Journey for Lady G.
EDGAR WALLACE MYSTERY MAGAZINE, founded by the famous writer’s daughter Penelope and edited by Nigel Morland, a familiar figure on the British mystery scene for many years, flourished at exactly the right time for me to act out a cherished fantasy of being myself a British mystery writer. They bought Lady G. for their July 1966 issue.
“I’m afraid it will have to be Lady Gwendolyn this time,” said Miss Henrietta.
Her brother Alexander looked up from his porridge, startled. “But Henrietta, I thought we had agreed to keep Lady Gwendolyn only for the direst emergencies.”
“This is an emergency,” replied his sister firmly. “The roof is past mending again, you simply must have a few weeks in the sun this winter for your bronchitis, and our bill at Brown’s has run on so long I’m ashamed to face them. I hesitate to trouble you about it at breakfast, but we must have cash, a great deal of it, and soon.”
“Couldn’t the Admiral—”
“You know he wouldn’t do. Nobody is going to give us anything for a Kneller these days. No, it will have to be the Romney.”
“Very well, if you think it’s absolutely necessary.” The frail, elderly man touched an exquisitely darned napkin to his lips and rose from the table. “How I always hate seeing them go! You will make the usual arrangements, I suppose. We oughtn’t to go through Bumbleby’s this time.”
“No, I quite agree with you. We must not impose on their good nature again, although they have been of greater service to us in the past than they can ever be aware. I made a discreet inquiry, or two on my last visit to London and obtained the addresses of some other art dealers.”
“But they must be reputable,” Alexander fussed. “We dare not risk Lady Gwendolyn’s getting into the hands of unscrupulous dealers.”
“I think,” reproved his sister gently, “that you may trust me to show as much care for our family treasures as you yourself would do.”
“Of course you will.” Her brother beamed at her fondly over his pince-nez. “Better, undoubtedly. Really, your efficiency never ceases to amaze me.”
“Considering that we were neither of us brought up to lead useful lives, I think we do fairly well on the whole,” said Miss Henrietta with a touch of complacency.
She was right. Their home might not have been maintained quite so impeccably as it had been in their mother’s day, but still it remained both comfortable and attractive. Henrietta managed the housework with the occasional help of Mrs. Blount from the village. Alexander had developed all sorts of unexpected talents for mending taps and edging flower beds.
The elegant sufficiency with which their parents had fondly thought to leave them had all but vanished in the bewildering economy of a world they had not been reared to live in. Nevertheless, they stayed warm and well-fed. They wore their clothes an extra few years and darned their linen a little more industriously, but on the whole their standard of living had hardly changed at all.
This would not, of course, have been possible without the pictures. The family had always been fond of paintings and had always until now been able to indulge their tastes. One after another, the Johns and Marys had had their portraits done by the fashionable artists of the day. For generations these had gazed down benignly or, as in the case of the late Admiral, ferociously upon their descendants. Now they were providing a reasonably comfortable income for the last of their line.
It was no wonder Alexander sighed with mingled affection and regret as he took the lovely Lady Gwendolyn from her place of honour over the drawing-room mantelpiece and wrapped her tenderly in a piece of old army blanket before boxing her up in a wooden packing case, to which he had thoughtfully screwed a carrying handle for his sister’s greater convenience.
“I have often wished she were a full-length, but I must say just now I’m grateful she is only a head and shoulders,” remarked Miss Henrietta as she juggled the awkward case into a seat on the 12:04 to London.
“You will be careful, won’t you?” begged her brother. “And telephone as soon as you have anything to report.”
“Don’t worry. I shall be an astute bargainer.” She waved a small, gloved hand at the slight figure on the platform as the train pulled out.
Alexander was beginning to show his age, she thought with a pang. He must have a new overcoat for his excursion to Antibes. How wonderful it was going to be to have some money again. And how grateful she was to be able to help such a dear, good brother. She gave the wooden case containing Lady Gwendolyn a loving pat and settled back to enjoy the infrequent pleasure of a train ride.
The new art dealer, whose address she had written out and tucked into her glove, was not hard to find. The cab driver was most obliging about helping her inside with the packing case. As she had anticipated, the dealer pronounced the painting a genuine Romney and promptly made her a handsome offer for it.
“You are too kind,” she fluttered. “I … it is such a tremendous decision. Lady Gwendolyn has been in the family for so long, you see. I must be sure she is going to someone who will really care for her. One has a responsibility, you know.”
Knowing how useless it is to argue with sweet little elderly ladies, the dealer pressed his card on her, renewed his offer with a shade more emphasis, replaced Lady Gwendolyn in her traveling case, and handed Miss Henrietta into a cab.
“By all means think it over,” he urged, “but I don’t think you will find a fairer offer in London.”
“I am sure of it,” she replied. “Believe me, it is not that. I simply feel I should like to sit down quietly with a cup of tea and think it over. You do understand?”
The dealer assured her that he did, and saw her off with a sigh.
Her driver was surprised at the address of the hotel she gave him. “You sure you’ve got the right place, ma’am?” His tone was paternal. “Mostly rich Yanks go there, and it costs the earth. Thought you mightn’t know, ma’am.”
“Yes, I know.” Miss Henrietta smoothed down her shabby tweed coat and straightened her sensible felt hat. “It will be a refreshing change to spend a short time among people who have a great deal of money. One was brought up to believe it was vulgar to be preoccupied with such things, but we are all forced to be vulgarians these days, are we not?”
The driver agreed sadly that we were, helped his fare out with Lady Gwendolyn, and forgave the meagerness of her tip.
Miss Henrietta did not go to engage a room. Overcome by her exertions, she collapsed into a chair far more luxuriously padded than her father would have approved, and propped Lady Gwendolyn’s case uncomfortably against her knee. A few minutes later, Lady Gwendolyn went tumbling into the path of a passing gentleman.
“Oh I’m sorry. Clumsy of me.” The well-dressed man stooped to retrieve the case.
“Do be careful. It’s terribly precious,” fluttered Miss Henrietta. “Thank you so much. Yes, perhaps it would be better against the chair, but I must confess I don’t like letting it out of my sight, even for a moment. Only a short time ago I was offered a great deal of money for it.”
“Really?” The indifference in the American’s drawl was perhaps a shade overdone. “And what, may I ask, do you have in there?” he asked playfully. “The Crown Jewels?”
“Dear me, no.” Miss Henrietta smiled shyly, showing an elderly woman’s pleasure at being teased by a younger man. For an American he had rather a decent accent, she thought. She leaned forward with a pretty air of confiding. “As a matter of fact, it’s a painting. I do not know if you have heard of an English portrait artist named Romney?”
Her new acquaintance’s rather long nose seemed to quiver slightly. “Yes,” he replied, “I have heard of Romney. I am, in fact, curator of an art museum.”
“Fancy that!” Miss Henrietta smiled and nodded an amiable farewell. The American did not move away.
“About this Romney,” he persisted. “You’re quite sure it’s authentic?”
“Oh yes,” she replied. “It has been in my fami
ly ever since Mr. Romney painted it. And that gentleman today—let me see, what was his name? Ah, here it is, still in my glove. You see? There would be no point in his declaring it to be authentic if it were not,” she added in rather a severe tone.
“Of course not,” he half-apologized. “It’s only that one doesn’t often meet charming ladies in hotel lobbies carrying valuable paintings.”
“Leaving them about for other people to trip over, you mean. I do hope you are not bruised.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he said with a gaiety that was somehow out of keeping with his personality, “I’ll forgive and forget if you’ll come and have a drink with me. Or would you prefer tea?”
“On the contrary, I should enjoy a glass of sherry very much,” said Miss Henrietta. “I have had a most exhausting day.” She took a firm grip on Lady Gwendolyn’s handle and followed her new acquaintance into the bar.
Miss Henrietta had not one but two glasses of sherry. Halfway through the second, her cheeks had become flushed and she was chattering freely to her bosom friend of half an hour about the imponderable difficulties of keeping house on nothing a month.
“And so you see, Mr. Bargraves, I have decided to part with Lady Gwendolyn. What my dear mother would say, I do not know.” She drained the last of her sherry with a defiant air. “But I’m going to do it nevertheless. Of course I shall see to it that she gets a good home.”
Mr. Bargraves half rose from his chair. “I wonder if you’ll excuse me for just a moment, my dear lady. I have an urgent phone call to make. May I order you another glass of sherry while you’re waiting?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Miss Henrietta demurred.
“Nonsense,” said the curator jovially. “One more can’t hurt you.”
“Very well, then. Just a little one.”
Mr. Bargraves was back in a few minutes looking very pleased with himself. The art dealer’s guarded replies to his cunningly worded questions had been more than satisfactory. He found Miss Henrietta in a state of fuzzy well-being. A few minutes later they were ascending in the lift to his suite, Lady Gwendolyn’s carrying handle clutched possessively in the curator’s hand.
“And now let’s see this wonderful Romney.”
He drew the painting out of its case, studied it for a long time, ran experienced fingertips over the surface, finally took out a jeweler’s loupe and studied every inch, both front and back.
“It’s a Romney, all right.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, but the hand that held the loupe shook slightly. Over Mr. Bargraves’s horselike face crept a look his Yankee forefathers would have understood.
“Naow, Miz … that is, my dear lady, you’ve got a nice little property here. Mind you, I’m not saying it’s one hundred per cent authentic. That background was done by an apprentice, I’d say, with the finishing touches put in by the master, and of course being just a head and shoulders makes it less desirable than a full-length portrait. If she’d been a well-known historical figure, now—” He shrugged. “Nevertheless, it’s a nice little painting.”
“I have always been greatly attached to Lady Gwendolyn,” said Miss Henrietta somewhat foggily.
“Just so. And I can appreciate your feelings about not wanting her to get into the wrong hands. It wouldn’t do for your ancestress to wind up in the ill-gotten collection of some dissolute and lascivious millionaire playboy now, would it?”
“Oh no, that would be too dreadful.”
“Well, that’s the risk you take when you sell to those art dealers. They don’t care who buys what, so long as they get the cash. I hate to say it, but they’re a money-hungry lot.”
“Alas, so am I just now,” sighed Miss Henrietta. “I really do not know which way to turn. I simply must sell Lady Gwendolyn. But oh, if I could only make sure she gets into the right hands!”
A bright green light shone in Mr. Bargraves’s eyes. “It so happens,” he began cautiously, “that I might be in a position to help you.”
“If you only could!” Miss Henrietta’s hands in their mended gloves clenched imploringly. “I should be eternally grateful.”
Mr. Bargraves cleared his throat. “I should perhaps explain that I am curator of a fine arts museum in that part of the United States which is known as New England.” He dwelt on the last word lovingly. “An area, I may say, where we hold our ties with the old mother country very dear. I do wish you could see our museum, dear lady. A magnificent edifice, designed in the finest Graeco-Roman tradition by one of our great modern architects, filled with priceless art treasures from all over the world, visited by throngs of serious-minded art lovers daily from ten to five except Thursdays, and lavishly endowed by—” He checked himself hastily. “Of course it all goes into the building fund. We never have a nickel to spend on paintings. Nevertheless, I think I may take it upon myself to make you an offer for your Lady G.”
He pulled out a bulging note case. “What would you say to five thousand pounds, cold cash?”
Miss Henrietta said nothing. She merely stared at the sheaf of notes in his hand.
“Think of it, dear lady. Your beloved ancestress would hang in a place of honour and dignity, viewed only by the worthy and deserving eyes of dedicated students of art and ladies and gentlemen from the best families. And—er—you needn’t mention a simple cash transaction like this to the inland revenue man.”
“But would you not have to show a bill of sale to Customs when you leave the country?”
“Nonsense! There are ways of getting around these things if you know the ropes. We’ll simply dispense with that little formality and nobody will be the wiser.”
“Do you mean you simply give me the money and I give you Lady Gwendolyn and … and go away?”
“That’s the ticket. No names, no pack drill, as you say over here. Come to think of it, you’ve never told me your name.”
“Haven’t I?” said Miss Henrietta absently. She was busy doing sums in her head. So much for the roof, so much for Alexander’s vacation, so much for a nest egg to tide them over the winter. The figure was ridiculously low compared to what the art dealer had offered, but it was cash in hand and nothing in writing. It would do. She stretched out her small hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Bargraves. Lady Gwendolyn and I are deeply obliged to you.”
Mr. Bargraves bowed her out. “It was my pleasure, dear lady.” There could be no doubt he meant it.
He was still gloating over his bargain when a firm knock sounded at his door. Assuming it was the chambermaid, Mr. Bargraves opened the door, to find himself face to face with a frail, elderly man who brandished a rolled umbrella in a menacing attitude.
“I believe I am addressing Mr. Lucius Brutus Bargraves?”
“You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“Yes,” said Alexander, proffering his calling card, “I believe I have. That Romney on your dresser, sir, is mine.”
“But I just bought it!”
“You cannot have done, sir, for I have not sold it.”
Alexander pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “Please study this inventory of my father’s estate. As you see, everything is left to me as his only son, and the portrait of Lady Gwendolyn by Romney is included herein. Here is a photograph of the portrait, and here is its provenance. You yourself certainly have no doubts of my painting’s authenticity, or you would not have bothered to steal it.”
“I did not steal it. I bought it fair and square.”
“Perhaps you can show me a bill of sale, then? Ah no, I thought not. Let me tell you sir, the penalties for theft are severe in this country.”
He glared at the dumbfounded curator over his umbrella. “Since Lady Gwendolyn was taken from my home, I have been in touch with London art dealers. When your confederate turned up with her this afternoon and you followed up the visit with a bogus telephone call designed, no doubt, to increase the price they might be willing to pay, the fact was reported to me. I came at once to you, sir, hoping to make you see t
he error of your ways and avoid criminal prosecution for what I sincerely hope was a rash impulse and not the act of a hardened felon.”
Mr. Bargraves wrung his hands. “But I had nothing to do with any theft. I never saw that old bat before in my life. I paid her five thousand pounds in good faith.”
“If you paid her such a paltry fraction of the picture’s true worth, you hardly did so in good faith,” said Alexander severely. “As a self-styled expert in such matters, you must have realized at once that if she was willing to accept such a small figure, there must have been something fishy about the transaction. What was the woman’s name?”
“I … I don’t know.”
“Really, Mr. Bargraves,” a thin smile flitted across Alexander’s lips, “I don’t know what effect your taradiddle about an anonymous lady and a five-thousand pound transaction without a bill of sale will have on a jury, but I must say it does not convince me. And quite frankly, I do not care whether you are a thief or merely a receiver of stolen goods. My position is simply this: do I get my painting back instanter or do I call Scotland Yard at once?”
“Did you have any trouble with Mr. Bargraves?”
Miss Henrietta and her brother were enjoying a cup of cocoa in front of the drawing-room fire at the end of a trying but rewarding day.
“Not more than usual. He blustered of course, but after all, I had the truth on my side. I must say however, Henrietta, that he referred to you in language most unbecoming a man of his alleged position.”
“One can hardly blame him.” Miss Henrietta smiled. “The fox hardly expects to be bitten by the goose he is leading to the slaughter. It is curious how all of a pattern these people are, and how extraordinarily easy it is to find one in the right place at the right time.”
“The shocking fact of the matter is that there are a great many scoundrels in the world,” said Alexander. “Let me see, how many have we met so far? Forty-nine, I believe.”
“Fifty,” said Miss Henrietta. “Dear me, this is our golden anniversary.”
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