Page 60 of Eternal Obsession
A blue light flashed directly behind us, and though Alex found it distracting, he drove faster in order to avoid the irritating glare. Eventually, after screaming in his ear, I persuaded him to pull over. Alex slowed the vehicle and parked it alongside the paved road.
The police officer, who now stood at the Jaguar’s driver’s side, directed Alex to wind down his window, which I did for him.
“Good evening,” the young officer greeted us. “Sir, do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
“Extremely fast, I imagine.” Alex smiled.
I cringed.
Alex smiled at the officer, studying his uniform.
“Sir, the speed limit is thirty-five. You were traveling at seventy. You just got yourself a ticket.”
Alex turned to me. “He’s obviously impressed.”
The officer pointed his flashlight into the Jaguar. “Sir, may I see your driver’s license please?”
“Driver’s license?” Alex asked.
“Sir, have you been drinking?”
“I am beginning to feel—”
“Officer, I left my license at home,” I interrupted. “I was giving my brother a driving lesson. Please just give us the ticket.”
“Is this your vehicle, sir?”
My slow response caused the officer’s suspicions to rise.
“Please step out of the vehicle,” the police officer said.
I whispered to Alex. “Follow my lead.” I grabbed hold of the painting and got out of the car.
The police officer froze, looking around for the two men who had but moments before stood directly in front of him. He could only stare at the abandoned vehicle.
I loved that car.
We abandoned it and instead flew to London.
And I found us a decent hotel.
The Savoy, a hotel that I chose for its thick curtains and discreet staff, was perfect for our trip. We could safely sleep there with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign posted on the door. The hotel’s luxurious furnishings were perfect and very homey. This was also a great place to purchase Alex’s outfits from the hotel stores.
The following evening, comfortably ensconced within our hotel room, Alex chose from the clothing selection brought to our room. He favored the blue denim jeans and white shirts despite my recommendation of smarter attire.
Carrying the Joseph Turner, now wrapped in a fresh towel from the room, we made our way down the Strand toward Trafalgar Square for our appointment at the National Gallery. We both admired the main facade of the magnificent architecture. Over the years successive extensions had been made, complementing the original grand design.
The vast museum ensured that the gallery’s entire collection of about two thousand paintings, mostly by the old masters, were on display. You would never find a forgotten Monet or Degas concealed in an underground temperature-controlled vault. In 1897 those paintings deemed contemporary had been transferred to the Tate Gallery, but by the early 1990s many of the paintings were relocated to the Tate Modern.
I was in my element, stopping for a moment to admire Michelangelo Merisi Da Caravaggio’s painting of the Supper at Emmaus, dated 1571-1610. The painting seemed more like a photograph with its realistic images and vibrant colors.
Alex pulled on my arm when I froze in front of another of the paintings. We had an appointment to keep, and I was making us late. Mr. Teddington, a tall and respectable man, warmly greeted us. We were escorted to his office within the large building. Mr. Teddington surveyed us suspiciously, and on viewing the towel wrapped painting, looked even more concerned.
“As I told you on the phone,” he began, “I believe all Turners are accounted for.”
“The painting has been in our family for years,” I informed him, unwrapping the work of art carefully and placing it upon the table as instructed.
Mr. Teddington studied the antique portrait with an eyeglass. He peered at us in complete astonishment. Picking up the phone he requested a second opinion. Soon the room was filled with his colleagues, each taking a turn in viewing the painting with the eyeglass.
