Enter Pale Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  “I know what the world knows from the newspapers and society reviews,” Joe said, noncommittal. “Tough opposition in a sale-room. He just has to show his face and people tear up their bidding cards and withdraw. Bottomless purse and a queue of rich customers on both sides of the Atlantic. He buys in Rome and sells to New York. Then he buys back in New York and ships the goods over the Atlantic again to London or Paris … The hold of the Berengaria is stuffed with goodies on almost any trip, I hear. A sort of floating Tate Gallery. I don’t like to imagine what would happen if she ever sank!”

  “He’d make another fortune from the insurance companies. He’s careful. He’s very influential too. A self-promoting former of taste. Whatever Despond decides will be the next craze becomes exactly that—with inevitability.” Truelove was amused, if not admiring. “He’s not a man to just happen on clients. He seeks out rich men—women, too—and he cultivates them with the care of an obsessed grower of rare orchids. He educates them in his own tastes, he instils in them a thirst for a particular art form or artist, then dangles the very objects they now desire in front of their eyes. With a hefty price tag attached. I’ve seen less professional acts on stage at Wilton’s Music Hall,” he finished with bitterness.

  From his tone, Joe wondered whether Truelove might be speaking from personal experience of Despond’s machinations.

  “You’ll just have to hope he isn’t planning that this shall be the Year of the Miniature, sir,” he said lightly.

  “I never place much store by ‘hope,’ Sandilands. Crossing fingers, pestering saints, tying ribbons around trees—not my style. I plan for what I want. That’s why I’m sending you in. I think you know what must be done. Will you do it?”

  Joe had no intention of becoming the minister’s minion. He should have sent the upper-class chancer shirtily on his way, muttering darkly of the dangers of abuse of authority; should have delivered a flea in his ear, a kick up the derrière. Why wasn’t he showing him the door? He recognised that he’d been captivated by a mystery, charmed by an ancient beauty and caught once again on the hook of the man’s ambition. All that, he could have resisted. No—more important—he was unable to turn down the chance of digging up more information on this unknown who threatened so much that was dear to him. Information Joe might store away and use to his advantage, should it ever become necessary. The more scurrilous, the better. Would that amount to blackmail? He rather thought it would. Perhaps, after all these years and all the bad examples, he was learning a lesson from Dorcas. She would have called it “taking sensible precautions against disappointment.”

  “It’s a personal matter,” Truelove had announced.

  “Too right!” Joe growled silently. But he heard himself saying: “I’ll see what I can do. I shall need to know your upper limit.” Truelove smiled in satisfaction. “Good man! Tell me—how are you planning to …?”

  “Don’t concern yourself. I’ll just say—no need for clanking handcuffs or police whistles. There are quieter ways.”

  “Ah! A touch of your sophisticated shenanigans? I can see I’ve come to the right shop! Oh, there is one thing more. I’m making it quite clear to the management that in the event of a successful bid I want possession of the goods at once. They are to hand them straight over to you after the sale. There won’t be a problem—I’ve dealt with them many times before. They’re aware of my impatient nature. I’ll collect the goods from your front desk. I’m assuming the front desk of Scotland Yard is a reasonably secure place to leave a pair of miniatures?”

  “More secure, apparently, than your country seat, Sir James. Melsett, would that be?”

  WHEN HIS GUEST had completed his briefing and left, Joe telephoned down to the inspector on reception. “Well, thanks for that, Hawkins! What a treat you sent me! Look, I’m going to have to cancel the rest of my morning and my lunch hour. I shall be back at my desk at two o’clock, should the Prime Minister decide to pop in for a chat.”

  He went to stand by his open window, breathing in lungfuls of air freshly filtered by the stout London planes below him until he felt calmer. The future Minister for Law and Order had just told him two whopping lies. He was only aware of two, it could well be more. The portraits? A smokescreen, a glittering diversion, Joe was quite certain. The man was clearly spending too much time at Wilton’s Music Hall. Joe grinned evilly. His lordship wasn’t to know how many hours his pet plod had spent in the line of duty, watching magic acts from the wings of seedy theatres in Soho. Joe knew all the tricks.

  CHAPTER 3

  With a hasty glance at his watch, Joe rang for his secretary and warned Miss Sturdy that he was going out and wouldn’t be back until after lunch. He took the time to make one or two phone calls himself to cancel the rest of his engagements and spent a further five minutes studying the catalogue Truelove had left with him. Only then did he ask to be put through to the Art Investigations Department for a consultation with its head, Superintendent Pearce.

  A little reassured by what Pearce had to say, Joe prepared himself to take advantage of the advertised viewing time. One day before the actual sale, he reckoned he had probably missed the most fruitful moment to make his appearance, but he had to work with what he’d been given. He might not be lucky enough to be caught showing an interest by that smooth villain Despond himself—a busy boy like him was hardly likely to stick around personally in the sale-room for the whole week—but he would have his spies out at all times, observing and noting the names of anyone paying more than passing attention to any item he’d marked down for himself. Comment and gossip to the point of hysteria were rife in this world, and Joe was confident that the show he was about to put on would raise eyebrows and be the talk of St. James’s before lunch. Christie’s would not be pleased, but there was little they could do about it.

  He smiled to himself with mischief. Truelove’s brief had been short on information and shorter on tactics, but the required outcome was very clear. Joe would have his hands, by fair means or foul, on that pretty pair by the sale’s end the next day. Yes, having committed himself to Truelove’s mad scheme, he thought he might even begin to enjoy himself.

  THE ELEGANT YOUNG man on reception was astonished. At the sight of Joe, he took a step back. He adjusted his lilac tie. He began to stammer. “Um … er … I beg your pardon, sir … but are we expecting you this morning? I mean, should you be here? Is anyone aware?”

  “Well, my mother knows I’m out,” Joe said genially.

  He stood before the assistant in the entrance hall, holding his catalogue, his face alight with anticipation. He was aware of the reaction his appearance in full Assistant Commissioner’s dress uniform was causing. The navy suiting, the excess of silver braid, the smart peaked cap were all in place. He’d even gone as far as hunting out a medal or two. The DSO and the ribbon of the Légion d’honneur still caught attention, even in these weary-of-war times. Joe wore this eye-popping gear with the straight shoulders and aplomb of the professional soldier he had been some years ago.

  “Don’t worry! Not here on police business. Just dropping in between fixtures to take a look at a pair of pictures that have taken my fancy. No time to slip into civvies.” He handed his card over. “Perhaps it would be polite to advise your director that there’s a friendly Scotland Yard presence in the room?” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile and suggested, “He may want to rush out with a screen.”

  The assistant gulped, took the card and excused himself, hurrying off to find a higher authority to deal with this nuisance.

  While his back was turned, Joe took the opportunity to nip into the viewing hall.

  He stood in the doorway to the Great Room to get his bearings and assess the crowd. A second or two’s pause was long enough to absorb the atmosphere which never failed to excite him. He breathed in the warm scents of wood, leather, oil paint and polish and caught a passing high note of Penhaligon’s Hammam cologne. The room was well lit by natural light, and Joe raised his eyes to the high ceili
ng, as he’d always done, to watch in fascination the golden motes dancing upwards in the shafts of sunlight. His child’s imagination had made them out to be a precious mixture of slivers of gilding, specks of gold and silver and oil paint, but with his present knowledge of forensic science, he was ready to believe this fairy dust was in reality no more than flakes of human skin and possibly dandruff.

  He glanced at the assembled company. Dapper city gents, suits from Savile Row, ties from Jermyn Street, haircuts from Raoul at Trumpers. No, perhaps no dandruff. Raoul didn’t permit dandruff.

  Joe strode forward to the centre of the room and stood, taking in the scene. He slapped his gloves against his thigh and wished he’d had his officer’s swagger stick to hand. A thin crowd of no more than a dozen here, he decided, but enough to get the handle of the rumour-mill turning. And, at least, they were all looking at him. Conversation had stopped and speculative glances were being exchanged. He referred to his catalogue, checked the sale numbers of the miniatures he was interested in and made straight for them. All eyes followed him.

  The portraits did not disappoint. He was instantly absorbed by them. Joe checked that his identification of the young officer’s uniform had been correct, nodding with relief to see the rich red colour of the velvet coat with its contrasting blue and gold flash. A fine young fellow.

  Only then did he allow his gaze to fall on the young lady. In colour she was even more appealing. The eyes were—as he’d assumed—blue, the hair had the colour and thickness of an August corn-stook. Her green dress was of a silk whose lustre the artist had seized on to express the undulation of a high and rounded bosom. The pearls encircling her neck were lavish. How painters enjoyed their pearls, Joe was thinking as he leaned closer to admire the glancing highlights. But the special quality of the portrait which, after more than a hundred years, leapt out and seized him by the heart was the expression on the girl’s face. The smile, just fading—or being suppressed—betrayed an intimacy between the sitter and the painter. Though almost certainly amounting to no more than a moment of shared merriment given the circumstances of the encounter, it yet revealed an understanding of character that no photographic image was capable of replicating, Joe thought with regret.

  He yearned to hear replayed the badinage that had just passed between them. What had he said, the painter, to leave those periwinkle eyes glinting with mischievous challenge, the red lips straining to hold back laughter? In contrast, the second subject’s features were lacking in emotion, dour and watchful, his attention directed away to his right. For him, the painter hardly existed; he was a necessary means to an end, a time-consuming interruption in his active life. The kind of restless subject who, in a later age, would have appreciated the swift clunk of a camera shutter.

  Joe became aware that he was sharing the viewing space in front of the items with one other interested party: a quiet man, and, like himself, totally absorbed. This suited Joe very well. He would be able to start up a perfectly natural conversation with the stranger, a conversation which might well be overheard by the room in general if he spoke in a cleverly pitched police voice. Joe exchanged a smile with the second miniature fancier, liking what he saw. The man was Joe’s own age—perhaps a year or two older—dressed in a grey city suit with the tie of a Cambridge college. Clean-cut, handsome features were framed by abundant light-brown hair, which sprang out in all directions in defiance of recent attempts by a barber to exercise some control. The healthiest moustache Joe had ever seen adorned his upper lip. The sharpness of his eyes was accentuated by the honest wrinkles of a man who liked to spend his days outdoors. Large gnarled hands clutched his catalogue; large feet, comfortably rather than elegantly shod, were fixed in the military at-ease position. Difficult to place. Joe decided to hear the man’s voice.

  “Do you suppose they had a happy life?” Joe hazarded the first comment.

  “Assuming he survived the plagues of India and the Napoleonic Wars and that she survived childbirth and boredom, I see no reason why not.” English upper-class. Deep, smooth and confident, was Joe’s first impression.

  “Unattributed, I see.” Joe changed tack.

  “There’s nothing on the front, but so often there isn’t. It takes a complete egotist or an exceptional talent to clutter up the tiny space available with his own name, I’ve always thought. Would you scrawl your name across that glorious bosom? I wouldn’t!” He shook his head and sighed his admiration. “In any case, I think I know the artist responsible for these. Beauties, aren’t they? Wish I could afford them.” The man held out his hand. “Adam Hunnyton, impecunious art-lover. How do you do?”

  “Joseph Sandilands, similarly handicapped. Are you thinking of at least making a starting bid for them tomorrow?”

  “It’s not done to ask, Commissioner, and you know it. But I’ll tell you anyway. Sadly—no. They will go for vastly more than I can afford. Though I did take the precaution of leaving a modest reserve bid with the auctioneer, in case by some chance they were to escape the notice of the public. Late in the day and unattributed—it was worth a punt. But I see from the presence of various luminaries of the art world, to say nothing of the presence of the Law, all poking their noses in, my plans have come to nothing. I just wanted to take one last look. I can only hope they will go to someone who will truly appreciate them and not be stuck away in a bank vault for years waiting to increase in value.”

  “Ah, yes. I understand there may well be a certain international dealer of repute ready to scoop them up.”

  Adam Hunnyton’s face flushed with a dark emotion but his voice was level as he spoke: “This young couple lived but sixty miles from here. They’ve been away in Italy for a quarter of a century. Time to come home. I don’t like to think of them crossing the Atlantic but I fear that will be their fate. Unless … unless you’re prepared to take steps, Commissioner? Does the Yard have any information on them? Anything that might scare off the bidders?”

  He fell silent abruptly at the approach of the director on duty.

  Joe smiled to see they were wheeling out their biggest gun. Clarence Audley came shimmering towards them in a pale grey morning suit and old-fashioned stiff collar, arm outstretched in greeting, a beaming smile lighting his way.

  “Commissioner Sandilands! Welcome! My goodness, you’re looking quite splendid today! We all risk being dazzled by the sun glinting off your frogging! We catch you between parades, I hear? Not come to arrest me, I hope!” he said archly. “It must be three years since we sold you the Italian primitive. I thought we’d got away with it! Is she still giving satisfaction, your Madonna? Glad to hear it! You got her for a snip!” He lowered his voice to justaudible and added, “Now we all know the painting to be Quattrocento … a Filippo Lippi? Can I have that right?”

  “A lucky find,” Joe said modestly. “The Madonna and Four Children all showed happy, smiling faces when I scrubbed them up.”

  Professional concern won out over the director’s social preoccupations. He actually clutched his heart to convey sudden distress. “My dear fellow! I do hope you employed the very best—”

  “Oh, a bit of spit on a hanky usually does the trick, I find.” Joe relished the crumpling of Audley’s puffy features before putting him swiftly out of his misery by adding, “Though in this case I took advice and used Malleson to undo the dirty work.”

  Audley began to breathe again and recovered sufficiently to grit out a playful, “No better spit and polish merchant in the business, we’d say. A good choice of restorer. Now, Commissioner, if you should care to offer up your Madonna again, I think you would be surprised to find how much she would realise in today’s market. Fra Filippo Lippi? A native of Florence, I believe. I’m sure the Ufizzi would be interested. Do give it your consideration.” Mr. Audley’s voice was a loud, warm purr. It announced to the room that all was well. Joe was a valued and knowledgeable client—on teasing terms—and perfectly at home here. No threat to anyone, least of all the auction house.

  First roun
d to Audley, Joe thought, admiring the man’s skill and regretting what he was about to do. Time for a bit of by-play. He took Audley by his lustrous sleeve and urged him closer to the portraits. He looked over his shoulder, checking that no one was within earshot then lowered his voice. The audience shuffled closer, straining even harder to follow the action. The policeman could just be made out asking police-style questions regarding the authentication process by which these lots had come into the gallery. Joe listened carefully to Audley’s earnest and—from his previous enquiries at the Yard, he knew—honest answers. Audley opened the catalogue, pointed to the description of the pictures, and held out his hands clearly in protest of some sort of accusation. His replies were growing more concerned, more flustered by the minute. At one of Joe’s comments he stamped his foot in rage.

  Glancing around the room again, Joe saw that two young men, by appearance brothers in their early twenties, had crossed the room to join each other and were whispering together.

  At this point, Adam Hunnyton decided he’d heard enough of the embarrassing exchange, which had interrupted his quiet contemplation of the art. With a harrumph of disgust, he turned on his heel, tore his catalogue dramatically in two and dropped the pieces on the floor. He levelled an accusing finger at the director and announced, “In the circumstances, I must ask you, Audley, to withdraw my reserve bid on those items, if you please!”

  He stalked majestically from the room, followed by the admiration of the crowd.

  Joe noted that the two men he took to be the “brattish” Despond brothers Truelove had referred to were sneaking out quietly by a side entrance. Joe reckoned that his job was done. Bidding Audley a friendly farewell and promising to return, he made his way to the door.