‘B-o-s-c-o-w-a-n,’ said Robert oh ‘hgingiy.
‘Is he still painting?’ ‘No. He’s dead. Died some years ago. Quite an old chap by then. Sixty-five, I think, when he died. Quite a prolific painter, you know. A lot of his canvases about. Actually we’re thinking of having a show of him here in about four or five months’ time.
We ought to do well over it, I think. YVhy are you so interested in him?’ ‘It’d be too long a story to tell you,’ said Tommy. ‘One of these days I’ll ask you out to lunch and give you the doings from the beginning. It’s a long, complicated and really rather an idiotic story. All I wanted to know is all about this Boscowan and if you happen to know by any chance where this house is that’s represented here.’
‘I couldn’t tell you the last for a moment. It’s the sort of thing he did paint, you know. Small country houses in rather isolated spots usually, sometimes a farmhouse, somtimes just a cow or two around. Sometimes a farm cart, but if so, in the far distance. Quiet rural scenes. Nothing sketchy or messy.
Sometimes the surface looks almost like enamel. It was a peculiar technique and people liked it. A good many of the things he painted were in France, Normandy mostly.
Churches. I’ve got one picture of his here now. Wait a minute and I’ll get it for you.’
He went to the head of the staircase and shouted down to someone below. Presently he came back holding a small canvas which he propped on another chair.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Church in Normandy.’
‘Yes,’ said Tommy, ‘I see. The same sort of thing. My wife says nobody ever lived in that house – the one I brought in. I see now what she meant. I don’t see that anybody was attending service in that church or ever will.’
‘Well, perhaps your wife’s got something. Quiet, peaceful dwellings with no human occupancy. He didn’t often paint people, you know. Sometimes there’s a fyure or two in the landscape, but more often not. In a way I think that gives them their special charm. A sort of isolationist feeling. It was as though he removed all the human beings, and the peace of the countryside was all the better without them. Come to think of it, that’s maybe why the general taste has swung round to him.
Too many people nowadays, too many cars, too many noises on the road, too much noise and bustle. Peace, perfect peace.
Leave it all to Nature.’
‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder. What sort of a man was he?’
‘I didn’t know him personally. Before my time. Pleased with himself by all accounts. Thought he was a better painter than he was, probably. Put on a bit of side. Kindly, quite likeable.
Eye for the girls.’
‘And you’ve no idea where this particular piece of country-side exists? It is England, I suppose.’ ‘I should think sop yes. Do you want me to pounds d out for you?’ ‘Could you?’
‘Probably the best thing to do would be to ask his wife, his widow rather. He mrded Emma Wing, the sculptor. Well known. Not very productive. Does quite powerful work. You could go and ask her. She lives in Hampstead. I can give you the address. We’ve been corresponding with her a good deal lately over the question of this show of her husband’s work we’re doing. We’re having a few of her smaller pieces of sculpture as well. I’ll get the address for you.’
He went to the desk, turned over a ledger, scrawled something on a card and brought it back.
‘There you are, Tommy,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what the deep dark mystery is. Always been a man of mystery, haven’t you? It’s a nice representation of Boscowan’s work you’ve got there. We might like to use it for the show. I’ll send you a line to remind you nearer the time.’
‘You don’t know a Mrs Lancaster, do you?’
‘Well, I can’t think of one off-hand. Is she an artist or something of the kind?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She’s just an old lady living for the last few years in an old ladies’ home. She comes into it because this picture belonged to her until she gave it away to an aunt of mine.’