The Fate of Pryde, the second in TheTrilogy of Remembrance.

The Fate of Pryde Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3.

The next morning, walking down the street to my gallery, I turned the corner and stopped suddenly. There it was again! That magnificent work of art—the gleaming, royal blueRolls-Royce Phantom—was parked in front of my shop. I hurried my step. Perched above the massive grill was the iconic hood ornament, the lady with wings poised, ready for flight, just like those mermaids jutting out from the prow of centuries-old sailing ships.

            As I drew closer a lithe and elegant figure emerged from the Rolls with the sure step of a panther. I nodded at him in a friendly fashion.

            “Mr. Helmsworth?” he asked.

             I nodded. “Yes?”

             The man pushed a lock of fair hair from his forehead. “I’m Jonathan Pryde.” We shook hands. “Did you get my letter?” His intelligent green eyes bore into mine as if containing some unspoken challenge.

            “Yes, I was just about to ring you, sir. I took it to Mr. Wainwright and advised him of your interest in his work.”

            “What did he say?” His thin lips tightened.

            “He is definitely interested in your proposal and would be pleased to meet with you.”

            His lips curved into a small smile. “How kind of you, Mr. Helmsworth. Please…” He motioned toward my door. “May we go in and discuss matters?”

            Another man had now emerged from the car—a rather brutal looking sort. For some reason, I fumbled nervously with the lock. Once inside, however, when Pryde introduced him, the man’s face lit up with a sweet smile.

            “This is my right hand man, Mr. Helmsworth. His name is Fitzgerald Warburton. Usually, we call him Fizzy. If, in our dealings, you or Mr. Wainwright cannot reach me, please call Mr. Warburton. He always knows my travel plans.”

            The name Fizzy seemed to dispel the initial sense of menace the man’s bulk created. With his disarming smile, Fizzyhad taken on the appearance of a very large, but apparently harmless teddy bear. I put their coats in the cloakroom.

Pryde’s clothing was as elegant as his manners were refined. His exquisitely cut silk suit hung from his lithe frame in exactly the correct fashion. By contrast, Fizzybulged and huffed and puffed close by.      

“Is The River of Remembrance here?” Pryde asked.

I was delighted with his interest in Alex’s most recent painting in rich tones of red, brown and gold. Like gracious royalty, each of twelve figures in it commands attention. 

 “It’s in the storage room downstairs,” I said. “I haven’t hung it here yet because tomorrow it will be exhibited at the National Gallery for two weeks.”

“I shall definitely see it there. No other painter has ever exhibited there during his lifetime. Such an accomplishment!” He hesitated and then smiled engagingly. “Could we have a look? I’ve only seen a photograph of it.”

            “Of course.” After I locked the front door, I led them to the stairs at the back of the shop. We started downward. “Watch your step, gentlemen. It’s rather dark down here.” I opened the door at the foot of the stairs. “Mind your heads.” When I switched on the light, I heard Pryde’s sharp intake of breath.

            “How wonderful!” he exclaimed. “The painting is so much more than the photograph. Look at the light emanating from each figure!” Then he turned to me and asked, “Who are the people in this marvelous painting?”