by Alex Connor
“Where is it?”
“The picture? Bernie Freeland has it.”
“In New York?” asked Tully.
“I imagine so. That’s where he is now.”
“You know what this could mean, don’t you?”
“I was an art dealer, Tully; I know exactly what it could mean. That Hogarth on the open market could cause a monumental scandal.” He paused, then said, “A long time ago I heard an interesting theory from Fraser Heath-Lincoln—”
“That old bastard.”
Victor smiled, amused. “He liked me, thought I had potential, so we used to talk. He was vicious and untrustworthy, but he adored the royals. He used to say that the English throne was the closest thing to God, which was why he was so interested in the Hogarth series The Harlot’s Progress. It was Fraser who told me about Polly Gunnell and the Prince of Wales—and about the painting that gave the game away.”
Tully pulled a face. “It was just a rumor. And besides, the whole series of The Harlot’s Progress was destroyed in a fire.”
“Maybe not. Perhaps it was convenient for everyone to believe that it no longer existed because the painting proved the rumor. If the Hogarth depicts the Prince of Wales with his whore, it would be priceless. And very dangerous. And because of that everyone would be after it.” Victor paused. “There’s a theory that Hogarth took the child in and that he later placed the boy with his friend Thomas Coram, who set up the Foundling Hospital.”
“Hogarth took the boy in?” Tully was amazed. “How could he have done that?”
“Easily. He could have passed him off as the child of one of his servants. Hogarth was married, living with his wife and his in-laws in a spacious townhouse. No one was interested in what went on below stairs. The painter knew that; he could have secreted the baby there and then moved it later.”
“But why?”
“Maybe he felt he owed it to Polly Gunnell, his model. I think Hogarth knew about her involvement with the Prince of Wales; perhaps she had confided in him. For a long time there’s been a rumor that she was killed because she was carrying the Prince of Wales’s child. Well, what if it’s true? I don’t say the royals had anything to do with it, but Frederick, Prince of Wales, was estranged from his parents. He was feckless and spirited, but if he had had a son out of wedlock, that boy would have been the heir to the throne.”
“But that would mean that the line of succession—”
“Wouldn’t have led to Elizabeth the Second. Yes, that’s exactly what it would mean.”
“Jesus!”
“There were always pretenders to the English throne, Tully. Bonnie Prince Charlie, for example. But if the anti-German factions could have replaced George, Prince of Wales, with an English heir—albeit an illegitimate one—they would have jumped at the chance. And even if they’d failed, the attempt would have destabilized royalty and Parliament.”
Unblinking, Tully stared at Victor. “Did the child live?”
“I don’t know; no one does. But if his existence is proved, it would delight the republicans and give them some mighty ammunition. There’s a growing backlash against royalty in this country. The public is irritated by the extravagance of the young royals, their arrogant entitlement to status. Now, just imagine if Lim Chang got hold of this Hogarth painting—further proof of the decadent West, of the corruption within the royal family. Some might argue the Windsors shouldn’t even be in power. China would love to be the whistle-blower on that scandal. They’ve been flexing their muscles since the Beijing Olympics, and every month their power increases along with their influence. How thrilled would they be to expose the scandal?”
“And Lim Chang would further his career.”
“He would be a national hero, a fully paid-up member of the laurel wreath club. And then there’s Kit Wilkes. Spiteful, delighted to embarrass his social-climbing father—the Hogarth exposé would be a double whammy. He could prove his own skill as a dealer and kick the establishment in the crotch at the same time. James Holden is a Tory MP, desperate for a knighthood and a place in the House of Lords one day. He isn’t going to want his bastard to ruin his life. God knows, Wilkes has sold his father out to the tabloids dozens of times; he’s made a career out of malice. But Holden moves in royal circles, he’s ruthless, and he’s grafted to get where he is. Somehow he’s managed to hold on to his status.”
“Are you saying Wilkes could ruin his father if he got hold of the Hogarth?”
Victor nodded, walked over to the window, held back the curtain, and looked out.
“And Wilkes might like to sell it to the Russians,” he said.
He could see the street lamps reflected dully in the Thames and a small boat huffing its way over the dark river, then disappearing under the shadow of a bridge.
“And then there’s Sir Oliver Peters,” Victor went on. “Dealer in English art, part of the establishment, in fact, everything James Holden wants to be.” Victor let the curtain drop and turned back to Tully. “Oliver Peters is the only dealer I don’t worry about. My only concern is that if he got hold of the Hogarth, he might destroy it to protect the royals. He’d put honor before his own triumph.”
“A year ago I’d have agreed with you.”
It was Victor’s turn to be surprised. “What?”
“He’s dying. And the unexpected beckoning of his god might demote the royals in Sir Oliver’s eyes. He might want to make a splash before he goes.”
“No, he’s too much of a royalist.”
“But he’s dying, Victor, and that changes a man’s attitude. Sir Oliver might need to secure his reputation, ensure he’s not forgotten. Chivalry’s all well and good, but for a dying man with a wife and three children at a private school, the money that a Hogarth could make would be a powerful temptation.”
“How d’you know he’s dying?”
“His tailor’s discreet, dear boy, but they gossip in the workroom. The other day Sir Oliver passed out while he was having a fitting, and he’s been getting his clothes altered to cover his weight loss for months now.”
“So all the dealers on Bernie Freeland’s plane have reasons to want the picture, that is, if Freeland’s prepared to sell it.”
There was a long silence, both men thinking. Victor was the first to speak.
“Mrs. Fleet said that Liza Frith—the girl now staying with her—is terrified.”
“But the other girl who was on the plane is still working?”
“Annette Dvorski, yes. She was unnerved, but she’s made of stronger stuff than Liza. You know something, Tully? That flight was deadly.”
“You have to go to the police, Victor.”
“I can’t do that. They wouldn’t listen to me, and I can’t expose Mrs. Fleet and her clients.”
“But a girl was murdered.”
“And you think the police will find out who did it? They’re looking for some phantom Russian—Marian Miller’s convenient john that night.” He smiled wryly. “No, the police haven’t got a chance. The ranks are closing, Tully; I can feel it. I know how the art world functions. They have a secret and want to protect themselves. Bernie Freeland was drugged, and he let something slip. The trouble is, I don’t know who heard what he said, if it was some of the passengers or all of them. But I have a better chance of finding out than the police.”
“It’s risky.”
“I know. The stakes are much higher, and the fighting’s a lot dirtier.”
“And you’d love to get your own hands on that Hogarth, wouldn’t you?” Tully said, his face assuming a beatific expression. “See that image of the Prince of Wales with his whore. She’s got a baby in her belly. Is that why she’s smiling? Kicking over the table, breast exposed. Tits a little too full, perhaps? Already heavy with milk? Imagine Hogarth painting the scene. Wicked little fellow to be so very naughty…. Now, you imagine owning it, Victor, the proof in your hands. The power to make everyone sit up and take notice again. The art world couldn’t ignore you after a coup like that.�
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Stung, Victor retorted, “You think I’m doing this for revenge?”
“I know you’re doing it for revenge.”
“The person who has the Hogarth is holding a loaded shotgun,” Victor said calmly. “Yes, it’s worth a fortune, but it’s also dangerous. It could challenge the royal lineage and even change history. Everyone who knows about it’s threatened.”
“Which is why you can’t do this on your own!”
“I have to find that painting.”
Tully paused. He could see the danger, could feel the underlying current of tension. Victor was putting himself in a difficult position. But then again, he had no choice.
So Tully did what his conscience prompted him to do. “Let me help you.”
“Why? You’ve just said it’s dangerous.”
“I like a bit of danger, Victor; I’m fucking bored. I’m getting old before my time.”
“You are old.”
“Not that old.” Tully smiled. “Only sixty-odd, and all my limbs are still working. Apart from the knees, but then, I don’t suppose there will be much ballet involved, will there? Let me help.”
But Victor wasn’t having it. “No; I can find it on my own.”
“And when you do—if you do—then what? There’s already been one death; you’ve said yourself it’s dangerous even to know about the flaming picture. Walk away from it, Victor. Get out of it now, while you have the chance.”
“A girl was murdered!”
“And I’m sorry for it. But someone deliberately went after her, and they could well go after everyone else on that flight. And now that you’re involved, what’s to stop them from coming after you? Listen to reason, Victor, the situation’s lethal; only a fool would go ahead with it alone. A fool or a martyr.” He looked hard at Victor. “Just who are you trying to save?”
“I suppose that depends on who needs saving the most.”
What have I done?
Descending the steps to the basement, I found—as I had hoped—the door of the kitchen open. Taking in a long breath, I walked in. A great fire sparked under a cumbersome grate from which a copper pan hung suspended over the flames. The smell of hot jam seemed at once welcoming and sickly, but for me it augured well: Nell Bindy was still working. Moving into the firelight, I stole a closer look at the baby in my arms, pulling back the rags which covered it and waiting for Nell to return.
Children, born to the poor who could hardly feed themselves, left on the bank of the Thames for the coming tide, or simply dropped in the street with the sewage, had been a scandal in the London streets for many years. Many times I had seen putrid grey bodies crawling with rats or bobbing in the capital’s stinking river. I knew that for the destitute there was little choice; only the workhouse and the misery of gruelling labour and crowded, unsafe surroundings. Every day the newspapers advertised nurses who, for a modest fee, would take on children and find them good homes. But the trade had become a public scandal when it was discovered that the nurses had left their charges neglected, often abused, and always unfed in the dying rooms of London.
The money paid by desperate mothers was easy profit. The nurses reported back about the fictitious country homes the babies had gone to while hundreds of unclaimed carcasses sank under the tide of the Thames.
But I knew that Polly Gunnell would never have deserted her baby. I thought back to the last time I had seen her. She had been obviously pregnant, shrugging off my increasingly anxious enquiries but accepting an offer to sit for me again. Back in the comfort of the studio she had relaxed and begged to see the painting. Her insistence finally wore me down, and I showed it to her. If I am to be truthful, I was inordinately proud of the work, Number three in the series The Harlot’s Progress, showing pretty Polly Gunnell flirting with the onlooker, her lover sneaking out at the back of the painting. A man with a face all London knew.
She had smiled at the Prince of Wales’s image. “Polly,” I had begun nervously. “The baby you’re carrying …”
And she had put her fingers to her lips, shaking her head slightly at me. Pretty, so pretty, full of mischief, clever, and sure of herself.
I knew then without her telling me. I knew—and from that instant I was in fear for her. And, God forbid, somewhat for myself. I truly believe Polly never understood how perilous her situation was. Perhaps there was a certain triumph in knowing the lineage of her bastard, but she was in love, and that took precedence over everything. If she ever did consider her future, I imagine Polly would have believed herself safe, and I take comfort in the hope that she had no portent of her terrible death.
I did not seen her alive again.
Staring at the baby, it was obvious even to me, a childless man, that it was newborn and too weak to cry from hunger. Shaken, I wondered if Polly had delivered her son just before she was killed or if the baby had been ripped out of her whilst she was still alive. What terror must she have felt! What pain as she bled, her child thrown onto the floor out of her reach while her murderers set about her with their knives, tearing into her face. Polly had been a streetwalker, clever in city ways, but not clever or quick enough this time.
When had she known that they were after her? She couldn’t have had much time or she would have escaped. Her death had been brutal, and her murderers, in discarding the baby, must have believed—as I had done at first—that the child was already dead.
God knows, they would never knowingly have left it alive.
Nervous, I jumped as the inner door opened. A spare-framed middle-aged woman entered the basement kitchen.
“What the hell …” She stared, then recognised me. Openly amazed, she said, “You want something, sir? I heard no bell ring.” Her bottom teeth had gone; the top row were uneven. She came towards me, pausing to stir the jam, which was beginning to overflow and hiss on the side of the hot pan.
“What you got there, sir?”
Dumbly, I remained stock still, the bundle in my arms, my short frame bullish.
“Is everyone retired for the night?”
She nodded, still stirring the jam. “All in bed. Your wife retired early, and later your in-laws, sir.” Her head jerked towards the package. “Can I ask what’s in your arms?”
“Can I trust you?”
Slowly she kept stirring the conserve. “I’ve worked for Sir James Thornhill over twenty years, sir, and he ain’t never had cause to doubt me or my word.” Another bleed of jam hissed against the hot metal of the pan. “I’ve known your wife, Jane, since she was a child. Kept all her secrets. You ask, sir; ask your wife if Nell Bindy’s to be trusted.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” I said hurriedly. “I need help with a matter of the gravest consequence. I cannot impress upon you enough how important secrecy is, how vital it is that no one know anything of this. What I say to you tonight, what I show you, what I ask of you, must never be repeated to another living soul.”
She stopped stirring the jam, took it off the stove, and folded her arms.
“Is it dangerous?”
I paused, then nodded.
“Could cause me trouble?”
I nodded again.
“Sir, I’m widowed, but I’ve a big family and two daughters, both married. I don’t want trouble coming to their doors. Is there no one else you can ask for help?”
“No,” I said simply.
“Then, sir, might I have the chance to refuse?”
“You may.” I replied, still clinging to the baby. “I cannot blame you if you do. I would understand and say nothing to anyone on the matter. It would be between us and us alone.” My eyes met hers calmly. “But if I were to tell you that a terrible wrong has been done, that a good woman has been killed, then what? And if I were to tell you that I may well hold the future of the country in my arms, would you relent?” I laid the bundle on the kitchen table and lifted the rags off the barely breathing newborn baby.
“Dear God,” Nell exclaimed, unfastening her bodice and placing the sick child again
st the warmth of her body. “This is a newborn. It needs feeding or it’ll die.”
Relieved, I watched her heat some milk in a shallow pan and test it with her finger. She dipped the corner of a cloth into it, making a cotton teat, and slid it into the baby’s mouth, but it was too weak to suckle. Nell tut-tutted impatiently and put some milk on her finger, wiping it on the baby’s mouth. Finally, the child began to take the liquid.
Only then did she look back to me.
“Don’t tell me any more, sir. I don’t want to know who this child is or who its parents are.”
“Not me, Nell. I’m not the father.”
“I believe you, sir,” she replied, agitated. “And I believe you’re doing right, but I can’t be punished for what I don’t know, and I don’t want to know any more.” The baby was slowly feeding now. “I couldn’t stand before God and not help this baby, but it’s the baby that matters to me, sir, nothing more.”
I nodded, understanding. “I didn’t know where to take the child, Nell.”
“Like I said, I’ve a big family and one daughter living in Chiswick. In amongst her brood we can lose a little one, pass it off as a relative’s child. God knows it happens often enough.”
I nodded earnestly. “I’ll pay for the child’s every need. Let it want for nothing. And I’d welcome a regular report of his progress. I want him to have a simple life, with some schooling. A quiet life.”
“Chiswick’s far enough from the city to be safe,” Nell replied perceptively. “Has he a name?”
“No, no name.”
“You should give him a name, sir.”
“No, your daughter can name him.”
She nodded, stared at the baby, then asked, “Will they hurt the child if they find it?”
“They will kill him.”
She flinched. “Why?”
Why? Because of my arrogance and ambition, I thought, remembering the steady rise of my career. Sir James Thornhill’s acceptance of his bullish son-in-law had been slow after I had had the temerity to elope with his daughter, Jane. Only admiration of his son-in-law’s abilities and his wife’s persuasion had brought Thornhill round. But for a long time I had been wary around my father-in-law. I was known as much for my truculence as my talent, but I had tried to temper the excesses of my nature and had been determined to establish myself and validate Thornhill’s confidence in me. And so I had worked hard and created a topical niche for myself with The Harlot’s Progress.
