He kissed her eagerly, then drew back, looking into her upturned face. ‘How long will it take you to get the skull?’
‘Not long,’ she said confidently. ‘Ben Golding’s a man, isn’t he?’
48
After his brother’s funeral, Ben returned to the empty farmhouse and walked the rooms like a stranger. His thoughts drifted between Leon and Francis Asturias, wondering why the dead reconstructor had had an email from the same source as Leon. Gortho@3000.com. Had he talked to someone? Had Francis found himself incapable of keeping the skull a secret? Or had the draw of big money proved too much for him?
No, Ben thought, it wouldn’t have been that. Francis had been born into money, had no need to make more. So was it a need for excitement? Or danger? Francis was getting old. Did he crave some spark of a thrill? Did he fancy himself part of a scenario which spoke of the past, a dying painter, and a relic which would be lusted after? Perhaps he didn’t realise at first what it would lead to, and when he did it was too late … Above all, Ben wanted to believe that his old friend had not betrayed him. That it had been folly on the part of Francis, not malice. Not treachery.
Moving into the bedroom Leon had shared with Gina, Ben looked around. One wardrobe was crammed with Leon’s clothes, some arranged in perfect order, others haphazard on hangers. Next to it was another wardrobe. But this was empty and the adjoining bathroom that Gina had used was cleaned out too. All that remained was a deodorant and a lipstick in the medicine cupboard.
Thoughtful, Ben moved over to the bedside cabinet and opened the top drawer, surprised to find Leon’s medication and remembering his brother’s panic.
… Have you got your pills?
They aren’t here!
They must be. Look again.
They’re not bloody here! And Gina’s not here either.
But the pills had been there all along. And the police had said that when they checked the house Gina had been there too. So had Leon been mistaken? Walking out of the bedroom, Ben paused on the corridor outside, looking towards the window at the end of the landing. Long ago Detita had arranged to have bars fitted. She told Leon that it was to stop anyone breaking in, but to Ben she had said it was to stop his brother jumping out.
Breaking in, jumping out … Flicking on the lights to brighten the sombre hallway, Ben moved downstairs. He tried to convince himself that the funeral proved Leon’s death, but his brother was still everywhere – a garden hat on a hook by the back door, a glass with his fingerprints, and the desk chair with a worn cushion which Leon had always tucked into the small of his back. Memories choked the farmhouse, they hovered in the garden and called from the cupboard under the stairs. Every little terror Leon had ever felt crowded into the house; every broken night and hazy day stood in testament to him until Ben could bear it no longer and made for his brother’s study, slamming the door behind him.
He had checked on Abigail earlier. When he phoned the Whitechapel he had been told she was sleeping. Telling the sister not to wake her, Ben passed on a message. Then he asked to speak to Dr North. To his intense relief, Ben was told that the biopsy was benign.
‘… but there’s some muscle degeneration in her cheek, due to scarring from previous surgeries. It will need an operation, Ben. I can do it, if you want me to.’
‘No one better. Have you told Abigail?’
‘Yes, she was fine about it. She’s had enough operations to know the drill. She did say she wanted to talk to you though.’
‘I rang earlier, but she was asleep. I’ll talk to her in the morning,’ Ben had replied, pausing. ‘Is it complicated?’
‘No,’ Dr North had replied calmly. ‘And I mean no. I realise Abigail’s your partner, but I’m not lying to you. It’s a simple operation—’
‘So how soon can you do it?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon. She should stay in for a couple of days—’
‘Keep her in longer, will you?’ Ben had asked. ‘I’m not in the country and she needs looking after.’
It would be ideal knowing Abigail was safe in hospital. Dr North would undertake the operation and she would be looked after as she convalesced.
‘Abigail needs to stay in for a week, in case there are any complications. Her skin’s fragile after all the previous operations, so her recovery needs to be watched carefully.’ He had paused, no longer the doctor, now the lover. ‘Take care of her, will you? She matters a great deal to me.’
Remembering the conversation, Ben sat down behind Leon’s desk, fingering a millefiori paperweight. On one side there was a small chip from where his brother had thrown it in a fit of anger many years ago. It had been Christmas and Leon had been slighted by a colleague who had questioned his work, intimating plagiarism. Always an original thinker, Leon had reacted badly and had hardly spoken for the remainder of the holiday. It had been Detita who had finally drawn him out. And within half an hour Ben had heard them laughing in the kitchen and felt the sharp anguish of the sudden outsider.
Dismissing the memory, Ben opened his case and took out all of his brother’s notes, finally preparing to read Leon’s theory on the Black Paintings. Noticing the fading light, he pulled the desk light closer to illuminate the notebook.
To Whom it May Concern
This is my full and studied theory of Francisco Goya’s Black Paintings. I told no one that I had finally completed the solution, possibly in a mistaken attempt to protect myself and my brother. The finding of Goya’s skull has caused much grief and confusion. Anxious to avoid further problems I did not want it to become known that I had solved the Black Paintings. Whether my secrecy was necessary or just an absurd overreaction, only time will tell.
Here follows what I believe to be the meaning of The Black Paintings.
Pausing, Ben stared at his brother’s words. So Leon had finished his theory, and had lived long enough to set it down. Slowly, he turned over the first page and began to read the solution to pictures which had haunted generations.
Goya, being a liberal, was hated by Ferdinand VII and when the King regained the throne he was terrified. It was common knowledge that in the past the Inquisition had investigated his affairs. His lover, the Duchess of Alba, had been poisoned. And now here he was, deaf and old, at the mercy of a vengeful king.
Looking at the painting of The Dog I believe that Goya was making a metaphor for Ferdinand – the Dog of Spain.
Leaning back, Ben stared at the accompanying paintings, matching Leon’s notes against the relevant work.
I believe that Goya – always a liberal, always an ally of the liberals – became directly involved with the liberals who made up a substitute government in Spain, in 1822. Unfortunately, their attempt failed in 1823, and the reinstated King was brought back to Madrid. Back on the throne, his power absolute, Ferdinand VII went after his perceived enemies in order to exact a terrible revenge.
At the time Gentz wrote:
‘The King himself enters the houses of his first ministers, arrests them, and hands them over to their cruel enemies … the king has so debased himself that he has become no more than the leading police agent and jailer of his country.’
The painting which hung next to The Dog is entitled Asmodeus. The title was not chosen by Goya, so – if it is not viewed as some mystical allegory – the image becomes more immediate, its message lucid.
This picture has puzzled art historians for many years. But perhaps its meaning is not as profound as previously believed? It depicts men floating on air, at the mercy of the elements. Unable to reach the safety of the high mountain, or the firm ground beneath them, they are buffeted by fate, dreading the future ahead of them and looking back fearfully at their past. This scene depicts the fate of Everyman. And also Spain, uncertain, cut off from her roots.