ought to know what she was talking about. ‘The Frederick Powell Gallery. You must
know it. It’s the only decent contemporary art gallery in Cardiff. Or Wales, come to that.’
Jess murmured assent, in a noncommittal way.
‘And then there’s my brother-in-law, Blake.’ For a moment, Elinor hesitated. ‘He was apparently in London, in a meeting with Mia, his business partner. She runs a gallery
in London, and he’s an art consultant, advising rich people on how to spend their money. Hedge fund managers and suchlike.’ Elinor’s tone lost its forlorn quality.
‘They’ll take any old rubbish, as long as Blake talks them into it.’ There was contempt in her voice as she spoke. ‘Anyway, that’s beside the point. Mia’s backed
him up, says they were at her flat, going through catalogues. But I must say, I don’t altogether believe her. Or him.’
She stopped kneading the tissue and tucked it into her sleeve.
‘He’s a wheeler-dealer is Blake,’ she went on. ‘I think he married Isobel to get his hands on the gallery. And on the Powell name.’ She paused. ‘I’m not
saying he was directly responsible for Ma’s death, of course – I don’t think he’d go that far. But he knew where the Gwen John was kept. And he knew how much it was
worth.’
Jess was taken aback. She wondered whether Elinor’s distrust of Blake could be occasioned by jealousy of her sister. But perhaps that was the psychotherapist in her, always looking to the
family dynamic for answers. Best not to jump to conclusions, she told herself, at this stage, anyway.
‘To be honest, I feel bloody furious with my mother,’ Elinor went on, abruptly changing the subject, which made Jess wonder whether her accusation against Blake had been serious.
‘If she hadn’t come round to see me that day, unannounced as usual, none of this would have happened.’
Jess pricked up her ears. This was what she’d been waiting for. At last, she hoped, Elinor was going to talk about the death of her mother.
Elinor tried to settle herself, wriggling her shoulders to get comfortable, but she seemed ill at ease.
‘That afternoon, I’d gone to buy some ink pens in this nice little arts and crafts shop in the Arcades. Once I’d got in there, I spent hours looking at the different kinds of
nibs, and so on. They have whole books of them, tiny little nibs with different shapes. Like a butterfly album.’ She paused. ‘I bought several tiny ones, just to see what I could do
with them – I haven’t used inks before – but actually, they weren’t that good, as it turned out. They were so delicate, they kept bending out of shape when you pressed them
on the paper, and splattering ink everywhere.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps I was using them in the wrong way.’
Come on, thought Jess. That’s enough about nibs. Get to the point.
‘Anyway,’ Elinor went on, realizing she was digressing, ‘while I was out, my mother came round. She was over from Italy. They’d moved out there about ten years ago, when
my father got ill and retired, leaving me to look after the house on Llandaff Green for them. I was short of money, you see, so they let me live there rent free. By that time, Isobel was married to
Blake, and they had a big place in the Vale, so she was fine.’ There was a note of bitterness in Elinor’s tone. ‘But when Pa died, Ma kept coming back. She normally stayed with
Isobel and Blake when she was over, said she couldn’t bear to be back in the old house, that it held too many memories for her. But in actual fact, she was always popping round for one reason
or another, usually without warning. It was one of the things I found rather . . .’ She hesitated. ‘. . . A little bit irritating about her. She was terribly lonely after my father
died, though, so we tried to be patient with her. Isobel was better at it than I was.’
She came to a halt. There was a touch of resentment in her tone, but it passed as she
know it. It’s the only decent contemporary art gallery in Cardiff. Or Wales, come to that.’
Jess murmured assent, in a noncommittal way.
‘And then there’s my brother-in-law, Blake.’ For a moment, Elinor hesitated. ‘He was apparently in London, in a meeting with Mia, his business partner. She runs a gallery
in London, and he’s an art consultant, advising rich people on how to spend their money. Hedge fund managers and suchlike.’ Elinor’s tone lost its forlorn quality.
‘They’ll take any old rubbish, as long as Blake talks them into it.’ There was contempt in her voice as she spoke. ‘Anyway, that’s beside the point. Mia’s backed
him up, says they were at her flat, going through catalogues. But I must say, I don’t altogether believe her. Or him.’
She stopped kneading the tissue and tucked it into her sleeve.
‘He’s a wheeler-dealer is Blake,’ she went on. ‘I think he married Isobel to get his hands on the gallery. And on the Powell name.’ She paused. ‘I’m not
saying he was directly responsible for Ma’s death, of course – I don’t think he’d go that far. But he knew where the Gwen John was kept. And he knew how much it was
worth.’
Jess was taken aback. She wondered whether Elinor’s distrust of Blake could be occasioned by jealousy of her sister. But perhaps that was the psychotherapist in her, always looking to the
family dynamic for answers. Best not to jump to conclusions, she told herself, at this stage, anyway.
‘To be honest, I feel bloody furious with my mother,’ Elinor went on, abruptly changing the subject, which made Jess wonder whether her accusation against Blake had been serious.
‘If she hadn’t come round to see me that day, unannounced as usual, none of this would have happened.’
Jess pricked up her ears. This was what she’d been waiting for. At last, she hoped, Elinor was going to talk about the death of her mother.
Elinor tried to settle herself, wriggling her shoulders to get comfortable, but she seemed ill at ease.
‘That afternoon, I’d gone to buy some ink pens in this nice little arts and crafts shop in the Arcades. Once I’d got in there, I spent hours looking at the different kinds of
nibs, and so on. They have whole books of them, tiny little nibs with different shapes. Like a butterfly album.’ She paused. ‘I bought several tiny ones, just to see what I could do
with them – I haven’t used inks before – but actually, they weren’t that good, as it turned out. They were so delicate, they kept bending out of shape when you pressed them
on the paper, and splattering ink everywhere.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps I was using them in the wrong way.’
Come on, thought Jess. That’s enough about nibs. Get to the point.
‘Anyway,’ Elinor went on, realizing she was digressing, ‘while I was out, my mother came round. She was over from Italy. They’d moved out there about ten years ago, when
my father got ill and retired, leaving me to look after the house on Llandaff Green for them. I was short of money, you see, so they let me live there rent free. By that time, Isobel was married to
Blake, and they had a big place in the Vale, so she was fine.’ There was a note of bitterness in Elinor’s tone. ‘But when Pa died, Ma kept coming back. She normally stayed with
Isobel and Blake when she was over, said she couldn’t bear to be back in the old house, that it held too many memories for her. But in actual fact, she was always popping round for one reason
or another, usually without warning. It was one of the things I found rather . . .’ She hesitated. ‘. . . A little bit irritating about her. She was terribly lonely after my father
died, though, so we tried to be patient with her. Isobel was better at it than I was.’
She came to a halt. There was a touch of resentment in her tone, but it passed as she
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