by Alex Connor
She moved closer to him, touching his cheek, surprised when he brushed her off.
“You want me, Victor. You know you do. You always did.”
“I want the woman you were, not the one you are now. Face it, Ingola; you picked the life you wanted. You’re Christian’s wife and a mother.”
“Jack’s only a toddler; he’d adjust to a new life.”
“Are you serious? You’d just dump Christian and take his kid? How d’you think he’d feel about that?”
Her eyes narrowed. He saw the shift and paused for an instant. “You couldn’t take a child from his father.”
“Really?”
“Ingola,” Victor said, suddenly unnerved. “Don’t do this to my brother. It would be too cruel. Don’t do it. Don’t take his child away.”
“Oh, Victor,” Ingola said quietly. “You really are a fool, aren’t you?” Realizing she had lost, she struck the final blow. “Christian isn’t Jack’s father. Tully is.”
Sixty-Eight
ALL OVER THE CAPITAL THERE WERE BETS LAID AND FIGHTS FOR SEATS and standing room to see the new king crowned. Over the previous two months the final arrangements had been organized, and now, as the coronation came closer, overseas visitors and dignitaries were beginning to arrive. There was not a hotel room left vacant, and the press of tourists pummeled the London population in the heat of an unexpectedly early and blistering spring. Across the world, in countries ruled by presidents and even those with their own royalty, the interest was phenomenal.
After the extended global depression and financial downturn from which the world had taken so long to recover, the coronation was exactly the type of ceremony that united everyone. With the knowledge that the event would be covered by television and followed on the Internet worldwide, the expectation of billions descended on the regal city of London. There were huge profits to be made from royal memorabilia, from the sales of prints and commemorative items. It was an event. It was a crowning. It was big business.
In the six years that had passed since the Hogarth affair, Victor had worked on a number of cases. None as murderous as that first brutal case but a number involving fraud and the smuggling of fakes. His intelligence, experience, and fearlessness helped him to a new role and reputation in the art world in London, Paris, New York, and eventually Australia and the Far East. Instead of being a highly respected dealer, Victor Ballam had become a feared investigator.
And with each assignment, he asked himself whether this would be the one that would give him the lead to solve his own case. As he interviewed the art dealers and the dissolute runners, forgers, and petty crooks who populated its underbelly, he wondered if this would be the day, the man, the question that would lead him finally to the answer he had been seeking for so long. Would it take him to the door of the person or persons responsible for his incarceration and the theft of his good name?
After the Hogarth had been taken by the triads, Victor had often wondered if the forgery would be exposed and threaten his safety. But there was no great revelation. The painting had gone to ground. It was currency, nothing more. At times Victor found himself uneasy, but no one came after him, and when a couple of years had passed, he allowed himself to relax. But not too much.
Meanwhile, he continued his alliance with Tully, occasionally looking at his nephew and trying to see some imprint of his flamboyant friend. A friend who remained in complete ignorance of the child he had sired. But eighteen months after the argument between Victor and Ingola, she went back to Norway. Alone. Walked away from her husband and her son without looking back. But she did one honorable thing: she kept the secret of Jack’s parentage. Victor and Christian—made a bemused single father overnight—grew closer, and Victor was a willing and frequent visitor to Worcestershire.
In London, Tully continued with his voice-overs; he’d even landed a part on the London stage that, regretfully, he’d had to give up because of a sudden and acute illness. Called stage fright. He continued to be involved with Victor on his cases but did only the paperwork and the research. He was too old for heroics but not too old to talk to people and uncover information that would have taken another man months. As Tully had always said, he was a pastor to the dispossessed, and his debt to Victor kept him tied more securely than a leash.
As promised, Victor and Liza Frith had kept in touch, and she reminded him often that she would help him if he ever needed her. She stayed in France for a couple of years and then came back to England. Her days as a call girl in Paris had netted her a neat little fortune that she invested in a dress shop in Cornwall, and three years after quitting the business, she married the local vet. Victor never asked if he knew about Liza’s previous life, and neither he nor Liza spoke about the woman they had once known. For both of them, Mrs. Fleet was the one memory too powerful and disturbing to talk about.
Working in London and moving in the art circles that were her forte, Victor heard that Park Street had been raided. But before the month was out, Charlene Fleet was back in business. He thought once that he saw her pass by in Hampstead, more of a shadow than a person, but he didn’t turn to check. She had been on the other side of the road, the traffic between them. For Victor it was close enough.
It took little effort for him to recall her in the office at the top of the house all those years earlier. Standing with the dog at her feet, cold as ice, wearing a patina of disillusionment, controlled by greed. Never before or since had he come across anyone he feared as much as Charlene Fleet. He suspected her of unnatural crimes, willing depravity, and unbending revenge. Of all the clients Victor Ballam had ever worked for, Mrs. Fleet had been—and remained—the nearest to pure evil.
For months on end he would forget about her, but then she would slither into his dreams, reminding him: I’ll get my own back. It might take me a while, but I will. One day. One day when you’re least expecting it. You might have the upper hand now, but not forever. So watch your back, Ballam. No one takes what’s mine and gets away with it.
The threat had been potent and serious. Victor had never underestimated that. But time passed, and Mrs. Fleet stayed her hand.
What news Victor heard about Kit Wilkes was through his mother, Elizabeth, who had for some unknown reason stayed in touch. Older now and completely committed to her mute, unmoving, undying child, Elizabeth made a saint’s life out of being Kit’s companion with James Holden’s remote but constant financial support. She spoke of Kit knowing she was there, in the room with him. She would tell anyone who would listen that her son might yet recover, that she was certain she had seen flickers of life: a twitch of a hand, a shudder in a foot. Nothing and no one would dissuade Elizabeth Wilkes from the belief that somehow he would come back to her.
Of course the professionals tried to stem her hopes. But Elizabeth was adamant, and when Eli Fountain died suddenly and unexpectedly of a heart attack, her initial fear that Kit’s care would be threatened gave way to another feeling entirely. It took precisely one week, three days, and four hours for the last dose to leave Kit Wilkes’s system, for the final injection Dr. Fountain had given him to vacate his limbs. Then something incredible happened. Freed from his drug straitjacket, Kit Wilkes moved. Elizabeth was there and screamed as her son tossed on the bed. At once a doctor arrived and, mistakenly thinking he was having a fit, gave the restless patient a sedative to calm him down.
Back into the dusk fell Kit Wilkes, back into twilight and the memory of something half recalled. A plane journey, a painting, a plan made hurriedly over a cell phone … Back, back, back into the dark went Kit Wilkes, mute again. Silenced again, his little flicker of life snuffed out. It had been his last attempt to escape. From that moment on, the man who had been sedated into a faux death assumed the role he had indirectly created for himself. With the last injection of sedative went Kit Wilkes’s last resistance. Worn thin with drugs, his brain smothered, and half mad, he slid like a turtle under the mud of memory. And never came home again.
All this Victor reme
mbered as he walked down Piccadilly toward Bond Street. He had been in New York and Lisbon but had returned for the coronation, some little tug of instinct drawing him home. His apartment was as it had always been, and was now let to tenants. Victor hadn’t even bothered to get it signed over to him again. It was to all intents and purposes still Christian’s. If he had wanted, Victor could easily have afforded to buy another apartment anywhere in the world, but his spell in prison had severed any longing for property. Having once been shorn as bald as a spring lamb, Victor had no need for possessions.
But the last thing he expected on returning to London was a call from Sonia Peters, wife of the late and sorely missed Sir Oliver Peters. She had left a message at his hotel for him and was direct, almost abrupt, when he returned the call.
“Forgive my contacting you. The last time we met was at my husband’s funeral.”
“I think of him often.”
He could hear her take in a breath. “As do I, Mr. Ballam.”
“Is there something I can do for you, Lady Peters?”
“Come and see me this afternoon, please. We can talk then.”
Victor was ushered into the plush drawing room of her apartment in Regent’s Park. She was wearing a dark slub silk suit; her dark hair was now stippled with white and her bearing regal, but she was clearly bordering on agitation. Behind her on a sofa table were a number of framed family photographs, several of which Victor took to be of her children, but the largest was that of Sir Oliver, taken in his prime before cancer made a specter of him. His presence, smiling at the camera un-self-consciously, jolted Victor, reminding him of a great man. And a greater loss.
Taking care that they were alone, Sonia Peters sat down on the sofa opposite Victor. Between them was a low table weighted with art books; a small spaniel was curled in the shadow underneath. Heavy curtains muffled their conversation, and the intermittent humming of a vacuum cleaner came from the rooms overhead.
“My husband always said that I could trust you, Mr. Ballam.”
Victor nodded, remembering the promise he had made years earlier.
“You can, indeed.”
“Good. Well, then … I have a great problem.” She paused, putting her hand to her cheek, her wedding ring loose on her finger. It was obvious that she was in some distress and, although eager for help, was uneasy about seeking it. Her black eyes rested searchingly on Victor; then she nodded to herself as though a decision had finally and irrevocably been made. “You know all about the Hogarth painting?”
The mention of it six years after he had last seen it shook Victor to the core. It seemed as though the very name of Hogarth was unlucky, destined to bring misfortune. He wanted to stop Sonia Peters, to silence her, prevent her from bringing the painter and the painting into that room. But he couldn’t. He had always suspected that the story of the Hogarth was unfinished, had often mused about when he would hear of it again. His interest had been twofold: curiosity, and an old atavistic desire to tempt fate.
“Yes; I know all about the Hogarth painting.”
“I’m speaking of the original,” she continued. “Not the forgery.”
“I understand.” He saw her touch her throat in the same defensive, vulnerable gesture her husband had once used.
“Oliver left it to me. Before he died, he had arranged for it to be hidden in a place no one could ever find it. Even I wasn’t told where. All I was told was that it was safe and that it had to remain hidden. There was to be no exposure of the work, ever.”
“But?”
“Then suddenly, a few days ago, I received a letter from our solicitor. My son, Simeon, is now twenty-one years old, and apparently his father had decided that he should take over the care of the Hogarth.”
Victor frowned.
“You look surprised, Mr. Ballam; so was I. For six years I’ve been a willing caretaker of the work, but my late husband believed his son should inherit not only some privileges but some responsibility on his coming of age.” She paused and smiled to herself. “Oliver had excellent qualities, but in this he was wrong.”
“But if you don’t know where the painting is, then your son is merely taking over a titular responsibility.”
She straightened up in her seat, her head tilted to one side.
“Ah, but I do know, Mr. Ballam.”
“You do? How?”
“Solicitors are a strange breed. They guard a person’s property and family; they keep confidences and offer good advice. Those are their advantages. Their disadvantages are the same as the rest of mankind. They are human.” She gazed at the back of her right hand as though the action steadied her. “Our personal solicitor, the head of the firm, died recently. His accounts were, quite naturally, passed over to his successor. I was privy to this and agreed to it. What I didn’t agree to was that the successor should handle our confidential matters without first consulting me.”
Victor was already one jump ahead. “And he found out about the Hogarth?”
“He did. Then, without realizing that I was in ignorance of its whereabouts, Mr. Graham Rundles came to see me about other matters and mentioned the Hogarth—and where it was.” She caught her breath, slowing down her speech to calm herself. “Suddenly I was in possession of information I didn’t want. But worse was to follow. It transpired that the reckless Mr. Rundles had already passed this information onto my son.” Victor sighed as she continued. “Naturally I spoke to Simeon about it, but he shrugged off the whole matter and thought it was a joke.”
“No,” Victor said coldly. “It was never a joke.”
“I know. But he’s young—and stupid in some ways,” Sonia replied, leaning forward slightly. “Simeon won’t tell anyone. He won’t deliberately break the confidence, but as I say, he’s young, and people slip up. A man who’s had too much to drink or a young man in love for the first time could brag about something to impress others. Simeon hasn’t lived long enough to know how tough the world can be. This is knowledge my son should not have, Mr. Ballam. I believe from what little Oliver told me that the painting could be dangerous.”
“It’s deadly.”
She flinched, surprised yet relieved by his bluntness.
“You did the right thing contacting me,” Victor went on. “I don’t want to frighten you, but your son—in fact, anyone who knows the whereabouts of this painting—is in danger. I know this from personal experience. As did your husband.”
She held his gaze steadily.
“I lost my husband, Mr. Ballam. I can’t lose my son. And certainly not because of a painting. If it’s as influential as you say, why wasn’t the Hogarth destroyed?”
“It’s proof,” Victor explained. “It can never be revealed. And never made public. By the same token, it can never be destroyed. One day we might need it.”
“Why?”
“I would rather you didn’t know that,” he answered. “Your son’s only in danger because he knows where the painting is. So we must move it.”
“We must move it,” she repeated, nodding to herself. “Yes, but to where?”
“I’m not going tell you that.”
“So I—we—have to trust you?”
“Only with your lives. Now, what about Mr. Rundles? He hasn’t mentioned any of this to anyone else, has he?”
“No. I was very angry and ordered him to keep it quiet. That no one—no one—must know anything about the Hogarth. I asked him if he’d spoken to anyone else in the firm, even his secretary. He said no, and I believe him. To be frank, I think I scared him into silence. Mr. Rundles doesn’t want to lose this family’s business; he can’t afford to annoy me again. Or refuse to follow my instructions to the letter.”
Impressed, Victor nodded. “All you have to do is to tell me where the painting is now and I’ll move it. After that, you—and your son—can forget all about the Hogarth. You can’t tell anybody anything anyway, because you won’t know anything. And you certainly won’t know where it is.”
Frowning, Sonia stud
ied the man sitting opposite her.
“But that puts you in danger, Mr. Ballam. You would then be the only person who knows where the painting is.” She sighed and said in a low voice, “You can refuse, you know. I’d understand. Until you just explained it to me, I didn’t know how serious the matter was. Now I’m wondering if it’s fair to put this burden on you.”
“A long time ago your husband stood up for me.”
“But he didn’t risk his life for you. Or for your family,” she replied calmly, “So why should I expect that of you?”
“Because the Hogarth is my responsibility,” Victor replied. “I always knew it would come back to me. I’ll be honest; when I first got involved, I wanted the painting for myself. It was to be my ticket back to the limelight.” He gave a wry smile. “I found it, then lost it, and in the end I passed off its fake, knowing that the real Hogarth was in your husband’s hands and safe because of it.” Victor paused. “But in my gut I knew it wasn’t over. That painting has a life, an energy, of its own. It’s as if when Hogarth painted it, its message was so important that no one could keep it hidden forever.”
“But you’re going to hide it?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And if someone finds it again?”
“They won’t,” Victor said firmly. “Where it’s going this time, no one will ever find it.”
She nodded, then reached into her bag and passed Victor a small padded envelope addressed to Simeon Peters.
“I was to pass this on to my son, but I decided not to. In light of our conversation, I believe I made the right decision, Mr. Ballam. I don’t know what the package contains. I don’t want to know. And, more particularly, I don’t want my son to know.” Her gaze held Victor’s defiantly. “My husband believed in honor, in serving his king and country, and he believed in duty. He was a fine man.” She paused before continuing. “But that was the difference between us—he was a man. I am a woman and a mother. My duty is to my children. They come first. Before country, before royalty, even before personal honor.”
