"If you'll pardon the language, Dr. Blakeney, that is bullshit." He felt quite angry. "The man's conceit must be colossal. Has anyone else said he's a genius?"
"No one said Van Gogh was a genius either until after he was dead." Why, she wondered, did Jack's single-minded view of himself always put people's backs up? Was it because, in an uncertain world, his certainty was threatening? "It really doesn't matter," she said calmly, "what sort of an artist Jack is. Good, bad, indifferent. I happen to think he's good, but that's a personal opinion. The point is he would never have killed Mathilda for her money, assuming he knew she'd made the will in my favour, which I doubt. Why should she have told him when she never told me?"
"Except that he thought you were going to divorce him and push him into the cold."
"Hardly. That would leave me enjoying the loot all by myself, wouldn't it? How could he get his hands on the inheritance if he and I were divorced?" I'll be going for a fifty-fifty split ... She pushed that thought away. "And in any case, two weeks ago when Mathilda died, he didn't know I wanted to divorce him. How could he? I didn't know myself."
Cooper took that with a pinch of salt. "These things don't happen out of the blue, Dr. Blakeney. He must have had an inkling that the marriage was in difficulties."
"You're underestimating Jack's egotism," she answered with a somewhat bitter irony. "He's far too self-centred to notice anyone else's unhappiness unless he's painting them. Believe me, my decision did come out of the blue. For him, anyway."
He puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette. "Do you expect him to come back at all?"
"Oh, yes. He'll want to collect his paintings if nothing else."
"Good. Some of the fingerprints we lifted may well be his. It will help if we can eliminate them. Yours, too, of course. There'll be a team taking prints in Fontwell on Wednesday morning. I assume you've no objections to giving yours? They'll be destroyed afterwards." He took her silence for assent. "You say you don't know where your husband is, but can you think of anyone who might be in contact with him?"
"Only my solicitor. He's promised to let me know the minute he hears anything."
The Sergeant dropped his cigarette end on to the damp grass and stood up, drawing his mackintosh about him. "No friends he might have gone to?"
"I've tried everyone I can think of. He's not been in touch with any of them."
"Then perhaps you'll be so kind as to write out your solicitor's name and phone number while I take a look at this painting." He grinned. "In view of what you've said, I'm fascinated to see if I can make anything of it."
Sarah found his careful appraisal of the picture rather impressive. He stood for a long time without saying anything, then asked her if Jack had done a portrait of her. She fetched hers from the drawing-room and placed it alongside the one of Mathilda. He resumed his silent study.
"Well," he said at last, "you're quite right. I would never have guessed that this was a portrait of Mrs. Gillespie, any more than I would have guessed that that was a portrait of you. I can see why no one else considers him a genius."
Sarah's disappointment surprised her. But what had she expected? He was a country policeman, not a Renaissance man. She forced the polite smile to her lips that was her customary response to other people's often rude comments on Jack's paintings and wondered, not for the first time, why she was the only person who seemed able to appreciate them. It wasn't as if she were blinded by love-rather the reverse in fact-and yet, to her, the portrait of Mathilda was extraordinary and brilliant. Jack had worked layer on layer to bring a deep golden translucence into the heart of the painting-Mathilda's wit, she thought, shining through the complex blues and greys of cruelty and cynicism. And round it all the browns of despair and repression, and the rusted red of iron, shorthand in Jack's work for backbone and character, but moulded here into the shape of the scold's bridle.
She shrugged. After all, perhaps it was a mercy the Sergeant couldn't see it. "As I said, he paints personalities and not faces."
"When did he paint the one of you?"
"Six years ago."
"And has your personality changed in six years?"
"I shouldn't think so. Personalities change very little, Sergeant, which is why Jack likes to paint them. You are what you are. A generous person remains generous. A bully remains a bully. You can smooth the rough edges but you can't transform the core. Once painted, the personality should be recognizable for ever."
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of a challenge. "Then let's see if I can work out his system. There's a lot of green in yours and your most obvious characteristics are sympathy-no-" he contradicted himself immediately, "empathy-you enter into other people's feelings, you don't make a judgement on them. So, empathy, honour-you're an honourable woman or you wouldn't feel so racked with guilt about this bequest-truthful-most people would have lied about this painting-nice." He turned to look at her. "Does niceness count as a personality trait or is it too flabby?"
She laughed. "Far too flabby, and you're ignoring the unpleasant aspects. Jack sees two sides to everybody."
"All right." He stared at her portrait. "You're a very opinionated woman who is confident enough to fly in the face of established fact, otherwise you wouldn't have liked Mrs. Gillespie. A corollary to that is that you are also naive or your views wouldn't be so divergent from everyone else's. You're inclined to be rash or you wouldn't be regretting your husband's departure, and that implies a depth of affection for hopeless causes which is probably why you became a doctor and probably, too, why you were so fond of the old bitch in this amazing painting next to you. How am I doing for a prole?"
She gave a surprised chuckle. "Well, I don't think you are a prole," she said. "Jack would adore you. Renaissance man in all his glory. They are good, aren't they?"
"How much does he charge for them?"
"He's only ever sold one. It was a portrait of one of his lovers. He got ten thousand pounds for it. The man who bought it was a Bond Street dealer, who said Jack was the most exciting artist he'd ever come across. We thought our ship had come in, then three months later the poor soul was dead, and no one's expressed an interest since."
"That's not true. The Reverend Matthews told me he'd buy a canvas like a shot if they were cheaper. Come to that, so would I. Has he ever done a man and wife? I'd go to two thousand for me and the old girl over the mantelpiece." He studied Mathilda closely. "I take it the gold is her one redeeming feature of humour. My old lady's a laugh a minute. She'd be gold through and through. I'd love to see it."
There was a sound behind them. "And what colour would you be?" asked Jack's amused voice.
Sarah's heart leapt, but Sergeant Cooper only eyed him thoughtfully for a moment or two. "Assuming I've interpreted these pictures correctly, sir, I'd say a blend of blues and purples, for hard-headed cynicism-cum-realism, common to your wife and Mrs. Gillespie, some greens which I think must represent the decency and honour of Dr. Blakeney because they are markedly absent from Mrs. Gillespie's portrait," he smiled, "and a great deal of black."
"Why black?"
"Because I'm in the dark," he said with ponderous humour, fishing his warrant card from his inside pocket. "Detective Sergeant Cooper, sir, Learmouth Police. I'm enquiring into the death of Mrs. Mathilda Gillespie of Cedar House, Fontwell. Perhaps you'd like to tell me why she sat for you with the scold's bridle on her head? In view of the way she died, I find that fascinating."