you find it at all. Family’s been out of money for a few generations now. Not sure they even live in the main house anymore. Still, they’re not too proud to keep out the curiosity seekers with a nice load of buckshot.”
Martin returned with a tray bearing a teapot, two cups, and two digestive biscuits. He put the tray on the table, handed a cup of tea to Peter, and took both biscuits for himself. “So, Mr. Byerly—is it a new watercolor or an old one you’re interested in?”
“An old one,” said Peter. “But I’m not looking to buy. I thought you might be able to tell me something about this.” He pulled out the portrait and laid it on the table. “I’m trying to find out who the artist is. Or who the subject is.” Martin frowned, set down the half a biscuit he hadn’t yet eaten, and picked up the watercolor. He stared at the painting for nearly a minute, carefully examining both sides.
“Victorian,” he said. “Paper looks like eighteen seventies or eighteen eighties. See a lot of it in scrapbooks. Nice work. Good lines. Not easy to do detail like that in a watercolor. Someone who really knew how to handle a brush. A fine artist, I’d say.” He paused and squinted at the painting. “B.B. Never heard of him. What day is it?”
“Uhm . . . Friday,” said Peter, thrown by the non sequitur.
“Third Friday of the month?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“What you want is to go up to London then.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Peter.
“Historical Watercolour Society meets third Friday of every month. Six-thirty in the Haldane Room, University College. Might be somebody there who can help you.”
“Thank you,” said Peter. “I appreciate the advice. And if you happen across any other paintings by B.B., I’d be much obliged if you’d give me a call.” He pulled out a business card that read merely “Peter Byerly, Antiquarian Bookseller, Kingham, Oxfordshire” along with his phone number. Martin Wells showed no inclination to take the card from Peter’s outstretched hand, so Peter laid it on the table and showed himself out. Twenty minutes later he was stepping from the platform of Kingham station onto the 13:21 for London Paddington.
When he and Amanda had rented a flat in Chippy the previous spring during the cottage renovations, they had ridden this train often—taking weekends in London to visit museums and go to the theater. On their last trip to the city they had taken a long walk along the south bank of the Thames. Peter had taken Amanda into Southwark Cathedral, where they found the grave of Shakespeare’s brother Edmund. They had crossed the river at Westminster, and finished the afternoon at Amanda’s beloved Tate Gallery. Peter had not visited London since.
How much had changed in less than a year. Before, Peter and Amanda always sat facing each other on the train, so they could tease each other with their feet under the table. As ever, Amanda would sit bolt upright, a book propped on the table in front of her. She liked to ride facing forward, so Peter faced backward, looking across landscape through which the train had already passed. Now he sat alone at the back of the car in a forward-facing seat, staring blankly at what lay ahead.
Although Martin Wells had been a bit gruff and slightly disagreeable, he had been harmless. It was always the anticipation that got Peter in trouble—his pathological dread of the unfamiliar. Dr. Strayer had a thousand explanations for Peter’s phobias, but only Amanda had ever been able to put Peter at ease among strangers. With her at his side, he’d been able to not only cross oceans but attend cocktail parties and make small talk. Amanda made it all seem easy. She could feel him tense up from across a room and would appear at his side, lay her hand on his arm, and siphon all his tension away.
Peter arrived at Paddington at three o’clock and realized two things: he had over three hours to kill before the meeting of the Historical