I sat up as the first item went onto the block, interested to watch, though I pondered what to do. Stand up and declare that some of the pieces here had been stolen? Run back to London for Spendlove or a magistrate? Mr. Floyd, employed by the prince, was here, of course, but would he say a word?
I turned my head to look for Denis. He was seated at the end of an aisle in the back, his hands resting calmly on his walking stick. Why he was here I had no idea. Mr. Floyd was not sitting with him—that man had taken a chair behind mine.
The auction began without much preliminary. The first lots were paintings I had not seen on Higg’s inventories. They drew many bids, finally selling at rather dizzying prices. I wondered if they too had been purloined and from where. The bidders seemed unconcerned about the paintings’ provenances and quietly lifted hands or nodded at the auctioneer, who was skilled at keeping the bidding straight.
The bidding continued for the better part of an hour, pieces coming up and being sold fairly quickly. I heard nothing from Mr. Floyd, and another glance at Denis showed him sitting like a stone.
Grenville likewise said nothing. The auctioneer occasionally shot him a hopeful look, but so far, Grenville showed no interest in any of the items. Lord Lucas and Rafe Godwin whispered together—or at least Rafe whispered and Lucas listened with a pained expression. Dunmarron, standing in the back, bid on two paintings, neither of which had come from Carlton House as far as I knew. He won one of them, extremely pleased with himself.
“Next, a miniature painted on ivory depicting a pretty young lady. Done thirty years ago by the talented portrait painter and tastemaker, Richard Cosway.” The auctioneer’s assistant held aloft the painting of the saucy young woman Donata had admired. “I ask ten guineas to start. Do I hear ten? Ten guineas from the lady in the middle.” The auctioneer nodded at Donata. “Thank you, madam. Do I hear fifteen? Fifteen guineas for this lovely young woman to carry in your pocket. A welcome respite from a hard day of sitting, gentlemen.”
Titters sounded, and a man raised his hand. Donata immediately put hers up for twenty.
The bidding climbed—twenty-five, thirty, forty. Donata continued to lift her fingers serenely as it went on. The gentlemen bidders looked upon Donata at first with indulgence, then in annoyance as she continued, the price climbing. The auctioneer seemed reluctant to let things finish with her bid, sending encouraging looks to the gentlemen. I could have told him he wasted his time. When Donata was determined, nothing short of a catastrophe would stop her, and even then it would only slow her a little.
Finally, the last gentleman dropped out at a hundred guineas, and the auctioneer pointed at Donata. “Sold for a hundred and ten to Mrs. Lacey.”
Donata sat back, a smile on her face, her cheeks flushed. “Gracious, that was quite exciting. I won.”
“You won the obligation to pay over a hundred and ten guineas,” I pointed out.
“You are a wet blanket, Gabriel. I quite enjoyed that. I can see how it can be compelling.”
I shook my head. “Do not, I beg you, force us to give up the South Audley Street house and shiver together in my rooms in Grimpen Lane.”
“Nonsense.” Donata’s eyes sparkled. “I am not so silly as that. If you realized how much I wager at whist you would think this a trifle.” She turned her impish smile on me as I flinched. “You are so very easy to tease, Gabriel,” she said, and the auction went on.
Her win had drawn attention. I turned to see Dunmarron’s gaze fix on her, then me, his anger evident.
Bidding continued, item after item coming up and being knocked down. I saw no move from Denis until the auctioneer’s assistant held up a small painting that reminded me of the one in Denis’s house of the young Dutch lady. This was of a young woman in a blue kerchief, who turned her head to look at the viewer, a simple earring dangling from her earlobe.
The auctioneer started the bidding at five guineas.
I felt movement behind me. Mr. Floyd had lifted his hand for the auctioneer’s attention. “Thank you, Mr. Floyd,” the auctioneer said. “Five guineas I have. Who will make it six?”
A few people bid but it was rather desultory, no one knowing much about the painting or painter. Mr. Floyd continued until it was twenty guineas. At that point, there was a rumble from Dunmarron.
“Fifty,” he said.
The auctioneer’s eyes widened. “Fifty guineas I’m bid. Who will make it sixty?”
Irritated, Floyd nodded. Dunmarron raised his hand for seventy, Floyd for seventy-five. They went on, back and forth, up to a hundred, then a hundred and fifty. The rest of the room went silent, transfixed as Mr. Floyd and Dunmarron battled it out.
When the bid sat at two hundred, Floyd glanced at Denis. Denis made the barest twitch of his forefinger, resting on his walking stick, from side to side.
Floyd, looking disappointed, shook his head at the auctioneer and studied his lap. Dunmarron laughed in triumph as the auctioneer said, “Sold to His Grace for two hundred guineas.”
I kept my eye on Denis, who looked unbothered. I knew he had a fondness for Mr. Vermeer, who’d done the painting that hung in his staircase hall. Denis had once told me he did not purchase everything for its monetary worth, but in appreciation of beauty and skill.
He remained motionless as the auction continued. Dunmarron gloated a while, and his friends drifted from him as though a pool of mortification spread from his vicinity. Grenville stoically ignored him.
Not until the Vulliamy clock came up did Grenville say a word. Dunmarron’s loud declaration that it was fake had done no good—the bidding soared quickly, and Dunmarron’s frantic answering bids made it rise to sickening heights. When it was at five hundred and fifty, with Dunmarron in the lead, Grenville said quietly, “One thousand guineas.”
There were gasps. The other bidders shook their heads in surrender. Dunmarron growled his displeasure. “One thousand five hundred,” he countered.
The auctioneer broke in. “One thousand, five hundred I’m bid. It’s with you, sir.” He gazed at Grenville. “Do you care to raise? One thousand, seven-hundred and fifty?”
“Two thousand,” Grenville said calmly.
“Bloody hell, man.” Dunmarron’s face was red with rage. “Nothing you want is worth that much.”
The insult to Marianne was clear. Grenville never flinched, his color never rose. He only nodded at the auctioneer to get on with it.
“It’s with you, Your Grace,” the auctioneer said reluctantly.
As Dunmarron opened his mouth to counter, I saw Denis twitch his fingers again. Mr. Floyd drew a breath and announced, “Three thousand guineas.”
The gasps turned to cries of amazement. I stared at Denis, wondering if he’d lost his mind. The clock was pretty, but hardly worth that. Yet, he’d let a painting he truly wanted go to Dunmarron for a relative pittance.
Grenville, his lips twitching, shook his head. “No more from me.”
The auctioneer gazed at Dunmarron, excited once more. “It’s with you, sir.” His tone was much happier.
Dunmarron growled. He raised his hands, sending Denis a glare. “Damn and blast the lot of you.” He finished these words by whirling about and stalking out of the room. A sweep of cold air filled the space for a moment, cut off when he slammed the door.
A smattering of applause and laughter greeted this display. The audience was enjoying the drama.
“Well, now,” the auctioneer said. “Shall we continue with act two?”
More laughter. I noticed as the bidders settled down again, waiting to see what the assistant would hold up next, that Denis had risen and gone. There must be a rear door, because I never saw the front one open and close after Dunmarron’s departure, but Denis was no longer in the room.
I rose, excused myself to those in the row I stumbled over, and slipped behind a Chinese folding screen that hid a portion of the room’s wall. A door indeed opened to the outside from there, and I departed through it, closing it quickly before the wind co
uld slide inside in my wake.
Denis was strolling in the direction of his coach. As usual, several large men, including the one called Robbie, followed him at a discreet distance. Denis set his tall hat upon his head as he walked, and turned to look at me when I caught up to him.
“Captain,” he said without inflection.
“Why on earth did you bid three thousand guineas for that clock?” I demanded. “It can’t be worth a tenth that.”
“It is not.” Denis paused his stride, and halted to face me. “I know you will continue to ask me until your curiosity is satisfied, so I will explain. I will offer the clock to Dunmarron in exchange for the painting.”
“Ah.” I thought I understood, but frowned. “But you’ll be paying three thousand for a small painting, when you could have obtained it for little more than two hundred.”
“I will be obtaining more than that,” Denis said, meeting my gaze squarely. “I will be obtaining His Grace.”
I blinked once, twice. “You will buy his obligation with a clock stolen from the Prince Regent?”
“No, with a copy of the clock. The prince already has the original. I returned it to him this morning.”
Chapter 23
I stared at Denis, dumbfounded, while many thoughts spun through my head. “You had the original clock because the forger gave it to you,” I said. “The forger, Billy Boxall.”
Denis gave me a nod. “Mr. Floyd, upon his release, told me of your conversation with him and shared his speculation that Billy had done the Carlton House forgeries. I knew where to put my hands on Billy and so removed him from the game.”
“Is he all right?” I asked in alarm.
“Mr. Boxall is quite well. He had been hiding the original clock in his room at his boardinghouse, waiting to sell it to a man in Amsterdam for a tidy sum. I returned the clock to the palace and to a grateful prince.”
“Who is now also in your debt.”
“Possibly. The Regent is rather fickle and not prone to great loyalty.”
“What about Billy?” I asked. “And his customer in Amsterdam?”
“I am certain I can sell Billy’s customer something else, or else the customer can be disappointed. Billy has worked for me on occasion, and he knows when I am the lesser evil.”
“He was not working for you on this occasion, however,” I said with conviction. “You had nothing to do with the thefts from Carlton House.”
“No.” Denis’s eyes took on a touch of humor. “As I told you. I sell to the Regent to satisfy his obsessive need for artwork. I prefer him to be a satisfied client. I do not need to steal from him.”
“Billy was doing the forgeries for the thieves,” I went on, trying to set everything straight in my head. “Then he decided he could make quite a lot of money selling the originals and giving the thieves another copy. He was robbing the robbers.”
“Not at first,” Denis said. “Once Higgs was killed, Billy decided to sell the originals, yes, but previously, he’d been returning them to Higgs. Higgs was feeding the originals back into the prince’s collection without the thieves’ knowledge and discreetly getting rid of the forgeries.”
I stared in bafflement. “Higgs was returning them? Good Lord.” I rearranged a few of my ideas. “So Higgs did have a crisis of conscience, or thought of a way to confound the thieves. But why would Billy tamely hand the originals back to Higgs once he’d copied them? Surely Billy could see he stood to make a fortune selling them himself.”
Denis lifted his shoulders in a smooth shrug. “Higgs was paying him to give the thieves a second copy and hide the originals. According to Billy, Higgs had indeed been forced into helping the thieves, and was quite upset about it. What they threatened Higgs with, Billy never knew. Billy decided to help Higgs, whom he liked—and as I say, Higgs paid him a nice sum. Easier money than trying to sell stolen artwork and not be caught. One by one, Billy gave the true artwork back to Higgs, who would then return them to Carlton House and destroy the copies.”
I leaned on my walking stick, ignoring the icy breeze that blew from the Downs and froze my bones. “And then one night,” I said, “the thieves caught on to what Higgs was doing. Perhaps someone to whom they tried to sell what they thought was an original told them it was a fake. The thieves stormed back to Carlton House and killed Higgs for it.” I felt ill.
Denis watched me, his countenance as bland as ever as I worked through my conclusions.
“Billy did not tell you who the thieves were, did he?” I asked him.
Denis shook his head, the wind stirring the tails of his greatcoat. “He said it was more than his life was worth. I will wear him down eventually.” Denis’s lips twitched, as close to a smile as he ever came. “Or you could tell me.”
For some reason, I felt more comfortable going through my speculations with Denis than anyone else. I knew he would not disparage me if I got it wrong and encourage me to think until I reached a conclusion.
“I had thought Dunmarron,” I confessed. “He is a collector, and arrogant, and a bit of a dolt on top of it, but he can be terrifying and a little mad.” I remembered Marianne shivering as she described how Dunmarron vowed he’d cut up Grenville’s face, all the while pressing the knife to the corner of Marianne’s eye. “He could have easily cowed Higgs. I imagine it was Higgs’s idea to make the forgeries to replace the originals, so the thefts wouldn’t be discovered right away—Dunmarron would not have thought of something like that. Dunmarron, who is famously a misanthrope, came to London for the first time in years this Season. I cannot believe it was simply to abduct Marianne and humiliate Grenville. Interesting how Dunmarron approached Marianne very soon after the Regent noticed the oddities in his household and summoned Grenville to help him. As though Dunmarron wished to divert Grenville’s attention.”
“And yours,” Denis pointed out.
“I do not believe Dunmarron thinks much of me,” I said. “He sees me as Grenville’s hanger-on. His second. To him, I am not a man of much consequence.”
“Nor am I,” Denis said, his eyes glinting.
“Dunmarron is not the most observant of men,” I continued. “Which is why I’ve decided against him as instigating the crimes. He might have helped for his own reasons, but he truly is a slow-witted man. Donata calls him the Duke of Dunces, and my wife is a fine judge of character.”
“She is,” Denis agreed. “Why suspect Dunmarron at all? Except for the fortunate coincidence of his diverting Grenville as soon as the Regent sought his help?”
Denis did not ask me in order to aid my reasoning. He wanted to be certain he had all the facts before he dragged Dunmarron before him and made whatever use he wanted of the knowledge.
I could save Dunmarron from Denis by shaking my head and admitting I had no proof. But I remembered the fear in Marianne’s eyes, her terror not only for herself but Grenville. Dunmarron was responsible for that—he was not a guiltless man.
“The Regent enjoys giving large entertainments,” I said, spinning out my thoughts. “When I attended his soiree, I noticed his guests rambling the house as they willed. I also noted that a person can walk in and out of the ground floor doors without hindrance. The servants are buried in their duties and cannot possibly watch every corner.” I paused a moment but Denis said nothing, so I went on.
“Brewster speculates that the best way to rob the house is to work there,” I said, “smuggling out bits at a time. I realized one could do the same as a guest—wait for a moment when attention is elsewhere, and help oneself to pieces easy to pocket. Or else move them to the library so Higgs would know which pieces to give to the forger. Any guest who is invited to Carlton House could steal from it—including me. I am going off the idea of Dunmarron simply because he hates London, and must rarely visit Carlton house, if he is invited at all. He was blatantly not present the night I attended the Regent’s soiree. Dunmarron was likely not in London when the things began to be stolen and copied, which your Mr. Floyd noted in October.” I paused.
“Mr. Floyd told me you had him working for Carlton House to keep an eye on what the prince had purchased through you.”
“Indeed,” Denis said without hesitation. “Mr. Floyd carries in his head a catalog of all the artwork in Britain and Europe. If the prince wants something, he tells Mr. Floyd, who tells me, and I obtain it for him.”
“Keeping the commission for every single thing the Regent wants for yourself,” I concluded.
Denis gave me a shallow bow. “One must make a living.”
He was enjoying himself. “Dunmarron would have bungled the thefts in any case,” I said. “He certainly behaved like a fool today. A cooler head must have been at the helm.”
As a name drifted into my thoughts, Grenville walked briskly from the auction room, holding his hat against the wind. I saw the anger buried in his dark eyes, a cold rage that seldom came forth, as he stopped and spoke to us, tight-lipped.
“Lucas and Mr. Godwin will be calling on you, Lacey,” he said. “To set the appointment to meet Dunmarron. I believe I will ask Freddy to be my other second. He’s been kind, and seeing a well-known travesti standing on the green might flummox Dunmarron’s aim.”
“I will be honored,” I said quickly. “However, I believe Rafe Godwin might be the thief we are searching for. Dunmarron is the bull, but Rafe has been his driver.”
“Rafe Godwin?” Grenville stared at me in amazement. “He’s an annoying little toad, but I doubt he could think of such an elaborate plot as the one to rob Carlton House.”
“A simple one,” I said, and explained to him what Denis and I had been discussing. Grenville listened, his anger fleeing as his interest surged. “Dunmarron and Godwin between them have connections to sell the things to the Continent or to men in Britain who are not bothered by scruples. Look how many gentlemen have turned up at this secret auction today.”
“What about the statue you bought?” Grenville asked. “Why did it end up in that market? If the thieves discovered it was another copy, why not toss it into the Thames?”
A Mystery at Carlton House: Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries, Book 12 Page 25
