“Without bloodshed, explosion or scandal if at all possible,” was the foreign secretary’s smooth rider.
“Make the problem disappear—get him off our books, away from our shores, but not before you’ve found out who his friends and connections are,” was MI5’s concern.
The meeting had broken up and, with the relish of military men who’ve made their point and consigned the dirty work to another pair of hands, they had given their “problem” a code name. Operation Imperator had been settled on. Nothing like giving away the full extent of your knowledge in a word, Joe had objected. He’d suggested Operation Humbug. He’d been overruled.
Aidan Mountfitchet, the cousin of one of the naval gentlemen at MI5, had been approached, though an amateur, and had cheerfully agreed to put himself into a dangerous situation, poo-pooing the risks, because he was superbly qualified for the job. An old boy of St. Benedict’s College, he had gained the trust of the new master, who had invited him to take a room in the college to pursue a project of mutual interest. Aidan had acquired something of a reputation in his field, being a skilled and entertaining writer with a searching eye for the truth. He had offered (and the offer had been eagerly accepted) to research the war records and military successes of members of the college during the recent war for publication before it began to fade from memory. “While their medals are still bright!” the master had enthused. “Too many have dropped off the twig already. The problem is always getting them to talk at all about, er, events. They’ll open up to a fellow soldier.”
“I fit the bill exactly!” Aidan had reassured Joe, leaving his first briefing meeting with his MI5 handlers. “I paraphrase of course—do they always talk in that obscure way?—but I gather they need a blackmailable, bribable, adventurous rogue to shoot headfirst into a sort of Hellfire Club. They don’t come much more roguish than yours truly! Can you imagine that some sort of aristocratic throwback to an earlier age is indulging in such ludicrous licentiousness? What’s wrong with the 99 Club in Regent Street? Can’t you just give him a suitable address, Joe? I’m sure you have dozens on your books. He’s gathered together a cohort of scoundrels like me. What on earth is this Pertinax chappie planning to do with us? Stage a performance of ‘The Rake’s Revenge’ at Drury Lane?”
He’d laughed so much at the expense of the security services, Joe had been obliged to speak to him soberly and carefully. Aidan had listened and nodded his understanding, finally saying quietly, “You’re the last man on earth who trusts me, Joe. Probably the only one I haven’t betrayed. I’ll get you what you want. If I should fail, you’ll just have to fall back on your second choice. I’m sure the Prince of Wales will come up with the goods rather faster than I can.”
Poor, doomed Aidan. Remembering his laughter, Joe wondered again if it was his fault that his friend had died. Could this appalling Pertinax fellow have somehow engineered his death? Joe would use all his skills to find out.
And here he was, ready for round one. He was sitting, his arrangements made, clutching his briefcase in the backseat of the Lagonda as it purred northwards up Queen’s Road following the river towards Castle Hill. The chauffeur’s back view was reassuring. Mr. Simpson of the Mill Road Car Hire had chosen a restrained beige-coloured whipcord for his firm’s uniform, with a little red piping and brass buttons. A peaked cap was set perfectly in central position on the head, which sported a military-style short back and sides haircut. Really, a chauffeur to drive you anywhere. There were no outward signs that the vehicle and driver were part of a vulgar commercial enterprise. The academics and upper class parents of undergraduates who made use of the service demanded the utmost discretion.
“By the way, we call all our drivers by the name ‘James,’ sir,” Mr. Simpson had told him as he handed over the goods.
“As in, ‘Home, James, and don’t spare the horses!’”
“Exactly, sir. Clients are most likely to remember the name however doddery they may be. They rather enjoy the joke.”
“It’s left at the top, James,” Joe instructed his James for the day.
“Certainly, sir. I was aware. Cambridge man born and bred, sir.” The tone was weary but amused.
“I can’t be certain how long I shall stay. If things go badly, I may be thrown out in five minutes. If they go worse, I may have to stay for lunch. Will you just go wherever chauffeurs go—round the back somewhere?—and I’ll have you paged when I’m ready to leave.”
“I’m sure the cook will be pleased to supply a slice of fruit cake in return for city gossip, sir. I always enjoy a cup of kitchen tea and a good natter with the ladies. They like to entertain a man in a smart uniform.”
Joe realised that this was the second time he’d gone over his arrangements for the benefit of the chauffeur. Nervousness?
“We are now entering Madingley village, sir,” James announced in the reassuring tone of a tour guide. “The inn on your right is the old ‘Horseshoes.’ They keep a good ale. The church ahead is of the fourteenth century and you’ll find the Court a hundred yards north and on your left.”
Adelaide, in the middle of her distressing story, had found time to express admiration for Madingley Court. She’d had it right, Joe thought as they approached. James idled at the entrance to allow him to enjoy a view of the house down the long drive ending in a swathe of thick shrubbery that skirted the carriage sweep and softened the tall, leaded Jacobean windows. The rosy red brick and elegant proportions were alluring to the eye; a succession of architectural styles managed to complement each other in a pleasing way. Clearly the overriding good taste of some ancient owner—or series of owners—had known when to hold off, when to repair and when and where to innovate. Money was no problem in this establishment, Joe guessed. The grounds—what he could see of them—were in excellent shape, lawns freshly trimmed, gravel raked. In the distance deer moved through a Capability Brown landscape. A mile or so away, a keeper’s sporting rifle cracked twice. Lucky old Pertinax, Joe thought, to have this heaven to come home to.
Chapter 11
The Lagonda turned without stirring up the gravel and backed into a space next to a Rolls-Royce. The front door was opened, surprisingly, not by a uniformed butler, but by Pertinax himself! Lord! The Threat to National Security, the Scourge of This-World-As-We-Know-It ambled out, barely recognisable in loose shirt, cravat, cord trousers tucked into boots and a wide smile.
“Sandilands!” the man bellowed, striding towards the Lagonda, arm outstretched. “What a treat! I’m afraid you catch me underprepared for a luncheon party but then—it’s a very late arrangement we made. You are able to stay for lunch? Good man! I dropped everything. To think I might have been about the estate somewhere gralloching a stag or whatever unpleasantness they perform on the poor beasts at this time of year!”
“De-antlering and worming, I think, Pertinax. You’re well out of it, man! And I’m dressed smartly enough for both of us. I put on my best Lyon silk tie in your honour.”
“Charmin’. Charmin’,” Pertinax muttered with a country aristocrat’s automatic acknowledgement. “Let me take your bag.” He eyed the briefcase with some surprise. “Lord, man! You’re here for coffee, not a conference!”
Joe politely waved away the helping hand. “Busy day. I’m squeezing you in between two meetings. Don’t trouble. I’m used to fending for myself.”
“Glad to hear it. You’re going to have to today! I’ve given the butler the morning off. Most of the staff in fact—there’s some kind of a domestic event on in the servants’ hall . . . A funeral of one of the domestics. We’ll manage. Two old soldiers that we are, I thought we could mess together with no fuss. This your man?” He turned to James, who threw him a crisp salute. “Go round to the back will you? The housekeeper’s expecting you.”
Sir Gregory kept up chatter in the same vein as they walked along the corridors. “It’s so pleasant—unseasonably warm, don’t you find?—I thought we’d
take coffee outside on the terrace at the back and admire the wonderful autumnal colouring in the woodland while we can. The leaves are hanging on valiantly. Just calling out for a Corot, you’ll see! Painter yourself, are you? No, same here. Tried it! Useless! Still it makes you really appreciate those blessed souls who can really do it. What!” He pointed out interesting architectural details and identified paintings on the walls as they went.
Pertinax’s combination of bluff charm and knowledge casually imparted were setting Joe completely at his ease. The old uncles from whom he’d inherited a good deal of artwork had rattled on in the same manner. If this was to be the style of conversation, he was confident he could hold his own.
Coffee was served in a silver pot on a tray brought out to them by a maidservant. Pertinax dismissed her, grasped the handle and took charge. With an expression of teasing reproof, he announced, “Now, Sandilands! If any pouring of liquids is to be done I rather think I’ll do it myself. All’s forgiven and well understood, by the way. I mention it now so that it won’t hang between us. I hadn’t realised the girl Dorothy was of personal interest to you.”
“She isn’t,” Joe replied easily. “No more, no less than any member of the female sex. In any case she is, I’ve discovered, well able to take care of herself. You escaped lightly!” In response to the raised eyebrow opposite, Joe added: “The last man who annoyed her had a brandy thrown in his face . . . glass and all.”
Pertinax chuckled. “A risk worth taking. She can aim a glass at me any day. She is extraordinary! All that wealth and intelligence and on top she has the looks of a Botticelli angel.”
“Do you think so?” Joe’s surprise was genuine.
“Dark gold curls, blue eyes, marshmallow mouth,” Pertinax sighed. “You can’t not have noticed.”
Great heavens! The man was enjoying a good gossip and evidently little Miss Despond was a subject who’d caught and retained his lascivious interest. Well, Joe was here to play a game. Thankful that his sister was a hundred miles away and not able to tick him off, he launched himself into it. “I’d have said: brown hair, grey eyes and rather more lip rouge than is permissible in an unmarried girl.” And, confidingly: “Tidy little figure though. Dance a tango with her and you’ll know you’ve been danced with! I ached for a week! Not entirely unpleasantly.” Joe looked about him with sudden misgiving. “I say, Pertinax! No . . . um . . . Lady P. in the picture, is there, to overhear our risqué remarks?”
“Not at all. The position’s open. No takers, I’m afraid. Though I am on active lookout. Yourself, Sandilands?”
“Fancy free still. Intending to remain so. I’d guess we’re about the same age. Late thirties?”
The speculation gave Joe an excuse to study the features of the man opposite. Though looking rather creased and weather-beaten for his actual years—the forty-three attributed to him by MI5—he had retained his good looks. Dorothy’s dismissive words came back to mind: the pale skin, the icy eyes of a northern clime . . . Something of the sort . . . Yes, Pertinax had a Scandinavian air about him. She hadn’t mentioned the decisive nose, the threatening anvil of a chin that made Joe’s fist curl in automatic alarm or the thin lips which could twitch unexpectedly into a seductive smile.
“The forties—that’s the best time for marriage, they tell me.”
“There’s no good time for marriage,” Joe said firmly, adding silently, “Forgive me, Lydia. Forgive me, Adelaide.” He decided to change the subject. Time to be arty. “Ah! I see it!” he exclaimed, raising a forefinger. “You mentioned Corot just now. I can see the exact spot where Corot would have planted his easel and the scene he would have put on canvas. That tree over there . . . ash? . . . No, willow . . . drapes itself over elegantly to the left in a pose I’ve seen before. In Paris.”
Pertinax smiled and waited for more of Joe’s nonsense.
“It’s one of his more important paintings. A transitional piece . . . Une Matinée . . . That’s it! Known to us English as The Dance of the Nymphs. The natural arch of the tree enfolds two mysterious female figures like a stage set. But are they nymphs or are they a pair of drunken bacchantes coming straight towards us?” Joe tried for a lecherous leer.
“Either very welcome, I’m sure! Crack open the champagne, here come the ladies! You know, I’ve often thought of staging the scene,” Pertinax mused. “Next Midsummer’s Day perhaps? A fancy dress party in the wood? String band on the lawn and a flute or two in the shrubbery. Red caviar on iced dishes. Everyone to come as a character from a fête champêtre painting. You’re invited, Sandilands! May I suggest you appear as a satyr? Now I have you properly in focus, I see you have the face for it. In fact, I have your portrait upstairs in my gallery. I knew those slanting black eyebrows were familiar!” He shook with silent laughter. “Now, if you’ve finished your coffee, why don’t you do what you really came here to do?” The lively features had frozen into an expressionless mask as Pertinax picked up and handed his briefcase over to Joe. “Good Lord, man! What on earth are you carrying about with you? Ball and chain for emergency use? Luckily, I know you policemen don’t go about armed or I might suspect you had a naughty handgun stashed away in here.”
Joe grinned. “Nothing more sinister than a flask of coffee. Take a look if you’re nervous, it’s not locked. The Garden House makes up a good brew to get me through my day. I couldn’t be sure of my welcome, Pertinax,” he added disarmingly. “You might not have been ready to ply me with your best Blue Mountain.”
The “gallery” was the width of a room and the length of three, and it was crowded with pictures that made Joe gasp, snort and sigh.
“Little yips of pleasure I hear but no wise words of appreciation or connoisseurship,” Pertinax said archly after a while. “Come on, man! You’ve done the circuit of the room three times, chuffing like a toy train. Are you ever going to give me your opinion? Which, I’m given to understand, is worth having.”
“You don’t need my opinion. When I can get my breath back and my vocabulary together I shall comment on individual pictures perhaps, telling you nothing you didn’t already know. For the moment, I’ll tell you this is the best private collection I’ve ever set eyes on. There’s probably more lavish ones over the Atlantic and there’s a whole house in Florence stuffed full of goodies but this is . . . surprising, enchanting . . . uplifting.”
“My father would be pleased to hear you say so. He had a remarkable eye for talent.”
“Inherited by his son, I note. Some of these would have been acquired after your father’s death. The Picasso on the west wall changed hands only three years ago. I wondered what had become of it.” He added a silent, “Thank you, Dorothy!”
“I like to keep the collection fresh. The main body: the Quattrocentros, the Rubens, the Rembrandts, the Van Dykes and the Impressionists are the solid and unchanging core, but I add new pictures as they take my fancy and sell off those that have pleased me enough. I have paid as much as a million dollars and as little as a shilling and enjoyed the two extremes equally.”
“You have great confidence in your own taste. Do you ever discuss potential purchases with an expert?”
“Oh, you’re thinking of Dorothy’s father. Despond. Rapacious swine! The words ‘price’ and ‘value’ are interchangeable for him. No, he’s the last person I’d consult. His daughter, however, is a different kettle of fish. She looks at a canvas and sees paint, skill and mind. Not a price tag. I fell in love with her while we stood together in front of the Corot over there.”
Was he joking? Joe was for a moment struck silent by the embarrassing admission. How was he to respond to a known villain who showed impeccable taste in art and now women?
They strolled over to stand and gaze at what Joe considered to be an untypical, even disturbing, Corot. No leafy, idyllic landscape here. Pertinax had experienced his coup de foudre for Dorothy looking at a spare Italian interior, the austere background for a specta
cular female nude.
“I had just bought it at an auction in a French provincial town. They had no idea what it was.” He put on a convincing French accent. ‘Typical amateur painting-class nude. Sprawling acreage of flesh and undersized head. Nice addition to a single gentleman’s study, however,’ the auctioneer told me, sticking a sly elbow in my ribs. ‘I expect to be offered a thousand francs at least,’ he added. Another dig of the elbow. Twelve hundred and a swift removal from the sale did the trick, and she came home with me.”
“But . . . but . . . she’s in the National Art Museum in Paris,” Joe said, mystified. “It’s Marietta. The model he painted on his last visit to Rome.”
“One of his Mariettas. Or ‘The Roman Odalisque’ as they have it labelled. Such a different style from his equally lovely neoclassical landscapes.”
“And Dorothy took one look and pointed out that you’d been sold a fake? Hardly endearing behaviour, Pertinax. Surprised you didn’t show her the door instead of falling to your knees.”
“Au contraire! She was intrigued. Peered at it, looked at the back and the sides. Held it to the light and even produced a magnifying glass. She rattled on for a long time about frottis, varnish, visible pencil lines, choice of colour and finally she stood back and pronounced her judgement: ‘You’ll need to get a laboratory investigation done, of course, as my word counts for nothing, but my first impressions are that it’s a genuine Corot. The twin of the one he painted in Rome. You did well to buy it. The colours are right: the ochre pink of the flesh, the pale green contrast, the unusual frottis technique is spot on . . . and she has a lovely arse.’”
“Yes, I see what you mean—you’d simply have to fall in love with a girl who knows an authentic derrière when she sees one. Her father would never have made that point,” Joe said. “Dorothy has an unusual vocabulary which she uses judiciously and adventurously. Yes, if ever I buy a nude I’ll be sure to consult Dorothy.”
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