“Good find, by the way,” she said a minute later. “This article gives the entire history of our Van Dyck, a fairly straightforward history at that. It was commissioned while the artist was in Genoa, a large religious piece for a private chapel. Later a daughter of the family married a Frenchman and brought along the painting as part of her dowry.
“The family fortune went into decline well before the French Revolution. The Van Dyck was sold for the first and only time in 1760—or rather, it was offered to a creditor to defray expenses. That creditor went on to make a fortune for himself and his heirs and the family has remained prominent since.”
“Listen to this: ‘The dashing young Monsieur Sylvestre admits that he regularly fields inquiries from art dealers hoping to obtain the piece for Van Dyck admirers willing to part with significant sums. But his response has always been a firm denial. The acquisition of the Van Dyck marked the beginning of the family’s rise in the world, and they see it not only as a prized heirloom but as a talisman that safeguards them from life’s uncertainties.’”
“Sylvestre? The name sounds familiar.” He’d seen it somewhere in conjunction with Château Vaudrieu, but he didn’t have her photographic memory and couldn’t recall exactly where or in what context.
She flipped back a few pages in her notebook, then slid the notebook to him. “These are my notes from the other day when Lieutenant Atwood and I visited the archives of Le Temps.”
Ah, now he remembered. He’d seen the name in this exact notebook, one among dozens, of the local luminaries who attended the ball. The dashing young Monsieur Sylvestre, current owner of the Van Dyck, had been a guest at the ball two years before.
“How old is the article you were reading?”
“From a year and a half before young Monsieur Sylvestre first attended the ball.”
The family had held on to the Van Dyck for more than a century. Monsieur Sylvestre had clearly expressed a disinclination to ever part ways with it. Yet in a mere few years all that special significance attached to the Van Dyck had evaporated into thin air and the artwork would soon change hands.
“Interesting, no?” said Holmes, her expression unchanged except for a slight gleam deep in her eyes.
“Very interesting,” Lord Ingram answered. “Too interesting.”
* * *
Lieutenant Atwood had his own rooms near Rue de la Paix. When he’d received Lord Ingram’s call for help, he did not quit those rooms. Hôtel Papillon was currently on a skeleton staff, given that the family was away. Still, that meant a number of eyes on the premises, and he preferred being able to get in and out of disguises without being seen.
Charlotte had already been to his rooms, to put on her disguise as Mr. Hurst. On the afternoon of the reception, they again headed there, Lieutenant Atwood leaving Hôtel Papillon approximately half an hour before Charlotte.
When she knocked on his door, he was already in his evening attire, holding out a note toward her.
“From Monsieur Sauveterre,” he said.
“Finally,” said Charlotte.
As it turned out, invitations to the reception were not difficult to come by. Since the occasion was for dedicated art lovers to preview the available collection, one needed only to show proof of a large sum of money on hand at the Banque de Paris to the château’s man of business on Boulevard Haussmann.
As soon as he’d obtained the invitations, Lieutenant Atwood, as the very wealthy Mr. Nariman of Bombay, had written Monsieur Sauveterre, the mostly retired art dealer they had called on a few days ago. Given Monsieur Sauveterre’s lack of enthusiasm for Château Vaudrieu, both Lieutenant Atwood and Charlotte believed that such a letter would prompt him to object more vociferously. Except Monsieur Sauveterre hadn’t responded at all.
Until now.
“I got it on my way in. It’s dated today,” said Lieutenant Atwood.
Charlotte remembered Monsieur Sauveterre’s lean-boned handwriting from their previous exchange. This time, his script was a less elegant scrawl. He’d been out of Paris visiting a friend and returned only this morning. Could he call on Messieurs Nariman and Hurst at their earliest convenience?
“I’ll change as quickly as I can,” said Charlotte. “Then let’s call on him instead.”
A meeting with Monsieur Sauveterre now would give them little time to reach the railway station, but she wanted to hear what the art dealer had to say.
Monsieur Sauveterre looked relieved to see them. “Are you on your way to the reception then, gentlemen?”
“Yes. Our train leaves in half an hour, but we thought we could still make a brief call.”
The art dealer took a deep breath. “In which case, let me be direct. Gentlemen, I would advise you to have nothing to do with Château Vaudrieu.”
“Why not?” asked Mr. Nariman, his expression one of sincere puzzlement. “I assure you, Monsieur, I am in no likelihood of overbidding, as I have very little interest in art. We shall be there strictly as spectators.”
“I cannot say more than that, Monsieur Nariman. In fact, I shouldn’t even have said what I said. Please promise me that as far as anyone else is concerned, the topic of Château Vaudrieu never crossed my lips.”
“Of course not. But I am very touched by your concern.”
Monsieur Sauveterre sighed, perhaps recognizing a lost cause when he saw one. “I know that young men seldom turn aside from adventure on the advice of old men. But if you must head to Château Vaudrieu, then be careful.”
“Surely, our lives will not be in danger,” Charlotte, as Mr. Hurst, said hesitantly.
“No, but be wary and prudent, gentlemen,” answered Monsieur Sauveterre, his brow furrowed. “Be wary and prudent, lest you come to regret much.”
* * *
“Interesting choice of words, do you not think?” said Lieutenant Atwood when they neared the train station.
Charlotte nodded slowly. “Very interesting.”
Be wary and prudent, gentlemen. What happened to those who were unwary and imprudent at Château Vaudrieu? They ended up paying more for art? Or did they, like the young scion of the Sylvestre family, suddenly agree to part with treasured art?
After they had made the discovery the day before, she and Lord Ingram had spent hours trying to ferret out whether the Sylvestre clan had fallen on hard times, going so far as to observe their manse from the outside. They unearthed no evidence that the Sylvestre fortune was thinning. That did not prove anything, but added another layer of oddity to the situation.
The countryside outside Paris had its fair share of châteaus, ranging from those hardly bigger than a farmhouse to majestic ruins of former royal palaces, now only stone walls and broken pillars in a slate-blue twilight.
Receptions were usually held later in the evening and ended early in the morning. But since the château was not in town and guests needed to take the last train that stopped at the small village gare on its way to Paris, this particular reception started at an earlier time, when Parisian Society would have just started the second course at dinner.
The guests had been instructed to arrive on the same train. They were shown onto four large double-deck omnibuses, each with a seating capacity of about twenty. Unlike most such vehicles, their top decks were enclosed, with braziers placed at regular intervals to keep the space heated.
Charlotte, far more gregarious as her own masculine counterpart, made pleasant small talk in French to those seated near them, a frosty grande dame and a young man who appeared to be her grandson. He was clear-featured, with a ready smile and what must be a handful of rings under his left glove. When he gave his name, she recalled having come across it in an article about the ball—a family of industrialists, with the haughty matriarch the daughter of a duke.
Grandmaman was seriously interested in at least three of the paintings, the young man informed them. But before he could e
nthuse more, Grandmaman cleared her throat and he stopped, apparently reminded that the kindly looking man he was speaking to was in fact a competitor who might drive up prices.
Inside the gate of the estate, the chestnut-lined boulevard leading to the château was illuminated, not extravagantly, as it would be on the night of the ball, but with only one or two lanterns on each tree. The omnibuses stopped before the bridge. The guests alit and crossed the bridge on foot.
Charlotte dropped a pebble as she strolled over the spot where Lord Ingram and Mr. Marbleton must have trod increasingly icy water, as dogs and men race past. Lieutenant Atwood glanced down and then in the direction of the chapel.
“Sounds deep,” he murmured.
“Sounds cold,” she replied.
The others who had arrived on the same omnibus had already gone past them, and the minders were busy checking the vehicle to make sure no one had been left behind.
For the moment, they had a measure of privacy.
“The young man isn’t related to Grandmaman,” said Lieutenant Atwood. “He does a decent imitation of her accent, with overlays of both Paris and Normandy. But I hear the wharfs of Marseille underneath that.”
Charlotte didn’t have as good an ear for traces of regional French accents, but she also knew that the two were not family.
“Grandmaman, on the other hand, is the genuine article. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” she murmured. “And by the way, Mr. Nariman, when you were at the architect firm of Balzac & Girault, looking for the architectural plans, did you notice any slack in that particular box or drawer?”
* * *
Livia did not enjoy herself.
She, Mr. Marbleton, and ten other temporary servants arrived at the château at noon. They were given a quick meal of stew and bread. She was too nervous to eat but didn’t want to appear suspicious by not finishing the contents of her bowl—a maid who didn’t have steady employment was not one who would forego any food put down in front of her.
Then the work began.
She had practiced a servant’s work with Mr. Marbleton, but she was not prepared for the scale of the reception at Château Vaudrieu. Plates, silverware, glasses by the hundreds, napkins by the gross. Everything had to be taken out of the butlery and carried halfway across the manor to be set up. Ice was delivered at four in the afternoon. She wasn’t asked to load large blocks of ice onto handcarts, but she couldn’t escape having to squat for an hour, chipping ice with a hammer and a pick.
Once she opened the door of a smaller pantry to find a temporary waiter taking a nap inside. When he’d opened one bloodshot eye to see her standing there, he’d winked lazily and gone back to sleep. She’d never envied anyone so much for sheer impudence.
The servants were given their supper—the exact same food they’d had for lunch. By this time, Livia was no longer nervous, only exhausted, her back aching, her haunches burning. She made herself eat anyway and was grateful for the scalding coffee passed around after the meal. At least now she could stay awake.
Throughout it all, Mr. Marbleton remained close to her as much as he could. They rarely spoke. One time, when they passed each other in a hallway, she with her arms full of a floral arrangement, he carrying empty baskets in which he’d earlier ferried up garlands of spruce and berries, he asked whether she was all right. Another time, after the servants’ supper, as they were moving endless platters of canapés into place, she’d snuck a miniature quiche she’d stolen from her platter into his pocket, only to have him immediately hand her a tiny gougère he’d saved for her.
It tasted marvelous.
With the endless labor shoved onto the temporary staff, even though she kept her eyes open, she didn’t see much of anything except services stairs and passages connecting various pantries and storerooms to the gallery where she’d transferred everything. With the exception of the arrival of a mysterious guest in the afternoon, which made her heart thud with excitement and misgivings.
Half an hour before the guests were to arrive everything was in place, towers of glasses sparkling, wines uncorked and breathing. The temporary staff were sent to wash their hands and change into fresh, spotless uniforms. They were then assigned places for the evening.
Livia had longed for the backbreaking portion of the work to finish. But now that she was standing around, almost immediately she began to worry about Charlotte and Lord Ingram. At least Mr. Marbleton would be near her.
“Did you notice anything?” she asked, when she helped him adjust a garland on the mantel.
He nodded. “You?”
She nodded, too, wondering whether he had also seen the black-swaddled figure slipping into the château like a ghost.
“To your stations!” shouted a member of the permanent staff. “To your stations! The guests will be here any minute.”
Livia exhaled, went to her spot, and looked toward the door, waiting for Charlotte to walk in at any moment.
* * *
“You are upset about something,” said the maharani. “What is it, Mrs. Watson?”
Mrs. Watson had no idea now why she hadn’t immediately thought her beautiful at their reunion. If anything she had become even more striking in the intervening years, with an aura of queenliness to her sculpted features.
This evening she wore a white silk sari edged with borders of cool blue. Mostly Mrs. Watson still found her to be a stranger. Yet other times she would catch glimpses of the young woman she’d once known—like now, with her perceptive question that indicated a willingness to listen.
Thus far on Mrs. Watson’s call, they’d already talked about the weather, the maharani’s grandchildren, and even the steel tower almost a thousand feet high that would be constructed right on the Champ de Mars, about to break ground in a matter of days.
What Mrs. Watson really wanted to ask was the maharani’s stance on the British Raj, but she didn’t know how to pose the question gracefully. So she gave her coffee a stir and said, “Two of my companions and I interviewed to be temporary staff at Château Vaudrieu. The young people were selected—they are at the reception now. But I was rejected on the ground of being an old hag, in front of a roomful of people.”
The maharani’s expression immediately darkened but Mrs. Watson raised a hand to forestall her objection. “The man who said that revealed his own uncouthness than anything else. I know I’m not a young woman anymore. To the sort of men who judge women only on their youth and desirability, I’m about as useful and interesting as a moth to a wolf.
“I was upset not so much for myself, but for the young lady who was with me. She is sensitive. She is afraid of an unsecured old age. And she is facing that dreadful chasm at thirty, beyond which unmarried women become spinsters.
“So what for me was a minor vexation was an ordeal for her. And she’s been avoiding me since because she thinks I must have been ten times as devastated as she was as a bystander. I shall need to corner her soon to let her know that I’ve developed the hide of an elephant over the years and that she mustn’t suffer needlessly on my behalf.”
The maharani gazed at her a moment. Mrs. Watson’s heart thumped. This was the first time they had been alone since the maharani’s unannounced call, when they’d both been formal and awkward.
“You’ve always been wise and perceptive, Mrs. Watson. But what I’ve appreciated most is the compassion behind your perspicacity.” The maharani smiled slightly. “Do you remember when you snuck me around London, to places where my proper escorts would have never allowed me? You understood, without my ever saying it in so many words, that I’d only seen one kind of life and that I longed to know the other facets that had been kept from me.”
Mrs. Watson’s fingers gripped her skirt. “Then—why did you not do the same for me? Why did you not expose me to other points of view? Why did you not let me see the other facets of your life?”
* * *
Charlotte took note of the men stationed at regular intervals along the way. They were dressed as footmen, but it must be apparent, even to those without theft in mind, that they served as guards.
The corridor led into a long gallery. A man stood a few steps inside the door and greeted the new arrivals. “You must be Mr. Nariman,” he said to Lieutenant Atwood.
“Monsieur Plantier, I presume? Enchanté.” said Lieutenant Atwood, in lightly accented French. “My travel companion, Monsieur Hurst.”
Monsieur Plantier, a shrewd-looking man in his late thirties, was reputed to be an art connoisseur and the one who curated the private museum at Château Vaudrieu. “We are delighted you could join us tonight. Please have a glass of champagne and savor the beauty of our collection.”
“I was hoping to luxuriate in Madame Desrosiers’s beauty as well. Is she not here tonight?” asked Lieutenant Atwood.
“Alas, my sister is slightly indisposed this evening, but she very much hopes to be well enough to preside over the ball.”
“Our best wishes for her speedy recovery,” said Lieutenant Atwood, as they yielded their places to the next guests in line.
A waiter passed by carrying a tray of champagne flutes. They each took one and started a slow promenade down the gallery. There were no Van Dycks, but here, too, there were strategically placed footmen. They didn’t pour champagne, circulate with trays of nibbles, or rearrange displays at the buffet to make the remaining oysters look more symmetrical. Instead they kept to their spots, interacted not at all with the guests but studied them with alert and suspicious eyes.
The Art of Theft Page 16
