Twenties Girl
“OK, OK,” I cut him off. “I get it, you can’t tell me. But I’m going to find out. That painting belonged to my family. We deserve to know.”
“So, let me get this straight.” Ed is finally showing a real interest in the story. “Someone stole the painting?”
“Dunno.” I shrug. “It was missing for years, and then I found it here. All I know is, it was sold to the gallery in the 1980s, but I don’t know who sold it.”
“Do you know?” Ed turns to Malcolm Gledhill.
“I… do.” He nods reluctantly.
“Well, can’t you tell her?”
“Not… well… no.”
“Is this some official secret?” demands Ed. “Does it involve weapons of mass destruction? Is national security at stake?”
“Not so to speak.” Malcolm looks more flustered than ever. “But there was a confidentiality clause in the agreement-”
“OK.” Ed snaps into his business-consultant, taking-command-of-the-situation mode. “I’ll have an attorney on this in the morning. This is ridiculous.”
“Absolutely ridiculous,” I chime in, bolstered by Ed’s bullish attitude. “And we won’t stand for it. Are you aware my uncle is Bill Lington? I know he will use every resource to fight this… ridiculous confidentiality. It’s our painting.”
Malcolm Gledhill looks utterly beleaguered.
“The agreement clearly states…” he manages at last, then trails off. I can see his eyes constantly flicking toward his briefcase.
“Is the file in there?” I say, in sudden inspiration.
“As it happens, it is,” says Malcolm Gledhill guardedly. “I’m taking the papers home to study. Copies, of course.”
“So you could show the agreement to us,” says Ed, lowering his voice. “We won’t snitch.”
“I could not show you anything!” Malcolm Gledhill nearly falls off the bench in horror. “That, as I keep repeating, is confidential information.”
“Of course it is.” I adopt a soothing voice. “We understand that. But maybe you could do me a small favor and check the date of acquisition? That’s not confidential, is it?”
Ed gives me a questioning glance, but I pretend I haven’t noticed. Another plan has occurred to me. One which Ed won’t understand.
“It was June 1982, as I remember,” says Malcolm Gledhill.
“But the exact date? Could you just have a quick look at the agreement?” I open my eyes innocently at him. “Please? It could be very helpful.”
Malcolm Gledhill gives me a suspicious look but obviously can’t think of any reason to refuse. He bends down, clicks open his briefcase, and draws out a file of papers.
I catch Sadie’s eye and jerk my head surreptitiously at Malcolm Gledhill.
“What?” she says.
For God’s sake. And she calls me slow.
I jerk my head again at Malcolm Gledhill, who is now smoothing out a sheet of paper.
“What?” she repeats impatiently. “What are you trying to say?”
“Here we are.” He puts on a pair of reading glasses. “Let me find the date…”
My neck’s going to crick if I jerk my head any more. I honestly think I’m going to die of frustration in a minute. There’s the information we want. Right there. Open for anyone to read who happens to be of a ghostly invisible nature. And still Sadie is peering at me uncomprehendingly.
“Look!” I mutter, out of the corner of my mouth. “Look at it! Look at it!”
“Oh!” Her face snaps in sudden understanding. A nanosecond later she’s standing behind Malcolm Gledhill, peering over his shoulder.
“Look at what?” says Ed, sounding puzzled, but I barely hear him. I’m avidly watching Sadie as she reads, frowns, gives a small gasp-then looks up.
“William Lington. He sold it for five hundred thousand pounds.”
“William Lington?” I stare back at her stupidly. “You mean… Uncle Bill?”
The effect of my words on Malcolm Gledhill is extreme and immediate. He starts violently, clutches the letter to his chest, turns white, turns pink, looks at the letter, then clasps it close again. “What-what did you say?”
I’m having a hard time digesting this myself.
“William Lington sold the painting to the gallery.” I try to sound firm, but my voice is coming out faint. “That’s the name on the agreement.”
“You are fucking kidding.” Ed’s eyes gleam. “Your own uncle?”
“For half a million pounds.”