‘The man known for nudes,’ she said quickly, winning a look of respect from Adam.
He drained his glass and sat back in his chair, looking very much at home. As he was, Gabriel reminded herself. Drinking beer with her father at this table was probably a more regular occurrence for Adam Dysart than it was for Harry Brett’s daughter.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ he told her, ‘but I get a certain tingle at the back of my neck when I spot a possible sleeper.’
‘The unidentified goodies that slip past the auctioneers.’
‘Exactly.’
Gabriel looked at him curiously. ‘But you’re an auctioneer and valuer yourself. Have you let anything like that get away?’
‘Not yet,’ he said, without the slightest trace of conceit. ‘But before I joined the firm officially we didn’t do so much in the fine art line. My father’s specialties are furniture and silver. But lately Dysart’s are beginning to make quite a name for themselves with paintings, too.’
‘All down to you?’
‘Absolutely.’ Adam looked across at her in amusement. ‘You think I’m a right prat, don’t you? Sitting here singing my own praises.’
Gabriel shook her head. ‘I’m good at my craft, too. No point in selling oneself short.’
He looked at her in silence for a lengthy interval. ‘I’m curious,’ he said at last. ‘Why did you turn me down this afternoon?’
She flushed. ‘Due to Dad’s illness there’s a backlog of work outstanding, and the three of us are working flat out to meet commitments. But, if you want the real reason, I was annoyed because you took it for granted we’d drop everything just to suit you.’
Slight colour crept up Adam’s face to match hers. ‘Which I did, of course,’ he admitted stiffly. ‘My turn to apologise.’
‘I suppose my father gives you top priority every time you turn up with one of your finds,’ said Gabriel, resigned.
‘It’s not that big a problem for him because they don’t turn up very often,’ he assured her, ‘otherwise I’d be a millionaire by now. But when they do Harry usually lets me sneak to the head of the queue.’
‘Something he made very clear tonight,’ she assured him. ‘He said you had an auction coming up soon.’
‘We do.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you can’t manage it by then I’ll leave it with our security people and wait until you’re free to work on it.’
She eyed him in surprise. ‘You’re convinced it’s that valuable?’
He nodded. ‘I may be wrong. But I don’t think so. Half the canvas is obscured by overpainting, which must be hiding something, maybe another figure, or a landscape. No sign of a signature, but hopefully that will appear when it’s cleaned.’ He smiled. ‘We’re not talking big bucks like a Van Gogh, Gabriel Brett, but one thing’s certain—even with your fee for the restoration I can’t fail to make some profit on the price I paid for it.’
‘How much?’
‘One-fifty, with some faded watercolours and a foxed old map thrown in. No one else was interested in Lot 13.’
‘Your lucky number?’
Adam shrugged, a wry twist to his smile. ‘If it isn’t I won’t have lost much—at least not in money.’ He sobered. ‘But indirectly it cost me one of my oldest friends.’
The bleak look in his eyes roused curiosity in Gabriel. ‘Sounds as though you could do with another beer.’
‘Would you share one with me?’
Gabriel fetched another can from the fridge, and half filled a glass before pouring the rest into Adam’s. ‘How did you pay so little for a picture in London?’
‘It was a pretty downmarket sale, mostly flotsam and jetsam from a house clearance. The cream had gone up west, to the main auction house, but the branch was selling off stuff from the kitchens and attics.’
‘Do you go to places like that often?’ she asked curiously.
‘As often as I can. It’s surprising what you can pick up. But oddly enough I came across this sale quite by accident.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Would you care to hear my tale of woe, Miss Brett? Or am I keeping you from your bed?’
Far from it, thought Gabriel. ‘What happened?’ she asked, her curiosity whetted by the mention of woe.
Adam smiled without mirth. ‘I went to a party in London the night before last. I was on my way to the train yesterday, nursing a hangover, when I spotted a sign across the road, advertising a sale the following day.’
Adam had promptly dropped the arm he’d raised to flag down a taxi, fished an old cricket hat from his overnight bag and crammed it on, then dodged swiftly through the London traffic. After loitering a while, pretending to read the headlines outside the newsagent’s next door to the saleroom, he’d pulled the hat down to meet the dark glasses protecting his hangover, and gone inside to wander through the chaotic saleroom, feeling the familiar anticipation as he’d cast an eye over the jumble of uninspiring goods on display. This was the rough end of the market, with some of the lesser lots consisting of prosaic lampshades and kitchen chairs and boxes of miscellaneous china and kitchen utensils. Exactly the kind of hunting ground that Adam Dysart, with the blood of three generations of auctioneers and valuers in his veins, had relished all his life.
But for once he’d been about to admit defeat when he’d spotted a small stack of pictures leaning against the wall at ground level, almost hidden from sight in a corner. He’d cast a quick glance through some small faded watercolours, an antique map with a rash of the brown spots known as foxing, and behind them had found a framed portrait in oil, so blackened with dirt and overpaint it was only just possible to make out the head and shoulders of a girl to one side of the canvas.
The familiar adrenaline rush had raised the hairs on Adam’s neck. He’d turned away at once, forcing himself to go back over every undistinguished lot on offer once again before he returned to Lot 13, when a second glance at the portrait had reinforced the feeling that under the layers of grime and overpaint lay buried treasure.
Adam had gone outside into the noisy street, hangover forgotten, the familiar excitement fizzing through his bloodstream like champagne bubbles. Something about the hair and pose, obscured though they were, hinted at early nineteenth century. And had struck such a chord he wanted the portrait. Badly. In which case there would be no point in going home to Friars Wood. An afternoon in the Courtauld Institute would be a better idea, browsing through the endless green box files in the Witt Library to throw light on his find. If the painting had been photographed it would be there amongst the archives. But even if it hadn’t he could spend a happy hour or two researching other painters of the time to throw light on his mystery lady. Because his she was destined to be, Adam had known beyond all doubt.
Without the artist’s name to go on the afternoon’s search had been difficult. But in the end Adam had felt that his lady might possibly have been painted by William Etty, an Academician known for allegorical subjects, landscapes and portraits, but most celebrated for nudes which looked surprisingly modern to the present-day eye. Elated, Adam had taken a taxi back to Marylebone, bought flowers and wine and returned to Della Tiley’s flat.
After two prolonged blasts on the buzzer, followed by a lengthy wait, the door had opened and an eye had peered at him through it in horrified dismay. ‘Adam?’ gasped Della. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came back to beg a bed for the night.’
‘Who is it?’ called a male voice.
Adam’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back, his teeth showing in a tigerish smile. ‘Ah! Bad move on my part, obviously. So sorry to intrude.’ With a mocking bow he held out the flowers. ‘A little