I gathered he lived here. Desmond Quilligan.’

‘You knew Desmond?’

‘As I say. A long time ago.’

‘Were you friends?’

‘Briefly. In Ireland. Before the war.’

‘Well, Mr Swan, I’m sorry to say Desmond passed away. It must be twenty years he’s been gone. My goodness,’ – a thought had struck her, apparently a poignant one – ‘how time flies.’

‘Indeed.’ Eldritch looked suitably solemn. ‘And more and more of one’s acquaintances fall by the wayside as it does so.’

‘Yes. Dear, dear. That’s only too true.’ She sighed. ‘Have you come far?’

‘From Devon.’

‘Come in for a cup of tea, then. It’ll be nice to talk about Desmond again. Such a nice man.’

Indoors was a spotless repository of Art Deco furniture, ornaments and bric-à-brac. Brenda Duthie threaded a full autobiography into her tea-making routine, revealing that early widowhood had prompted her to take in lodgers in the late forties, of whom Desmond Quilligan was the one to have stayed by far the longest. ‘Such a charmer. And so helpful around the house. Leslie adored him.’ (Leslie, her son, was now, she proudly informed us, a Woolwich Building Society branch manager.) ‘But Desmond’s heart was never as light as he’d lead you to believe. There was an abiding sadness in him, Mr Swan, as perhaps you know.’

‘That must have come later,’ said Eldritch, glancing a warning at me to let him vary his tactics as he saw fit. ‘He didn’t seem to have a care in the world when I knew him. Did he paint this?’

Eldritch nodded to a picture over the mantelpiece. We were in the sitting-room, where cups of tea and slices of Battenberg cake were being doled out. The picture was a large and plainly framed oil, depicting Mrs Duthie’s house in precise and finely limned detail. Dollis Hill had surely never looked so beautiful, though whether this reflected the artist’s fondness for the area or for the woman who’d taken him in was hard to tell.

‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Duthie. ‘That’s one of Desmond’s. The only one I have to remember him by.’

‘Was his death unexpected?’ I asked between sips of tea.

‘To be honest, no. He, er, drank more and more, I’m afraid. He was no trouble when he was drunk. I’ll say that for him. But …’

‘It was always a weakness of his,’ said Eldritch, toying with his Battenberg.

‘Was it now? Well, I’m not surprised. I’d have turned him out if he’d been anyone else. The empty vodka bottles …’ She shook her head at the recollection of the embarrassment disposing of so many bottles had obviously caused her. ‘Such a shame. In the end, he used the drink as a way out.’

‘A way out of what?’ I asked.

‘He had a son he hardly saw. I know that pained him. The boy lived with his grandfather in … Richmond, I think. The mother was dead. Desmond mourned her greatly, and there were other things, back in Ireland, that he dwelt on but never spoke of. Perhaps you know what they might have been, Mr Swan.’

‘He’d been in the IRA as a young man,’ said Eldritch. ‘That could have been at the root of it.’

‘Very likely,’ said Mrs Duthie. ‘Ireland’s always loaded down its sons with tragedy.’

‘Apart from the painting,’ said Eldritch, ‘do you have anything else of his?’ This was the crux. We were there in search of clues. Brenda Duthie’s reflections on the tragic course of Irish history were no help in that.

‘Oh no. He had very little, to be honest. Just a wardrobe of clothes and … the paintings, of course. I let him use the attic as a studio. He built a staircase and installed a skylight to work by. A craftsman as well as an artist, he was. Oh, I think his travelling bag might still be up there.’

‘Would it be putting you to a lot of bother if we took a look in the attic?’ Eldritch asked solicitously. ‘I’d like to … see where he worked.’

‘Well, if you don’t mind climbing two flights of stairs, Mr Swan …’

*

Eldritch did not mind, breathless though he was by the time we reached the attic. The room had been used to store unwanted odds and ends since Quilligan’s death. Trunks, boxes, old suitcases, broken-backed chairs and shadeless table lamps had colonized his studio space. His easel remained, though, propped against the chimney-breast, and several cardboard boxes amongst the jumble had words in the Russian alphabet printed on them. He’d evidently drunk himself to death on the genuine article.

Eldritch panted his way across to the easel. Something had caught his eye: a small black-and-white photograph attached to the top of the vertical bar. I followed him.

The photograph was of a young fair-haired boy. Rust from the staple that held it in place had leeched over one corner. There were a few flecks of paint on it as well. The boy was smiling. He looked to be no more than three or four.

‘That’s his son,’ said Mrs Duthie from behind us.

‘I can see the resemblance,’ said Eldritch. ‘Did you ever meet the boy?’

‘No. He never came here. And he wasn’t at the funeral. Willesden Cemetery. Just about this time of year, it would have been. But colder; much colder. Now, where’s that travelling bag?’

A few minutes of rooting around ended in the bag being hauled into the centre of the room. It was made of leather, frayed by age and use, with brass fastenings crisscrossed by the scratches of many journeyings. Mrs Duthie opened it up to reveal a yellowing pile of old magazines. They were editions from the Forties and Fifties of Apollo, the art monthly.

‘I’d forgotten these were here,’ she said. ‘I really should get rid of them.’

‘Did he paint a lot?’ asked Eldritch, casting an uninterested glance at the magazines.

‘When he wasn’t drinking, yes. I often used to bring him a cup of tea when he was working up here. He seemed at peace when he had a brush in his hand. I remember—’ She broke off, taken aback, it appeared, by the force of a particular memory. ‘Good Lord. I’d forgotten that. Your name, Mr Swan.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, the last time I saw him up here, a few weeks before he died, the picture he was working on … was of a man … standing by a lake, I think … Actually, I’m not sure about the lake. But there was certainly a swan flying past behind him. I remember Desmond asked me what I thought of it. I asked him what it was called. His paintings often had strange titles. The one in the sitting-room for instance. It’s called Low Tide, though of course we’re miles from the sea here. Anyway, that last painting was called Three Swans. But there was only one swan in the picture. He laughed when I pointed that out. But he never explained it. I wasn’t surprised. He was never one for explaining himself, as you probably know, Mr Swan.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Eldritch thoughtfully. ‘What happened to the painting, Mrs Duthie?’

‘It went with the rest. His sister let me keep just the one.’

‘His sister?’

‘She took all his other paintings and personal belongings. Well, she was his next of kin. She said there was a brother as well, but I saw nothing of him except at the funeral.’

‘His name was Ardal,’ said Eldritch, his words coming slowly as he too sifted through his memories. ‘And the sister was called Isolde. Ardal and Isolde Quilligan.’

‘I believe you’re right. Though she introduced herself to me by her married name, of course.’

‘Do you have any way of contacting her?’

‘She may have given me her address. In fact, I believe she did. In case I needed to forward post that came for Desmond after his death. Not that any did, as I recall. It’ll be downstairs if you want it.’

Understandably enough, given the lapse of twenty years, Brenda Duthie had forgotten Isolde Quilligan’s married name. While she laboured her way through her address book in search of it, we waited in the sitting-room.

‘It could just be a coincidence,’ I said. ‘The title of his last painting.’

Eldritch cast me a scornful glance. ‘Neither of us believes that.’

‘But what does it mean?’

‘Without seeing it, I can’t say. He might have intended a reference to the superstition, I suppose.’

‘What superstition?’

‘Three swans seen flying together portend a death.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I’m not asking you to believe it. The question is did—’

‘Here it is,’ called Mrs Duthie from the hall, where the address book lived next to the telephone. ‘I’ve found it.’ She appeared in the doorway, holding the book open at the place. ‘I’ve written Desmond’s sister under the name. She’s called Mrs Linley.’

‘Linley?’ Eldritch was left open-mouthed with surprise. ‘That can’t be right.’

‘Oh, but it is, Mr Swan,’ Mrs Duthie assured him. ‘I remember now. Isolde Linley. She lives in Hampshire. Well, she did twenty y—’

‘Did you meet her husband?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Mrs Duthie pondered for a moment. ‘No. I didn’t. He wasn’t at the funeral. And she came here on her own.’

‘Do you know him, Eldritch?’ I asked, though it was as plain as day to me that he did – and that the revelation of his marriage to Desmond Quilligan’s sister was mightily disturbing.

‘Oh yes,’ said Eldritch, in what was barely more than a murmur. ‘I know him.’