There was something about her that captivated Jack . . .
BY CHARMAINE FLETCHER
A SUCCESSFUL antiques dealer needs two things – skill and luck,” his late father had said.
After a fruitless morning, however, Jack Heritage was doubtful.
He glanced at his business cards on the pub table, then around the interior of the Mariner’s Rest with a practised eye.
Apart from assorted pewter tankards above the bar and some naïve art of farm animals, there was little of note.
He’d left his job as a civilian fine art advisor with the Metropolitan Police’s antiques squad.
But it hadn’t been an auspicious start to taking over the family business.
Located on the Essex coast, Jack envisaged rich pickings, but so far, nothing.
“Oh – antiques,” the well-preserved waitress said, glancing at his cards as she served Jack sandwiches and a mineral water.
“Well, there are plenty around here.” She laughed, indicating several elderly customers.
Jack smiled politely.
“Sorry,” she apologised. “So you’re after old stuff?”
“Yes, but I’ve not had much success today,” he replied, sipping his drink.
She looked at him speculatively.
“Oh, I work quite legitimately, by appointment. No randomly cheating elderly ladies of their nest-egg Constables or anything,” he explained hastily.
“You buy paintings, then?”
“Amongst other things,” Jack replied, sensing something in the offing. “Do you have anything in mind?”
“No,” she said, “but Bob, the landlord, found a portrait in the cellar.
“She’s a real beauty – no Botox, either!
“Anyway, after a bit of polishing, he hung it above the fire in the snug.”
Jack winced, imagining the chemical and heat damage the painting would have suffered.
“‘The Captain’s Lady’, the frame said,” the waitress went on. “But no-one liked her much.
“There was something about her, a strange sort of look.” She shuddered. “Eventually, Bob had to put her in the cellar.
“Fancy seeing it – the portrait, I mean?”
Jack nodded – there was nothing else on the horizon, after all.
Bob unwrapped the smallish painting, revealing it with a flourish.
Jack took it across to the window.
Scanning it expertly, he saw immediately that it was a Digby James.
Apart from the style and subject matter, it apparently lacked a signature but, using his eyeglass, it gradually emerged – hidden within the brushstrokes.
James was a little-known
