The Ghost Writer by John Harwood Read Free Book Online Page A

then is the artist?"
    "There too, sir, I am unable to enlighten you, save that I understand him to be deceased, and this to have been his only finished work."
    "Then how ... pray tell me, is it for sale?"
    Lord Edmund had meant to pursue his inquiries further before raising the matter of purchase, but anxiety and impatience, a dread that he might not after all take possession of his hearts desire, had overmastered him.
    "It is, sir."
    "And—the price?"
    "Twelve guineas, sir."
    His lordships jaw dropped in astonishment. He knew full well the dangers of judging a work by artificial light, but here was no question of authenticity, only an anonymous miracle of brushwork; had the man said twelve thousand, he would have called for an emissary to secure a draft from his bankers by return.
    "Twelve guineas!" he repeated incredulously. "You are sure...? That is to say, yes, I will take it. Now, if you please; in fact I have that sum about me." Lord Edmund was not one of those noblemen who count it an indignity to bear the currency of the realm upon their person; he took, rather, the view that an adventurous spirit never knew when a little gold might not come in handy.
    "Very good, sir. If you would care to step this way, perhaps you will allow me to offer you some refreshment whilst I make the necessary arrangements."
    Scarcely able to drag his gaze away from the picture, Lord Edmund reluctantly allowed the man to conduct him, not via the passage through which he had entered, but in the opposite direction, over what he vaguely perceived to be a flagged stone floor, past various shrouded objects, down another corridor and into a small office, into which a little natural light was filtering by way of a dusty pane. There were, of course, a dozen, a hundred more questions to be put, but somehow he found himself alone, settled in a chair with a glass of brandy in his hand before he had done more than—at his own insistence—complete the transaction and take possession of his receipt. In a remarkably short time, as it seemed to him, his reverie was disturbed, not by the proprietor, but by a man of coarser aspect entering via the street door—it seemed that the establishment spanned the entire distance between one lane and the next—to inform him that his purchase was secured and ready for conveyance. Lord Edmund looked out through the other door, whence the proprietor had left him; called several times, but received no answer. The silence remained unbroken; no trace of light appeared in the darkness of the corridor. He called once more, took a few ineffectual steps into the gloom, retreated, and gave it up. He had the picture safe, that was the main thing, and would return to satisfy his curiosity on the morrow.

    O N THE WAY HOME, HOWEVER , L ORD E DMUND WAS BESET by fear that the picture might prove a disappointment, or worse, a complete delusion, for the strangeness of the afternoons experiences did not fully manifest itself until they were jogging briskly along the Albert Embankment. It was only by an extreme effort of will that he restrained himself from signalling the cabman to stop, that he might tear the wrappings from the picture in full view of the street. By degrees he grew calmer, though he could not entirely rid himself of the sensation of having stumbled through a dream and back into the waking world, and it was with a pounding heart and a swimming sensation about his head that he watched the parcel transferred from the cabman's care into the gloved hands of his own servants. He had already resolved that, if he were not deceived, none but he would ever set eyes upon Seraphina again; she would be his, and his alone. Accordingly, he directed his men to hang the picture, still in its wrapping, in the place of honour at the head of his gallery, and withdraw, leaving him in sole possession—but of what? With trembling fingers he tore at the intervening knots, but was forced to employ a knife, in terror lest a slip of the hand