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

The Fate of Pryde Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4   .

In Piccadilly, Pryde and Warburton stepped from the Phantom and entered the Ritz Hotel. Sweeping past the liveried doormen, past the Grand Staircase, they arrived at the circular shaped lobby festooned with immense vases of flowers.

Warburton puffed alongside Jonathan. “Sir, the meeting with the Ashmolean Museum board is at four. Shall I reserve the Burlington Room?”

“No. That’s much too big. I expect we’ll see only three or four in the delegation.” Jonathan slowed his pace. “Let’s take them to tea in the Palm Court. Make the reservation, please, Fizzy.”

Jonathan stopped up short before entering the lift. “I’ll be in my suite. Could you bring up the Callan file? I think I should look at it before we meet with the Board.”

Fizzy Warburton nodded and bowed slightly as Pryde entered the lift.

Jonathan suddenly held open the door and signaled to his employee. “Have you seen the professor lately?”

“Yes, sir. I attended his book launch the other night, just to keep an eye on things. Interesting, but Alexander Wainwright turned up too.”

Wide-eyed, Jonathan stepped out of the lift and caught Fizzy’s sleeve. “Why was he there?”

“The connection was not between Callan and Wainwright, sir. The writer, Peter Cummings, was a student of the professor years back, and has kept in touch. Cummings is a good friend of Alexander and so, I believe, he simply brought him along.”

Jonathan nodded. “Very good, Fizzy! They’re not aware of my connection then? I’m worried the professor may cause trouble with the Ashmolean. I have other plans for him. Has he said anything about having visions?”

Fizzy shook his head. “Visions? Not that I’ve heard. I hardly think he believes in such things.”

“That is a shame…”

“I took great care, sir, to reveal nothing about the Ashmolean.”

Pryde smiled warmly. “I’m sure you did. You’re always very discreet.” He stepped onto the lift again and waved at his employee. “That Peter Cummings is an excellent writer. Won the Booker last year with Paradox of Perception.”

Fizzy nodded agreeably and headed for the Palm Court Restaurant where he made reservations for five people for tea at four. Then, he returned to his quarters for the Callan file to deliver to Jonathan. 

Shortly before four o’clock, three members of the Board of the Ashmolean Museum—Dr. Akhil Ananta, Kenneth Carstairs and Ross Weir—awaited Jonathan Pryde in the lobby.

“Have you worked with Mr. Pryde before?” Weir asked.

The other two men shook their heads.

“What do we know of him then?”

“Not a lot, but he’s reliably generous and extremely well informed,” said Carstairs. “Where do you think all his money comes from?” asked Weir.

“They call him the shipping magnate,” said Dr. Ananta. “A very wealthy man. Most of his ships are registered in Singapore.”

Weir drew close to the other two men. “Have you heard from Callan, gentlemen? We don’t want him messing this opportunity up.” When Ananta frowned, Carstairs said, “This is primarily for your department, Akhil. The money for your expansion of the Rajput collection rides on this meeting.”

Ananta said, “Does he have knowledge about such art?”

 “Jonathan is an exceedingly well-informed patron.” Carstairs broke off. “Here’s our man coming now.” He strode forward to greet Jonathan Pryde. “Mr. Pryde! What a delight.”  He made the introductions all around.

“Excellent, gentlemen. I thought we might have tea in the Palm Court. My secretary Fitzgerald Warburton will join us momentarily.”

Tables of white linen and crystal dotted the restaurant, giving it a certain opulent grandeur. Mottled mirrored walls created a mysterious sense of space. A perceptive person might wonder what was real and what was mere reflection.

Once seated, Ken Carstairs began. “Have you had an opportunity to look at our brief, Jonathan, about the restoration of the Rajput paintings?”

Jonathan smiled and, gazing directly into the eyes of Dr. Akhil Ananta, said. “I most certainly have. I’m very interested in the painting of Shiva and Parvati on a Terrace. Given the painterly quality of its landscape and Shiva, portrayed in three-quarter view, when do you think it might have been created, Dr. Ananta?”

Dr. Ananta, a soft-spoken gentleman, smiled enigmatically. “That is precisely the question which bedevils the experts, Mr. Pryde. But it is, without a doubt, post 1850s.”

“Indeed. Where is it now?” asked Jonathan.

Dr. Ananta’s eyelids flickered for an instant. He smiled slowly. “I believe, sir, it is presently in the Denman Ross Collection.”

“Ah, yes. At the Museum of Fine Arts, in Boston.”

Dr. Ananta nodded appreciatively. “That is true, Mr. Pryde.”

Jonathan looked at all the members. “Does the Ashmolean wish it for its collection, gentlemen?”

             The board members nodded eagerly and smiled as one. Carstairs spoke. “That would be the crowning jewel in the collection, Jonathan, but we do have other works in need of restoration.” The most the members had dared hope for was funds for restorative works.

Frowning, Jonathan casually raised his hand. “Gentlemen, restoration of great works is essential. I would be pleased to fund the restoration of any paintings in the collection and appoint someone to negotiate with Boston on your behalf.”

The mouths of all members hung open. At last Carstairs enthused. “Absolutely wonderful! The Ashmolean will be extremely pleased!”

Jonathan leaned forward confidentially. “I am very interested in that particular painting of Shiva. The bejeweled detail is absolutely exquisite. And of course the Hindu god, Shiva, utterly fascinates me. That creator and destroyer…” Jonathan’s face grew pale. His eyes seemed focused elsewhere. “The intense clash of opposites is painful in its beauty.” Suddenly, recalling himself, he sat up straighter and poured more tea.

Dr. Ananta coughed gently and then said, “We are most grateful, sir. Not often does a man have the good fortune to meet one with such a wealth of knowledge.” 

Fitzgerald Warburton had been waiting patiently at the servery for his cue. 

Standing up, Jonathan gestured Fizzy to step forward. “Gentlemen, Mr. Fitzgerald Warburton, my secretary, will meet with you now to discuss the details. As an associate professor at the Slade School of Fine Art, he is extremely knowledgeable about all matters pertaining to restoration.” He shook the hand of each member of the board. “I, however, must be off. Such a pleasure!”

            Warburton took Jonathan’s chair. Pryde gave a courtly bow and was gone.

Jonathan hurried through the lobby and outside to his waiting Phantom. Through the window, he spoke to the driver. “Please take me to the Embankment.”

Once Jonathan was seated, the driver nodded and pulled away from the curb. Five minutes later, he pulled over to wait while Jonathan got out to walk. He located number 272—Alexander Wainwright’s studio— and gazed upward to the third floor windows which were massive, running almost the entire width of the building.

He scribbled a note on a pad and crossed the street to look upon the Thames. To his left was Tower Bridge and to his right, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. He squinted into the fading light and tried to see the river and the buildings as part of the totality—just as he imagined Alexander Wainwright might.

In his mind, he did not doubt the artist possessed an extraordinary gift, which allowed him to see what others could not. If only he could share some tiny portion of that gift—for only a moment—and see as Alexander did, perhaps he might end the war within himself.  After five minutes of contemplating the river, he smiled sadly and returned to the Phantom.

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