by Karen Odden
“I’m sorry. It isn’t possible at this time.”
His scowl deepened.
“I hope someday to be able to allow you to see it,” Mr. Hallam said. “I just ask you to be patient.”
His mouth tightened, but he managed to reply civilly, “Very well.”
“And please send over your father’s travel records,” Mr. Hallam reminded him.
He blinked. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Mr. Pagett walked to the parlor door and opened it for us. The footman was waiting to show us out to the street, and I left the house feeling relieved to have the interview behind us. We were only half a dozen steps away from the house before Mr. Hallam asked for my impressions.
“You’re certainly right about him being odd,” I replied. “But what was the phrase you used? ‘Proper and law-abiding’? I have to agree. I don’t think he had anything to do with the theft, or my brother’s death. Do you?”
“No. I think he’s aloof and eccentric, but his shock when he heard the Boucher wouldn’t appear at auction seemed genuine.” He gave a curious glance. “What about his collection? I sensed you could have said more.”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “Nothing he needed to hear, but I noticed a few things in particular. The first is that those four allegorical paintings weren’t spaced with the same proportions as others in the room. They were farther apart.”
“What do you make of that?”
“My guess is that another painting hung between the two pairs. If it was the Boucher, it was considered part of the collection at some point. And Mr. Pagett hasn’t found something to replace it.”
“Hm.”
“The second thing is, someone has spent a good deal of money on the backdrop for the collection.”
“You mean the walls?” Mr. Hallam asked.
“Yes. Decorative painting is expensive,” I said. “And when you put different colors in the rooms, and in those delicate shades, each color has to be made here, at the house, by an artisan.”
The pavement was crowded, and Mr. Hallam kept his hands clasped behind him as he paced beside me. “The paint looked fairly new. No stains around the fireplace.”
I nodded. “His father died over a year ago, so my guess is Mr. Pagett may have ordered it.”
“Hm.”
“And did you notice the frames, how similar they all were?”
“I saw they were all gilt and heavy.” His hand came out from behind his back to bracket the air, his thumb and forefinger spanning four or five inches.
“It’s a particular style called a Régence frame,” I said. “A style dating from the early 1700s. But it wasn’t the only kind of frame used for French paintings. Yet all of them were framed alike—”
“Including the large one that he bought after his father’s death,” he interrupted.
“Yes.” I could almost see him slotting this event into order.
“So he had them reframed, and recently,” Mr. Hallam said. “That sounds costly. Why would he bother?”
We stepped around a broadsheet boy who was bawling so loudly his face was red as a beet.
I replied, “People do it sometimes to create stylistic continuity in a collection. It suggests to me that the son is trying to put his own stamp on it.”
Mr. Hallam’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps the father wasn’t as passionate about the collection as the son obviously is. After all, he didn’t return until over a month after the Pantechnicon fire.”
My steps slowed as I took this in. “You’re right. Mr. Pagett would have come home, wouldn’t he?”
“I imagine he’d have swum across the Channel if he had to.”
The image of Mr. Pagett flailing through the waves made me smile. “I think you’re right.” We walked on in silence, and I found myself trying to recall other moments in the conversation. “Is it true Bettridge’s is a joint-stock company? I’ve always assumed Mr. Bettridge was the owner.”
“The family still owns forty percent of the stock, but yes, they offered shares two years ago to raise funds.”
“For the renovation, probably,” I realized.
“Mm.” He paused at a corner. “Say, are you all right from here, going home? I have some things I need to look into.”
“Of course,” I said readily. It wasn’t even noon, but I was tired; I wanted to be home and to sit quietly, to find some solace if I could. With relief, I bid him good day and turned away, although to my surprise, when I reached the opposite side of the street and looked back, Mr. Hallam was still watching me with what looked like concern. Surprised and touched, I gave a wave of reassurance, and he smiled and tipped his hat before he turned his back and went on his way.
I walked on, feeling a mix of uncertainty and gratification. Indeed, as I reached the door and took the key from my reticule, I had the peculiar fancy that a strand of twine had been unrolled between us, and it remained in place, tied off securely at the corners of that street.
Chapter 9
Later that day, for the first time since Edwin’s death, I approached my easel, though I was unsure of my intention. With the certainty of habit, my hand reached for the nail where I kept my old apron. It was skimpier than my smock at the Slade but covered my dress well enough. I ran my hands over the front. Bits of dried paint felt smoother than the coarse drabbet. I chose my paints and brushes, and those simple acts, familiar as sipping tea or brushing my hair, began to soothe the turmoil and sorrow of the past few days. I stood in front of the canvas for some time before I loaded my brush with sepia and began to block out the two figures taking shape in my mind.
After several hours, the image had become clear: Mr. Pagett and Lord Sibley, vis-à-vis. The living man stood with his back angled toward the viewer, his head turned for a partial profile, and his hands clasped behind his back; the father sat just as in the kit-cat, with his gaze focused on some distant point beyond his son. Though it was merely the underpainting, I felt satisfied that I’d captured something in the son’s stance—something verging on frustration mixed with longing and grief. It wasn’t until I removed my apron that I realized I had put the son’s hands behind his back, as if he were concealing a secret, instead of crossed over his chest, as they’d been when Mr. Pagett stared at Delaurme’s interior.
Slowly I began preparing for bed; I was braiding my hair when a knock sounded at my door, startling me. I crossed the room and spoke against the closed door, “Who is it?”
“It’s Felix, Annabel. Open the door, for God’s sake.”
Hastily I drew my dressing gown tighter around me, twisted the key, and opened the door. He stood there hatless, his wisps of hair going every which way, his pink forehead damp with perspiration, breathing as though he’d run the entire mile from his flat. He had a rolled newspaper clasped in his right hand like a policeman’s truncheon, and he smelled vaguely of spirits.
“What’s the matter, Felix? Are you all right?”
“No.” He scowled heavily. “It’s a bloody mess. And now the papers have got hold of it.”
I caught a glimpse of the masthead. The Beacon.
I beckoned him inside and closed the door. “Felix, honestly. Everyone knows that paper is hardly reputable.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s there in black and white for everyone to read.” He thrust the roll toward me. “And they slander Edwin. I didn’t want you to hear about it from someone else.”
Mechanically, I took the paper and began to unfurl it. “They mention Edwin by name?”
He waved a hand, as if dispelling a bad odor. “They’ve twisted everything. Look for yourself.”
He shrugged out of his coat, wiped his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief, and went over to the window, where he stood with his face turned toward the outside, as if he couldn’t bear to watch me read. His shirt was strained across the shoulders, and his plump hands were in fists. Whatever the paper said, I couldn’t help but think he was taking it too much to heart.
I turned up the lamp, smoothed the
paper on the table, and felt my heart sink. The headline declared in large letters BETTRIDGE’S GRAND SWINDLE! and the article took up the entire lower half of the front page. It began:
Auction houses have long been haunts of deception, avarice, and exploitation. Despite their claims to a genteel sensibility, Christie’s and Sotheby’s have both been caught puffing the objects they sell, and they have shown no compunction at earning their handsome commissions off the misfortunes of others. Now, a third auction house has provided us with such a brazen display of fraudulence that we can only stand agape and assume that it shall ascend to the apex of the auction world before long . . .
I skimmed the rest of the article. It was full of suppositions and inquiries intended to inflame the worst suspicions: that Bettridge knew the painting was a forgery and planned to sell it anyway; that Mr. Edwin Rowe, a convicted forger, had not only cleaned the painting but made a copy and was murdered to conceal the crime; that the plainclothesmen of Scotland Yard, as usual, were accepting bribes to delay solving the crime until after the auction; that Felix was either a poor, unwitting dupe or a conspirator; that the Sibley family, whose late patriarch prized the Boucher beyond price, had been irreparably injured by Bettridge’s duplicity. I felt the bile rising in my throat as I read to the conclusion:
Chicanery such as this raises a family’s hopes only to dash them! According to one expert, it is likely, in fact, that the original painting remains in existence and is available for discreet purchase. Meanwhile, the forged painting has achieved its purpose, serving as a large magnet to draw, like small shards of metal, other French paintings out of private collections, the owners being wise to the fact that in the frenzy cultivated by the auction house, collectors will eagerly purchase anything, if only to feel triumphant. To those who attend the auction, we say to you only: Caveat emptor!
Felix still stared broodingly out the window.
“It’s terrible, Felix,” I admitted. “But aside from a few bare facts, it’s full of inaccuracies.”
“You know that doesn’t matter.” He turned and made his way to the armchair, sinking his bulk into it. “There’s just enough truth here to make it credible.”
I ran my eyes over the article again, with a growing sense of puzzlement. “Felix, who would have told a newspaperman about Edwin cleaning the painting—or his murder?” I looked up from the page. “Surely not someone at Bettridge’s. I imagine they want to keep the whole affair as quiet as possible.”
“I’ve no idea. No doubt Bettridge will blame me for this, too,” he said bitterly. “Disgruntled servant and all that.”
“What do you mean, ‘for this, too’?”
He hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped. His pale blue eyes met mine. “Edwin never signed the guaranty.”
My breath caught in the back of my throat. “What?”
“The solicitor was supposed to have him sign it. He forgot.” He sighed. “I only found out this afternoon.”
The wave of relief on my account made me feel weak in the knees, and I groped for the chair beside me and sat down. “So the solicitor is liable for the loss, isn’t he?”
He grimaced. “He says he gave the letter to me for Edwin’s signature. He’s lying to cover his mistake, but he’s Bettridge’s bloody nephew, so no. I’m to blame.”
The newspaper slid to the floor. “Oh, Felix. That’s not fair.”
“I was asked to leave the premises today, at least temporarily. As I expected I would be. It was only a matter of time.”
I groaned and retrieved the paper, folding it in my lap. “I’m so sorry.”
He dropped his head into his hands, pressing their heels into his forehead. “The truth is, I understand it. They need a scapegoat if they’re to keep any sort of respectability.” The words came out muffled. “They can hardly have me stay on, with the auction in three days and still no sign of the painting.” He looked up, a spark of hope in his eyes. “Unless the inspector has discovered any clue to its whereabouts.”
“Nothing definite yet,” I said reluctantly. “But he seems clever and capable. I’m sure something will happen soon.” I hesitated. “I should tell you, Felix. Edwin did make a will, leaving me the house.”
His eyebrows rose faintly.
“It’s with a solicitor. A friend of his—a vicar—told me at the funeral.”
“Mr. Pascoe?” he asked.
I nodded and leaned forward. “There may be something for you.”
He shrugged despondently. “It wouldn’t be enough.” He sighed. “But I’m glad for your sake.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept silent, and after a moment, he heaved himself out of the chair. The lamplight was gentle, but even so, he looked much older than his forty-five years. He fumbled with the buttons on his coat, then paused and reached into his inner pocket. “Here,” he said and handed me a copy of the auction catalog. “I thought you might want this. It may be all you ever see of her.”
I walked with him to the door and wished I had some reason for hope, or words of comfort.
THE BEACON IN hand, I went to Scotland Yard early enough the next morning that most of the desks were empty. However, Mr. Hallam was at his, and he looked up with astonishment. “I only just sent one of the boys with a message for you.”
“I didn’t receive it. I must have left home before he arrived.” I held out the paper with its oversize headline. “Have you seen this? Felix brought it to me last night.”
“No.” He took it from me and began to read, his scowl deepening. Somewhere around the middle of the piece, he blew out his breath in disgust. His eyes still on the paper, he muttered, “Damn him.”
I bristled. “It’s hardly his fault! The solicitor—”
“Not Felix,” he interrupted, looking up. “John Fishel. The one who wrote this inflammatory piece of trash.”
I started, for out of keeping with his usual composure, Mr. Hallam’s eyes sparked with anger, and he slapped the paper onto his desk. I took it up and looked in vain for the author’s name. “How do you know?”
“I recognize the vitriol—and the cleverness of the wording.”
“Cleverness,” I echoed.
“Yes. He’s not saying anything.” He took the paper back from me and read: “‘Who is to say the “cleaning” isn’t being performed by Mr. Rowe merely to keep someone from discovering the painting is a forgery?’ You see? It’s merely a question, so he can’t be accused of slander.” He stood up and took his coat from the back of his chair. “Have you time to pay a visit?”
“To Mr. Fishel?” I asked warily. I had no desire to partake in a heated confrontation.
“Lord, no. To a friend of mine. A different sort of newspaperman.”
“Oh . . . all right.”
He held the door for me, and we crossed the yard and turned north onto Whitehall. It was early enough that we could walk side by side. There were no loud noises to prevent our speaking, only the boat whistles rising from the river and wheels rolling over the cobbles. Still, he was silent and preoccupied, and his scowl suggested his thoughts weren’t pleasant. But as we encountered a rough patch of macadam, he took my elbow, and I felt a quiet flare of pleasure that he did so as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“At this hour, we won’t find a cab until we reach the Strand,” he said.
“I don’t mind the walk,” I assured him.
We walked another half block, and at last he broke the silence: “There aren’t many people I wholeheartedly despise, but Fishel is one of them.” We veered away from two men carrying lumber, and he resumed: “I don’t know how he does it, but he obtains police information that is supposed to be secret, and he causes no end of trouble for us. Last year, I was assigned to a case in which four people in Bethnal Green had been murdered. I knew who’d done it, and I had him under surveillance. I didn’t move for two days. But Fishel saw me sitting there, surmised what I was doing, and published his guesses in his paper under the
guise of providing a service, letting the public know about a potential danger.” His stride had lengthened, so I had to take three steps to two of his. “Of course the man took the warning and stole a carriage to get away. He killed a driver to do it.”
I gasped. “So his death is Fishel’s fault, isn’t it?”
“Not under existing jurisprudence.”
“But—”
“Fishel knows the limits of the law precisely, and he knows how to sell papers. He’s an unethical, soulless excuse for a man. The problem is he’s shrewd and intuitive. He preys upon public fears of being exploited or cheated and includes just enough facts to make his story credible and whip people into a frenzy.” By this point I was half a step behind, and he turned. “Sorry, I’m walking too fast.” He gave a hard little laugh. “I’ll admit I hate him, especially because he loves a chance to discredit the police. Last year he devoted a series of three articles to showing how our plainclothes could allow us to extort money from hardworking shopkeepers.”
“Well, I can understand why you hate him.” We paused at a corner to let a cart pass. “He sounds almost dangerous. Not in the same way as a criminal with a weapon, but—”
“He is dangerous,” he interrupted, and we started across the street. “He’s just a different sort of public menace. The situation is especially difficult because Chief Inspector Martin doesn’t take Fishel seriously. He says it’s merely words on paper, and it shouldn’t affect our work.” He shook his head. “But a witness who believes that we’re out to swindle the public won’t talk to any of us freely.”
We rounded a corner, and I said, “What I don’t understand is where Fishel obtained the accurate information he had, particularly about Edwin. He must have spoken to someone who had special knowledge about the painting itself. I can’t imagine it’s Mr. Pagett—he’d hate the idea of a scandal, and I gathered he didn’t much like newspapers.”
“No, they were lumped in with slaughterhouses,” he agreed.
