I sat motionless, listening to the echo of his boots disappear down Cécile’s staircase. Only after having detected the snap of the brass latch in the front door did I cautiously enter the red drawing room, where Cécile was inspecting the Judgment of Paris vase.
“It’s a copy,” I said.
“Bien sûr.” She shrugged. “Did you recognize our malefactor?”
“Andrew Palmer.” I paced angrily in front of the room’s tall windows. “No wonder he was so keen to get Philip’s papers for his father. He must have been looking for some record of the stolen objects Philip had.”
“He was probably afraid there would be some clue that could implicate him.”
“I wonder if Philip was more than just a customer,” I said, still pacing. “And what about Colin? Do you think he is also involved?”
“Je ne sais pas,” Cécile said. “I had rather hoped that Caravaggio would turn out to be someone wholly unrelated to you. It would have made for a neater resolution.”
“Would that we were so lucky. We must stop Andrew before he leaves for Africa.”
“I wonder if he will really go without you,” Cécile mused.
“He insists that he will.”
“Yes, but why? Can he really believe that Philip is still alive? I’m very sorry, Kallista, but I find it more and more difficult to believe that he is.”
“I have not yet given up hope entirely but must admit that I’m inclined to agree with you.” Before I realized it, a tear slipped down my cheek. I brushed it away and turned to look out the window.
“Let us focus on capturing Andrew, chérie. There is no use in contemplating Philip’s fate until we have more facts.”
“Do we have enough evidence for the police to arrest Andrew?” I asked.
“I do not think so. We shall have to think of a way to persuade him to give us something more.”
“I want to force him to tell me whether my husband is alive.”
“I am not sure that two women could force Caravaggio to do anything; he could easily overpower us if confronted. He must be tricked.”
“And tricked in a manner that will result in his immediate arrest. Once their leader is in jail, perhaps Mr. Attewater and the others involved in the crimes could be persuaded to give evidence.”
I picked up the vase Andrew had left for Cécile and examined it. Suddenly an idea struck me. “This vase is a forgery.”
“I know, Kallista. I did not doubt you when you told me the first time.”
“No—look.” I pointed to a fold on the fabric of Paris’s tunic. “What do you see?”
“Cloth?” She peered at the vase. “Are those letters? Alphas?”
“Precisely!” I exclaimed, growing excited. “They are Mr. Attewater’s signature. He hides them on every copy he makes.”
“But this proves nothing more than that Andrew did not bring me the original.”
“In this case, yes. Andrew’s success depends upon being able to replace stolen objects with copies. If we could trick him into stealing something and giving us the original before he could get it copied, we might be able to drive him to exposure.”
“Intéressant. It would be difficult for him to get something copied in Paris when Monsieur Attewater is in London. What object shall I tell Caravaggio I want?”
“This, Cécile, will be my adventure.”
“You cannot let him know that you’ve identified him as a thief. How would such a man react? It would be too dangerous.”
“I have no intention of letting him know. Tomorrow when he comes to tell me of the delay in his departure—as he must, now that you’ve hired him to acquire the frieze—I’m going to tell him that I’m no longer eager to sponsor the trip because of some disturbing information I’ve learned about Philip.”
“That he was collecting stolen antiquities?” Cécile asked, smiling.
“Exactly. It will lull him into a sublime sense of security. If the entire plot of the thefts were ever revealed, he could blame it all on Philip, who is not here to defend himself.” I began pacing again. “And as for me, would I look forward to being reunited with a husband of such low principles?”
“And how will this lure Andrew to steal something for you?”
“I must identify some object that I shall pretend to want desperately. After our conversation Andrew will have been led to believe that he would be welcome to renew his suit if only he could find me the thing that I so desire. It is very difficult being a lonely widow, Cécile.”
“At which point, if Philip really is dead, it would be in Andrew’s best interest to inform you immediately.”
“Precisely.”
“You assume that he will not be satisfied by having achieved what he will view as immunity from his crimes? A smart man would allow you to think Philip was the only guilty party and remove himself from further suspicion.”
“Regardless of whether Andrew is a smart man, it cannot be denied that he is a poor one. And I am exceedingly wealthy. I do not doubt that he started this business with the antiquities as soon as he had run through his own fortune. If he were to marry me, he could abandon the enterprise entirely.”
“A perfect solution to all his problems.” Cécile sighed. “And now that you suggest it, does it not make you wonder that the news of Philip’s possible survival reached you only after you had refused Andrew? I wonder if your money has been his object all along?”
“I am counting on it, Cécile. If he is as greedy as I suspect, he will be easily trapped, so long as I can be persuasive enough.” I sat at a desk and began to compose one of two notes that would be crucial to the success of our plan.
“What will you have him steal?”
“A lovely object currently in Monsieur Fournier’s collection.”
“And you are sure he will be up to the challenge?”
“Andrew has never lacked confidence. I’m sure he views all this as a wonderful game.”
Cécile and I were awake much of that night formulating the details of our plan, so I did not return to the Meurice until the following morning.
I had hoped Andrew would come to see me early in the day, but luncheon passed without his appearing at my rooms. At last, tired of waiting, I took matters into my own hands and sent Meg with a note for my traveling companion, requesting his presence at his earliest convenience. Much to my chagrin, Meg returned twenty minutes later with Andrew’s reply; he was indisposed until nearly dinnertime. Could he come to me at six? I did not like having to wait to set my plans in motion any more than I liked the fact that he made my maid wait nearly half an hour for his answer. I had no choice but to agree, and I sent Meg with a second note, saying that I would expect to see him promptly at six.
Once again I found myself in the unhappy position of watching the hours pass with very little to do. I picked up my Greek but could not concentrate enough to translate two words together. My mind wandered hopelessly, and I began to think about Philip. Although the chance of his being alive seemed very unlikely at present, I could not help but wonder what our reunion might be like. Obviously, as I no longer planned to go to Africa, I would have to revise my fantasy of finding him helpless in a primitive tent at the mission. If he were discovered, I could be ready to travel to Cairo at a moment’s notice. The thought of our reunion occurring outside of London appealed to me; an exotic locale surely would inspire passion more effectively than would the house in Berkeley Square.
Further thought on the subject ceased when I heard a forceful tap on the door, which I opened with a flourish, wondering if Andrew had decided to see me earlier than planned. Instead I found Colin standing before me.
11 JUNE 1888
EN ROUTE TO AMSTERDAM
Married life proving more delightful than I had ever dared hope. K spends much of her time reading the worst sort of popular fiction (novels that have much amused me, so I cannot reprimand her), periodically raising her head from her book to make wry comments about the heroine. Emerged from her dressing ro
om last night—such a vision of beauty I could hardly speak. “…Such celestial charms…” What will she think of her husband when—as eventually I must—I regain my ability to speak coherently in her presence? Will she recognize the man she married?
Much accomplished on Achilles-Alexander. Good thing K frequently buried in her reading, or she might take offence that I spend so much time writing.
31
“GOOD DAY, MR. HARGREAVES. I DID NOT EXPECT TO SEE you.”
“I would imagine not,” he replied curtly. “May I come in?”
“Only for a moment. I was just preparing to go out,” I lied. “Did you enjoy your visit to the Louvre? I’ve always found Mr. Murray an excellent guide, at least at the British Museum. Does he know the collection here as well?”
“I spent only a few minutes with him discussing a matter of business.”
“I had guessed as much,” I said, looking at him skeptically. “Have you come with a specific purpose, Mr. Hargreaves? I’m afraid that I am not at liberty to spend much time sitting with you.”
“I would like to know when you plan to leave for Africa.”
This surprised me. If he were working with Andrew, I would have expected him to know that I no longer planned to accompany his friend to the Dark Continent. Unless…could Andrew have sent him to determine if the suspicions that led me to cancel my trip went deeper than concern about the deception played on me with my wedding photograph? I considered my options briefly before answering.
“I have decided not to go,” I said, meeting his eyes. “My friends have convinced me that Philip would prefer to see me in Paris, so I’ve agreed to stay here and wait for news from the search party.”
“I’m glad to hear it and wish that I had been so persuasive. My efforts to alter your plans seemed only to make you more intent on your purpose.”
“You do prompt extreme reactions from me,” I said with a laugh. “But I suppose I shall forgive you for that.”
“I can ask for little more. Where are you off to this afternoon?”
“I have an appointment at six o’clock and thought I would go to Frascati for some pastry in the meantime.”
“May I walk with you?”
“I don’t see why not,” I agreed, nearly certain now that Andrew had sent him. Clearly Caravaggio was busy this afternoon and wanted to be confident that I would not stumble on anything that might disrupt his plans. “So long as you promise to make no mention of the topic on which we cannot agree.”
“Ashton?” he asked.
“Yes. I am not so naïve as to think that it is entirely likely he is alive. Until it can be proven otherwise, however, I would prefer to have hope rather than despair as my companion.”
While Colin and I strolled along the grands boulevards of the city, I made every effort to learn from him as much as I could about Andrew. My success was somewhat limited, although I could not say whether this was due to his unwillingness to be forthcoming or to my own lack of focus. A trip to Frascati, the best patisserie in the city, is never wasted, however, and we passed an agreeable hour there discussing Greek grammar over tourte aux confitures. Colin was quite sympathetic to my complaints regarding my tutor’s choice of texts, and he reassured me that after a bit more work on Xenophon, I would be able to start on Homer. Occasionally when our eyes met during a lull in conversation, he would look away abruptly, leaving me to wonder if he now regretted his actions on the Pont-Neuf, not that it really mattered.
The afternoon had grown cold. I rejected Colin’s suggestion that we take a cab back to the Meurice, a decision I regretted before we had walked two blocks. The occasional savory aroma drifted from cafés, bringing the temptation of a bit of comfort to passersby. I had taken Colin’s arm and was happy for the warmth of him next to me, but I must admit that I was not entirely comfortable with him. The more I thought about it, the more justified my suspicions of him seemed, a fact that disappointed me greatly. I imagined that Colin, Philip, and I could have spent any number of pleasant evenings conversing in the library. Why had my husband had the misfortune to choose his friends so poorly? Or had he been no better than the men with whom he surrounded himself?
Being cold, we walked quickly and soon reached the hotel. I bade Colin farewell and rushed upstairs to prepare for my meeting with Andrew. While changing my dress, I shared my plan with Meg, who reacted with a mixture of alarm and excitement. That Mr. Palmer would acquiesce to my slightest whim, she did not doubt, but that her mistress was going to entangle herself with a criminal left her rather unnerved. By the time Andrew rapped on my door, Meg was so anxious that she squealed. I was more than a little apprehensive myself, but the effort of trying to calm my maid had a better effect on me than her; I was ready to begin.
Andrew looked very polished, dressed in evening kit, smiling wryly as he walked toward me. I could tell by his expression that he expected me to return to the topic of my wedding photograph. He kissed my hand quickly, meeting my eyes only for a moment, and waited for me to speak. I sat motionless, noticing for the first time that he truly did fill the role of master criminal well. The initial impression with which he left one was that of an impetuous gentleman who did not take his position in life very seriously. Observing him now, however, I saw beneath that to the calculating way he looked around the room, the studied manner in which he carried himself. I began to believe that everything he did had been meticulously planned and rehearsed. I wondered what he had practiced to say to me tonight, quite certain that whatever the script, he would find it inadequate.
“Are you quite well, Lady Ashton?” he asked, tired of waiting for me to speak. His voice had an edge to it I had not heard before.
“Yes, Andrew,” I said, deliberately addressing him informally as I looked in his eyes. I bit my lip and shook my head. “No. I have demanded honesty from you; I should offer you nothing less in return.”
“Have I done something else to offend you?” He was angrier than I had expected.
“You?” I said. “Oh, Andrew, what you have done to offend me now seems so trivial. I would, perhaps, apologize to you, were I not still the slightest bit annoyed at having been so readily deceived.” He looked at me more directly now, clearly surprised.
“What is it, then?”
“I am having such misgivings about the trip to Africa.”
“You have already told me you do not plan to go. While this is of course a source of great disappointment, I understand why you made the decision.”
“Please, Andrew, do not take such a formal tone with me. I—” I paused for effect. “I am afraid the entire trip must be canceled.”
“You do not trust me to find your husband?”
“I do not know that he is worth finding,” I said, burying my face in my hands. “I have learned the most dreadful things about Philip. I am afraid to tell them to anyone.”
This statement caused him to warm up immediately, and he sat next to me on the settee. “What, Emily? You must tell me. I know I have not always been truthful with you in the past, but you know that was only—”
“I know, Andrew. It was because you loved me. You do not have to say it.” I hoped I seemed forlorn. “What must you think of me now?”
“What has Philip done?” he asked, looking at me quizzically. I decided to answer his question directly, not wanting to waste any time.
“He is a thief. His collection of antiquities is full of objects stolen from the British Museum.”
“Are you sure of this?” He sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, his eyes fixed on me.
“Quite sure.” I had decided to tell the truth as much as possible, lest my fabrication become too elaborate to remember, and told Andrew how I had learned that the Praxiteles bust of Apollo was an original. “Imagine my surprise when I visited Ashton Hall and found it full of more questionable artifacts that were all familiar to me from my own visits to the museum. I hoped they were merely excellent copies. I brought with me on this trip several notebooks Philip ha
d left in the country. I thought they were volumes of his journal and wanted to read them because I missed him so keenly. Instead I found that one was filled with records of his illegal transactions.”
“Are you sure you did not misunderstand what he had written?”
“There can be no doubt. He wrote that he did not care about provenance, only that there were certain pieces he would do anything to acquire. All that is followed with details of how he came to get each artifact. Apparently the pieces from the museum were replaced with copies.”
“Let me look at the journal—perhaps it is not so bad as you fear. Where is it?”
“You will hate me,” I said, averting my eyes.
“Where is it, Emily?” His voice was strained, as if he were trying too hard to control it.
“I burned it. I shouldn’t have, and I am certain that you will judge me severely for doing so. I can’t bear the thought of facing such a scandal, Andrew. Haven’t I suffered enough?”
“My dear girl,” he said, moving closer to me. “I hardly know what to say.” He managed to keep his countenance fairly well composed, but I recognized in his eyes a glint of joy that was wholly inappropriate to the situation.
“I know I should try to return the stolen items to the museum, but how could I do so without drawing attention to my husband’s crimes? Perhaps I am not as principled as I once thought, but I am inclined to suspect that if the keepers at the British Museum cannot recognize a fake in their own galleries, I am hardly obligated to point it out.”
Andrew laughed. “You are very, very bad.” His voice grew serious. “I must make a confession of my own.”
My muscles stiffened. Was he going to tell me of his own role in the intrigue?
“I knew that Philip was involved in such a scheme. It had come to my attention before your wedding. I confronted him with my knowledge when we were in Africa—the morning before he fell ill. I begged him to stop. He was very upset, very angry at first, but then became melancholy. By the end of the day, he was horribly depressed, almost despondent. He knew I would never have turned him in to the authorities, but I had spoken rather harshly about the consequences his activities might bring for you were he ever to be exposed.”
And Only to Deceive Page 25
