Duplicity

by Sara Rosett

  With jet lag adding to her already sluggish morning disposition, she felt as if it was the middle of the night despite the sunshine glinting off the buffet’s silver chafing dishes. She’d already downed one cup of coffee, which helped her move up the scale from sleepwalker to marginally human. Her fingers were curled around her coffee cup, which she held just below her chin.

  A familiar noise permeated her semi-comatose state. Her phone. By the time she’d extracted it from her messenger bag, the call had already gone to voicemail. Harrington. She took another gulp of coffee and pressed the phone to her ear while watching Jack as he made his way across the room with two plates. In his blue dress shirt, tie, and dress pants, he stood out from the tourists in their windbreakers and jeans.

  Harrington’s recorded message came on the line. “Zoe, I had a call late last night in regard to a negotiation, and I must fly to Taipei this morning. I apologize, but I have to cancel our dinner. It looks as if I’ll be returning immediately, but I believe you’ll have already left by the time I get back. Again, sorry for dashing out of town at the last moment. If I don’t see you before you leave London, have a lovely time.”

  Zoe put the phone down as Jack handed her a plate. “I brought you a chocolate croissant, and the waitress is on the way with more coffee.”

  “You do know how to treat a girl.” A few delicate flakes of pastry sprinkled onto the plate as Zoe picked up the warm croissant.

  Jack slid into the banquette seat beside her, and Zoe smiled.

  Jack gave her a quizzical look. “What?”

  Zoe gestured at the banquette with her coffee cup. “Old training dies hard. You still won’t sit with your back to the room.” Jack’s spycraft training had never quite left him. There was still an element of caution in everything he did—even years on from that life, his habit of critically assessing their surroundings influenced his every action and thought.

  He looked at her over the rim of his orange juice, a small smile on his face. “So the coffee is working its magic—you’re teasing me.” His gaze swept the room. “Besides the unobstructed view, I have a few other reasons for being on this side. First, sitting here prevents you from curling up on the bench and snoring.”

  “True. Falling back asleep is one of my faults, but I take issue with the snoring.”

  “Trust me, you snore. And”—he bumped his shoulder against hers—“I like sitting beside my wife.”

  She leaned into him for a moment. “I like you over here too. It’s cozy.”

  Jack turned his attention to his plate, which was loaded with an English breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, fried bread, and grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. He picked up his fork and knife. “Did you hear back from Ava? It seems early even for her.”

  “No. It was Harrington canceling our dinner. He had to leave for Asia this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “He didn’t go into detail, but I know he’s been working on a negotiation for weeks, trying to recover a painting that was stolen from a private home ten years ago.”

  “What do you plan to do while I have my appointments?”

  Zoe popped the last bite of the croissant into her mouth. She felt as if her brain was finally beginning to function. “I’ll follow up with the archive. That may take a while, but they don’t open until noon. I’m sure I can find something to do until then. I might drop by the art gallery that has Woman in a White Fur on display—a place called the Janus Gallery. Then I’ll wander around London.”

  8

  Once breakfast was over, Jack slipped into his all-business mode and went silent, his thoughts on his upcoming meeting. A few years ago, Zoe would have been hurt or annoyed at the change in his manner, but now she knew he was mentally preparing himself, going over possible questions his clients would ask and how he’d answer. He buttoned his suit jacket, gave her a kiss, and was out the door in under two minutes.

  Zoe had no need to rush. The gallery didn’t open until ten. She was tempted to crawl back into bed but fought off the desire. She’d dragged herself into a mostly coherent state. If she went back to bed, she might not wake up until evening—and then she’d be even more messed up than she was now. She turned her back on the invitingly rumpled sheets and sat down with her laptop instead. She’d received an email from the estate of the artist with a copy of the bill of sale. Zoe clicked on the scanned document. The neat cursive handwriting certainly looked like something written decades ago. No one wrote that neatly now. The ink was faded to a sepia brown and enumerated the sale of two paintings to Sebastian Blakely, both original one-of-a-kind pieces. One was listed as Woman in a White Fur. The dimensions of the paintings were listed along with the note about packaging the canvases. The bill of sale certainly looked authentic, but they might need an expert to examine the original document. She made a note, then since she still had some time to burn, she did a couple of online searches, scanning the links about Sebastian Blakely and the painting.

  Zoe found an article about the current owner of Woman in a White Fur in the online archives of a small regional newspaper. They’d run a profile on Rosalind Kingwood, interviewing her when the Sebastian Blakely Museum and Archive opened at Hawthorne House. It seemed Rosalind was the driving force behind gathering Blakely’s photographs and papers into a central location. Zoe skimmed the text, pausing to read Rosalind’s comments on opening day. “It’s been a rather large project but incredibly satisfying. My great-granduncle’s work was incredibly innovative. Having the majority of it here will let viewers experience the whole range of his career from the early nineteen twenties until his death in the seventies.”

  A few photographs accompanied the article. One was the black and white self-portrait of Blakely that had been attached to the file. The next image was one of Blakely’s photographs of a Hollywood actress from the forties. She wore a sparkling evening dress. Her sweep of blonde hair covered one eye as she looked into a full-length mirror, which reflected her small smile that seemed to hint she had a secret and might share it with the viewer.

  The article included a smaller color photograph of Rosalind. She sat at a desk, her gaze focused on her laptop as she typed. A pair of glasses pushed up on her head held back her pale brown hair, which fell straight to her shoulders. Rosalind projected an air of focus as if she really didn’t have time to look up from the laptop and smile while her picture was taken. Zoe couldn’t see any physical resemblance between Rosalind and Sebastian Blakely.

  Zoe checked the address of the Janus Gallery and the hours of the Blakely Archive, then headed out. The gallery was located in a three-story white-painted brick building on a quiet Kensington street. It was too early for it to be open, and the glass-fronted ground floor was dark inside. Zoe peered through the large window, but Woman in a White Fur wasn’t visible. She headed for Hyde Park and strolled among the business-suited men and women striding purposefully along while a smattering of early-bird tourists snapped selfies.

  She found a little café and had another cup of coffee but avoided the chocolate croissant this time, then made her way back to the art gallery. By the time she returned, the lights were on and the door was unlocked. The soft notes of classical music floated through the gallery. It was a long, narrow space with a low ceiling and a staircase along one wall with waist-high glass sections serving as a banister. A mixture of Impressionist and Abstract paintings hung on the walls. A piece of art made of strips of metal suspended on wires hung from the ceiling at the center of the room. A scuffed ladder-back chair was positioned below the wires, and a chunk of concrete rested on the seat of the chair. The bits of metal spun on the wires in the air current Zoe created as she walked by. An arrangement of Dutch pottery was displayed on the small console table by the stairs.

  A man who was probably in his early forties came out from behind the sleek marble-topped counter at the back of the room and greeted her. He wore a pale gray suit, and he had a deep tan and dark black hair.

  “Hello. I’m Zoe
Andrews.” She shook his hand and gave him one of her cards. “I’m working with Throckmorton Enquiries on the provenance for Woman in a White Fur. I’d like to take a look at it in person.”

  “Of course. Of course. I’m Daniel Janus, owner of the gallery. I’ll be happy to help you. Right this way.” He led her up the stairs to the next floor, which was more open. “It’s here in the alcove.” He paced the length of the second floor, his hand extended to the back wall where the Tamara de Lempicka painting hung. It was the only artwork in that section of the gallery, but even among a crowded grouping of paintings, it would have stood out with its rich purple dress and arresting style.

  Janus had stopped a few paces behind Zoe, giving her the ability to view the painting from any angle. Zoe looked at it for a moment from a distance, then she stepped forward and examined the layers of paint. Zoe expected him to leave her, but he waited at her side. He was silent, but a slight air of impatience radiated from him. He didn’t do anything so gauche as tap his foot, but he did check his watch several times.

  After a few moments Zoe turned to Janus. “It’s stunning.”

  “Quite.” He stood with one arm crossed over his waist and the other propped on his wrist, his fingers curled against his chin. “I agree.” He pulled his fingers away from his face, gesturing to the canvas. “You realize we have no doubts as to its authenticity?”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Might I see the back?”

  A winkle appeared between his thick brows. “It could be arranged, but we’d need to deactivate the security plates and remove it from the brackets fastening it to the wall.”

  “So it’s an involved process.”

  “Yes. Our insurance requires it—and we’d take the precautions regardless of their stipulations.” He looked at his watch again. “The photographs we sent Mr. Throckmorton are an exact likeness of the back.”

  Jack would approve of the security arrangements. “Then I won’t put you to the trouble right now.” Zoe understood the headache it would be to remove the canvas from the wall, especially if it was wired with pressure-sensitive plates. It wasn’t her job to examine the painting itself. Someone else would do that if the provenance checked out. “What are your thoughts on the painting?”

  “We all agree it’s marvelous. No tests of a scientific nature have been done, but you can see for yourself that it’s a masterpiece.”

  “All you need is the paperwork to go with it.”

  “Correct,” he said with a smile.

  “Thank you for letting me see it. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  “Allow me to walk you out.” He handed her his card, and Zoe noticed he had a better manicure than she did. Janus motioned for her to lead the way down the stairs. “Please let me know if you have any other questions or if you’d like to see the painting again.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  As soon as they reached the bottom of the stairs, a woman rushed across the room to Janus, brushing by Zoe without looking at her. She was slender and wore black leggings, chunky ankle boots, and an oversized oatmeal-colored sweater with an asymmetrical hem that fluttered around her hips as she walked. “Oh, Danny. There you are. They look spectacular.” She flung her hands up by her shoulders, emphasizing each syllable of the last word as she patted the air, her fingers spread wide. “I just had to see them.”

  Her white-blonde hair was cropped close around her neck in the back, but her bangs fell in long strands over eyes that were as bright blue as the Dutch pottery on the console table. She twitched her long fringe aside and leaned in to kiss Janus on both cheeks in the continental manner.

  “Hello, Farina,” Janus said. “I didn’t realize you were in London.”

  “Just a brief trip, then I’m headed back to Amsterdam tonight.”

  Janus pivoted to include Zoe. “Allow me to introduce Zoe Andrews. She’s with Throckmorton Enquiries. Zoe, this is Farina, one of our up-and-coming artists. You might have noticed her work when you came in.”

  Zoe had only one painting on her mind when she’d entered—Woman in a White Fur. She’d barely glanced at anything else, but she kept that observation to herself.

  Farina extended her hand. “That’s Farina Vee.” She spelled her last name for Zoe as if Zoe were a reporter taking notes for an article. Then she added, “But I sign all my canvases as Farina V—with the single initial.” She circled a hand. “It is a gimmick, of course. We starving artists must do what we can to stand out. And I’m Dutch—my last name is actually Veenendaal, which is difficult for English speakers.”

  Zoe had noticed a slight accent in Farina’s speech but hadn’t been able to place where she might be from. Farina tilted her head, causing her thatch of white hair to fall farther away from her arched eyebrow. “Throckmorton . . . where have I heard that?”

  “We handle all sorts of inquiries related to fine art and antiquities. Art recovery, provenance research, and the like.”

  “Oh—the Tamara de Lempicka. You’re the one working on that.”

  “Yes.” Zoe gave Janus a sideways glance.

  Farina placed a hand on Janus’ arm. “Oh, don’t be upset. He’s not giving away confidential information. Woman in a White Fur is the talk of the art world right now. Everyone knows it’s here and wants a peek at it.” She swiveled to face Janus, not so subtly excluding Zoe. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into bringing it downstairs? Even just for a couple of hours? It would be so amazing to have my work displayed alongside hers.”

  Janus gave a perfunctory little smile. It was obviously not the first time he’d fielded that request. “No, that’s not possible. Insurance reasons, as I’ve said.”

  “Oh well.” Farina swiveled her gaze to Zoe and leaned forward in a confiding way. “I keep trying. Eventually I’ll get him to give in.” Zoe doubted that, but thankfully she didn’t have to reply because Farina didn’t wait for an answer. “Let me show you my work.”

  Farina was already moving away, and since the paintings were in the window by the door, Zoe followed her. Farina threw out an arm. “Those two. Titled and Untitled.” Excitement suffused her voice.

  Two medium-sized canvases hung side-by-side near the gallery’s front window. They were mirror images of a sort. One was entirely covered in white paint and had a single black dot in the middle. The other was covered with black paint and had a single white dot in the middle.

  “Interesting.” It was the safest thing Zoe could say.

  Janus said, “We’ve had quite a few inquiries about them.”

  “I imagine so,” Zoe murmured.

  “They’re meant to be a pair,” Farina said. “I do hope the same person buys both of them. Their statement about the void of the modern world and the contextual dichotomy of emptiness and fullness only works if they’re side by side. You must sell them as a pair, Danny. I insist.”

  “I agree,” he said, and Zoe wondered if it was more a financial motivation than an artistic one.

  “I must be off,” Zoe said, partly because she couldn’t think of anything else to say about the paintings and partly because, while her mother had not been the best person to teach manners, Zoe had learned that if she didn’t have something nice to say, it was best to not say anything at all.

  As she walked away from the Janus Gallery, Zoe took out her phone to see if an industrious employee at the Blakely Archive had arrived early and returned her call. Nothing. No messages or missed calls. It was only ten thirty, and Jack wouldn’t be done until late afternoon. Zoe did a quick search of the train schedules, then she set off at a brisk pace, sending Jack a text to update him on her plans. She could be in Warwickshire by the time the Blakely Archive opened at noon. She’d grab the photocopies she needed of Olive’s report and inventory. She’d be back in London before dinner.

  9

  Zoe gripped the armrest and cringed as the car drifted toward the tall green hedgerow. A car was approaching from the opposite direction. Zoe waited for the scrape of metal on metal, but her dr
iver maintained her loose one-handed hold on the steering wheel, and the two cars slid by each other without incident.

  Getting to Hawthorne House had proved to be harder than Zoe expected. The Sebastian Blakely Museum and Archive was off the beaten path. It was too far to walk from the train station, and Zoe had no desire to drive on what she considered the wrong side of the road, so she’d opted for a rideshare. Her driver, a chatty young woman, shouted over the pop tunes blaring from her radio as they whipped along the narrow lanes.

  Zoe caught a glimpse of a signpost that read Hawthorne before they raced through a picturesque village of stone and brick cottages with beautiful gardens. A few miles later, the driver turned at an iron gate set into a hawthorn hedge, and they plunged into a thick forest. The short lane curved through the trees for a few seconds, then they came out of the belt of foliage. The driver wheeled the car onto the gravel forecourt in front of Hawthorne House. “Quiet today, isn’t it? No kiddies or mums.” Seeing Zoe’s puzzled expression, the driver added, “The park area around the house is open for picnicking, and people come here quite a bit during the summer for the gardens and the hiking trails in the wood.”

  “I see.”

  “But it’s a little too cold for that now. You’ll probably have the place to yourself. Tours run from now until October, then they shut everything down.”

  “Does the family live here?”

  “No, it’s just a museum now. At least people get to enjoy the park.”

  Zoe thanked the driver and climbed out. The car pulled away, and she paused for a moment, taking in the castle-like appearance of the red brick manor. Vibrantly green Virginia creeper softened the edges of the building and gave it a fairytale aura that reminded Zoe of illustrations in storybooks, except that it was a smaller version of those rambling and multi-turreted affairs. The house was larger than many of the mansions in the more exclusive neighborhoods in Dallas, but she supposed it was only modest in size compared to some of the castles and grand stately homes in England.