by Karen Odden
He studied the painting, and after a moment he said, “A wealthy family at home. The light feels more like afternoon than morning. The mother looks proud but irritable, and is taking a cup of tea from the maid. Her daughters are at the piano, and they’re both flirting with the young man. He’s a bit of a dandy.” He turned to me. “And you?”
I pointed at the upper left quadrant of the canvas. “Do you see the man’s formal portrait, by the fireplace? I would guess he’s the father who is missing from this scene. If he is dead, the mother knows she needs to settle her daughters before she dies; if she doesn’t, and the estate is entailed, they’ll be left penniless.” My fingertip shifted to the lower left corner. “You see the fray on the carpet?”
“Yes.” His voice held a note of surprise.
“So the mother is irritable and anxious, hoping the young man will marry one of the daughters. But look at him. He rests his hand on the piano, and the red stone in his ring is the same color as the curtains and the roses in the carpet, as if he already belongs. But though the man stands near the daughters, his face is turned toward the maid.”
I watched as his eyes retraced the painting. “So behind this seemingly benign scene is a tragedy waiting to happen,” he concluded. He turned to me, his expression uncertain, even troubled. “Is that what you call brilliant?”
“There’s nothing brilliant about infidelity or privation,” I corrected him gently. “But do you remember what you said the other day about truth coming from putting events in order?” I tipped my head toward the painting. “This is my kind of truth, capturing a moment when faces and gestures betray feelings and motives. This is what I want to do—to show people as they truly are, with all their weakness and fear and longing.”
Immediately after I said it, I realized how earnest and didactic—perhaps even officious—I sounded. But to my relief, he didn’t laugh. Instead his expression cleared. “I remember the painting in Edwin’s room, of the young girl and her father at the market,” he said. “You caught the moment of the girl’s resentment and the father’s fatigue.”
I was surprised he remembered so clearly. “I was trying to, yes.”
“That’s another kind of truth, and just as valid,” he admitted. “Although we’re not so far apart in our methods. I study people’s faces and actions, too, in order to understand their motivations—and to know when they’re lying to me.”
“Yes, I suppose you would.”
He tipped his chin in the direction of the two portraits. “You don’t care for those.”
“Oh.” I shrugged apologetically. “They have merit, surely, but often the subject becomes no more than a conventional symbol, a representative of the politics and the mores of the time. Usually the painter includes a heap of iconographic objects to reflect aspects of character or occupation.” I looked up at the parlor scene again, and my eye caught on another detail. “But in a work like this, what’s absent is sometimes just as significant as what’s present. It suggests what people have lost, or what they’ve never had. Do you see the dark spot on the wallpaper, just there? It shows they’ve had to sell a painting.” I pointed to an almost invisible rectangle.
“Please don’t touch that,” came a clipped voice behind us.
Not for worlds would I have touched another artist’s painted canvas, but I didn’t quibble. My hand dropped into the folds of my skirt as I turned.
At last, Mr. Pagett had made his appearance. He was a tall man of about thirty, with wavy brown hair swept back from a broad forehead, a smallish nose, and a mouth that suggested meticulousness. He was dressed with care, down to his smartly tailored hems that brushed his polished boots. When Mr. Hallam introduced me as an art scholar, his annoyance gave way to a sort of weary tolerance, and my heart sank as I realized that my being here might only make Mr. Pagett less amiable.
“And what do you think of our paintings, Miss Rowe?” Mr. Pagett asked.
I’d had plenty of experience the past two years in giving my opinions on artwork. I knew to take my time, to be deliberate, and to speak only about what I knew.
I turned to take in the four paintings on the opposite wall. Again, French, eighteenth-century; perhaps the works of Fragonard, who had been a pupil of Boucher’s. But the two pairs didn’t properly occupy the space, the way the paintings on the other walls did, as if a work had been removed. Further, I noticed the similarity of all the frames and understood what it might reveal about Mr. Pagett’s ambitions; however, I would keep that observation to myself.
At last I turned to him. “I can say without reservation that you have fine representatives of all the eighteenth-century French schools.” I gestured to each in turn. “The portraits, the fête galante, the landscapes, the allegorical paintings, and this genre painting. I couldn’t attribute these with any certainty. But given that those”—I pointed toward the set of four—“are possibly by Fragonard, and those”—I indicated the portraits—“might be by La Tour, who also painted Madame de Pompadour, I can appreciate that the Boucher would be central to your collection.”
His expression lost some of its condescension. “Do you know Boucher’s work?”
“Somewhat,” I answered modestly.
He gave a nod of satisfaction, and I felt my breath ease; I’d passed, at least provisionally.
I turned to the painting of the parlor scene. “This one . . . I think it’s remarkable. Who is the artist?”
Despite himself, he looked gratified. “A young man named Jacques Delaurme. He passed away last year of consumption, poor fellow. He was only twenty-nine.”
Mr. Hallam had discreetly stepped away, leaving Mr. Pagett and me together in front of the painting. Mr. Pagett’s arms were crossed over his chest, his head oddly askew on his neck, as if he needed an extra inch or two to properly examine the painting, but I heard the note of true admiration and enthusiasm for this work. “Delaurme remains underappreciated because he only left behind thirteen finished paintings, all interiors like this. Each has its merits, and this one is the best.”
I couldn’t help but imagine how Mr. Poynter would respond to a student who expressed himself with such absolute certainty in his own judgment. Out of tact, I concealed my wonder, but I could sincerely voice my appreciation for the painting: “Well, I think it is brilliant, both in terms of technique and the story it tells. The lighting, the hands, the gazes, the fabrics and textures. The delicate balance of the three, or even four different triangles among the six characters.”
“Six?” Mr. Pagett said, turning in surprise.
“The father’s portrait, beside the mantel,” I said. “Surely he’s as much a part of this painting as anyone. It’s his absence that structures all the other triangles—the fear, the giddiness, the longing.”
He snorted. “You make it sound like a romance novel. But I’m delighted you appreciate its quality.” A pause, and his voice altered. “It was my first purchase after my father’s death.” I murmured some conventional words of sympathy, which he dismissed with a wave of his left hand. “This room represents only part of our collection. The paintings from the Dutch Golden Age are in the dining room, and the Venetian school is in the library. We’ve always had an eye for improving our holdings.”
The door opened and a maid appeared, her cleaning brushes clanking against the metal pail. At the sight of us, she halted, openmouthed.
He spun around. “Mary!”
“Beg pardon, sir. I didn’t know—”
“Never mind,” he growled. “Let us alone, and be quiet about it.”
He pivoted back to us, so he missed the resentful look she gave him before she turned away, closing the door behind her with a scrupulously obedient click.
His arms once again folded across his chest, his eyes flicked to Mr. Hallam and then back to me. “I understand that the theft of a French painting might not rise to the importance of a murder or a railway disaster. But the Boucher is—as I told Mr. Hallam—extremely valuable and important to the world.”
Either he didn’t understand that I’d detected his stratagem or he refused to be embarrassed by it.
“As I told the inspector, it was one of my father’s most astute purchases—truly the piece around which all of this”—he gestured with his arm—“should be arranged.”
“Then why did your father place it in the Pantechnicon?” I asked.
There was a moment when the gray eyes went cold, and I had a vague feeling of discomfort, as if I’d rubbed the nap of velvet the wrong way.
“I believe he considered taking it to our country house. I couldn’t say for certain.” He shrugged and brushed his fingertips lightly along the edge of a table, as if to remove a speck of dust. “He didn’t always share his plans with me, or with Franks.”
“Franks?” Mr. Hallam interposed.
He looked up. “Mr. Wilbur Franks. He cleans and hangs all of our paintings. He has for years.”
“And—I beg your pardon,” Mr. Hallam said, “but I’ve forgotten. When did your father purchase the painting?”
I felt a small jolt of surprise. Mr. Hallam knew the answer to that, and I realized he had used the question to steer the conversation.
“In January of 1872. After the Franco-Prussian War, members of the LeMarc family left Paris and lived with us until they could find a suitable residence to rent in London. Naturally, they brought some of their prized paintings, and my father purchased the Boucher, partly to provide them with funds.”
“The LeMarc family were close friends, then?” Mr. Hallam asked.
“Yes, for years.” His tone was neutral—but something in his expression seemed amiss.
“Is it a large family?”
Mr. Pagett’s lip curled faintly. “I’ve no idea the size of the family. I imagine it’s enormous, in the usual way of most Catholics. But only Monsieur LeMarc and his daughter Heloise stayed here.”
“Was that uncomfortable?” Mr. Hallam asked. “You don’t seem pleased about it.”
“I don’t particularly enjoy houseguests for long periods.”
In a house this size? I wondered. There might be half a dozen guests and no need to see them ever.
“Ah.” Mr. Hallam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if to set that line of conversation visibly aside. “So—your father sent the Boucher to the Pantechnicon for storage. When was that?”
“Toward the end of December in 1873. He was planning to travel back to Paris with the LeMarc family after the New Year. The capital was deemed safe, as the Germans were departing and the government seemed to have recovered stability.”
“How many other paintings did you store in the Pantechnicon?” Mr. Hallam asked.
“Forty-four in all.”
“Any as valuable as the Boucher?”
“A few. A Rembrandt and a Titian.” He glanced at me to be sure I recognized the names. “Most of them were lesser works, though, ones that we held onto for sentimental reasons, or because my father anticipated selling or trading them later on.”
“Hm.” Mr. Hallam paused. “I imagine your father was devastated by the loss of so much of his collection in the fire.”
Mr. Pagett merely looked at him as if he’d said something unworthy of a response.
“How did your father die?” I asked.
Mr. Pagett’s voice flattened, as if reciting facts that he had provided many times in the past. “My father remained in Paris for nearly two months, and when he returned, he caught some strain of the influenza—probably from a chill he’d taken on the crossing. The doctors came, of course, and did their best. But a few weeks later, he was gone.”
I heard a tremor as he spoke the last words. Perhaps he heard it as well, for he gave a hoarse cough before he resumed. “His greatest legacy is this collection, so I don’t want a forgery paraded about as if he were a fool—or to have some sort of scandal arise that would call into question any aspect of his discretion and judgment. He was a brilliant man.”
“I understand,” I said, and indeed I felt some sympathy—except I also sensed he was hedging. “And is there no possibility the painting was removed from the Pantechnicon before it burned?”
Mr. Pagett shook his head. “The only person besides my father and myself who ever took works in or out was our family solicitor, Ambrose Leigh. And he didn’t remove it. Not only has he denied it, he was in Edinburgh in the weeks prior to the fire.” He frowned. “The only reasonable explanation is that the painting is a forgery and Mr. Severington has been duped.”
“You know him?” I asked.
“Solely by reputation, until the day I received the auction catalog. Mr. Bettridge wasn’t available, so I saw Mr. Severington, who tried to convince me that the Boucher was authentic.” He spread his hands in a gesture that suggested his frustration. “He had papers, but as we all know, those can be forged and fabricated. When I asked to see the work itself, he said that it was out being cleaned, but he wouldn’t tell me who was doing it, or where it was being held. That’s why I went to Scotland Yard.” At this, he seemed to remember Mr. Hallam. “I assume that you haven’t any further news?”
“Well, we do, some of which I can share with you,” Mr. Hallam replied. “However, I have a few more questions.”
Mr. Pagett made a show of patience. “Very well.”
“Who would have known whether the original was here in the house or in the Pantechnicon?”
Mr. Pagett frowned. “I couldn’t say with certainty. Heloise and her father, I imagine. My sister Jane. Members of our housekeeping staff. Mr. Franks, of course. Perhaps there were others.”
“And your father went only to Paris on that last trip?”
Mr. Pagett bristled. “What are you insinuating? That he was doing something secretive or illicit?”
“Not at all. I am only asking as a matter of course.”
“If he went elsewhere, he didn’t mention it to me.”
“Did he travel elsewhere in Europe, besides France, in the year or two before he died?”
“Yes, of course.”
Mr. Hallam’s eyebrows rose, and he waited.
Mr. Pagett huffed. “Amsterdam, I’m sure. Antwerp, probably.”
“And when he traveled, did he take anyone with him—a servant or a friend?”
“Usually he took his valet. But he didn’t that time,” Mr. Pagett replied.
“I’d like to see your father’s travel log and any journals he might have kept from the time he purchased the painting until his death.”
“He didn’t keep a journal. His valet, Mr. Dowling, kept a log.”
“Could we speak with him?”
“He’s taken another position.” Mr. Pagett looked both dubious and annoyed. “Look here, I have to say, I don’t see the point in nosing about my father’s travel or his private affairs or whether he took his valet or not. The painting was either forged or stolen out of the Pantechnicon. My father’s travel plans can hardly be relevant.” He glared pointedly at Mr. Hallam. “My father’s loyal friends are hardly going to appreciate you digging about in search of some sort of sordid story.”
“That is not my—”
“And now some unwitting fellow is going to be sold a forgery or a painting to which he has no legal right. That is what you should be considering.” Mr. Pagett’s voice hardened. “I told you that first day, you need to take a sharp look at Bettridge’s. Whatever you may say about Christie’s and Sotheby’s, they have a proper appreciation for art. But Bettridge’s is a joint-stock company, concerned with the profits of their stockholders, so naturally they will run their business like it’s a newspaper or a sawmill or—or a slaughterhouse!” His eyes were ablaze with feeling, and his cheeks were flushed. “But pieces of art are not discrete commodities! They cannot be bought and sold like—like a plank of wood or a pig.” He spread his hands palms up, the long fingers splayed wide. “They belong to traditions—collections! T
hey transcend mere individuals!”
I began to see why Mr. Hallam had characterized Mr. Pagett as peculiar. He certainly possessed strong opinions.
Mr. Hallam clasped his hands behind his back. “I understand how deeply you feel about art.” He took a few steps to the left and then the right. “I am going to tell you something as a courtesy, but I ask that you don’t reveal it to anyone.”
“All right.”
“The painting will not appear in the auction.”
Even as Mr. Hallam said it, I fixed my eyes on Mr. Pagett, so I might see his reaction.
He drew back, and his eyes were wide and unblinking, his lips parted, and his face paled. “So it is a forgery.” It came out as little more than a whisper, and after a moment, his shock gave way to gratification that his surmise had been correct and then to chagrin that the original truly was lost. His entire body slumped as if with disappointment, and I would have sworn his feelings were genuine. Whatever information he was keeping from us, he hadn’t stolen the painting and most likely had nothing to do with my brother’s death.
He paced to the window that overlooked the garden and stared out. “This is . . . not . . .” His exhale was resigned. “I didn’t realize how much I was hoping she had escaped the fire.”
We gave him a minute to regain his equanimity.
At last Mr. Hallam broke the silence: “Can you think of anyone else who felt the way you do about the painting?”
He spoke half over his shoulder. “No,” he said glumly. “There are plenty of people who’d want a Boucher but . . .” He was shaking his head and staring out the window.
Mr. Hallam caught my eye and nodded, then picked up his coat. “Please send your father’s travel records to the Yard as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” he mumbled distractedly.
“We’ll bid you good morning.”
The words roused Mr. Pagett, and he turned toward us. “I beg your pardon. This news has been something of a shock.” He heaved a sigh. “I suppose it’s absurd. Until two weeks ago, I thought she was gone—so to have her gone again shouldn’t matter, but it does.” His eyebrows drew together. “I’d like to view the forgery for myself.”
