Corduroy Mansions

88. Through the Letterbox

It had been William’s idea that James should take the Poussin with him.

‘There’s no point my trying to find out anything more about it,’ he said, pressing the painting into James’s hands. ‘You take it and show it to the right person.’

James looked at the painting dubiously. It was nice to hold a Poussin, but a stolen Poussin? He glanced uncertainly at Caroline.

‘Or Caroline could hold on to it,’ he suggested. ‘Then it can stay safely here in Corduroy Mansions. My place . . .’

Caroline came to the rescue. ‘Is less secure,’ she supplied. ‘James’s building has had two break-ins recently. Or is it three, James?’

‘One, actually,’ said James. ‘The flat downstairs was broken into last month. They didn’t take much. Just some books. A literate burglar apparently.’

‘Anyway,’ Caroline continued, ‘I’ll look after it. Then we can work out what to do.’

The pair returned to Caroline’s flat and made themselves a cup of coffee.

‘Well,’ said James, ‘what are we going to do?’

Caroline picked up the painting and studied it closely. ‘Did you look at the snake?’ she asked. ‘It has lovely, fluid lines. As if somebody’s just taken a crayon and drawn an S. Just like that.’

‘That’s what makes a great painting,’ said James. ‘Everything looks as if it should be there. Of course, Poussin was interested in snakes. There’s that famous picture in the National Gallery of the man bitten by the snake at the side of the road.’

‘What are we going to do, James?’

‘That’s what I just asked you.’

Caroline sighed. ‘Of course we could just do nothing.’

James frowned. ‘You know, I rather regret agreeing to take it. What if it is stolen? We’ll be in possession of stolen property. And who would believe us if we said that it had been found in a wardrobe?’ He looked anxiously at Caroline. ‘I think that we should take it back to William. It’s his problem - not ours.’

Caroline agreed. ‘I’ll take it back to them right now.’

‘I hope that you don’t disturb them.’

Caroline looked puzzled.

‘I mean, they were having some sort of romantic dinner. You know . . .’

Caroline laughed. ‘But he’s ancient,’ she said. ‘Fifty-something.’

‘I’m just warning you,’ said James. ‘You might find them having a cuddle on the sofa.’

‘I’ll take that risk,’ said Caroline. ‘They’re probably playing Scrabble.’

As she went upstairs, she thought about what James had said. It was all very well for him to imagine the neighbours having a love life - but where was his? They had skirted around the issue of their relationship both verbally and physically. Nothing had happened - absolutely nothing. She, of course, found James attractive, and he had said, had he not, that he found women interesting, and yet there had not been so much as a kiss or a tender gesture - he had been as chaste as a monk.

It’s hopeless, she thought; it really is. Lovely, amusing James was lovely and amusing because he was above all that. If she wanted a love affair then she was wasting her time with him; they would be friends - they already were close in that sense - but it would never mature into anything else. Perhaps she should be satisfied with that - her half a glass of blessings rather than a full one.

Unless, of course, she made the first move. Perhaps that was the key to it. James was inexperienced and probably did not know what to do, or was too shy to do it. Well, she could show him. She could turn the lights down and put on a suitable piece of music, and perhaps one thing would lead to another. What music? she wondered. ‘My Heart Will Go On’. That was a good choice. People had been using it as a romantic background for years.

By the time she had climbed the stairs to William’s flat she had decided that she would act. Tonight would be the night where things were decided: whether she and James would have a proper relationship, or whether it would be made finally and unambiguously clear that they were just good friends.

She looked at the fanlight above the door. It was in darkness, and she hesitated. Perhaps James was right; perhaps it would be tactless to ring the bell now. She bent down and peered through the letterbox; the dim light coming through a window picked out the shape of the hall table but there was no light from anywhere else.

She stood up again. She would have to take the Poussin back to the flat, which was irritating, unless . . . She peered through the letterbox again. It was as she had remembered: the floor was carpeted.

Very gently, taking care not to scratch the frame, she posted the painting through the letterbox. There was a dull thud as it landed on the carpet. No, it’s not irresponsible, she told herself. I’ve merely returned it to its owners - or its sort-of-owners.

Back in the flat below, James asked her what had happened.

‘It’s back where it belongs,’ she said. ‘You can get William to take a photograph of it and you can show that to people at the Institute.’

James agreed that this was a good idea.

‘Now,’ said Caroline, ‘there was something I wanted to talk about.’

James was sitting on the sofa, paging through a magazine. He looked up with interest. ‘Paris?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to talk about our trip to Paris? I’m so looking forward to that, Caroline. Aren’t you?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. It’s going to be great.’

‘Do you know the Renoirs in the Orangerie?’ asked James. ‘There’s a whole corridor of them. They’re really lovely.’

‘I love Renoir,’ said Caroline vaguely. She suddenly thought that it might be better to put her plan into action in Paris. Paris was far better than ‘My Heart Will Go On’ for seduction purposes. Seduction . . . Is that what I’m doing? she asked herself.

‘Where are all the others?’ James suddenly asked. ‘Jenny. Dee. Jo. Where are all your flatmates?’

‘They probably went to the pub,’ said Caroline.

There was a sound at the front door. Caroline thought that somebody - one of her flatmates - was coming back, but then the sound became a knock.

‘Somebody at the door,’ said James.

‘Evidently,’ said Caroline.

She looked at her watch; it was a bit late for a casual caller. William? Did he want to find out why they had returned the Poussin? Or somebody else?