Change For The Worse

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  Shortly afterwards Pollard watched her go down the garden to the studio he had improvised for her over the garage. He collected the file of the Fairlynch case without enthusiasm, and settled himself in an armchair by the open French window of the sitting room. A profound Sabbath calm seemed to have descended on the neighbourhood, even the roar of non-stop traffic on main roads not far distant being muted. It was pleasantly warm, and for a couple of minutes he gazed out into the garden watching a thrush engaged in a systematic worm hunt on the lawn. Then with an effort he brought his mind to bear on the intransigent problems confronting him, and started to clear the decks in the tradition of the late Chief Superintendent Crowe.

  People with satisfactory alibis could be eliminated: Tom Basing, Farmer Hayes, the Cootes and the Allbrights. So could Katharine Ridley and Alix on the grounds of being psychologically and physically incapable of knocking out Francis Peck and transporting him to the boiler house. The same obviously applied to Lady Boyd-Calthrop, who, like the Allbrights and Cootes, was involved in ‘Pictures for Pleasure’, and had had her exhibit stolen. On considering the two Gilmores, Pollard decided that they could only be provisionally eliminated at present. Malcolm Gilmore’s return from the Manor within a few minutes of dropping Francis Peck there had not actually been seen by the inmates of the lodge, who had merely heard his car pass. His arrival home shortly afterwards depended entirely on his wife’s evidence. In theory Malcolm could have helped Hugo Rossiter slip into the Manor unobserved by Francis Peck.

  So what, Pollard thought gloomily? Two people whose alibis were not cast-iron, one possible suspect with doubtful opportunity and no apparent motive, and a person or persons unknown of whom there had not been the faintest hint or trace up to date.

  The least unpromising course seemed to be to concentrate on Hugo Rossiter. Pollard leant back in his chair and shut his eyes, reliving the meeting with him at Fairlynch Manor and the conversation with the astute Lady Boyd-Calthrop. A physically powerful chap, he thought, visualising the tall strongly-built figure. Big features, tightly-curling black hair, eyes that didn’t miss much. A powerful personality, too, full of the confidence born of real and recognised ability, a sense of humour running through the assertiveness. Lady Boyd-Calthrop had filled in the portrait with acumen: attractiveness to women, generosity to friends within the limits of a basic selfishness, impatient intolerance of frustration, but above all, intelligence. A coat-trailer where the Establishment was concerned, but a good mixer in The Waggoner. A chap who enjoyed taking chances...

  Opening his eyes again, Pollard began to consider a potential case against Hugo Rossiter. He fulfilled the initial requirements of a knowledge of the Manor and its grounds, and he had been closely involved with ‘Pictures for Pleasure’ from the start. Toye’s reconstruction had shown that he might have been able to arrive in the region of the Manor’s front door at the time when Malcolm Gilmore and Francis Peck returned from the party at Weatherwise Farm. ‘Might’, however, was the operative word. As things stood at the moment it was not possible to prove that he could have made it. The fact that he was not a professional thief could tie up with the apparently amateurish character of the whole operation.

  It was, of course, the question of motive that was so baffling where Rossiter was concerned. As far as an attempted theft of the Ridley portrait went there appeared to be none. It was not an outstandingly good work of art, it was virtually unsaleable, and there was not a shred of evidence of hostility towards Katharine Ridley — quite the reverse. The removal of five pictures from the exhibition merely to deposit them a short distance away seemed just as motiveless. If the idea had been to annoy their owners, why had the Ridley portrait been interfered with? Not as a blind, unless the five pictures had been the real object of the robbery all along, and the thief had counted on being able to return and pick them up shortly. But didn’t this tell in Rossiter’s favour, though? He lived almost on the doorstep of the Manor, and could easily have taken them home that night. It would have been a senseless risk to return to collect them later. And what the hell would he have wanted them for, anyway, Pollard asked himself savagely, mentally reviewing the quintet?

  He gave an involuntary start at a sudden scrabbling up the back of his chair. The next moment Nox, the family’s small black cat, arrived on his shoulder and then landed painfully on his knee.

  ‘Keep your claws in, damn you,’ Pollard adjured him, rubbing himself.

  Nox instantly impersonated a starving stray, uttering a thin plaintive mew and staring with desperate hunted eyes.

  Pollard groaned, got up, and carried him into the kitchen. Here he poured out a saucer of milk, and filled another with some of the contents of a packet labelled Purr Plus. Nox sank down before the milk and began to lap in slow ecstasy. Pollard made a silent exit, closed the kitchen door and returned to his problems.

  His thoughts took up where they had left off, reverting to the stolen pictures. Of all the odd features of the case, their removal and subsequent dumping so near at hand with no real attempt at concealment were perhaps the most bizarre. Surely whoever had acted in this way would know that they would be held by the police when found? Could this have been the motive, to get them out of ‘Pictures for Pleasure’ for some reason? If...

  Pollard’s thought sequence suddenly snapped off short, broken by an inrush of inexplicable excitement. Then his mind began to race forward. If Rossiter had removed them, knowing that they would pass into police custody and not be hung for the time being, why had he included them in the first place? What could have made him change his mind about them when ‘Pictures for Pleasure’ had only been open for a single afternoon? Only some very urgent reason could have driven him to act as he did that night... Was there anything at all in Inspector Rendell’s preliminary report that threw any light on this?

  As he put out his hand to pick up the file, Pollard stopped dead, transported back in time to the first meeting with the Inspector and Superintendent Maynard. He sat very still in the shock of sudden illumination. ‘A Professor Chilmark,’ the Super had said, ‘who advises HOB about pictures, was coming to have a private view on Sunday...’

  Pollard released a pent-up breath. When was the time of Chilmark’s visit known? Was it fixed just before ‘Pictures for Pleasure’ opened? Could this have been the reason for the hastily planned character of the theft? Was the removal of the five pictures to ensure that Chilmark, an art expert, should not see them? Could Rossiter had discovered that one of them was very valuable and intended to steal it, substituting a copy made by himself? Lady Boyd-Calthrop’s ‘Head of an Old Peasant’ leapt to Pollard’s mind, only to be dismissed. Professor Chilmark knew this picture, and had said that she would be lucky to get £500 for it. And he was a recognised expert: impossible that Rossiter should have been more knowledgeable...

  Absently rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, Pollard reviewed the other pictures. ‘Inspiration’ and ‘Oleanders on Lake Lugano’ could be written off at once. ‘Frosty Morning’ was in a different class, but surely Rex Allbright, whose knowledge of pictures had so impressed Toye, would have realised it if he possessed an early-twentieth-century masterpiece? That left the Gilmore’s ‘Flight into Egypt’.

  Once again Pollard found that he was holding his breath. Suppose Malcolm Gilmore’s great-uncle, anxious to cut a dash as a painter had got hold of a genuine Old Master and passed it off as his own work? Rossiter might have discovered this when vetting exhibits for ‘Pictures for Pleasure’, and decided to carry out a substitution and sell the original. His copy might not have been ready at the time of the opening, and the news of Professor Chilmark’s visit on the following day would have meant either scrapping the substitution scheme for good and all, or somehow removing the painting for an appreciable time. It was easy to see that to a man of Rossiter’s ability and temperament the second course would have a strong appeal.

  As usual after a flash of inspiration Pollard’s excitement began to ebb as flaws presented
themselves. He wondered if it were credible that the Gilmore family could have possessed a valuable Old Master for over a century without discovering the fact. On the whole he felt that it was a possibility. The present generation clearly had some interest in art, but did not strike him as people with a genuinely knowledgeable background. Then there was still the problem of whether Rossiter could have got into the Manor on the Saturday night. If Malcolm Gilmore had helped him in some way, it would mean that they were both in on the substitution plan...

  After turning this idea over in his mind Pollard decided that it had advantages over his original one. After all, the two men were quite close friends, and Rossiter was said to be generous to his friends. That he would have robbed and cheated Gilmore somehow did not ring true. It might be that ‘Flight into Egypt’ was really valuable in the grand manner, and the scheme was to smuggle it out of the country without applying for an export licence, on the grounds that it was merely a family souvenir of no commercial value, to be passed over to relatives living abroad, in Canada or the USA, for instance. As the owner of a building construction firm there would be conferences which it would be perfectly reasonable for Malcolm Gilmore to attend...

  Guiltily aware of theorising without established facts Pollard pulled himself up. The time had arrived to find out if there was any solid evidence for the substitution idea. ‘Flight into Egypt’ must be vetted by the art forgery experts at the Yard. Using scientific techniques they would discover if it was a seventeenth- or eighteenth-century painting or one merely dating from the late-nineteenth century. It was equally important to discover who Lecci was, if he had painted a ‘Flight into Egypt’, and if so, what was known of its subsequent history.

  To save time while they call in one of the art experts they’ve got lined up, I’ll try Chilmark, Pollard thought with sudden decision, getting up to search in the telephone directory. He found that by a stroke of luck the Professor lived in Kensington, not on the south coast or the outer margin of the commuter belt. Of course he might very well be away for Easter, or anyway out to lunch... Realizing that he himself was hungry, Pollard looked at his watch. It was a quarter past one, an obviously unsuitable moment for ringing. He decided to wait until two o’clock. If Chilmark was at home he should have finished eating by then, but not yet sunk into Sunday afternoon lethargy.

  He headed for the kitchen, and had just settled down to a wedge of veal and ham pie and some salad when Jane appeared in her painting smock, hair ruffled and nose shiny, but with an unmistakeable air of satisfaction.

  ‘It’s going to tick,’ she said, collecting food for herself, and refraining in accordance with her invariable rule from enquiring about his own progress.

  Their eyes met.

  ‘I get the message,’ she said.

  ‘Only a faint gleam,’ Pollard told her. ‘I want to get hold of Professor Chilmark. I thought I’d call him at two on the chance that he’s at home. From the address it’s a pricey flat in Kensington.’

  Jane nodded, and they ate hungrily in companionable silence.

  Punctually at two o’clock Pollard dialled Professor Chilmark’s number, steeling himself to disappointment as he listened to the ringing tone. Then the slightly dry elderly voice that he remembered repeated the number.

  ‘Professor Chilmark? This is Chief Superintendent Pollard speaking. I must begin by apologising for calling you at this really outrageous moment.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Superintendent. The call suggests a potentially exciting development. Is it in order to ask if it’s connected with the matter we were discussing when we last met?’

  ‘It is,’ Pollard replied. ‘I think you may be able to give me some valuable help. Could I possibly come over and see you today?’

  ‘Come and welcome. Join me for a cup of tea at four. In the meantime I shall indulge in fascinating speculations. About parking, now...’

  On putting down the receiver Pollard felt at a loose end. There was a good hour to fill in before he need start. His brain recoiled from the prospect of milling over the case against Hugo Rossiter yet again, and the indisputable fact that the grass needed cutting was a handy escape route.

  With an electric mower the job was undemanding and satisfying, and a neat striped pattern emerged as proof of his labours. Reluctantly Pollard decided that there was not enough time to do the edges as well. After changing into more conventional clothes he put his head round the studio door. Jane, deeply engrossed, gave him the V-sign and blew him a kiss. He descended to the garage, emerged cautiously into the mews and drove off towards London. Traffic was relatively light, and feeling mentally refreshed by his short break, he spent the journey in grouping the essential facts to be put before Professor Chilmark.

  He had surmised correctly that the flat would be pricey. His host led him into a surprisingly large room which he referred to as the library. It had south and west windows with wide views. The walls were lined with bookshelves from ceiling to floor with the exception of a single space occupied by an oil painting of such quality that Pollard involuntarily stopped to look at it. A rutted country lane ran between tangled hedges, bathed in the evening sunshine of high summer. Tiny fleecy clouds floated in a luminous sky almost imperceptibly tinged with pink. In the hedges an occasional wild rose caught and emphasised their colour. With consummate skill the artist had combined a limpid freshness with the mellowness of a day moving to its close.

  ‘Like it?’ Professor Chilmark asked.

  ‘It’s miraculous!’ Pollard ejaculated. ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘I picked it up in France in ’45 as an “apres Manet”.’

  Pollard opened his eyes wide.

  Tea was set out in one of the windows.

  ‘My housekeeper’s off on Sundays,’ Professor Chilmark said, switching on an electric kettle, ‘but since my wife died I’ve become quite reasonably domesticated. Come and have a cup while we talk.’

  A few minutes later they faced each other across the tea table. Told to help himself, Pollard took a sandwich.

  ‘This is most awfully good of you,’ he said.

  ‘The debt’s on my side,’ Professor Chilmark replied. ‘As I told you I’m a detective novel addict, and I’ve felt all along that Fairlynch was likely to beat most of ’em hollow. It’s not the missing heir after all, is it?’

  ‘There’s been a missing liability who confused the issue to start with, but he turned out an irrelevance... I’m not sure how clued up you are on the developments since we first met?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I haven’t missed anything that’s appeared in the reputable Press, but bring me up to date, there’s a good chap.’

  Pollard put down his cup and sat back.

  ‘On the morning after we met at your friends’ house,’ he began, ‘a completely unexpected thing happened. The five paintings missing from “Pictures for Pleasure” were found by one of the Fairlynch undergardeners in an unlocked shed at the top of the woods behind the house...’

  He talked on, surprised at the ease with which a coherent account of the enquiry’s progress emerged. At intervals he glanced at the intelligent appraising face on the opposite side of the table. When he began to outline his newly-developed substitution theory as the motive for the robbery, he watched Professor Chilmark’s intent expression become one of rapt enjoyment.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, finally, ‘the backroom boys at the Yard can establish whether “Flight into Egypt” is one or several centuries old. What I’ve come to consult you about, Professor, is whether there was a painter called Lecci, and if so, whether there’s any record of this particular picture by him.’

  He got a long look, one element of which he recognised as admiration.

  ‘Certainly there was an early-eighteenth-century painter called Lecci,’ Professor Chilmark replied emphatically. ‘A Venetian. Respectable, but not of the first water. Hold on a minute, and I’ll look him up.’

  He got to his feet and walked over to one of the bookcases, extracted a large
volume and carried it over to his desk Pollard swung round and watched breathlessly as he consulted the index and turned pages.

  ‘Here’s the chap,’ he said at last. ‘Giacomo Lecci, 1680-1731 ... classical and religious themes in rococo landscapes ... fanciful architecture ... ruins ... relatively few works have survived ... h’m h’m ... small painting of the Flight into Egypt in cathedral of Portrova, North Italy ..’

  ‘What!’ Pollard shouted. He found himself on his feet.

  ‘Portrova,’ Professor Chilmark repeated, surveying him with interest. ‘Presumably you know it? Not one of North Italy’s most attractive towns, in my view.’

  Pollard was apologetic. ‘Just for the moment a quite staggering coincidence seemed to have materialised,’ he added.

  ‘If I remember rightly, the cathedral at Portrova is dedicated to St Thomas,’ Professor Chilmark remarked drily. ‘Hold on a minute while I collect some drinks, and then let me hear about this coincidence.’

  He left the room. Pollard stood at a window looking out unseeingly over a sea of roofs enclosing occasional green islands. He considered his course of action in the event of the Wellchester ‘Flight into Egypt’ really being an early-eighteenth-century painting. The clink of glasses roused him as Professor Chilmark reappeared, propelling drinks on a trolley.

  ‘I can recommend this brand,’ he said, holding up a bottle of whisky. ‘Or would you prefer gin?’

  Some minutes later Pollard put down a half-emptied glass appreciatively.

  ‘If you can take another of my monologues, Professor,’ he said, ‘I’ll be as brief as possible. My wife and I live in Wimbledon, not far from some close friends, a couple called Strode. David Strode is an up and coming solicitor. Last June they flew their car out to Milan, and set off on a fortnight’s holiday in North Italy...’

  As he described Julian Strode’s experience in the cathedral at Portrova his misgivings mounted.

  ‘Is it possible,’ he asked on coming to the end of the story, ‘that if a copy was substituted for the genuine Lecci nearly a year ago nobody would have spotted it?’