by Karen Odden
“My thought is it might not have been the same person.”
My breath caught in my throat, and I stared up at him. “You mean, someone may have thought the Boucher was still there?”
He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Maybe.”
“For goodness’ sake,” I whispered.
“I know.” His eyes left mine to scan the room again, and I folded my sketchbook and leaned against the wall. We might have been strangers, uttering empty pleasantries.
“And just so you know,” he added, “Lord Sibley did travel to France in January, with the LeMarcs and without his valet. His son sent his journals over with a manservant, first thing this morning.”
“What were the dates?”
“Lord Sibley landed in Calais on the ninth of January. His ship home departed from the port of Ostend on the twenty-second of March.”
“Belgium?” I said in surprise.
All at once there was a general rustle from the crowd, and like everyone else, we turned our attention to the front of the room. A slender, elegantly dressed man approximately thirty years of age emerged from behind a curtain and crossed the stage. This was Mr. Jonas Bettridge, son of the man who’d started the house. He stood with his two hands resting deliberately on the auctioneer’s podium and waited for the room to settle. Gradually the members of the audience dropped into their seats and quieted. An air of expectancy and tension pervaded the room, and I felt my throat constrict as I tried to swallow.
When would he announce that the Boucher would not be sold that day? From other auctions I’d attended, I knew paintings could be withdrawn or added at the last minute, and usually an announcement was made at the beginning of the sale. But if Bettridge made the announcement about the Boucher now, would he lose a good part of his audience before the sale even began?
From where I stood at the side of the room, I could observe the faces, and here and there I saw watchfulness or uncertainty. The Beacon wasn’t an esteemed paper. Probably most of the people in this room had never read an issue. Still, Fishel’s article likely had been seen by some, and in the art world, word circulated rapidly. Perhaps Mr. Bettridge had anticipated this, for he wore an expression of decisiveness and authority.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice deep and dignified and resonant, essential for an auctioneer. “Welcome to this auction of important French paintings. We appreciate your attendance and your patience and apologize for the delay. We have an important announcement before we begin. We regret to inform you the painting of Madame de Pompadour by François Boucher will not be offered at this time.”
Gasps and murmurs, and then one angry voice was followed by others:
“I knew it!”
“You’ve lured us here under false pretenses!”
“This is a scandal!”
“This would never happen at Christie’s!”
“What do you think you’re playing at?”
“Blackguards!”
The cries crested to a roar. Several men were waving the catalog—or their fists—and dozens of people had risen from their chairs and begun to make their way to the end of the rows to depart.
Mr. Bettridge put up his hands and raised his own voice to be heard above the furor.
“However,” he said loudly. “We are pleased to offer a heretofore privately held portrait by Jacques-Louis David.”
At the artist’s name, there was a break in the shouting followed by noises of disbelief. People’s eyebrows drew down and their mouths screwed up into knots of skepticism and derision. But a name such as David was too much of a lure to resist. As Mr. Bettridge intended, those who had started toward the door made their way back to their seats, where they perched like skittish birds ready to fly at the first sign of trickery.
Bettridge turned to his left and raised his arm slowly, a theatrical gesture that might have suggested the entrance of a deus ex machina in a Greek play. Two assistants carried out a large painting in a heavy gilt frame and placed it precisely on the easel near the front of the stage.
I felt a wave of admiration for Bettridge, who had pulled an ace out of his sleeve. Where on earth had he found a painting of this quality at the last minute? And he had been shrewd in his selection of replacement—for it was a portrait of a woman, and those who liked Boucher’s painting might well like this one, which featured a woman younger than Madame but no less lovely and engaging. Like Madame she met the gaze of the viewer straight on, as if accustomed to being an object of admiration, and her hand, gently cupping her cheek, suggested both ease and sophistication. The smile hovering at her mouth was less worldly than Madame’s, but it was full of delight and charm. Even from where I stood, it was clear the eyes were painted brilliantly, and the soft ringlets of hair and the folds of her rose-colored dress were exquisite.
The room went silent as people took in the masterpiece before them.
Mr. Bettridge gave a gentle cough and began to speak, sure of their attention now. “This is a portrait of the young Henriette, sister of the painter Eugène Delacroix. She was later known as Madame de Verninac and was David’s subject on more than one occasion, but this is the first portrait. Signed and dated 1796 by the artist in the lower left corner as usual, the portrait is oil on canvas and measures approximately sixty by forty-four inches.” A pause. “This painting has been held privately for eighty-five years and has not been on public view anywhere until today. It would be an extraordinary addition to any collection.” His lips pressed into a pained smile. “Note the loveliness of the hands, the delicacy of the features.”
His voice broke over the last words, and although his face was resolutely expressionless, I thought I understood. This David was a portrait from his private collection. He had forfeited it to save the reputation of the auction house. Publicly held or not, it bore his name.
I cast a glance at Felix and saw his thoughts were probably close to mine. He looked positively ill, his complexion gone gray.
Mr. Hallam nudged me, looked a question, and bent his head close so I might answer.
“Probably even more desirable than the Boucher,” I murmured. “He’s offering it first to keep the crowd.”
He nodded, and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the room again.
I turned to look. Expressions ran the gamut now: awe, excitement, resentment, greed, delight, shock, disgust, and skepticism.
Mr. Bettridge withdrew a tidy sheaf of papers from his breast pocket and held it aloft. “We have proof of the provenance here, and as a gesture of good faith, and to mitigate any inconvenience that might ensue from its late introduction into our sale, Bettridge’s will pay for its installation at any location here in London or within reasonable reach of the city.”
With his words, the prevailing emotion in the room shifted toward excitement verging on delirium, and I marveled at how swiftly it had occurred.
As I scanned the room, my eye was caught by a man standing just inside the entrance. He wore his hat pulled low enough that I could only see his chin, but there was something familiar about him that caught my attention. He began to make his way in our direction, and at last he came close enough that I could see who it was.
Mr. Pagett.
He positioned himself beside me and eyed us warily. “Inspector Hallam, Miss Rowe.”
Mr. Hallam stiffened at hearing his title, but no one nearby seemed to have overheard; everyone’s attention was focused on the painting at the front of the room.
Both Mr. Hallam and I kept our eyes on the auctioneer. Mr. Pagett leaned close and hissed, “Was it you who leaked the information to the Beacon?”
I gasped and glanced out of the corner of my eye. Mr. Hallam’s jaw was clenched, and his words came through gritted teeth: “Of course not. That paper has derailed more police investigations than I can count.”
“Very well.” He seemed to accept that, and I let my breath out in relief.
Mr. Bettridge had begun the standard announcement of the auction procedure
s, and Mr. Pagett leaned in again. “I was wondering how Bettridge might handle the withdrawal of the Boucher. This was a clever solution, although I’ve no doubt it’s killing him.”
I turned my head, so I could ask softly, “It’s from his private collection?”
He made a sound of acquiescence. “There are people who’d pay dearly for it, but they aren’t here. He won’t get what it’s worth. I wonder what he’ll ask to start.”
If Mr. Bettridge hated having to sell the David, he wasn’t going to let it go for a modest price.
The room was full of the noises of people shifting about, turning the pages of the program, and murmuring excitedly. Mr. Pagett added in an undertone: “I assume you are talking with Mrs. Jesper.”
My breath rasped against the back of my throat, and after a moment I glanced at Mr. Hallam, who seemed to have turned to stone.
“She needs to explain how that painting came into her possession,” Mr. Pagett growled. “If you do not ask her, I will.”
“Do not jeopardize this investigation.” Mr. Hallam spoke quietly but his eyes were intent. “I told you from the first, we don’t want to tip our hand. You need to be patient.”
“I will. But I’m not letting this go.” And with that he left us.
“Damn everything,” Mr. Hallam muttered. “How did he learn her name?”
“You think he spoke with Fishel?”
“No. Fishel would have included her name in the article if he knew it.” He shook his head, and his eyes flicked around the room. “He must know someone here at Bettridge’s.”
A faint cough came from Mr. Bettridge at the podium. He surveyed the room coolly. “We open the bidding at two thousand pounds.”
The entire room cried out at his audacity.
It would have been a high opening bid for a painting offered at Christie’s. Here, it was outrageous. I turned to look at the audience, half expecting them to laugh in derision or to start for the exit in disgust.
But three hands shot up in the air.
And then a fourth: Mr. Pagett’s.
The bidding proceeded rapidly—almost dizzyingly—and I am not sure I breathed normally as the price rose. At last the auctioneer’s hammer rang out:
“Sold! To Sir Joshua Lorry, for nine thousand five hundred pounds!”
A shout broke out, followed by applause. The room was buzzing with shock, excitement, giddiness—
The desire to buy raced through it like a runaway train.
Mr. Bettridge wisely wasted no time in having the next painting brought out.
“Our next lot is a fine tableau de mode by Jean François de Troy, dated 1732. It is signed on the verso . . .”
MR. HALLAM AND I waited through the auction’s conclusion but witnessed nothing that roused our suspicion or curiosity. Every one of the paintings sold, with only a small painting by Lemoyne bringing less than its estimate. There was a second fervent bidding war, over a lovely Watteau, that ended with a man and a woman glaring at each other across the room, the man putting up his hand to raise the price by five hundred pounds at one go. The room gasped in amazement, and the lady gathered her umbrella and stalked out of the room, swinging it fiercely fore and aft. Mr. Hallam raised his eyebrow at me, and I shrugged. At last the sale ended, the room emptied, and finally we left Bettridge’s and walked out to the street.
“I didn’t notice anything or anyone out of the ordinary,” he said. “What did you think?”
“The prices were higher than I’d have thought.”
“Well, feelings seemed to be running high, too.”
I made a sound of agreement. “Did you see Mr. Pagett’s face when he lost the David?”
He nodded.
“I feel as though it’s only going to make him more upset about the Boucher,” I said. “What are you going to do about Mrs. Jesper? You can’t let Mr. Pagett talk to her.”
He drew me over to the side, under a shop awning. The edge rippled above us in the stiff breeze. “No. And in fact I think you should speak with her. Alone. Today. Now, in fact.”
I stared. “What? Why?” I felt uneasy, as though I were being thrust into a room where I didn’t belong.
“Well, first off, as Severington said, she doesn’t care for policemen. She was much warmer toward you when we met.”
“But—”
“And remember, she isn’t a suspect,” he interrupted. “As such, you can converse with her as a—a friend might. But I believe there is a connection between her husband and the late Lord Sibley that may shed light on why that painting was hidden in her house. It may have nothing to do with Edwin’s death—but it may have something to do with Mr. Pagett, and I’m feeling uneasy about him. He’s just so terribly invested in these paintings.”
I nodded. “All right. But if I’m going to ask her questions, I’d like to tell her that it was Edwin who was cleaning the Boucher.”
He was silent for a moment, considering.
“What harm would it do?” I pleaded. “She’s bound to discover it sooner or later. Rowe isn’t such a common name, and given the article in the Beacon, the report will soon be in other papers, if it isn’t already. Shouldn’t I tell her, in case she hasn’t seen it? And answer questions, if she has them?”
There was a glint of approval in his eyes. “I think you’re right.”
I felt a sense of relief, and in return for his concession, I asked, “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to say to her?”
He shook his head. “Use your judgment. But see if you can learn more about Mr. Jesper—his background, his education, his family. Any political activity, or his leanings or opinions on Europe. You heard what Tom said about Lord Sibley.” He smiled briefly. “I imagine that you’ll be able to discern for yourself the direction the conversation should go, once you’re there. Just inquire, as you would of a friend. Of course, to quote you, what’s missing might be significant, so pay attention to any point where Mrs. Jesper veers away from answering. And keep in mind the connection might have something to do with Mrs. Jesper herself, so perhaps find out what you can about her family.”
“And what will you be doing?” It came out rather sharply.
He gave me a look. “Something I need to do without you.” But his tone was good-natured, and I was relieved to see a glint of humor in his eye.
We walked on in silence for several blocks, for the pavement was crowded, and most people were moving in the opposite direction.
Abruptly he halted, and his head swiveled. Something had caught his eye and fixed his attention. I craned my neck to see between heads and hats, but I saw only some ordinary stores: a milliner, a haberdasher, a tobacconist.
“Is something the matter?” I asked.
“No.” We stood together, but his gaze was still turned away, observing the retreating backs of the pedestrians.
“What did you see?” I asked urgently. When he didn’t reply, I stepped around him so I could look up into his face.
He wore an expression of stunned disbelief. But even as I watched his face altered, and after a moment, he shook his head pragmatically. “A woman who looked like my mother.”
Something inside my chest softened. “I remember how that felt. After Mother died, I’d see someone out of the corner of my eye and think it was her, before I remembered.”
“My mother isn’t dead.”
I stared. “What? I thought you said—”
“I said I lost her,” he interrupted. Then he corrected himself: “We lost her. She left us.”
“Why? Where did she go?” My mind jumped to the possible reasons a woman would leave her family—
“To Paris,” he replied. “She had a brain disease that caused her to slide between mania and melancholy. During one of her episodes, she decided her temperament and her musical talent were too elevated for London.” He shrugged. “So she sold her mother’s silver and bought a ticket for passage on a boat. She was gone two days later.”
I winced, imagining such a betray
al.
“She never came back, and we never heard from her.” He paused, his eyes averted. “My sister wasn’t even a year old.”
And you were still very young, I thought with a pang.
“Did you look for her?” I asked.
He nodded. “After my father died, I went through his desk and found an old clipping from a Paris newspaper. It showed my mother performing in a concert hall under her mother’s name. I went to find her, but it had been years, and there was no trace of her. So she might still be alive.” His eyebrows rose and fell. “Or not.”
“Oh, Matthew. I’m sorry.” His given name had slipped out on the wave of sympathy I felt. “That sort of uncertainty, it’s . . .” I didn’t have words for it, but I could imagine how each time he saw a woman who resembled his mother, the pain would return, cutting him anew. As my mother said once, a knife lying inside a dark drawer stays sharp.
“I probably should have given up finding her by now, but I don’t know if I ever really can.” He gave a small, bleak smile. “Obviously, I did to some extent. I didn’t stay in France. But disappearing is a rotten thing to do to people who love you.”
I swallowed hard. “I know.”
A gust of damp wind flapped the collar of both our coats, and he glanced up at the sky. “It looks like rain.” He touched my arm, and we walked in silence to the corner, where he gestured in the direction opposite from Mrs. Jesper’s. “I’ve something to do this way. I’ll leave you here.”
“All right.”
He drew a pair of gloves out of his pocket and put them on. “Mrs. Jesper needs an ally, Annabel, much more than she needs a policeman. You may not realize how well suited you are for that, but your sincerity and compassion will help her.”
I’d been surprised at his taking me into his confidence. Now I was surprised again. I felt my cheeks warm, but I managed to reply calmly, “I’ll do my best.”
And we parted, each of us heading our own way.
Chapter 11
The Jesper home was less than a half hour’s walk from the auction house, but it was long enough for me to turn over Matthew’s words in my head, and to consider the situation from Mrs. Jesper’s point of view.
