Free The Mysterious Commission by Michael Innes Page A

having achieved one of the great paintings of the world. Even so, he had never achieved anything like it before. His Portrait of an Unknown Gentleman would go into the histories and monographs as a signal instance of an accomplished academic painter’s transcending himself.
    But what was to happen to the thing? There was, of course, a sense in which its immediate fortunes didn’t matter. The likelihood of its perishing unregarded, of being tossed contemptuously on some scrapheap twenty or thirty years on, was mercifully small. His mere signature on the canvas, spelling a reasonable little heap of guineas (and just conceivably a large one) in any civilized future, was an adequate assurance of that. It would be pleasant, all the same, if its existence could be made known to an informed public now. If no more than two or three eminent critics had a glimpse of it, that would be enough in itself to establish the fact that he had achieved a notable thing. Unfortunately, in view of the mania for secrecy these people had, it didn’t look as if anything of the kind could be managed.
    He was to leave after dinner, and on this final occasion there was again a bottle of champagne. Arbuthnot, however, didn’t turn up to share it. Honeybath had no great fondness for Arbuthnot, and in general would as soon have enjoyed his room as his company. On this occasion, however, he found himself disposed to feel that a courtesy had been neglected. It was as if he had done his job, and that was that, and he could clear out and not be heard of again. It was true that on his dinner-table there had appeared a small packet which proved to contain fifty-five £20 notes, so that he was now in possession of his entire two thousand guineas. This was mollifying – but he derived no great comfort from it, all the same. What was chiefly in his mind was that he might never again set eyes on the best thing he had ever done.
    The younger manservant carried his possessions to the lift. When he himself emerged on the ground floor the familiar chauffeur took charge of him, whisking him, as on that earlier occasion, straight into the limousine. They moved off at once. The briskness of this confused Honeybath’s feelings. He told himself that this was escape, and that he should be nothing other than thankful for it. Like the Thane of Cawdor’s guests, he was standing not on the order of his going, but going at once. He remembered the physician (also resident in Macbeth’s castle) who had remarked that, were he from Dunsinane away and clear, even the hardest cash would not take him back to the place. To this place he was pretty sure he would never willingly return himself. He felt an odd pang on parting from it, all the same. He was leaving his masterpiece behind him.
    It was already very dark. And the car was already stuffy. Several times during his immurement he had cast his mind back to his first journey, and he had convinced himself – incredible though it seemed – that some stupefying drug had been brought into play upon him. Perhaps it had been provided by the sinister Sister Agnes. As he hadn’t swallowed anything, or been conscious of the slightest prick or jab, it must, he supposed, have been an anaesthetic gas. He certainly wasn’t going to stand for anything of the kind this time. They hadn’t emerged from the drive – there seemed to be a notably long drive – before he had picked up the intercom affair and addressed the chauffeur in a tone of the sternest command.
    ‘I can’t stand this atmosphere, my man. And I don’t propose to put up with any of your damned air-conditioning, either. Be good enough simply to open one of these windows at once.’
    ‘Certainly, sir. You have only to mention it.’ The chauffeur was as smooth as his vehicle. He appeared to touch a button on the dashboard (which they no doubt called the control panel) and the window by Honeybath’s left ear shot down to its full extent. ‘Is that agreeable to you,