wealthiest people could afford him. The portrait of a prime minister from the previous decade, for instance, was so justly acclaimed that it defined peopleâs memory of him.
Matthew Kentâs portrait was, as heâd said, a composite one. A slender man in his late fifties, wearing jeans and a grey silk shirt, sat in front of a mirror framed in theatrical light bulbs. He had turned his head so that he was three-quarters on to the viewer. A nice-looking man, with cornflower-blue eyes, and a high forehead from which fair but greying hair was receding.
Piers had an uncanny knack of presenting his sitters on two different levels; the surface might, for instance, show a man of wealth but if you looked hard enough, you could catch a glimpse of the inner person, greedy, sensual, or cruel.
This man wasnât greedy, or sensual, or cruel. He looked ⦠Bea sought for the right word ⦠sad? Thoughtful? There was humour in the twist of the lips, the slant of the eyebrow. A knowledge of human nature in the lines about eyes and mouth. He looked ⦠again, she had to seek for a word ⦠trustworthy. A man of inner strength.
That made her frown. Trustworthy? Humorous? Strong?
Then what of the image in the mirror? Ah, but there was not one image, but several to be seen.
The first was that of Matthew Kent transformed into a beautiful woman, not young, but luscious; the twist of the lips and slant of the eyebrow indicated a quizzical turn of mind. The make-up was only slightly over the top, the bronze wig not too obvious. The high-cut dress was also in grey silk, matching the grey of the manâs shirt, but slightly less strong in colour. In fact, the image of the woman was altogether less colourful than Bea had thought it would be. And behind her were more women, each one wearing a different wig, make-up and clothes, and each one less distinct than the one in front. It was as if Piers were saying, âThe man is real; the women he plays are not.â
As Piers had admitted to her before now, he didnât always know what he had revealed about a sitter in his paintings, even when heâd finished.
Bea tried to overlay what she was seeing in the picture with her memory of the body on the bed and still couldnât make sense of it. Why had he made up his face in such grotesque fashion, when he used a subtle make-up for his nightclub appearances? Why had he chosen that pantomime dame dress, which was so unlike his usual taste? Or was it? Perhaps Piers had failed to read the man correctly? Was that extraordinary deathbed appearance a deliberate slap in the face for everyone whoâd known him in life?
Bea didnât think she had enough pieces of the jigsaw to complete the puzzle. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps the man had been an enigma in life, and remained so in death.
Perhaps sheâd find out more on the morrow. She turned for home, acknowledging that sheâd made excuses to stay out all day rather than talk to her son. She also acknowledged that she hoped heâd have gone out for the evening by the time she got back. A spat with his wife over her younger sister ⦠surely that wasnât grounds for divorce, was it?
Well, her inner voice said, it might be, if the younger sister wanted to take Nicoleâs place as the wife of an MP. And if the parents backed the younger against the older sister, there might well be difficulties for Max, whichever way he jumped.
Sunday evening
The two women heaved the last of the black plastic sacks into the elderly car, and got in. The driver said, âIâll be glad when we can get shot of this old wreck. Buy something new. Now remember, the paperwork has all got to be shredded, not just put out for the dustbin men to take.â
âItâs going to take time. You know I have to let the machine cool down every few minutes. Have you put the advert in for his car?â
âDone. It canât be far away. Tomorrow Iâll
Matthew Kentâs portrait was, as heâd said, a composite one. A slender man in his late fifties, wearing jeans and a grey silk shirt, sat in front of a mirror framed in theatrical light bulbs. He had turned his head so that he was three-quarters on to the viewer. A nice-looking man, with cornflower-blue eyes, and a high forehead from which fair but greying hair was receding.
Piers had an uncanny knack of presenting his sitters on two different levels; the surface might, for instance, show a man of wealth but if you looked hard enough, you could catch a glimpse of the inner person, greedy, sensual, or cruel.
This man wasnât greedy, or sensual, or cruel. He looked ⦠Bea sought for the right word ⦠sad? Thoughtful? There was humour in the twist of the lips, the slant of the eyebrow. A knowledge of human nature in the lines about eyes and mouth. He looked ⦠again, she had to seek for a word ⦠trustworthy. A man of inner strength.
That made her frown. Trustworthy? Humorous? Strong?
Then what of the image in the mirror? Ah, but there was not one image, but several to be seen.
The first was that of Matthew Kent transformed into a beautiful woman, not young, but luscious; the twist of the lips and slant of the eyebrow indicated a quizzical turn of mind. The make-up was only slightly over the top, the bronze wig not too obvious. The high-cut dress was also in grey silk, matching the grey of the manâs shirt, but slightly less strong in colour. In fact, the image of the woman was altogether less colourful than Bea had thought it would be. And behind her were more women, each one wearing a different wig, make-up and clothes, and each one less distinct than the one in front. It was as if Piers were saying, âThe man is real; the women he plays are not.â
As Piers had admitted to her before now, he didnât always know what he had revealed about a sitter in his paintings, even when heâd finished.
Bea tried to overlay what she was seeing in the picture with her memory of the body on the bed and still couldnât make sense of it. Why had he made up his face in such grotesque fashion, when he used a subtle make-up for his nightclub appearances? Why had he chosen that pantomime dame dress, which was so unlike his usual taste? Or was it? Perhaps Piers had failed to read the man correctly? Was that extraordinary deathbed appearance a deliberate slap in the face for everyone whoâd known him in life?
Bea didnât think she had enough pieces of the jigsaw to complete the puzzle. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps the man had been an enigma in life, and remained so in death.
Perhaps sheâd find out more on the morrow. She turned for home, acknowledging that sheâd made excuses to stay out all day rather than talk to her son. She also acknowledged that she hoped heâd have gone out for the evening by the time she got back. A spat with his wife over her younger sister ⦠surely that wasnât grounds for divorce, was it?
Well, her inner voice said, it might be, if the younger sister wanted to take Nicoleâs place as the wife of an MP. And if the parents backed the younger against the older sister, there might well be difficulties for Max, whichever way he jumped.
Sunday evening
The two women heaved the last of the black plastic sacks into the elderly car, and got in. The driver said, âIâll be glad when we can get shot of this old wreck. Buy something new. Now remember, the paperwork has all got to be shredded, not just put out for the dustbin men to take.â
âItâs going to take time. You know I have to let the machine cool down every few minutes. Have you put the advert in for his car?â
âDone. It canât be far away. Tomorrow Iâll
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