By the Pricking of My Thumbs (Tommy & Tuppence 4)

At last Tommy had pity on him. He swallowed a last mouthful of toast and marmalade, washed it down with coffee, and spoke 'All right, Albert, I'll say it first - Where is she? What's happened to her? And what are we going to do about it?' 'Get on to the police, sir?' 'I'm not sure. You see -' Tommy paused.

'If she's had an accident -' 'She's got her driving licenee on her - and plenty of identifying papers - Hospitals are very prompt at reporting these things - and getting in touch with relatives - all that. I don't want to be precipitate - she - she mightn't want it.

You've no idea - no idea at all, Albert, where she was going Nothing she said? No particular place - or county. Not a mention of some name?' Albert shook his head.

'What was she feeling like?' Pleased? - Excited? Unhappy?

Worried?' Albert's response was immediate.

'Pleased as Punch - Bursting with it.' 'Like a terrier off on the trail,' said Tommy.

'That's right, sir - you know how she gets ' 'On to something - Now I wonder -' Tommy paused in consideration.

Something had turned up, and, as he had just said to Albert, Tuppence had rushed off like a terrier on the scent. The day before yesterday she had rung up to announce her return.

Why, then, hadn't she returned? Perhaps, at this moment, thought Tommy, she's sitting somewhere telling lies to people so hard that she can't think of anything else!

If she were engrossed in pursuit, she would be extremely annoyed if he, Tommy, were to rush off to the police bleating like a sheep that his wife had disappeared - He could hear Tuppence saying 'How you could be so fatuous as to do such a thing! I can look after myself perfectly. You ought to know that by this time? (But could she look after herseh. ) One was never quite sure where Tuppence's imagination could take her.

Into danger? There hadn't, so far, been any evidence of danger in this business - Except, as aforesaid, in Tuppence's imagination.

If he were to go to the police, saying his wife had not returned home as she announced she was going to do - The police would sit there, looking tactful though possibly grinning inwardly, and would then presumably, still in a tactful way, ask what men friends his wife had got!

'I'll find her myself,' declared Tommy. 'She's somewhere. Whether it's north, south, east or west I've no idea - and she was a silly cuckoo not to leave word when she rang up, where she was.' 'A gang's got her, perhaps -' said Albert.

'Oh! be your age, Albert, you've outgrown that sort of stuff years ago!' 'What are you going to do, sir?' 'I'm going to London,' said Tommy, glancing at the clock.

'First I'm going to have lunch at my club with Dr Murray who rang me up last night, and who's got something to say to me about my late deceased aunt's affairs - I might possibly get a useful hint from him - After all, this business started at Sunny

Ridge. I am also taking that picture that's hnnlg over our bedroom mantelpiece up with me ' 'You mean you're taking it to Scotland Yard?' 'No,' said Tommy. 'I'm taking it to Bond Street.'

CHAPTER 11 Bond Street and Dr Murray

Tommy jumped out of a taxi, paid the driver and leaned back into the cab to take out a rather clumsily done up parcel which was clearly a picture. Tucking as much of it as he could under his arm, he entered the New Athenian Galleries, one of the longest established and most important picture galleries in London.

Tommy was not a great patron of the arts but he had come to the New Athenian because he had a friend who officiated there.

'Officiated' was the only word to use because the air of sympathetic interest, the hushed voice, the pleasable smile, all seemed highly ecclesiastical.

A fair-haired young man detached -himself and came forward, his face lighting up with a smile of recognition.

'Hullo, Tommy,' he said. 'Haven't seen you for a long time.

What's that you've got under your arm? Don't tell me you've been taking to painting pictures in your old age? A lot of people do - results usually deplorable.' 'I doubt if creative art was ever my long suit,' said Tommy.

'Though I must admit I found myself strongly attracted the other day by a small book telling in the simplest terms how a child of five can learn to paint in water colours.' 'God help us if you're going to take to that. Grandma Moses in reverse.'

'To tell you the truth, Robert, I merely want to appeal to your expert knowledge of pictures. I want your opinion on this.' Deftly Robert took the picture from Tommy and skilfully removed its clumsy wrappings with the expertise of a man accustomed to handle the parcelling up and deparcelling of all different-sized works of art. He took the picture and set it on a chair, peered into it to look at it, and then withdrew five or six steps away. He turned his gaze towards Tommy.

'Well,' he said, 'what about it? What do you want to know?

Do you want to sell it, is that it?' 'No,' said Tommy, 'I don't want to sell it, Robert. I want to know about it. To begin with, I want to know who painted it.' 'Actually,' said Robert, 'if you had wanted to sell it, it would be quite saleable nowadays. It wouldn't have been, ten years ago. But Boscowan's just coming into fashion again.' 'Boscowan?' Tommy looked at him inq 'mringiy. 'Is that the name of the artist? I saw it was signed with something beginning with B but I couldn't read the name.' 'Oh, it's Boscowan all right. Very popular painter about twenty-five years ago. Sold well, had plenty of shows. People bought him all right. Technically a very good painter. Then, in the usual cycle of events, he went out of fashion. Finally, hardly any demand at all for his works but lately he's had a revival. He, Stitchwort, and Fondella. They're all coming up.' 'Boscowan,' repeated Tommy.

'B-o-s-c-o-w-a-n,' said Robert oh 'hgingiy.

'Is he still painting?' 'No. He's dead. Died some years ago. Quite an old chap by then. Sixty-five, I think, when he died. Quite a prolific painter, you know. A lot of his canvases about. Actually we're thinking of having a show of him here in about four or five months' time.

We ought to do well over it, I think. YVhy are you so interested in him?' 'It'd be too long a story to tell you,' said Tommy. 'One of these days I'll ask you out to lunch and give you the doings from the beginning. It's a long, complicated and really rather an idiotic story. All I wanted to know is all about this Boscowan and if you happen to know by any chance where this house is that's represented here.'

'I couldn't tell you the last for a moment. It's the sort of thing he did paint, you know. Small country houses in rather isolated spots usually, sometimes a farmhouse, somtimes just a cow or two around. Sometimes a farm cart, but if so, in the far distance. Quiet rural scenes. Nothing sketchy or messy.

Sometimes the surface looks almost like enamel. It was a peculiar technique and people liked it. A good many of the things he painted were in France, Normandy mostly.

Churches. I've got one picture of his here now. Wait a minute and I'll get it for you.'

He went to the head of the staircase and shouted down to someone below. Presently he came back holding a small canvas which he propped on another chair.

'There you are,' he said. 'Church in Normandy.'

'Yes,' said Tommy, 'I see. The same sort of thing. My wife says nobody ever lived in that house - the one I brought in. I see now what she meant. I don't see that anybody was attending service in that church or ever will.'

'Well, perhaps your wife's got something. Quiet, peaceful dwellings with no human occupancy. He didn't often paint people, you know. Sometimes there's a fyure or two in the landscape, but more often not. In a way I think that gives them their special charm. A sort of isolationist feeling. It was as though he removed all the human beings, and the peace of the countryside was all the better without them. Come to think of it, that's maybe why the general taste has swung round to him.

Too many people nowadays, too many cars, too many noises on the road, too much noise and bustle. Peace, perfect peace.

Leave it all to Nature.'

'Yes, I shouldn't wonder. What sort of a man was he?'

'I didn't know him personally. Before my time. Pleased with himself by a

ll accounts. Thought he was a better painter than he was, probably. Put on a bit of side. Kindly, quite likeable.

Eye for the girls.'

'And you've no idea where this particular piece of country-side exists? It is England, I suppose.' 'I should think sop yes. Do you want me to pounds d out for you?' 'Could you?'

'Probably the best thing to do would be to ask his wife, his widow rather. He mrded Emma Wing, the sculptor. Well known. Not very productive. Does quite powerful work. You could go and ask her. She lives in Hampstead. I can give you the address. We've been corresponding with her a good deal lately over the question of this show of her husband's work we're doing. We're having a few of her smaller pieces of sculpture as well. I'll get the address for you.'