The traffic light changed to amber, and then red. As it had done three times already, and they had moved barely one car length towards it.
Senator Theodore H. Tree, head of THT Enterprises and one of the ten wealthiest men in the USA, fumed with frustration. Being fabulously rich didn’t help to get quickly through the London traffic from Heathrow to Sotheby’s.
He leaned forward to speak to the chauffeur. “Isn’t there something you can do? I must be at Sotheby’s by two. If you can get me there by two I’ll double your fee!”
“That is very kind of you, sir, thank you. I shall endeavour to accommodate your wish.”
Without another word, he swung the car into the bus lane, ignoring the blare from a bus’ horn, and turned left off Park Lane with its stationary traffic and into a street where both lanes of traffic was coming towards them.
“A ‘no entry’ sign, sir, is a very attractive red and white design. I find you can only really appreciate it when you are facing it.”
Tree shut his eyes. He’d asked for this, but he had hoped to be alive when delivered to Sotheby’s.
The Bentley shot down back alleys, knocking over dustbins and scaring the odd cat, weaved through junctions, was the subject of angry blaring hooters at least half a dozen times before it screeched to a halt in New Bond Street. The dashboard clock read 13:57.
“Well, I’ll be… “ spluttered Tree, pale as the midnight moon. “Well done, Mr, er…”
“Repertor, sir.”
“Well done Mr Repertor. Would you mind waiting? I’ll only be 20 minutes or so.”
“Very good, sir.”
It was longer than that, but he emerged carrying a large package. Repertor opened the boot so that Tree could put it in.
“I see that your efforts were redolent of success, sir.”
“Indeed they were, Repertor. An original Rossetti. I had to go slightly over my $4million limit, but Ulrika will be delighted. It’s for her birthday!”
Repertor closed the boot, then opened the rear door for his passenger. “I dare say she will be, sir. The Venus Verticordia, if I remember rightly.”
“That’s right, Repertor! Are you a fan of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood?”
“I like to admire the pictures, Senator, though I fear that purchasing an original is not in my immediate plans.”
“Especially the ones featuring girls, huh?” Tree winked at him.
“Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy.
“Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell,
“And her far seas moan as a single shell,
“And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy, sir.”
“Very good,” said Tree. “Your own?”
“No, sir, those lines were penned by Rossetti himself, about the Venus Verticordia.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
The car pulled out into New Bond Street. Tree idly watched the shoppers on the sidewalk. Then he fell to musing upon the Venus. Well she might have inspired Rossetti to poetry as well as painting. She was a beautiful woman. God, she’d look good on a cross!
“The model was Miss Alexa Wilding, sir. She also had a sister, Eulalia, who looked very similar, except that she had the most wonderful blue eyes. Sometimes she modelled for Rossetti, too.”
“Is that so?” Tree’s response was distant. He was still imagining crucifixion.
“Indeed it is, Senator. She posed for a number of paintings. Including Venus Crucifixus est. I think that there were at least six paintings of Eulalia Wilding, sir.”
Tree’s attention snapped back to the interior of the car. “What? What did you say?”
“Miss Eulalia Wilding featured in at least six Rossetti paintings, sir.”
“No, before that. Venus Crucifixus something. Do I understand you to mean a painting of this girl on a cross?”
“A cross is commonly, if not universally, an accessory to crucifixion, indeed so, sir. The verb itself….”
“Spare me the grammar lessons, Repertor, what I want to know is, where can I see it? And how much will it cost me to buy it?”
“Ah, now, I regret to have to inform you, sir, that no-one knows what happened to the painting. The Victorians, you see, had a somewhat benighted attitude to such images….”
“First grammar, now history! I’m not interested in all that – how do you know about it, if it is lost? I consider, with some justification, that I am an expert on the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, and I have never heard of Eulalia Wilding, and nor have I ever heard of a Rossetti painting of a crucifixion!”
Repertor brought the Bentley to a stand at yet another set of traffic lights.
“That is a little difficult to explain, sir.”
“Try me.”
Repertor pondered for a moment. “Is your safety belt fastened, sir?”
“Sure it is, why?”
“We need to undertake a small diversion. It won’t take long.”
Repertor pressed a button, and a sat nav screen appeared above the dashboard. He entered a destination, and then the screen said, “calculating.”
A woman’s voice said, “In 500 yards, take a left turn.”
“Where are we going?” asked Tree, a little concerned.
“In 200 yards, take a left turn.”
“I don’t see a left turn, just a row of shops… Repertor?”
“Take a left turn.”
Repertor spun the wheel, the car lurched across the pavement, heading at speed towards the front entrance of a shop.
Tree glimpsed the words ‘Est. 1874’ before screwing his eyes tight shut.
He prepared to meet his maker.
Senator Theodore H. Tree, head of THT Enterprises and one of the ten wealthiest men in the USA, fumed with frustration. Being fabulously rich didn’t help to get quickly through the London traffic from Heathrow to Sotheby’s.
He leaned forward to speak to the chauffeur. “Isn’t there something you can do? I must be at Sotheby’s by two. If you can get me there by two I’ll double your fee!”
“That is very kind of you, sir, thank you. I shall endeavour to accommodate your wish.”
Without another word, he swung the car into the bus lane, ignoring the blare from a bus’ horn, and turned left off Park Lane with its stationary traffic and into a street where both lanes of traffic was coming towards them.
“A ‘no entry’ sign, sir, is a very attractive red and white design. I find you can only really appreciate it when you are facing it.”
Tree shut his eyes. He’d asked for this, but he had hoped to be alive when delivered to Sotheby’s.
The Bentley shot down back alleys, knocking over dustbins and scaring the odd cat, weaved through junctions, was the subject of angry blaring hooters at least half a dozen times before it screeched to a halt in New Bond Street. The dashboard clock read 13:57.
“Well, I’ll be… “ spluttered Tree, pale as the midnight moon. “Well done, Mr, er…”
“Repertor, sir.”
“Well done Mr Repertor. Would you mind waiting? I’ll only be 20 minutes or so.”
“Very good, sir.”
It was longer than that, but he emerged carrying a large package. Repertor opened the boot so that Tree could put it in.
“I see that your efforts were redolent of success, sir.”
“Indeed they were, Repertor. An original Rossetti. I had to go slightly over my $4million limit, but Ulrika will be delighted. It’s for her birthday!”
Repertor closed the boot, then opened the rear door for his passenger. “I dare say she will be, sir. The Venus Verticordia, if I remember rightly.”
“That’s right, Repertor! Are you a fan of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood?”
“I like to admire the pictures, Senator, though I fear that purchasing an original is not in my immediate plans.”
“Especially the ones featuring girls, huh?” Tree winked at him.
“Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy.
“Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell,
“And her far seas moan as a single shell,
“And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy, sir.”
“Very good,” said Tree. “Your own?”
“No, sir, those lines were penned by Rossetti himself, about the Venus Verticordia.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
The car pulled out into New Bond Street. Tree idly watched the shoppers on the sidewalk. Then he fell to musing upon the Venus. Well she might have inspired Rossetti to poetry as well as painting. She was a beautiful woman. God, she’d look good on a cross!
“The model was Miss Alexa Wilding, sir. She also had a sister, Eulalia, who looked very similar, except that she had the most wonderful blue eyes. Sometimes she modelled for Rossetti, too.”
“Is that so?” Tree’s response was distant. He was still imagining crucifixion.
“Indeed it is, Senator. She posed for a number of paintings. Including Venus Crucifixus est. I think that there were at least six paintings of Eulalia Wilding, sir.”
Tree’s attention snapped back to the interior of the car. “What? What did you say?”
“Miss Eulalia Wilding featured in at least six Rossetti paintings, sir.”
“No, before that. Venus Crucifixus something. Do I understand you to mean a painting of this girl on a cross?”
“A cross is commonly, if not universally, an accessory to crucifixion, indeed so, sir. The verb itself….”
“Spare me the grammar lessons, Repertor, what I want to know is, where can I see it? And how much will it cost me to buy it?”
“Ah, now, I regret to have to inform you, sir, that no-one knows what happened to the painting. The Victorians, you see, had a somewhat benighted attitude to such images….”
“First grammar, now history! I’m not interested in all that – how do you know about it, if it is lost? I consider, with some justification, that I am an expert on the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, and I have never heard of Eulalia Wilding, and nor have I ever heard of a Rossetti painting of a crucifixion!”
Repertor brought the Bentley to a stand at yet another set of traffic lights.
“That is a little difficult to explain, sir.”
“Try me.”
Repertor pondered for a moment. “Is your safety belt fastened, sir?”
“Sure it is, why?”
“We need to undertake a small diversion. It won’t take long.”
Repertor pressed a button, and a sat nav screen appeared above the dashboard. He entered a destination, and then the screen said, “calculating.”
A woman’s voice said, “In 500 yards, take a left turn.”
“Where are we going?” asked Tree, a little concerned.
“In 200 yards, take a left turn.”
“I don’t see a left turn, just a row of shops… Repertor?”
“Take a left turn.”
Repertor spun the wheel, the car lurched across the pavement, heading at speed towards the front entrance of a shop.
Tree glimpsed the words ‘Est. 1874’ before screwing his eyes tight shut.
He prepared to meet his maker.
)
