“Twenty-nine minutes,” shouted Cedric, trying to control his temper, as he lurched forward and grabbed the edge of his desk.
Sloane didn’t move as the chairman pulled open a drawer and took out a small bottle of pills. He fumbled with the safety cap, but lost his grip and dropped the bottle on to his desk. They both watched as it rolled on to the floor. Cedric attempted to fill a glass with water, but he no longer had the strength to pick up the jug.
“I need your help,” he slurred, looking up at Sloane, who just stood there, watching him carefully.
Cedric stumbled, took a pace backward, and fell heavily on the floor, gasping for breath. Sloane walked slowly around the desk, his eyes never leaving the chairman as he lay on the floor fighting for his life. He picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Cedric stared up at him as he shook the pills on to the floor, just out of his reach. He then wiped the empty bottle with a handkerchief from his top pocket and placed it in the chairman’s hand.
Sloane leaned over and listened carefully, to find that the chairman was no longer breathing quite so heavily. Cedric tried to raise his head, but he could only watch helplessly as Sloane gathered up all the papers on his desk that he’d been working on for the past twenty-four hours. Sloane turned and walked slowly away, without once looking back, avoiding those eyes that were burning into him.
He opened the door and looked out into the corridor. No one in sight. He closed the door quietly behind him and went in search of the chairman’s secretary. Her hat and coat were no longer on the stand, so he assumed she must have left for the weekend. He tried to remain calm as he walked down the corridor, but beads of sweat were pouring off his forehead and he could feel his heart pounding.
He stood for a moment and listened, like a bloodhound sniffing for danger. He decided to throw the dice once again.
“Anyone around?” he shouted.
His voice echoed through the high-ceilinged corridor as if it were a concert hall, but there was no response. He checked the executive offices one by one, but they were all locked. No one on the top floor, other than Cedric, would still be in the office at six o’clock on a Friday evening. Sloane knew there would still be junior staff in the building who wouldn’t think of leaving before their bosses, but none of them would consider disturbing the chairman, and the cleaners wouldn’t be returning until five o’clock on Monday morning. That only left Stanley, the night porter, who would never budge from his comfortable chair at the front desk unless the building was on fire.
Sloane took the lift to the ground floor and, as he crossed the lobby, he noticed that Stanley was dozing quietly. He didn’t disturb him.
* * *
“The Rijksmuseum,” said Sam as they entered the Dutch national gallery, “houses one of the finest collections on earth. The Rembrandts are showstoppers but the Vermeers, De Wittes, and Steens are also among the finest examples of the Dutch masters you’ll ever see.”
Hand in hand they made their way slowly around the grand gallery, Sam often stopping to point out a character, or a feature of a particular work, without ever once referring to her guidebook. Whenever heads turned, and they often did, Seb wanted to shout, “And she’s bright, too!”
At the far end of the gallery stood a small crowd, admiring a single work.
“The Night Watch,” said Sam, “is a masterpiece, and probably Rembrandt’s best-known work. Although sadly we’ll never know what the original looked like because the city council later trimmed the painting to fit between two columns in the town hall.”
“They should have knocked down the columns,” said Seb, unable to take his eyes off the group of figures surrounding a finely dressed man carrying a lantern.
“Pity you weren’t on the town council,” said Sam as they walked into the next room. “And here’s a painting that will feature in my PhD thesis,” she continued as they stopped in front of a large canvas. “It’s hard to believe that Rubens completed the work in a weekend, because he had to attend the signing of a peace treaty between the English and Spanish on the following Monday. Most people are quite unaware that he was a diplomat as well as an artist,” she said before moving on.
Seb felt he ought to be taking notes, but his mind was on other things.
“This is one of my favorites,” said Sam, stopping in front of The Arnolfini Wedding.
“I’ve seen that somewhere else,” said Seb.
“Ah, so you do listen to me occasionally. You saw it when we visited the National Gallery last year.”
“So what’s it doing here?”
“It’s probably on loan,” said Sam. “But only for another month,” she added after taking a closer look at the label on the wall beside the portrait. “But more important, do you remember what I told you about it at the time?”
“Yes, it’s the wedding of a wealthy merchant, and Van Eyck must have been commissioned to record the event.”
“Not bad,” said Sam. “So really Van Eyck was just doing the job of a modern-day wedding photographer.”
Seb was about to say something, but she added, “Look at the texture of the bride’s dress, and the fur on the lapels on the groom’s coat—you can almost feel it.”
“The bride looks heavily pregnant to me.”
“How observant of you, Seb. But any wealthy man at the time had to be sure that the woman he’d chosen to be his wife was capable of producing an heir to inherit his fortune.”
“What a practical lot those Dutch were,” said Seb. “But what if you weren’t rich?”
“The lower classes were expected to behave more properly.”