He turned the catalogue over to show her the cover. ‘A sale of Impressionist and post-Impressionist paintings in London. See?’

She read the inscription on the cover. ‘Day sale,’ she said.

‘That means it’s not as important as an evening sale,’ Matthew explained. ‘The day sales are when they sell the middle-ranking stuff. You won’t find any Rembrandts or Matisses being sold during the day. It’s the evening for that sort of thing – greater theatrical possibilities.’

She tried again. ‘Matthew, I went …’

‘But look at this,’ Matthew went on. ‘It’s somewhere here. Lot number … sixty-two. Yes, here it is. Look at this.’ He passed her the catalogue. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

Elspeth sighed. There was no point in trying to tell him now, she thought. And there would be time – there would be plenty of time. She could tell him this evening, back at the flat. It might be better to do it there, anyway, as it would give him the time to react – in whatever way he was going to react. She turned her attention to the catalogue. A woman on a sofa in the small drawing room. 1922.

The painting was undeniably beautiful. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said. ‘But … but look at the estimate.’

Matthew seemed unconcerned. ‘Eighty thousand. High enough to be in an evening sale.’

‘But it says eighty to a hundred thousand pounds.’

Matthew shrugged. ‘Nobody else may be interested. I could get it under the bottom end of the estimate. Maybe seventy-five, something like that.’

‘Seventy-five thousand pounds?’

His tone remained casual. ‘And I suppose I need to remember the auction house’s commission. They add twenty-five per cent to that.’

Elspeth gasped. ‘So that means it could cost a hundred thousand anyway – even if you get it at the bottom of the estimate.’

Matthew made an insouciant gesture. ‘That’s what Vuillard costs. He’s a very great artist, you know. You don’t get great artists for peanuts.’

‘But what are you going to do with it – if you get it? Who’s going to buy it?’

‘I’ll sell it to a client.’

She pressed home her objection. ‘Who? Which client?’

Matthew frowned. ‘I’ll find one. I’ll put it in the window. Somebody will walk past who likes Vuillard.’

Elspeth stared at him. ‘Yes, probably a lot of people who like Vuillard will walk past, but how many of them will have a hundred thousand pounds – more, in fact, because you’ll have to add something to make a profit. A hundred and twenty thousand pounds?’

‘There are a lot of wealthy people in Edinburgh,’ said Matthew. ‘Somebody will buy it.’

Elspeth closed her eyes. This was all going wrong. She had not come to the gallery to get into an argument with Matthew about whether or not he could sell post-Impressionist paintings. He could not, she thought, but that was not the point.