False Picture

by Veronica Heley

  Mr Goldstone waved the photo away. ‘I never laid eyes on the lad. I wouldn’t know him from Adam.’

  Crispin’s colour had risen. ‘It was a copy!’

  ‘My son, we are having a theoretical discussion here, so why bring up your ill-considered opinion? Mrs Abbot here says that a family picture has gone missing, but the name of the family who bought this particular Millais is not Abbot.’

  Piers materialized behind Mr Goldstone’s shoulder. ‘Try Farne, or we’ll be here all evening.’

  ‘Farne,’ repeated Mr Goldstone, sliding a bony hand up and down his chin. ‘Now where have I heard that name before?’

  Piers laughed. ‘Sorry, Frank. The doddery old gent act doesn’t work on me, nor on Mrs Abbot. You’ve made all the right connections. I’d go bail you’ve got a reproduction of the picture out of one of your old catalogues, and have been on the phone ever since I rang, sounding out various colleagues to see if anyone else has been offered the picture. What have you been telling them, mm? That you’re interested in a copy of a rather dull Victorian picture which is a fake, a copy of a work by Millais? You’ll say it’s in a good frame, but that if they are offered it, you’d wouldn’t mind taking it off their hands for the sake of the frame, since you’ve got a mid-nineteenth-century oil that it would set off very nicely?’

  ‘Hah!’ said the old man, small eyes glittering. ‘There’s been no takers as yet.’

  ‘But,’ said Piers, ‘you are hoping you’ve cast enough suspicion on the authenticity of the picture so that if it does turn up somewhere, your contacts will treat it with suspicion and pass the word on to you for the sake of the frame?’

  ‘Or,’ said Bea, ‘they might just ring the police.’

  The carpet was a rich, deep pile, but the word ‘police’ seemed to thud into it and echo off the walls.

  Mr Goldstone’s eyes practically disappeared behind tortoise-like lids. ‘You are telling me the picture was stolen?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Bea. ‘I’m laying another false trail.’

  Piers gave a short laugh and Mr Goldstone almost smiled. ‘I can see you’re no amateur at this game, Mrs Abbot. May I ask, what is your connection to the family who have … ah … mislaid a picture?’

  Would it be wrong to divulge some information? She searched Mr Goldstone’s deeply-seamed face and thought she could trust him, within carefully defined limits. Piers had brought her to see him, and Mr Goldstone certainly knew the art world in a way she could never do. ‘In confidence?’ she asked.

  Mr Goldstone inclined his head, his eyes very bright.

  ‘Crispin?’ she said.

  Crispin shrugged. ‘Oh, very well. What a fuss about a fake.’

  Bea chose her words with care. ‘I have been asked to find Lady Farne’s godson by a very old friend. Her husband – the boy’s father – is seriously ill in hospital and asking for the lad, who appears to be in some financial difficulty. When last seen, he had in his possession a genuine Millais, a recent gift from his godmother, Lady Farne. Crispin has identified the lad who brought in the Millais from this photograph, and I confirm that this is a photograph of my friend’s stepson. His name is Philip Weston.’

  Crispin squawked, ‘It’s a genuine Millais?’

  ‘Of course,’ muttered his father. ‘Crispin, I should turn you out to sweep the streets! To miss a Millais! My father would turn in his grave.’ His eyes sharpened again. ‘The provenance is secure? He has the right to sell?’

  Bea met that one head on. ‘We’re not sure.’

  ‘You mentioned the police?’

  ‘We would prefer at the moment not to involve the police.’

  ‘But the boy’s gone missing?’

  Bea nodded. Missing! Another unpleasant thought hit the carpet and echoed around the room.

  ‘Pshah!’ said the old man. He took hold of Crispin’s arm and raised him from his seat without apparent effort and took his place next to Bea. ‘A picture we could have sold, a man we should have detained. What other bad news do you have to give me?’

  ‘He may or may not have been responsible for Lady Farne’s death,’ said Bea. ‘And he may or may not have legal title to the picture. He’s certainly lied about it. Also, he’s in debt.’

  ‘Who would he take it to, I ask myself?’ said the old man, half closing his eyes. ‘I tried everyone I know around here … zilch.’

  ‘Sotheby’s?’ Crispin offered. ‘Of course it would be some months before they could advertise and place it in the right sale.’

  ‘Idiot boy! None of the big auction houses would take it without provenance and you say he hasn’t got any. They’d look it up in their catalogues as soon as they saw it, and discover who used to own it. They’d know that Lady Farne has recently died, add two and two, and ring the police.’ He stroked his chin. ‘There’s been no word from the police alerting us to look out for a stolen Millais, and if anyone’s been offered it, they’re keeping very quiet. I think we can assume that he didn’t take it to any of the big art salerooms. So where is he hiding and perhaps even more important, what is he going to do for money?’

  ‘As Crispin suggested,’ said Piers, ‘he’ll sell the frame for whatever he can get.’

  ‘Vandal!’ scowled Mr Goldstone. ‘To separate original frame from picture.’ He shot a glance of dislike at his son. ‘And this cretin here was responsible for putting that idea into his head!’

  Piers wondered, ‘Where would he take the frame? Portobello Road? No, he couldn’t expect to get more than a few hundred there, if that. I think he might take it to one of the smaller antique shops in Kensington Church Street.’ He stopped and looked at Bea, waiting for her to follow his lead. So what did he expect her to say?

  Piers said, ‘Would you be prepared to help us by making some enquiries in that direction?’

  ‘Me? Oh, no!’ A saintly shake of his head by way of reproof. ‘I wouldn’t dream of getting mixed up in anything shady. You should go to the police.’

  Impasse. They couldn’t go to the police. Or not yet, anyway.

  Bea said, ‘If you could help us to trace the lad, I’m sure the family would be grateful.’

  It was the olive branch the old man had been waiting for. He smiled. ‘Of course. Anything to oblige. If I did by any chance happen to hear something, I would be delighted to pass the news on to you. Meanwhile, I’ve made a copy for you of the relevant page in the catalogue which features the picture. Poor quality, I’m afraid, but it may help.’

  The picture was that of a young girl with bold eyes and long fair hair in a dark dress. As Crispin had said, it needed cleaning. The frame was indeed elaborate.

  Mr Goldstone ushered them to the door, jabbing numbers at a concealed panel to deactivate the alarm. ‘The question is; who really has title to the picture? If we have to deal with whoever has inherited the Farne collection, I assume the family’s gratitude would be, um, muted?’

  Bea gave him a thoughtful look. She didn’t know who would inherit the Farne collection, but she knew a man who did. In fact, she would very much like to pin him to an upright chair, shine a bright light in his eyes and give him the third degree at this very moment. Given that he was on the point of death, this did not seem likely to happen. But perhaps Velma knew more than she was saying? Now there was a thought.

  Bea pressed one of her business cards on Mr Goldstone. ‘Keep in touch?’

  ‘Rest assured, dear lady. And here is one of my cards. Ring me at any time, day or night.’

  As Piers and Bea went out on to the pavement, the door shut and was locked behind them. The grille slid across.

  ‘Taxi!’ Piers had the useful gift of being able to find a taxi at any time, anywhere. ‘Do you fancy something to eat, Bea?’ He turned his wrist over to look at his watch as he spoke.

  ‘You’re supposed to be somewhere else this evening?’

  He gave an almost convincing impression of a man with time to spare. ‘Oh, perhaps later on.’

  ‘That’s all right, Pier
s. You’ve done enough and I’ve eaten already. Drop me off at the hospital, and I’ll see how Velma’s getting on.’

  Bea thought he’d probably got a date with a woman. Tomcats don’t change their stripes. Whatever.

  It took time to run Velma to earth at the hospital, but Bea did eventually do so. No visitors, except family. The glimpse Bea had of Sandy through the window into a small room showed him looking much the same, but a monitor above his bed was angled so that the nursing staff could check on him all the time.

  Velma came out to speak to Bea, shifting from one foot to the other, her attention still on her husband. There were shadows under her eyes.

  ‘Before you start,’ said Velma, ‘I’m not leaving him. Every now and then he opens his eyes and looks up at me, and I need to be there. He’s frightened, poor lamb. Well, so am I, but I can act as if I’m not, right?’

  Bea thought that Velma was a pretty good actress, but this was not the time to say so. ‘I understand. You’ll need some things from home?’

  Velma handed over her keys, pointing out which were needed to get into her home, adding a list on a page torn from her diary. ‘This is the code for the burglar alarm, and a list of the things I could do with. Oh, and if you’ve time, could you check on stuff in the fridge? I’ve a feeling there was some cream and milk in there that might be going off, and I expect the milkman’s left some more in the porch. If it hasn’t been nicked, could you take it in?’ She glanced back at Sandy, who seemed to be trying to raise one hand.

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘Velma, before you …’

  It was no good. Velma was already bending over her husband, soothing him. Bea shrugged. How could you question a client who was so ill?

  She took another taxi, this time to The Boltons. Billionaires’ row. The Boltons was rather special, the white or cream stuccoed residences curving round a graceful Victorian church situated on an island in the middle of the road.

  Although there was a self-contained flat for live-in help over the converted coach house at the side, Velma had managed without servants since her first husband died. Instead, she made do with the services of a cleaner twice a week. And yes, there was milk and cream on the doorstep and a bundle of mail sticking out of the letterbox.

  Before Bea could select the right keys to unlock the massive front door, she fished the piece of paper with the alarm code on it out of her handbag. She didn’t want to dither inside with bells ringing out over the neighbourhood. Got it. First the mortise lock, and then the Yale. Buzz went the alarm. Bother, where was the alarm box?

  Velma hadn’t said, so it must be obvious. Obvious to Velma was not obvious to Bea. She told herself she must have observed Velma cutting off the alarm on one of Bea’s visits to the house, but for the moment … ah, behind a small picture, yes? She set her teeth. Any minute now the alarm would go off and … got it, the third small picture frame opened to reveal the keypad inside. Bea keyed in the number and the buzzing ceased. She relaxed, and bent down to pick up the flurry of mail that had landed on the floor.

  ‘Mrs Weston?’

  A large man in a not very good suit stood in the doorway, with a woman behind him on the top step. Bea’s mind suggested that they might be police, and her heartbeat accelerated. She dumped the pile of mail and said, ‘No, I’m not Mrs Weston, I’m …’

  They held up identification for her to see. ‘DI Hignett. Mrs Weston, we’d like a word with your husband.’

  ‘So would I,’ said Bea, aiming for humour, ‘but he happens to be six feet under in Australia.’ Their expressions failed to lighten, so she hastened to explain. ‘I’m not Mrs Weston. I’m a friend of hers, Mrs Abbot. Would you like to see some proof? Driving licence, library card, leisure pass, bank cards?’ She reached for the handbag over her shoulder, but the man stopped her.

  ‘Take it gently now. Suppose you pass your bag over to my colleague here, and she’ll check out your ID.’

  ‘What?’ Bea started to laugh, but stopped herself. ‘You imagine I’ve got a gun in here? You’ve been watching too much TV.’ She handed over her bag, amused but also irritated. ‘What’s all this about?’ As if she didn’t know, or guess. This was about more than a missing picture, wasn’t it? ‘Look, I’m Bea Abbot, fetching a few things for my friend Mrs Weston. And when you’re satisfied that I am who I say I am, then perhaps you’ll explain why you’re here and help me by picking up the milk and cream that’s been left on the doorstep.’

  The woman looked in Bea’s handbag, and nodded to the man. ‘She’s who she says she is.’ She handed back the bag, and bent to pick up the items from the doorstep.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ said the man. ‘You match the description, you see. Blonde hair, late fifties.’

  ‘Thank you for the compliment,’ said Bea, accepting the milk and cream from the WPC and setting them down on the hall table. ‘Now, would you mind telling me what you want?’

  They were over the doorstep. Oh dear.

  ‘You say you’re collecting stuff for Mrs Weston, so presumably you know where she’s hiding? Perhaps you know where Mr Weston is, too?’

  ‘They’re not hiding, I can assure you. Charing Cross Hospital. Intensive care. No visitors except for family. If he lasts the weekend, they’ll operate on Monday, but I gather it’s touch and go.’

  The man blinked, but the woman said, ‘I’ll check, shall I?’ She went out on to the doorstep to make the call, while the inspector got out his notebook. ‘How do you spell your name, Mrs …?’

  ‘Abbot – A, b, b, o, t. Look, would you mind telling me what this is all about?’ She had a very good idea what it was all about, but it would be best to act innocent.

  ‘And we can find you … where?’

  ‘Take one of my cards.’ She produced one from her purse and handed it over.

  He gave her a sharp look. ‘The Abbot Agency. A private detective?’

  Bea explained in a long-suffering tone of voice. ‘A domestic agency, helping families solve domestic problems. Mrs Weston asked me to check her fridge, take in the milk, put some things in an overnight bag and take them to hospital for her, as she doesn’t want to leave her husband’s bedside. He really is very poorly. So, what is all this about?’

  He nodded, dismissing her as of no importance. A cleaning lady, sent to tidy the house. His sidekick, on the other hand, had been sizing up Bea’s outfit and was not inclined to dismiss her so easily. Sidekick reported to her superior. ‘Yes, they have a Mr Weston in intensive care. I’ve taken a note of the ward but he’s not receiving visitors.’

  The DI was not giving in easily. ‘Mrs Weston’s trusted you with the keys? May we come in and look around?’

  ‘What on earth for? Why do you want to speak to them, anyway? I’m not at all happy about this. You haven’t explained anything. Look, I’ve got to put the milk and cream in the fridge and then find some things to take to Mrs Weston at the hospital, so if you don’t mind—’

  ‘Where’s the harm in letting us look around?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Bea, putting a snap into her voice. ‘You’ve given me no reason why I should let you in. I’ve told you where Mr and Mrs Weston are to be found, and unless you’ve a warrant to search this house – and I can’t for the life of me think why you should wish to do so – then the door’s behind you.’

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ said the inspector, snapping his notebook to, and producing a card. ‘Here’s my phone number. Tell Mrs Weston to get in touch with me, right?’

  ‘I shall do nothing of the sort,’ declared Bea, edging them back to the front door. ‘The poor thing’s got enough worry as it is, with her husband at death’s door.’

  ‘He’s not faking it, then?’ asked the inspector.

  Bea just looked at him. She thought she was doing the outraged friend bit rather well. In fact, she did feel outraged, but not only with him. She was furious that Velma had put her in this position, and furious that she had allowed herself to be manipulated into taking on
this case. She almost pushed the police out of the front door, and closed it behind them, setting her back to it, breathing hard.

  So the police suspected Sandy of … what? They hadn’t asked for Philip. Possibly they knew nothing about Philip. No, they wanted to talk to Sandy, and they wanted to ‘look around’ his house. Did they suspect Sandy of knowing more about the death of Lucky Lucinda than he ought? And what were they looking for? The missing picture? This was getting to look very nasty indeed.

  Something made her look up. No, there was no one there. She frowned. It had been a puff of air, as if from a door closing, but all the doors in sight – upstairs and downstairs – were open.

  Bea unstuck herself from the front door and pocketed the policeman’s card. She had no intention of leaning on Velma to phone him at the moment, but the card might come in useful later on. Now to deal with the fridge, and check the answerphone to see if there were any calls that Velma ought to know about.

  How easy it was to con those who believed in love and marriage. In his view, love and marriage did not go together like a horse and carriage. In fact, the opposite. Luckily, the dreaded squawker believed otherwise. She wanted a ring on her finger. Fat chance. But Liam would play along for a percentage of the proceeds. Liam would know how to disengage himself afterwards.

  Rafael didn’t know why Charlotte wanted to go to Bruges, but it suited him well enough that she did. Should he encourage Zander to take the new girl over as well? If Charlotte took the boxes, and Maggie took the miniatures, it would be a load off his mind, not to mention cash in his hand.

  If only he knew what had happened to Philip and his picture! It was tantalizing to think of the Millais having been in the flat for days before he heard about it. Philip’s room had been cleaned, which was a bore. There might have been traces he could follow up. The only thing he could be sure about was that Philip had been back recently, because his mobile and charger had gone. So Philip was still around somewhere, and if he’d managed to put some credit on his phone, it should be possible to contact him, get him to crawl out of the woodwork.