The Hogarth Conspiracy

by Alex Connor

  “But you didn’t meet Mr. Ivanovitch yourself?” Victor persisted, cutting in.

  “No; it was arranged over the phone. As is most of our business. That’s why my employees are referred to as call girls.”

  Victor ignored the barb and pressed on. “Even if you won’t tell me, the police will want to know who he is.”

  “Oh, they knew Marian Miller was one of my girls, but I haven’t told the police that Mr. Ivanovitch was recommended by anyone.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it. The police rang the telephone number Mr. Ivanovitch gave me and had his address checked out, but they were false.” She paused, her tone confident. “I know how to handle the police, Mr. Ballam. We get along nicely, have for years.”

  Victor smiled wryly. “So Mr. Ivanovitch is the chief suspect?”

  “At the moment. But personally I don’t think he’s involved. Most new clients give us false contact numbers and addresses until they trust us, but to begin with they don’t. Why should they? They have a lot to lose.”

  “It seems your girls have more to lose.”

  She let the comment pass.

  “There’s a good deal more to all of this, Mr. Ballam. The flight on Bernie Freeland’s jet was uneventful until just before landing. Bernie apparently had his drink spiked—”

  “Bernie Freeland was drinking? That’s out of character.”

  “He was only drinking tonic water until someone put something in it, and then he reacted very oddly, panicking and mumbling to Oliver Peters about some Hogarth painting. The one with the Prince of Wales depicted.”

  Victor kept his face expressionless as she continued.

  “It’s valuable, obviously, and scandalous. Dangerous even.” She paused. “Marian Miller overheard the exchange between Bernie and Sir Oliver Peters.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Naturally.”

  “What about the other dealers on the plane? Did they hear?”

  She shrugged. “That’s something Marian didn’t know.”

  “Did the other girls overhear what was said?”

  “Only Marian admitted to it,” Mrs. Fleet replied. “As to the others, I don’t know, but since Marian’s death they’ve both been jumpy.”

  “How was she killed?”

  “Bludgeoned. The police found thirty pieces of silver with her body. Russian rubles.”

  “Russian rubles—bit obvious, but it points the finger at Ivanovitch.”

  “Too obvious,” Mrs. Fleet said smoothly. “Of course the police didn’t tell me about the coins; the chambermaid did. I later found out from other sources that Marian Miller was pregnant.”

  “So what’s the relevance of the thirty pieces of silver?”

  Mrs. Fleet smiled chillingly. “Do you think there’s a point to the coins?”

  “Thirty pieces of silver was what they paid Judas for betraying Christ,” Victor replied. “Did Marian Miller betray someone?”

  “That’s what I want you to discover, Mr. Ballam: why Marian Miller was murdered, why she needed to be killed. Someone reacted very quickly and very brutally within hours of her returning to London. Why?”

  “Because of what she overheard on the plane journey, perhaps.”

  “I think so.”

  It was now eleven-thirty on a cold Sunday morning, but Mrs. Fleet rose and poured them each a glass of white wine from her office fridge. The sleeping mastiff suddenly raised his head from his paws, glanced over to Victor, and snarled softly. Mrs. Fleet’s reaction was immediate. Clicking her fingers at the dog, she watched as the animal dropped its head again, showing the whites of its eyes. It was patently afraid of her, and her own expression was fleetingly triumphant.

  Unsettled, Victor pressed on. “You think Marian Miller was killed because she knew about the Hogarth?”

  “I’m not sure; that’s why I needed to talk to you. You’re the art expert. What’s your opinion?”

  Victor paused as though he were thinking, but in reality he was wondering how much to tell the implacable Mrs. Fleet. He suspected that she already realized the tremendous impact the work would have on the art market. His dealer’s instinct heightened, he stared into his wine. He had grabbed at the chance of work, knowing he would have taken on anything to occupy his mind and shoehorn himself back into normal life. But he hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected to be told about a painting that had such a huge cult reputation. For one scintillating moment he imagined possessing the Hogarth himself.

  And then he realized just how dangerous the Hogarth might prove to be if it really was authentic.

  “The Hogarth would be worth a fortune,” Victor said finally. “It would also be a great triumph for its owner.”

  “Worth killing for?”

  “People kill for loose change.”

  “Neither of us deals in loose change, Mr. Ballam,” she said, her tone suspiciously soft. “I had three girls working that flight. Marian’s been butchered. Liza Frith and Annette Dvorski believe they might be next.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve talked to the police about the painting.”

  She looked at him and then ran her finger down the condensation on her glass. “Let them continue to think Marian was killed by some john.”

  “The mysterious Sergei Ivanovitch.”

  She nodded. “I run an exclusive whorehouse. I can’t risk my clients being investigated and exposed. You don’t use call girls, do you, Mr. Ballam? You wouldn’t have to. You’re attractive; you don’t have to pay for it. But some men do. And some men want things only a working girl will do for them. Some hate their wives or don’t have time for relationships. Others can’t get a woman because they’re ugly, or shy, or they can’t get it up. There are men who want to be humiliated and degraded in every way physically possible, and everything they want, we give them. For a fee.”

  He held her gaze as she talked on.

  “There’s a recession on. In Germany the brothels are offering discounts for clients who arrive on their bikes. Yes, seriously.” Her laugh was short on mirth. “But I don’t have any problem keeping my girls busy. The art world provides my best customers. Some dealers use us as a bribe, an extra to sweeten a deal, and who can blame them? If a buyer is reluctant, a weekend with one of my girls could be the deciding factor. In the art world, the flesh and the Devil are close runners.”

  “Annette Dvorski is a foreign name.”

  She blinked, wrong-footed.

  “Are you asking me if I’m using illegal immigrants?”

  “Are you?”

  “No, Mr. Ballam. Annette came to London to study, then decided that she preferred to make money horizontally. My girls are never forced into prostitution; they are all at the top of their game, hired for their looks and their brains. They aren’t—or ever will be—King’s Cross whores.”

  “Do they work for you exclusively?”

  “Absolutely. If I catch a girl working for anyone else, she’s fired.”

  “Without references?”

  “I’m sorry you don’t approve of me, Mr. Ballam, but you’re hardly one to sit in judgment.”

  The barb found its mark.

  “So if you won’t confide in the police,” Victor said evenly, “what d’you expect me to do?”

  “Let me make myself clear. I am very rich, and I have power because of my influential connections. My client list relies on my discretion to protect them.”

  She leaned back in her chair, the dog immobile at her feet. “I don’t care about the painting; I decided long ago not to enter the art market directly. I work the dealers another way, so the Hogarth means nothing to me. Neither do the other dealers on that plane, and I don’t care about the money. If you get hold of the picture, keep it and good luck.” She raised her glass in a mock salute, her tone confusingly gentle. “I just want you to find out if my employees are really in danger, and if they are, I want you to get them out of danger.”

  “That’s a lot to ask.”

  “I�
��m offering a big fee.”

  Victor paused, caught between two emotions: fascination and caution.

  “Well,” he said finally. “You’re clever, Mrs. Fleet; I’ll give you that. You knew that I’d be interested because the art world’s what I know, and you knew that I needed work because there’s no queue to hire me. I also think you relied on the fact that I’d probably want to get revenge, but what is really clever—and I take my hat off to you for this—is that you knew that the moment you told me about the Hogarth and made me complicit, I was screwed.”

  She smiled slowly.

  “Like I said, Mr. Ballam, welcome to my postal code.”

  Twelve

  LOOSENING THE COLLAR OF HIS ELEGANT SHIRT, OLIVER PETERS stared at his oncologist, his expression momentarily blank. On the wall was the x-ray viewing machine showing the images of his stomach, lit from behind and looming like Halloween ghouls. But they looked fine to him. No gaps, no huge black crosses, no signs saying “diseased.”

  He blinked, looked away, and, sounding confused, said, “But I haven’t been having as much pain lately.”

  His doctor nodded as though that was almost expected. “That can happen.”

  “That has happened,” Oliver insisted, his features slackening with shock, his good manners faltering. “You’re wrong, Doctor Chadwick; you’ve buggered it up. You’ve got it wrong!” He banged his fists on the side of his chair. “YOU ARE WRONG!” Recovering his composure, he sobbed once, the sound catching in his throat. “I … I’m not getting as much pain.”

  Without looking at his patient, the doctor wrote something in his notes.

  “That’s good.”

  “Yes, that’s good,” Oliver echoed, but without conviction. A wife, an apartment in Hampstead and a house in Surrey, three children at private school, and a disease that was killing him. “What about chemotherapy?”

  “The cancer is too advanced, Sir Oliver. It wouldn’t help you, and it’s a punishing treatment.”

  “It’s a punishing disease,” Oliver replied drily, trying to sound in control but panicking inside. His profits had been falling; he had struggled to cover the school fees for the last term. What now? Sell the business? Who would buy a gallery in a market grown nervous and wary?

  “Alternative medicine … D’you think that might help? I mean, it might—er—might it?” He stopped, forced composure, and got to his feet. “How long have I got left?”

  “About three months.”

  “But you do hear about remissions….”

  “Yes, they happen sometimes.”

  “So I could go into remission?” Oliver said desperately.

  “No; I’m afraid your disease is too far advanced,” Chadwick replied, his tone gentle. “You have to tell your wife. She really should know.”

  “Know that I’m dying? Perhaps I should also tell her that when I’m gone, she might have to take the children out of school. Perhaps I should share my last few months unloading every burden onto her shoulders. Sonia can watch me die, but in case that isn’t difficult enough, why don’t I let her know that after I’ve gone she might have to sell the country house? Even the gallery—if she can find a buyer.” He was overflowing with bitterness and despair. “How exactly is that supposed to help my wife?”

  Embarrassed, the doctor was hesitant.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had financial worries.”

  Oliver buttoned his jacket, smoothing down his hair as though to smooth down his emotions at the same time.

  “No, I’m not going to tell Sonia anything, Doctor. Not until I’ve made her and the children secure,” he said, and turned toward the door.

  “Can you manage that? You don’t have very much time, and the pain will get worse. You won’t be able to work or function as well as you could before.”

  Pausing at the doorway, Oliver looked at the oncologist.

  “I have your word that you will say nothing to my wife, Chadwick? Even if she asks you?”

  Reluctantly, the doctor nodded. “I have to respect my patients’ wishes, but if you won’t confide in her, you should try to get some other form of support. Some help.”

  “I don’t need help,” Oliver replied, his tone ironic. “I need a miracle.”

  It was raining when Oliver Peters walked out onto Harley Street. Pausing a moment, he straightened his tie again and began walking toward Marylebone High Street. His mind went back to the flight in Bernie Freeland’s jet. Not for the first time, he wished he hadn’t gotten on the bloody plane in the first place. He had hated lying to Sonia, her dark eyes curious as she asked about his journey. He could have told her the truth, but he knew it would mean an argument. What was he doing accepting a lift with three call girls? Was he insane? What if someone had seen him? He was a respected man who moved in the highest circles, a confidant of some of the most important personages in the land. Sir Oliver Peters had always led an exemplary life. Why risk his reputation—and that of his family—on a shortcut home?

  He knew why. Because he had been desperate to get home. Hong Kong was no place for a dying man, and Oliver had been more than glad to leave. But he couldn’t have told Sonia that, because then he would have had to explain everything else. Instead, he had taken the proffered lift and grown more wretched by the minute in that unfamiliar, overheated atmosphere until, unexpectedly, fate had tossed him the Hogarth grenade.

  Yes, his bank had said that morning, there had been a robbery. Several of the safe deposit boxes had been broken into, along with his. They were incredibly apologetic but explained that there had been no way of getting in touch with him. For his own security and wary of any revealing documentation being available, Oliver had given them only his cell number and had forgotten to update them when he had changed it.

  Their relief had been obvious when he had contacted them.

  “We’re very sorry—”

  “But I saw nothing about it in the news.”

  “We’re managing to keep the matter secret, sir.”

  “I had only two objects in my safety deposit box. You remember?”

  “Yes, Sir Oliver. A diamond necklace and a painting, as I remember.”

  “Have both been taken?”

  There had been a lift of hope in the man’s voice. “Only the painting, sir.”

  Of course, Oliver thought; the painting had been the only thing the thief had wanted. And then, when he understood the danger of possessing it, he had sold it. To Bernie Freeland. Oliver swallowed, relieved that the inscribed ring had never been stored with the painting, relieved that the other evidence of the royal bastard had not been found. Nor would it be because no one knew where the ring was. Except him.

  “You said that other safety deposit boxes were broken into. Were other customers robbed?”

  “No, sir,” the manager had replied, hoarse with embarrassment. “Only you.”

  Only you. Of course it was only him. The thief had been after the painting, nothing else. And Oliver had a good idea who the thief had been—Guy Manners, the adopted son of one of the wealthiest banking families in Europe. Oliver held his panic in check. Obviously he couldn’t go to the court. No one spoke directly of royal bastards. Such matters were passed over to courtiers to deal with. Like Nathaniel Overton, who had managed the secret and then passed it down to his descendants, who had in turn passed it on to Oliver. Any direct plea for aid from the royals would have been unthinkable. Oliver’s family had served them and managed their secret for generations, as they were expected to. With complete discretion. Even if the royal family did come to hear of the theft, there would be no direct contact; instead, they would expect the matter to be solved without being involved in any way. It was tradition. Rigid, unbroken tradition.

  Sir Oliver Peters was on his own.

  Walking quickly down Marylebone High Street, he tried to shake off a portentous feeling of doom. But the conversation with the bank manager continued to come back to him, crystal sharp.

  “Do the police have any le
ads?” he had asked. “Any idea who took the painting?”

  “No, sir. We’re truly very sorry about this.”

  “Did you ever look at the painting?”

  “No, sir!” The manager was genuinely offended. “The safety deposit box was never opened by anyone but yourself. As you know, the picture was always kept in a sealed cylinder. Neither I nor any of my staff have even seen the painting. You always expressly insisted that no one should ever look at the work or handle it.”

  “Well, someone managed to handle it out of your bank. How do you explain that?”

  He couldn’t, of course. And the police couldn’t. They told Oliver that the surveillance cameras had been short-circuited and for twenty minutes—the duration of the robbery—there had been no visual record of who had entered the bank or the vault. Forensic evidence had little more to add. Obviously, someone had posed as a customer, entered the vault, and broken into Sir Oliver Peters’s safety deposit. When the manager and staff were questioned further, all anyone could remember was a small, apparently Middle Eastern man who had come with two bodyguards. The fact that he had arrived so ostentatiously had meant that the staff wasn’t suspicious. After a part-time assistant had checked his credentials, the little man had been shown into the vault. When he had left, everything had seemed in order. In fact, the robbery might have remained unnoticed for a long time if it had not been for the break in surveillance that made a security guard suspicious.

  Clever, audacious, and well plotted, Oliver thought bitterly. Yet the thief had soon rid himself of his booty—Guy Manners heaving off the Hogarth to Bernie Freeland. And the last time Oliver had seen Bernie, he had been in fear for his life, babbling in front of some of the most cunning dealers on earth about his incredible find.

  Thirteen

  WITHOUT REALIZING IT, OLIVER HAD WALKED ALL THE WAY TO OLD Bond Street. He turned into the Burlington Arcade, strode to his gallery, and buzzed to be let in. To his surprise, a familiar face greeted him: Lim Chang. He stood up as Oliver entered, his expression a mélange of courtesy and anxiety. Oliver, picking up on the atmosphere, invited him into his office at the back of the building. Observing Lim Chang take a seat, he noticed the familiar, precise parting and a waxiness around his eyes.