Altered Images

by Maxine Barry

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those cry babies who can’t stand a dab of ointment on a cut without yelling blue murder?’ he teased.

  Annis stuck her tongue out at him.

  ‘I’ll call Ray and tell him you can’t do the poisoning scene,’ Reeve added, as he reached for the sticking plasters.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Annis squeaked and Reeve laughed.

  ‘You’ve got to be feeling better.’

  Annis was. The brandy had helped chase away some of the coldness of shock. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘At least, fine enough to “kill” you off.’

  Reeve grinned. ‘I might have known. You’ve been looking forward to that from the moment we met, haven’t you?’ he leaned forward to kiss her tenderly.

  Annis smiled as he pulled away, relishing the taste of him on her lips. ‘You bet,’ she purred. ‘Besides, it’s the final scene of the play. Of course I want to do it.’

  ‘I still think that nearly getting run over and killed is a reasonable excuse for crying off a performance,’ he added, determined to get in the last word. He sat on the floor beside her, his back to the sofa, and stared unseeingly at the fireplace. With his dark curly head so close, Annis couldn’t resist the temptation to play with one black curl, and wrapped it around her index finger. Reeve closed his eyes briefly at her touch, then opened them again. In his mind, he replayed the scene of twenty minutes earlier.

  ‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘that car. It was parked up. I’m sure it was. And how many people normally shoot away from the kerb like that?’

  Annis tensed. ‘What are you saying?’ she asked, her voice suddenly harsh with tension.

  Reeve looked up at her and took her hand in his. ‘I don’t think that what just happened was an accident, Annis. The moment you stepped out into the road, the driver went straight for you, like a guided missile.’

  Annis swallowed hard. ‘But . . . why would anyone want to kill me? It has to be a mistake. Maybe he lost control of the wheel?’ she asked hopefully.

  But Reeve shook his head. ‘No. Ever since we started this Oxford gig, I’ve had a niggling feeling at the back of my mind that something wasn’t quite right. It all started that time we found Ray arguing with someone at rehearsals. Remember?’

  Annis nodded miserably. ‘You think it’s got something to do with Ray?’ For a while they both thought of good old, roly-poly, jovial Ray Verney. It seemed so . . . unlikely.

  ‘Let’s think. If someone wanted you out of the way, it was for a good reason,’ Reeve said, fighting off the rage that he felt. If he ever got his hands on that damned driver . . .

  Annis took a shaky breath. ‘OK,’ she agreed bravely. ‘What have I done, seen, said or what do I know that would upset someone?’

  Reeve propped his chin on one of his cupped hands. ‘It has to be something recent too. Or he would have tried before. Come on, darling, think. Did Ray say anything that made you wonder, at the time? Anything suspicious?’

  Annis shook her head. ‘The only thing I can think of was when I nearly knocked him flat this morning in Chapel. And you’re not going to tell me that made him so enraged he was suddenly overcome with a murderous desire for revenge!’

  Reeve suddenly shot upright. ‘You said you saw a rolled-up old painting in his briefcase.’ Reeve got up and began to pace. His dark-blue eyes glimmered. ‘Have you realised,’ he mused out loud, ‘how this whole murder weekend, that Ray wrote, produced and organised, all revolves around a missing painting?’

  ‘But that’s fiction, Reeve,’ Annis chided, though a cold feeling trickled down her back.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he agreed. ‘But what’s happened because of that fiction?’ he demanded. ‘Think painting, Annis. What happened because of us? Because of Ray?’

  Annis frowned. ‘Nothing. Except that the College was good enough to remove one of their paintings to give the illusion to the conference delegates that it really had gone missing. But Reeve, it hasn’t really gone. The Bursar’s just moved it somewhere—to his office, probably.’

  ‘And what’s the significance of that?’ Reeve pounced, his hands shooting out to grip the tops of her arms gently. ‘The Hall has to be fitted up with a good alarm system—the insurance company would have insisted on it. But the Bursar’s office . . .’

  Annis suddenly had a brainwave of her own. ‘A copy! Reeve, he would have to substitute a copy for the original! That way nobody would even suspect that a switch had been made. The thing I saw in his briefcase must be the copy! He was going to make the switch, and thought I saw it, and . . .’

  Her jubilation fled. Someone had tried to kill her. A man she knew. And liked. Suddenly all her strength left her. Reeve moved to the settee and put his arms around her, kissing her neck, nuzzling against her ear. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘I know.’ For a long, long while, he kissed her, gently, softly, lovingly, restoring her strength and pouring comfort into her through his lips.

  Finally Annis leaned back and opened her eyes. ‘So. What do we do about it?’ she asked, her voice weary with exhaustion.

  ‘We go to the police,’ Reeve said flatly.

  ‘I think we should go to the Principal first,’ she corrected him. ‘After all, it’s his college, his painting, and, let’s face it, we could just be wrong. And nobody would thank us for creating a needless scandal,’ she laughed grimly.

  Reeve ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said cautiously. ‘I don’t like the thought of you being in danger for a moment longer than you need to be. The police could protect you.’

  Annis felt her heart thrill at the protectiveness he was displaying. But she firmly pushed him away and sat up. ‘We need to go about this logically,’ she said, making his eyes glitter.

  Logic? Annis Whitttington talking about logic? But he smiled and got up, taking one of her hands into his. ‘OK, What do you suggest?’

  ‘Before we do anything else, we need to see the painting in the Bursar’s safe. Find out if it is a copy, or the original. If Ray hasn’t made the switch yet, who’d believe us?’

  Reeve smiled. ‘Good plan, sweetheart. But do you think you could tell an original from a forgery? I know I couldn’t.’

  Annis scowled, then they both had the same idea at exactly the same time. ‘That pretty redhead!’ Reeve said. ‘That know-it-all student,’ Annis drawled, but with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  * * *

  Lorcan arrived back at Five Mile Drive and poured himself a stiff drink, his mind, as always, returning to Frederica. Frederica shot up off the bed as a sharp and urgent hammering on her door split the quiet afternoon air. It was nearly a quarter-to-six, and she’d been expecting him back long before this. She quickly trotted to the door and threw it open. ‘Lorcan, where have you . . .’ Her words trailed off at the sight of the two dark-haired strangers on her doorstep.

  ‘Hello,’ Annis said brightly. ‘I don’t suppose you remember us, but we’re with the group of actors who are putting on the murder mystery here?’

  Frederica blinked. ‘Oh. Yes, yes of course. You asked about the Hogarth.’

  Reeve nodded. ‘That’s right. I know this is going to sound . . . well . . .’ he shot Annis a half-worried, half-amused look, ‘kind of hysterical, if not downright unbelievable. But . . . well . . . we were wondering if you could help us.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Annis broke in, ‘we think that someone has made a copy of the Hogarth and switched it for the real one, whilst it was in the Bursar’s safe.’

  Frederica’s eyes widened. ‘Wait a minute. I think you’d best come in and start from the beginning,’ she said softly, opening the door and inviting them inside. And as she listened to their story, Frederica began to feel sick with excitement and fear. Because she knew something these two actors didn’t. She knew the police had had a tip off that ‘something big’ was going down at Oxford. And if stealing a Hogarth from St Bede’s wasn’t big, then what the hell was?

  When they’d fi
nished, Frederica was thinking furiously. ‘You don’t believe us, do you?’ Reeve asked flatly.

  Frederica shook her head. ‘No. I mean, yes, I do believe you . . . We’ve got to go and see the Principal,’ Frederica shot up. ‘At once.’

  Reeve gave Annis the thumbs-up sign, and together they followed Frederica to Sin-Jun’s office, where Frederica, as a member of the College, felt obliged to be the one to tell the tale. But once she began to talk, the story didn’t sound quite as far-fetched as it might, and when she had finally finished, the Principal looked so grim that there was little doubt that he believed them.

  ‘I think we’d better get the Bursar and have a look at this painting of ours,’ he said at once, and rose from behind his impressive desk.

  The Bursar also had rooms in College, and once the Principal grimly filled him in, they all hurried to his office in Webster. Frederica, trailing at the end of the procession, wondered if she was up to this. Could she tell a fake from the real thing? Painting a fake was one thing, but detecting one was something else altogether!

  The Bursar opened the safe, watching as Sin-Jun extracted the canvas of Alfred Gore and unrolled it on the table.

  ‘Well, Miss Delacroix?’ the Principal asked quietly, stepping aside to let her get a good look.

  Frederica studied it. It certainly looked like a Hogarth original. But then, it would, wouldn’t it? She reverently carried it to where the bright June sunlight streamed through the windows, and inspected the painted head again. There, on the eye . . . She leaned closer, touched the oils. Was the bottom layer just a fraction too liquid? The brushstrokes definitely looked like those of Hogarth. But were they? She felt a frisson of . . . something . . . atavistic. . . climb up her spine.

  It just didn’t feel right. She turned to look at her Principal. ‘Sir,’ she said softly, ‘I don’t think this is the original.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘No sir,’ Frederica said honestly, knowing how important it was to be honest. ‘But I know a man who will be able to tell you.’

  Sin-Jun nodded. ‘The Visiting Fellow at the Ruskin? The one the police sent down here because of this . . . tip off?’

  Frederica nodded. ‘I can ask him to come over. Nobody knows more about forgeries than Lorcan Greene,’ she assured them.

  Sin-Jun nodded. ‘Very well. But don’t tell him why,’ he added hastily. ‘I don’t think it would be . . . prudent, to speak of such matters on the public telephone.’

  As she dialled, the Principal turned to the two actors. ‘Since you are in danger, Miss Whittington, I think it best if you gave this Mr Verney no reason for further worry.’

  Reeve’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘Meaning, you have a final scene to do at dinner tonight, isn’t that correct? Then I think you should carry on as if you suspected nothing. As if you know nothing.’

  Reeve nodded. It made sense. He glanced at Annis. ‘You up to it?’ he asked anxiously, but Annis grinned back.

  ‘Of course. Besides, we’ll be surrounded by the others, as well as all the delegates. He’s hardly likely to do anything silly with all those witnesses, around is he?’

  And so Reeve and Annis left to prepare for their final scene, not knowing that it was not Ray Verney they had to worry about.

  Over the telephone, Frederica could hear Lorcan’s number begin to ring.

  And in his room, Carl Struthers neatly tied his bow tie, and smiled at his reflection in the minor.

  So, he had missed this afternoon. There was always the next time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Annis and Reeve cautiously entered the Hall, which was full of excited chatter and the clink of cutlery against porcelain. Tonight, dinner was to be served by the scouts.

  Annis, wearing a sleeveless black dress, took a deep breath, felt Reeve squeeze her hand in a quick gesture of support, and then swept across to join the others at ‘Oxford Spire Publishing Company’.

  ‘You look ravishing,’ Norman Rix said at once. Annis opened her mouth to answer him, then looked up as Ray Verney took his seat almost opposite her, and the words died in her throat.

  Ray beamed at everyone. ‘All set for the big scene and denouement?’

  ‘You bet,’ Gerry said, taking a sip of the wine a scout had just poured out. ‘Hey, great plonk.’

  Annis forced herself to relax. Not easy, but she knew the Principal was right. Ray mustn’t suspect anything. She must give him no reason to panic. Beside her, she felt Reeve too make a determined effort to smile and to keep his eyes from straying to Ray.

  The first course was served—Melon boat. As she reached for her spoon, Julie noticed the plaster on Annis’s elbow. ‘Hey, what did you do to yourself?’ she murmured, flicking Annis’s arm lightly. ‘Hurt yourself?’

  Ray, catching it, looked up quickly. Reeve caught the movement, and saw the strangest look cross Ray’s face.

  ‘Oh that,’ Annis laughed. ‘Clumsy so-and-so that I am, I took a header on the pavement outside Reeve’s place. Scraped my knees too,’ she added lightly. ‘They don’t half sting!’

  Beside her, one part of Reeve was admiring her courage and acting ability, but another part of him was focused grimly on Ray Verney. The funny thing was, he didn’t look guilty. Or put out. Or even nervous. He looked scared.

  Perhaps he knew they were on to him. And yet . . . Reeve took a sip of his wine. No, there was something not right here. Everything in him was telling him that Ray was not behaving like a man who had tried and failed to kill someone. In fact, when Julie had mentioned the word ‘accident’ he’d looked surprised. And worried. For a man who’d just supposedly tried to run her down . . .

  ‘I’ve got that information you wanted, Reeve,’ Norman Rix said, so loudly that it must have been his second time of saying it. Guiltily, Reeve realised he’d missed his cue. He turned to Norman. ‘Oh? Was I right?’

  Annis, hearing her own cue, reached down into her bag. ‘You know, I think I’ll take some aspirin,’ she murmured, but loudly enough for everyone at her table to hear her. She had noticed, but hadn’t really taken in, that Gerry had said her piece and snaffled a gulp of Reeve’s wine, as in the script.

  ‘Yes, you were right,’ Norman Rix said loudly. ‘But I don’t see what you hope to gain by it. What does it prove?’

  By now, several delegates, who were just being served the main course by beaming scouts, looked across at them, patently interested.

  ‘Geraldine, can I borrow your glass of water?’ Annis said loudly. Luckily, she’d remembered to empty her own glass of water before Norman Rix’s cue.

  ‘Course,’ Gerry disinterestedly nudged her water glass a little further over.

  ‘Thanks,’ Annis said, reaching across, and making sure her palm went straight over the top of Reeve’s glass.

  Ray pretended not to notice, but he scowled thoughtfully at Annis’s elbow, with its sticking plaster. She said she’d fallen. Perhaps she had. Perhaps he’d just mistaken the murderous look in Carl Struthers’ eyes that morning? He took a gulp of his own wine, and couldn’t help but look across the room, over to Struthers’ table.

  Reeve noticed him give someone behind him a strange, fulminating look, and felt his heart miss a beat. Again he had that strange feeling that there was something else going on that he didn’t know about. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder, even as he felt a prickling in his spine, as if he was being watched. Or Annis, sitting next to him, was being watched . . . He wondered whether that art expert Frederica Delacroix put so much store in had arrived yet. And if he had, whether he agreed with her opinion that the painting had already been switched with a copy.

  * * *

  In the Bursar’s office, Sin-Jun, the Bursar himself, and Frederica all seemed to hold their breath. Lorcan, responding at once to the controlled urgency in her voice, had come to St Bede’s straight away.

  Sin-Jun himself had met him at the lodge and brought him to the office, explaining on the
way the story the two actors and one of his Fine Art students had related to him.

  Lorcan had been stunned at first. Numbly he’d confirmed that he was indeed working for the police, and that a certain Inspector Richard Braine of the Art Fraud Squad really had been tipped off that some big art forgery was going to be perpetrated in Oxford this summer. None of which made Sin-Jun feel any better. When they’d walked into the office, Frederica’s eyes had gone straight to Lorcan’s face. He looked pale, angry, and . . . hopeful, all at once. She understood how he felt. Somehow, uncovering the real plot, right here at St Bede’s, in some strange way vindicated them.

  ‘This is it?’ Lorcan had said, making straight for the painting, and taking it into the strong sunlight. And then, for ten minutes, he had simply looked at it, covering every tiny inch with a sweeping, intense, sharp-eyed scrutiny. He hadn’t spoken so much as a single word in all that time. Now, the tension in the room was reaching breaking point. And when Lorcan slowly looked up, the others held their breath.

  Lorcan looked first at Frederica, then at Sin-Jun. ‘Lord Roland,’ he said flatly, ‘this painting is a forgery. A very good forgery, but I think X-rays and carbon-dating will prove it beyond any shadow of a doubt.’

  Sin-Jun blinked once and slowly nodded. ‘I see. This Inspector Braine . . . would you be so good as to call him?’

  Lorcan nodded and reached for the telephone. Luckily, Richard was still at home. ‘Richard,’ Lorcan said, after the Inspector’s long-suffering wife had handed the phone over to him. ‘Lorcan here. I have something for you . . .’

  * * *

  Upstairs, Reeve clutched his throat, holding his breath so that his face turned dark red. He half-stood, making just enough noise to stop every other diner in the Hall in mid-chew. He clutched the tablecloth dramatically. Julie screamed, her high-pitched, terror-filled yodel making chills run up the spines of nearly everyone there. Reeve slowly folded up, toppled sideways off his chair, and lay in a theatrical heap on the floor. Gordon shot up. ‘Nobody move!’ he bellowed ominously.