"You know what I'm an enthusiast of, Clarence?"
"Art history?" he sneered, leaning towards Duncan.
Duncan instantly knew. He knew the cleaning girl they shared had been passing information to Begbie. Hadley couldn't know about the books he'd gotten from Abigail that were stashed back at his office. His eyes narrowed.
"You won't see a dime."
The older man shrugged and leaned back in his seat, smug in his belief that law enforcement couldn't touch him.
He continued, "Leaving that Munch on the floor was a dead giveaway. No one places a painting worth millions where it can get damaged by the stray foot of a delivery man. Did your customer have second thoughts about its authenticity?"
"Waiter, can we have a dessert menu?" Begbie called to a passing server, disregarding Duncan's comments.
"I might add there's no mention of any symptoms of dementia in Bertram's medical records. How'd you convince him he was losing his mind? Did he go soft on you? Want to go straight?" he asked, ignoring the older man's cavalier attitude. "He must have assumed he'd inherited the condition from his mother," he added.
Clarence sniggered and waved his hand dismissively.
"You're too old to find another inside man—another patsy inside a major auction house. Besides, collectors are getting more savvy every day. Did you hide that bracelet and convince him he'd misplaced it? How long had you tortured him about losing his memory?"
"Good luck trying to prove your lunatic theories. In the meantime, the Argentine is looking more appealing to me."
"I don't think Sheila will want to take that trip with you. I also don't think she'd fare very well in Cornton Vale. I recently read that it's more violent than any of our men's prisons."
Clarence's face contorted to such a degree his eyes were almost not visible, hidden between folds of aging skin. In an instant, he'd sprung on Duncan, clawing at his neck and knocking him from his chair. In spite of his age, the man possessed quite an unexpected degree of strength. The two sprawled on the floor, and while he quickly pinned Begbie to the ground, he couldn't say he'd subdued the older man. Begs spewed forth a litany of obscenities as undercover police, discretely watching from a business across the street, flooded the restaurant and relieved Duncan of his quarry.
The officers dragged a unresponsive man, quite different from the one he'd wrestled, from the establishment and into the proverbial paddy wagon as a stunned crowd looked on. Poking Begs in his soft spot had worked.
A police detective righted the chair and plunked down next to where the two had sat. When a waiter delivered another round of whisky, Duncan joined him, downing the drink in a single gulp.
"Stop by later today with your statement?"
Duncan nodded, then slipped the man a business card.
"You'll want to arrest the cleaning lady who works for him."
The officer raised his eyebrows, wanting further explanation.
"That's my landlord's card. He also owns the building where Begbie and Wainwrithe is located. We share a cleaning lady, and she's been spying on me for Begs—I mean for Clarence Begbie."
"What about his assistant?"
"I think if you threaten to implicate her, he'll tell you everything. The old fool's fallen in love with her."
"Those files you provided proved most helpful. We've got him on fraud for sure. The old buggers were a cagey duo, all right. Who would have guessed at such a complicated scheme, especially involving such highly respected art dealers?"
"Wainwrithe had the opportunity and Begbie had the talent. He'd studied art in his early days. My guess is Clarence painted the works while Bertram created their false provenance. I've found over two dozen paintings that passed through their hands over the years with no known prior history other than appearing in a lone auction catalogue prior to the Second World War."
The officer shook his head and rose. "See you at the station later," he said over his shoulder as he left the restaurant.
Duncan nodded.
He sat in the strange chair an hour longer, his thoughts jumbled. He refused another whisky, opting for a coffee. Peter Menzies kept coming to mind, along with the similarities between his death and that of Bertram Wainwrithe. What if they were identical? What if Peter hadn't been murdered, but instead ended his life due to threats or misery? Maybe they were identical, Siamese suicides after all, joined by circumstances. As he walked from the restaurant, a vision of Clarence's twisted face haunted his thoughts. How could Begs be so evil as to convince his partner he had the same illness as the mother he'd watched suffer for years? His mind thus occupied, he wasn't paying attention to his progress and bumped smack into Helen Brightly.
"Mr. Dewar! Fancy running into you," she greeted him, glancing over the top of her black, horn-rimmed spectacles.
"Helen."
"Doctor Brightly," she corrected him with a smile.
Which is it? Previously, she'd asked him to call her Helen.
"Yes, well, Doctor Brightly, how are you?"
"I'm well, and yourself?" she asked, raising her chin and launching a brow high on her forehead while pushing her glasses into a more secure position on her nose.
"Fine," he lied. He actually felt quite spent from his encounter and everything else that had been going on in his life.
They stared at each other for an awkward moment.
"Are you quite sure?"
He swallowed hard and nodded.
"Well, I'll be seeing you—"
"Doctor, I think you should know that my fiancée is not a people pleaser. Whatever you've been filling Angela's head with, it's not helping."
Helen Brightly seemed taken aback. Then she grinned, perhaps catching a whiff of whisky on his breath.
"Now, Mr. Dewar—"
"Duncan," he interrupted.
"Duncan." She dragged the syllables of his name out. "You know perfectly well that even if Angela was my client, I couldn't reveal anything about our discussions. That's all privileged information, including my client list," she added.
He drew in a deep breath of damp oxygen and released the air via a series of puffs. She gave him an insulting look, as if he didn't quite measure up.
"Whatever you say, Helen."
"I did want to tell you I'll be out of the office next week for a few days. I'm going to Malta for some sun. Let your fiancée know I won't be around," she yelled after him.
He crossed the street without saying goodbye, leaving the doctor in mid-sentence. He heard her babbling on about something, but he was too tired to respond or commit it to memory. When he saw himself in a passing window, he realized why she'd looked at him so strangely. The confrontation with Clarence had left him a mess. Ripped shirt, scratches on his neck, and hair mussed in all directions gave away that he'd just been through some kind of trauma.
Across town, Angela fidgeted, straightening her apron. She'd received a text message earlier from Duncan stating all was well, but that he'd been held up at police headquarters. She'd met with Dr. Brightly in the late afternoon, then stopped by the restaurant to help out. Her conversations with the psychologist had at first eased her grief, but now they just served to confuse her. She found herself doubting her own instincts and her relationships.
"Dear, can you take this out to table seven?" Margaret asked, handing her a dish of sea bass risotto with scallops.
"Of course."
Business remained strong and the restaurant now had staff sent over from an agency. Those who passed muster were invited to stay on, and Angela's services weren't really needed. She came by to stay busy until she could speak with Duncan and find out what had happened with his case.
"Care to join me?"
"Thank you, Moses, but I'm sure you've noticed I'm an engaged woman," she said, placing the steaming seafood and rice dish in front of him.
He feigned surprise at her announcement.
"Come on, Angela. A few minutes with a lonely customer won't hurt anyone."
She glanced back at hi
s crew, devouring plates of lamb at their own table.
"You're not exactly alone," she said, nodding towards his cronies and taking the seat he'd pulled out for her. "Listen, Moses. You've been wonderful for business and I do enjoy your company—"
"I sense a but coming."
"That's right. I'm happily engaged to Duncan. He's not comfortable with me palling around with other men."
"Can't blame him there," Mo muttered under his breath.
"So, you're good with how things are?"
"Aye, fir now, we're good."
She smiled and left the table, not certain that they both were, in fact, good. She knew she loved Duncan, but with the sudden change in her circumstances, was it fair to him to continue their engagement? Dr. Brightly thought they needed more time to sort through their new situation without a commitment hanging over their heads. Their talks, up on the roof when the weather permitted, allowed her a sounding board, a way to discuss her jumbled up feelings. She shrugged and helped Ravi tidy a table, then followed the boy back into the kitchen.
Chapter 13
A New Plan
Duncan sat in the police station in Tyne, awaiting the arrival of Chief Inspector John Wallace. When he'd texted Angela, he didn't mention which headquarters he'd been waylaid at. After filling in John Holcolm at L and G with the latest and getting everything straight with the police in Edinburgh, he'd driven directly to Tyne. Unfortunately, Wallace was away, interviewing witnesses at a crime scene. Inspector Jimmy Smythe kept him company, offering him a cup of tea, which he refused.
"Ye dinnae look so good, Duncan," Abigail Neward's nephew remarked. "Sure ye won't have a cuppa?"
"I'm fine," he said, trying to smooth down his unruly locks.
He hadn't taken time to clean up after the brawl—a big mistake. Everyone treated him as though he were an escaped lunatic, and he could hardly blame them.
"Should I call my aunt?"
"Whatever for?" Duncan snapped. His patience wore thin as exhaustion crept through his body.
"I dinnae know. Talking to her helps me when I've something to work out."
"I'm sorry, Jimmy. It's been a long day and I really must speak to John. When do you get off duty?"
"Not until the chief inspector returns."
"Oh, good. Then I'm not keeping you. I think I will have that cup of tea. Why don't you fill me in on what's been happening around here?"
Smythe poured hot water from an electric kettle into a beaker, allowing a tea bag time to steep, and began recounting recent local shenanigans. He had Duncan chuckling over an episode between Robert Abernathy's dog and his aunt's cats. The baker had been daft enough to bring his Jack Russell into the book shop. The animal played havoc with some rare volumes before seeking bigger, more dangerous game. He received a good scratch on the nose when he tried to jump onto Abigail's counter.
"The funniest part was," Jimmy squeaked out between laughs, "he wanted a book on dog training! He was questioning my aunt while his mutt about tore the place apart. Neither of them took note until the beast yelped in pain from a whack on his snout from one of those American felines."
"What did Abigail do?" Duncan managed to say between hoots of laughter.
"She's . . . she's . . ." the inspector snorted and continued, "she's making him pay for the damages in baked goods!" He cackled before adding, "And the dog's banned from Cat's Books for life!"
The two men chortled over the situation, Duncan from exhaustion and raw nerves and Jimmy because the story tickled him more every time he told it. To observe the large inspector in hysterics proved quite a sight.
"What's all the guffawing?" John Wallace demanded above the din, blowing smoke from a cigarette which dangled from a corner of his mouth. He crushed the fag in an ashtray at the front desk and removed his hat and coat.
"Oh, sorry, Sir. I dinnae hear you enter. Mr. Dewar's here to see ye. Urgent like," he added in a low tone.
"Come in my office, Duncan," the chief inspector said, propping the door open for him. "Hold everything that's not an emergency, Jimmy," he called to the inspector.
Duncan took a seat and waited for Wallace to close the door.
"What happened to you?"
"It's been a rough day, John. I just finished a case that got me thinking about Peter Menzies."
The chief inspector pulled an ashtray from his desk drawer and lit up a cigarette from a pack he had stashed there. He took a long drag of nicotine, held it in his lungs for some time, and then released the smoke in small rings, moving his mouth like a fish. Duncan watched as the white circles flew towards the ceiling, expanding into large ovals before disappearing.
"What do you think of my new trick?"
"I think it's going to kill you."
"So does the wife. Continue." He waved his hand in a gesture that said he'd listen to more.
"I was investigating an apparent suicide. Turns out, it was just that, but the victim had been fooled into thinking he was losing his mind. Poor chap was convinced he had Alzheimer's, or some such ailment, just like his mum."
"Honestly?"
"Yes. He was in a crooked art business, and my guess is he wanted out. His partner convinced him he had dementia, and the old fellow hung himself."
"And you think someone convinced Peter Menzies he was demented?"
"No. After reading the medical report—"
"How'd you get hold of that?"
"That doesn't matter, John. The point is, the doctor and the sheriff all believe Peter killed himself. I think he was driven to it. We could use that fact to squeeze information out of Ainsley."
"How so? We haven't been able to get anything from him thus far."
"I've got something we didn't have before."
"And what might that be?"
Duncan explained his plan to the chief inspector, expounding on how he had run his fault tree analysis for the situation and come up with favorable results. Wallace seemed impressed.
"I'll have to talk to the prison authorities and the sheriff. I can't guarantee anything," he said, crushing his last cigarette into the tray.
"Just get me in there to see Ainsley."
He pushed the legal speed limit on his way back to Edinburgh. Even so, he didn’t arrive at Cocina Gaélico until ten p.m. By then, Moses and his boys had moved on, and the restaurant seemed quiet, in spite of the fact that half the tables were still filled with diners.
"Oh, Duncan! I've been so worried. What happened to you?" Angela said, gently running her fingers over the scratches on his neck and trying to smooth out his errant locks.
"Clarence Begbie is what happened."
Angela gasped.
He took her by the hand, leading her to a table where they sat down. Margaret happened to see them and brought a bottle of wine by, along with two glasses.
"You look like you need this," she said, shaking her head. "What happened to you?"
"That's the question I keep hearing. I'm fine, Mum. No need to worry."
She looked askance at the couple and retreated to the kitchen.
"You were correct about Begbie, Darling. He was dangerous. You know that cleaning girl who's been around so much lately?"
She nodded. Although she never got a good look at her, Angela knew the woman had become a nuisance in the tiny office.
"She was spying for Begs."
"No!"
"Yes. He knew about my research and tried to threaten you and mum."
"No!"
"Yes. He made veiled threats, but threats all the same. When he mentioned my interest in art history, I figured it out. I told him he'd never get a dime from L and G. Then, I told him his assistant might do time in the big house as an accessory."
"Big house?"
"Sorry, prison. Did I tell you he had an assistant?"
"No."
"Well, he had a very pr—, uh, I mean sophisticated girl working for him. When I mentioned her, he attacked me. I figured he was in love with her. Turns out, she's his great niece."
"Yes. Only living relative he's got. The old villain's crazy about her. Let me tell you, he and Wainwrithe ran a crooked establishment. The police have the job of tracking down their customers and explaining how the masterpieces they bought are probably phony. They were in business for decades."
"No!"
"Angela, are you all right? You've not said much but one word since we sat down."
"No, I mean yes, I'm fine. So, was your theory accurate? Did Wainwrithe work as an inside man at the auction houses, providing a false provenance for the forged paintings?"
"He certainly did. The police say Begs is claiming Bertram blackmailed him into allowing him to join the firm, but I'm not sure I believe that. After he became a partner with Clarence, he used his contacts to get into the archives and switch out old catalogues with ones he'd doctored. He had an entire cache of them he'd removed when working in Geneva, London, and Edinburgh, so he had plenty to alter."
"What a scam."
"It sure was. But you know what the Good Book says, 'There's nothing new under the sun.'"
"What do you mean?"
"Someone else ran the same scam down south. Got discovered when a woman scorned by one of the crooks blew the whistle. They were working the same angle—imitating the style of famous painters in new works similar to established pieces. Then, they'd insert a fake page into an old, pre-war auction catalogue, listing the forgery as having been authenticated and up for sale at that time. They'd never have been caught if it wasn't for the dalliances of one of the villains."
"Ha! They also say, 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!'"
"Aye. But I don't think that's in the Bible, Darling. I read about the other case in one of the books I got from Abigail. That's what set me in the right direction—and seeing a so-called masterpiece sitting half-unwrapped and unattended on the ground at Begbie and Wainwrithe. Whew! I'm glad you didn't witness what happened this afternoon. The chap went from a nice looking older gent to a madman. His true colors really showed. I can't get it out of my mind."
The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6) Page 12
