by Karen Odden
“Not at all,” I assured him.
He opened the door and we exited into the main room, where a dozen or so coats hung from pegs on a wall. He lifted an immense black overcoat from one of them, did up the buttons, then plucked his hat from a shelf and a large umbrella from a tall bucket. As we approached the entrance, I drew my own umbrella from the stand and walked through the door he held open.
I crossed the cobbles, and as we passed under the arch to the street, I took a deep breath in.
I hadn’t realized what a relief it would be to do something.
Chapter 4
Our umbrellas held aloft against a light rain, we crossed the cobbled yard and walked together to Winters Street, just off New Bond, stopping before a door with an elegant brass B above it.
Bettridge’s occupied a building assembled out of three separate houses. Some years ago, in number fourteen, Jacob Bettridge held his first auction, featuring hardwood molds of flowers, leaves, and the like, used for making ornaments for walls and ceilings. A decade later, when number twelve became available, his son Jonas bought it, biding his time for number thirteen—which fortuitously came on the market two years ago. Bettridge immediately tore down the internal walls for all three houses and renovated the space to include a main auction room reported to be grander and more elegant than either Christie’s or Sotheby’s.
Although I’d attended auctions here in years past, I hadn’t seen the building since the improvements, and they were obvious immediately. In the foyer, a new electrified chandelier caught the gloss of dark wood wainscoting. An elaborate arrangement of flowers stood atop a square brass-inlaid Regency table. To the side was a Louis XIV desk of ebony, brass, and tortoiseshell from the workshop of André-Charles Boulle, unless it was an excellent reproduction. Behind it sat a young man who looked at us expectantly. I gave my name and asked for Mr. Severington. The young man vanished, and after a moment, a door opened and he reappeared with Felix immediately behind him. When my friend saw I wasn’t alone, his eyes darted a question.
I approached his side and murmured so only Felix could hear: “Mr. Hallam of Scotland Yard.”
His eyebrows drew down, and his lips pursed so tightly they vanished. “Annabel.” Only one word, but the tone underlined his annoyance.
“Please, Felix,” I said, my voice soft. “We need to talk privately. There’s something you need to know.”
He sighed and led us to a private sitting room, where a few Queen Anne chairs were gathered around a marble-topped table. I couldn’t help but contrast this with the room at the Yard. Perhaps Mr. Hallam was thinking something similar for after a quick glance around, the right side of his mouth curved briefly.
We each took a seat, and the inspector offered his card. Felix barely glanced at it before sliding it into his pocketbook and turning to me. “What is it, Annabel?”
“I’d like Mr. Hallam to tell you. The information is his,” I said.
Felix was silent for the inspector’s recital, but his face lost most of its color. As Mr. Hallam concluded, Felix leaned back, rested his elbow on the chair arm, and pinched fiercely at the flesh of his forehead. The faint web of red blood vessels around his nose seemed to darken. “Stolen or—or forged and exchanged. For God’s sake.”
“I know,” I said softly.
“And from Lord Sibley,” Felix muttered.
“You knew him?” Mr. Hallam asked.
“I knew of him, certainly, though we had no personal dealings. His collection is significant. His stepson oversees it now.” Felix groaned aloud. “If this story gets out, people will twist it every which way. Christie’s and Sotheby’s—not to mention the galleries!—will be only too happy to spread the worst sort of rumors.” He dropped his head into his hands. “I’ll appear either a humbug or a complete fool, not knowing Lord Sibley was the proper owner of the painting. I cannot believe this has happened!”
“Is there any possibility the painting you saw was a forgery?” Mr. Hallam asked.
He looked up, his expression disdainful. “No, of course not.” His gaze shifted to me. “Not even your brother could copy a painting so well.”
Mr. Hallam frowned. I took it to mean he was puzzling something out; Felix took it as a sign of disbelief, and he glared at the inspector. “If I had the painting, I could bloody well prove it to you. But obviously I can’t!” He threw up his hands. “This is an impossible situation.”
“Were there any documents?” I interjected.
“To prove its authenticity? Of course.” He started for the door. “I keep all that here. Edwin would have no use for them. Just a moment.” He left and returned with a small sheaf of papers that he did not offer at first. He held it close to his shirtfront and frowned down at Mr. Hallam. “Look here. Are you certain Mr. Pagett isn’t mistaken? Had he actually seen the painting his father purchased? Often verbal descriptions can be very misleading. And how can you be sure he remembered it accurately, all these months later? Boucher painted several portraits of Madame, and—”
“He had seen the painting before it went to the Pantechnicon,” Mr. Hallam interrupted. “And his father had ordered a tintype of the work. The Sibley family has kept visual records of all the pieces in their collection since the 1830s, beginning with daguerreotypes.” He paused. “Did the consignor show you a receipt for purchase?”
“No, it was a gift from her husband. But the family is beyond reproach. They’ve bought and sold paintings at auction for years.” Felix handed him pages deliberately and in succession: “Here is a letter from Boucher to the first owner, Philippe LeMarc, in which the painting is described in some detail, including the unusual size.” He pointed toward the bottom of the page. “It’s dated from Boucher’s home in the Rue Vernet.” He handed the next page, and then the last, to Mr. Hallam. “This is a copy of an entry from Monsieur LeMarc’s original catalog, with a description, including measurements. And here is a record of insurance, verified by his solicitor. So you see, this was not a forgery.”
The inspector took his time with the pages, reading each closely, and then passing it to me in turn. It was simple, really: three documents, all of which seemed straightforward, confirming the identity and authenticity of the Boucher. Finally I tucked them together neatly and returned them to Felix, who put them in the inner pocket of his coat.
“There is no receipt of sale from Boucher to LeMarc?” Mr. Hallam asked.
“No,” Felix said flatly. “Between members of a certain class, there would not be.”
“Really?” Mr. Hallam darted a glance at me, and I gave a small nod.
“How would a receipt prove authenticity?” Felix retorted. “Paintings are passed down from generation to generation through marriages or among family members, and there are rarely if ever receipts.”
“I notice there is no note of guaranty, either,” Mr. Hallam said. “I understand that is common practice when a painting is removed from premises, for cleaning or examination by an interested buyer.”
At his words, Felix froze. His gaze latched onto mine, and he turned haltingly to face me. “Annabel . . .” He dragged his breath in through his mouth and let it out. “Our solicitor insists on it whenever a painting is taken out . . .”
“Of course,” I said understandingly. “Although I don’t think you’ll be able to recover anything like six thousand pounds from Edwin’s belongings, unless he has some treasure hidden away somewhere. I’m sorry, Felix.” I felt sincerely regretful; Felix’s eyes were becoming dark with something like horror—as if he believed he might be held liable.
“You didn’t attach your name to it, did you?” I asked anxiously.
His hand rubbed hard at his mouth for a moment, as if he wished he could hold back the words. “No . . . but, Annabel . . . your family’s house. It wouldn’t cover the value of the painting, but . . .”
My breath caught, and the margins of the room seemed to blur and darken.
My father’s will bequeathed the title to Edwin, as was customary
, but any income it generated was mine until I married. Shortly after my parents died, I vacated the house, having no need of a residence that size and no means to maintain it. Edwin’s situation was similar, so our solicitor made arrangements to let it to a family by the name of Weathers, and the profits after expenses were my sole source of support.
Abruptly I stood and paced about on the plush carpet. “Felix.” It came out in a ragged breath. “For goodness’ sake.”
“I know, Annabel.” He rubbed unhappily at his knees. “It’s—it was—it was merely a formality . . . but now—”
“So the house could be seized?” I felt a shiver of heat run down my arms to my hands.
“Do you have an interest in it?” Mr. Hallam asked.
I turned; I’d almost forgotten he was there. “The rental monies come to me. It’s not much, but it’s enough to pay my fees at the Slade and my expenses, if I’m frugal.”
“Does your brother have a will?”
“I’ve no idea,” Felix said. “I don’t imagine so.”
Shakily, I lowered myself into the chair. The news struck me with the force of a blow, and it was several moments before I could return my attention to the present.
Mr. Hallam had asked something and Felix was glowering as he replied. “The guaranties are drawn up by our solicitor. I’ll have to retrieve a copy to see the terms. Naturally, the portrait would need to be returned in time for the auction, but I assume the guaranty gave Edwin the standard thirty days.” His lips pursed. “Not that I hold out much hope for its recovery.”
“The painting has to be somewhere,” Mr. Hallam replied. “No one would go to such lengths to steal it merely to destroy it.”
“Unless he’s some sort of savage,” Felix retorted.
“I doubt that’s the case,” said Mr. Hallam matter-of-factly. “My hope is your consignor can point us toward someone who would want it badly enough to steal it—or want money badly enough to sell it.”
His intent was clear, and Felix scowled resentfully. At last, however, he muttered, “Her name is Mrs. Jesper, and she’s a gentlewoman, beyond reproach. She’s going to be horrified by all of this.”
“We’ll all have to be sensitive to her feelings,” I said.
Felix closed his eyes, spanned his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, and rubbed. “Of course she must be informed immediately. I’ll send a note round, asking if I might call on her. She’s in the final stages of preparing her house for the removers, so I’m fairly sure she’ll be home this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry, but I need to be the one who calls on her,” Mr. Hallam said.
Felix’s head jerked up and his expression was incredulous. “Mr. Hallam,” he said, his voice clipped. “She is still in full mourning and as such is only receiving her sister and a few close friends, including myself. Frankly, I doubt she’d speak to you willingly or openly.” His tone became derisive. “Her husband died last year in a carriage accident, and you Yard men behaved as if she were to blame. For God’s sake, she was a passenger, sitting beside him! And I’ve never seen two people more genuinely attached. It was appalling.”
“I won’t treat her as a suspect,” Mr. Hallam replied evenly. “There is nothing to be gained by that.”
Felix grunted his disbelief.
“You said she was preparing for the removers,” I interposed. “Is she selling her house?”
Felix shook his head. “The house belongs to his family, but yes—she has to move and retrench. It distresses her to sell this Boucher because it was her last gift from Stephen. But it will provide an income for the rest of her life. Or rather, it would have.” He gave Mr. Hallam a hard look. “I don’t imagine your sort takes into account her difficulties.”
“I have no wish to give her additional pain,” Mr. Hallam replied calmly. “Indeed, I am even willing to have you present, if you think it would put her at ease, so long as you don’t mention anything about Edwin’s death or that the Boucher belonged to Lord Sibley—at least not at first. We will simply tell her the painting was being restored off premises and was stolen. That alone will no doubt be something of a shock.”
“So you intend to give her part of the truth and see what she says.” A resentful look came over Felix’s face. “Bah! I despise this sort of duplicity. In fact, I don’t like any of this.”
“None of us do, Felix,” I said quietly. “This situation is painful for all of us.”
That brought him up short, as I knew it would, and his annoyance gave way to contrition. “I’m sorry, Annabel. And I’ll speak to our solicitor immediately. I’ll try to find out something for you by this afternoon.”
“Where shall we find Mrs. Jesper?” Mr. Hallam asked.
With a deliberation that made his displeasure clear, Felix drew out his pocketbook, took out a loose page, and wrote out the address. “I’ll see you at four o’clock. Please wait until I arrive.”
Mr. Hallam’s hand was outstretched, but Felix handed the paper to me.
Chapter 5
The rain had stopped while we were inside Bettridge’s. As we stepped onto the pavement, we left our umbrellas closed, and Mr. Hallam said, “We have some time. Have you eaten?”
I shook my head. Indeed, I hadn’t taken anything substantial since yesterday morning, but the news about the note of guaranty had shaken me. Even as the thought of it returned, the knot beneath my rib cage twisted.
Mr. Hallam directed us to a tea shop at the far end of Winters Street, found a table near the back of the crowded room, and ordered one tray of sandwiches and another of scones, with tea for me and coffee for him.
Once all the items were placed meticulously on our table, with every plate and saucer hanging just over the edge, he leaned forward. “Miss Rowe, it’s very possible we’ll recover the painting. There are fences for stolen artwork, and we’ve a network of people who let us know when items of interest appear.”
“But—”
“And it probably seems like searching for a needle in a haystack,” he continued. “But consider how large a painting is. Last week, I found a ruby-and-diamond brooch no bigger than one of those.” He gestured toward a plate with three pats of butter in the shape of miniature flowers. “So it can be done.”
He was trying to reassure me, and I nodded my thanks. “Well, I hope it’s found, of course. But—well, I think Felix is right. I rather doubt that Edwin made a will. However, if Edwin did, and he bequeathed the house to me, does it mean I’m liable for the painting?”
He nodded reluctantly. “The guaranty will follow the house. But it would take the solicitors a while to sort through your brother’s affairs. It’ll give us some time.” He gave an encouraging smile. “I know it’s difficult, but try not to worry yet.”
I attempted a smile.
“You should eat something.” He rearranged the dishes to put the sandwiches closer to me.
I picked one up and took a bite. I would have sworn I felt too fraught with anxiety to choke it down, but the bread helped settle my stomach, and after a few more bites and some tea, I began to feel better. He must have been hungry himself, for our conversation was minimal until a good portion of the items on the trays had disappeared.
At last I sat back with a sigh. “Thank you for that. It’s kind of you to take the time, when I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“Well, I hadn’t eaten today myself.” He gave a wry smile. “And frankly, your case is my most pressing concern at the moment.”
I looked at him dubiously.
“At the direction of my chief inspector,” he added. “Because of its link to Lord Sibley.”
I blinked. “Truly?”
He poured himself more coffee, and though I’d never liked to drink it, the aroma was rich and velvety.
“Last week, when Mr. Pagett came in, he saw Chief Inspector Martin first—demanded it, actually. The Sibley family has powerful friends.” He gave me a look. “As a result, I was asked to hand off most of my other cases for the time being and f
ocus on his.”
I began to see.
“It was only a coincidence I was called initially for your brother’s case. But thank God I was. Who knows how long it would’ve taken to make the connection to the painting otherwise.”
I made a sound of agreement. “These cases are two sides of the same coin, aren’t they?”
“So to speak.” He sat back and took up his cup. In his large hand, it looked undersized. “May I ask you something?”
I tensed but nodded.
“Why did you say that the painting on your brother’s wall wasn’t very good?” he asked. “I thought it was well done—not that I’m any judge. What’s the matter with it?”
It wasn’t a question I’d been expecting. As I poured my second cup of tea, it occurred to me he was making a benign effort to put me at ease or disarm me. Either way, I had a ready response. I set down the pot. “The hands aren’t well done; the man’s skin isn’t the proper color or texture; and the expression on the girl’s face isn’t what I intended. I know I said Edwin would do it better, but I would do it better myself now. That was from years ago.” I paused. “Do you know many painters, Mr. Hallam?”
He shook his head. “None but you.”
I swallowed my tea and grimaced. I’d forgotten the sugar. Mr. Hallam watched as I put a spoonful in the cup and stirred.
“Was it always your passion to attend the Slade?” he asked.
I couldn’t help a short laugh. “Hardly. It wasn’t even in existence until four years ago.”
His eyebrows rose. “I didn’t realize.”
“Mr. Slade opened it within University College so men and women could study together. It’s one of the few such art schools of its kind, and so far as I know the only one in London to allow women.”
He looked thoughtful. “Hm. I suppose the Royal Academy of Music was ahead of its time. It’s admitted women for decades. My sister is there for piano.”
“What’s her name?”
“Nell. It’s just the two of us. We lost our mother when we were young, and our father several years ago.”
