A Twist in the Tale

“Quite right, too,” I said. “Sorry to hear about Diana,” I added as Percy moved on. When I turned back to continue my conversation with Patrick Travers he was nowhere to be seen. I searched around the room and spotted him standing in the far corner of the gallery chatting to my wife, a glass of champagne in his hand. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder green dress that I considered a little too modern. Travers’ eyes seemed to be glued to a spot a few inches below the shoulders. I would have thought nothing of it had he spoken to anyone else that evening.

The next occasion on which I saw Travers was about a week later on returning from the bank with some petty cash. Once again he was standing in front of the Vuillard oil of mother and daughter at the piano.

“Good morning, Patrick,” I said as I joined him.

“I can’t seem to get that picture out of my mind,” he declared, as he continued to stare at the two figures.

“Understandably.”

“I don’t suppose you would allow me to live with them for a week or two until I can finally make up my mind? Naturally I would be quite happy to leave a deposit.”

“Of course,” I said. “I would require a bank reference as well and the deposit would be twenty-five thousand pounds.”

He agreed to both requests without hesitation so I asked him where he would like the picture delivered. He handed me a card which revealed his address in Eaton Square. The following morning his bankers confirmed that three hundred and seventy thousand pounds would not be a problem for their client.

Within twenty-four hours the Vuillard had been taken round to his home and hung in the dining room on the ground floor. He phoned back in the afternoon to thank me and asked if Caroline and I would care to join him for dinner; he wanted, he said, a second opinion on how the painting looked.

With three hundred and seventy thousand pounds at stake I didn’t feel it was an invitation I could reasonably turn down, and in any case Caroline seemed eager to accept, explaining that she was interested to see what the inside of his flat looked like.

We dined with Travers the following Thursday. It turned out that we were the only guests, and I remember being surprised that there wasn’t a Mrs. Travers or at least a resident girlfriend. He was a thoughtful host and the meal he had arranged was superb. However, I considered at the time that he seemed a little too solicitous with Caroline, although she certainly gave the impression of enjoying his undivided attention. At one point I began to wonder if either of them would have noticed if I had disappeared into thin air.

When we left Eaton Square that night Travers told me that he had almost come to a decision about the picture, which made me feel the evening had served at least some purpose.

Six days later the painting was returned to the gallery with a note attached explaining that he no longer cared for it. Travers did not elaborate on his reasons, but simply ended by saying that he hoped to drop by sometime and reconsider the other Vuillards. Disappointed, I returned his deposit, but realized that customers often do come back, sometimes months, even years later.

But Travers never did.

* * *

It was about a month later that I learned why he would never return. I was lunching at the large center table at my club, as in most all-male establishments the table reserved for members who drift in on their own. Percy Fellows was the next to enter the dining room so he took a seat opposite me. I hadn’t seen him to talk to since the private view of the Vuillard exhibition and we hadn’t really had much of a conversation then. Percy was one of the most respected antique dealers in England and I had once even done a successful barter with him, a Charles II writing desk in exchange for a Dutch landscape by Utrillo.

I repeated how sorry I was to learn about Diana.

“It was always going to end in divorce,” he explained. “She was in and out of every bedroom in London. I was beginning to look a complete cuckold, and that bloody man Travers was the last straw.”

“Travers?” I said, not understanding.

“Patrick Travers, the man named in my divorce petition. Ever come across him?”

“I know the name,” I said hesitantly, wanting to hear more before I admitted to our slight acquaintanceship.

“Funny,” he said. “Could have sworn I saw him at the private view you gave quite recently.”

“But what do you mean, he was the last straw?” I asked, trying to take his mind off the opening.

“Met the bloody fellow at Ascot, didn’t we? Joined us for lunch, happily drank my champagne, ate my strawberries and cream and then before the week was out had bedded my wife. But that’s not the half of it.”

“The half of it?”

“The man had the nerve to come round to my shop and put down a large deposit on a Georgian table. Then he invites the two of us round to dinner to see how it looks. After he’s had enough time to make love to Diana he returns them both slightly soiled. You don’t look so well, old fellow,” said Percy, leaning across the table. “Something wrong with the food? Never been the same since Harry left for the Carlton. I’ve written to the wine committee about it several times but—”

“No, I’m fine,” I said. “I just need a little fresh air. Please excuse me, Percy.”

It was on the walk back from my club after the conversation with Percy that I decided I would have to do something quite out of character.

* * *

The next morning I waited for the mail to arrive and checked any envelopes addressed to Caroline. Nothing seemed untoward but then I decided that Travers wouldn’t have been foolish enough to commit anything to paper. I also began to eavesdrop on her telephone conversations, but he was not among the callers, at least not while I was at home. I even checked the odometer on her Mini to see if she had driven any long distances, but then Eaton Square isn’t all that far. It’s often what you don’t do that gives the game away, I decided: we didn’t make love for a fortnight, and she didn’t comment.