The Silver Serpent

by Lena Jones

  ‘So what does that mean, exactly?’

  ‘It means, among other things, that I’m issued with the tools to test a painting’s authenticity. All I have to do is get close enough.’

  ‘Do you have the tools with you?’ I ask.

  He unzips his messenger bag and draws out a small black case, which he opens to reveal a neat black machine. It reminds me of those little labelling machines that shop assistants use for pricing, except that it has a small built-in screen.

  ‘Always prepared, like a good boy scout,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t believe you were ever a good boy scout.’

  He grins. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Is that an X-ray fluorescence spectrometer?’

  ‘You know about these gadgets, do you?’ He sounds impressed.

  I nod. ‘It’s like a microscope and X-ray machine in one.’

  ‘That’s right. And, as you probably know, it can tell us, among other things, what pigments were used to make the painting. Van Gogh was painting in the second half of the nineteenth century, when they used lead paints. So we’re looking for lead. In fact, Van Gogh was known to use lead-based paints – it’s the reason for one of the theories for why he painted like he did. He could have had lead poisoning, which caused inflammation of his retinas, so he would have seen circles of light, like halos, around things, like in The Starry Night.’

  I did know this, but I don’t get a chance to say so, as Arthur’s enthusiasm is carrying him along.

  ‘Also, did you know,’ he continues, ‘that he added lead sulphate to Sunflowers?’

  I put down my mug to give him my full attention. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, he wanted to create a very vibrant, sunny-yellow pigment—’

  ‘But the sunflowers in his picture are dark – almost brown! Or they were, until the picture was moved …’

  ‘That’s right. They’ve darkened over time. The lead sulphate reacted with the yellow chromate, causing the darkening effect. Painters already knew there was a problem with some of the brighter shades of yellow back then – but they couldn’t work out what was causing the colour to corrode.’

  ‘That’s fascinating,’ I say.

  He studies me for a moment. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. It is fascinating. Also, I just love gadgets. My friend Brianna’s got some brilliant ones, including an actual seismograph, for checking tectonic activity.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘I know. I’ve never seen an XRF in action, though.’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance.’ We grin at each other’s enthusiasm.

  ‘You’ll be able to look at the invisible A as well, won’t you?’ I say.

  He nods. ‘Right: are you ready to be lookout?’

  ‘Ready.’ I down the rest of my hot drink and we leave behind the lush interior of the canteen and head back out to the Guild’s corridors and tunnels.

  It’s noon when we get to the National Gallery. Among the Van Gogh masterpieces, I check for potential onlookers while Arthur switches on his little gadget and waits for it to warm up. A couple stroll by, arm in arm, and I smile at them, as though we’re just hanging out – rather than about to get up-close-and-personal with one of the most celebrated paintings in the world.

  ‘Anyone around?’ hisses Arthur, bent over his spectrometer.

  ‘Just a man, over by the self-portraits.’

  ‘Is he watching us?’

  As he asks this, the visitor turns and leaves the room. ‘No.’

  ‘Here goes then!’

  He holds the spectrometer up to the painting, presses more buttons, and we wait for a few seconds. Some lights flash and then several rows of words and numbers appear on the device’s screen.

  ‘Got it!’ he says. He zips the gadget back into its bag and we head out of the exhibition and find a quiet section of corridor.

  ‘So?’ I ask him.

  ‘Definitely a fake.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. There isn’t any lead in that painting.’

  ‘So Rathbone’s an art thief …’

  ‘And on a grand scale,’ he says. ‘It’s not like he stole a work by some unknown artist – this is a Van Gogh! His Sunflowers—’

  I stop abruptly. Although I don’t like Sarah Rathbone, I suddenly feel a wave of concern for her. Nobody deserves to have a crook for a father – and what happens if he ends up going to prison?

  ‘We’re going to have to confront him,’ Arthur says.

  Normally, I love the chance of challenging a villain. Right now, though, I realise I have cold feet. I Change Channel for a moment, running through the clues that point to Lord Rathbone being guilty.

  ‘But what if we’re wrong?’ I say after a moment. ‘What if he really did just have The Marriage cleaned? What if he did just help with hanging Sunflowers?’

  ‘Agatha, the evidence is heaped against him.’ He ticks off the items on his fingers, one at a time: ‘The private viewing, the cufflink, the cleaning, the serpent in the family crest … But I can go and see him on my own, if you’re scared.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s not about being scared of him. I guess I just don’t want to confront him in case we’re wrong. Think what it would do to Sarah.’ I don’t say what I’m also thinking – that if Lord Rathbone is involved, then that would also implicate him in my mother’s death, and I’m not quite ready to face that.

  He studies me. ‘I honour that sentiment,’ he says, and I feel myself blush. ‘But he’s involved in a criminal activity, Agatha, that may well result in more deaths.’

  ‘More deaths?’ I look at him in horror. ‘Do you believe Sheila’s dead?’

  He pulls a face. ‘I don’t know. It’s a bit odd, the way she’s disappeared so completely that nobody seems to have spotted her since she bought that bottle of wine.’

  I shiver at the thought that our search for Sheila might already be too late. If that’s the case, we have to catch her killer!

  ‘OK …’ Arthur says. ‘Shall we go over to the Rathbones’ place now and get this over with?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘OK – let’s do it.’

  It takes us half an hour to get to Chelsea on the Tube. The Rathbone residence is about five minutes’ walk from Sloane Square station. We pass the Saatchi Gallery, then I have a moment’s pang, realising we’re near Chelsea Physic Garden in Royal Hospital Road. I remember visits there with Mum. She loved showing me all the medicinal plants, and explaining their uses. I haven’t been there since she died.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Arthur is watching me, with concern on his face.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve just realised we’re near a garden I used to visit with Mum, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s hard losing a parent. My dad left us when I was five.’

  ‘Do you still see him?’

  ‘No. We never heard from him again. He just took off while I was at school.’

  ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘Yeah. For years I hoped he’d just be there again when I got home, with some fantastic excuse for not coming back sooner.’

  ‘At least I knew Mum was dead – I wasn’t expecting her to come back. I guess that’s been a bit easier than what you’ve gone through.’

  ‘Both ways sound pretty tough.’

  ‘Do you still hope to hear from your dad?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to any more. He had his chance to be a dad, and he threw it away. Mum did a great job of bringing me up single-handed.’

  We arrive at a set of enormous metal gates. Arthur presses the buzzer and explains that we’ve come to see Lord Rathbone, and, no, we don’t have an appointment.

  I quickly add, ‘I’m at school with Sarah.’ This seems to be our entry ticket. The gates buzz and swing open, allowing us entry. The house isn’t immediately visible – only when we round a bend in the driveway do we catch our first glimpse. The Rathbone homestead is even bigger – and grander – than I imagined. It’s ancient
, with leaded windows, and there’s ivy climbing up its cream façade. There are too many chimneys to count, and massive grounds, with exotic trees even I – who’s grown up in a celebrated London park – would have trouble identifying.

  ‘Wow!’ Arthur and I say in unison.

  ‘I bet there are wings,’ I say.

  Arthur laughs. ‘What? You think they can fly? I know they’re mega rich, but …’

  ‘No – I mean the house. I bet the house has wings. You know – North Wing or East Wing, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. Hardly seems necessary for one family to own such a mansion, does it? Imagine how many people you could house in this place.’

  A butler meets us in the hall. He doesn’t smile, but he also doesn’t turn his nose up at these uninvited guests.

  ‘Sir, madam – if you would follow me, please. Lord Rathbone has asked me to show you to the Red Wing study.’ Arthur and I exchange a knowing look.

  We walk for what seems like five minutes, but is probably no more than a minute and a half. Then the butler shows us into a room and leaves us. For a moment, I think he’s going to lock us in, but he only shuts the door.

  ‘Did you tell the Guild?’ I whisper to Arthur.

  ‘What? That we were coming here?’

  I nod.

  ‘Nope. Did you?’

  I shake my head. ‘My phone’s turned off at the moment. Can you page them or something?’ I ask. ‘It might be quicker.’

  He pulls out a gadget that looks like a small phone and keys in a message. ‘Done,’ he says.

  I feel better immediately, knowing the Guild will be able to track us down if necessary.

  The door opens and Sarah Rathbone walks in.

  ‘Hello, Oddball, what are you doing here? Sammy on the gate described the strange girl who was trying to get in, and I felt sure it must be you.’

  ‘You were right,’ I say simply.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ she says again. But before I need to answer, the door opens again and Lord Rathbone strides in.

  ‘Thank you, Sarah, that will do,’ he says.

  ‘But I want to know why she’s here,’ insists Sarah.

  ‘I will find out and tell you later – if that is appropriate. Mr Fitzwilliam and Ms Oddly—’

  ‘Oddlow,’ I correct him, but the cold look he shoots me makes me wish I hadn’t. If looks could freeze …

  ‘Mr Fitzwilliam and Ms Oddlow have come to speak with me in private,’ he tells her.

  Sarah tuts loudly but leaves the room, although I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still outside, with a glass to the wall.

  ‘Please,’ says our host, gesturing to two high-back armchairs. We sit down and he takes a seat behind his desk, which is mahogany and even bigger than the professor’s. I glance around the room, taking it all in.

  The study is large – about twice the size of my attic bedroom at home. There’s a large grey stone fireplace and the wallpaper has a bold pattern of gold and red stripes. The artwork is also large and imposing. One shows naked people being tortured in hell – lovely – and another depicts a man herding elephants. Colonial is the word that comes to mind. This is clearly an old family that believes it deserves its wealth.

  But not when you come by it illegally, I add in my mind. Poirot appears at my shoulder, studying Lord Rathbone closely.

  ‘I do not like this gentleman, mon amie,’ he says after a moment. ‘He is not, I fear, a decent human being.’

  I feel the same way. I remember that awful, predatory grin I witnessed at the gallery on Tuesday, and barely suppress a shiver.

  ‘So to what do I owe this honour?’ Lord Rathbone consults his watch, presumably to make clear how precious his time is.

  ‘Something came up,’ says Arthur, ‘and we wanted to give you the chance to respond before we go to the police.’

  I’m disconcerted to see that our host looks amused, rather than rattled.

  I decide to try another tack to throw him off balance. ‘We found something that belongs to you.’ I hold out the cufflink.

  ‘You’ve got my cufflink!’ he exclaims. ‘Where on earth did you find it?’

  Arthur doesn’t chip in, so I volunteer the information. ‘It was wedged between one of the paintings at the National Gallery and the wall.’ I watch him closely.

  Rathbone’s eyes narrow. ‘Which painting?’

  ‘Sunflowers,’ Arthur says.

  I add, ‘The forged Sunflowers.’

  At this, our host unexpectedly sits back in his chair and roars with laughter. I catch Arthur’s eye and we exchange a look of confusion.

  ‘Why is that funny?’ I ask.

  ‘Forged? Sunflowers? Ha! One of the most famous paintings in the National Gallery’s permanent collection? Don’t you think someone would have noticed? The curators, for example?’

  I wait for him to stop laughing. Then I say, ‘I believe Sheila Smith did notice.’

  Arthur clears his throat. ‘We’ve been wondering what you had to do with the forgery and with Ms Smith’s disappearance.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, young man? Whose disappearance?’ Lord Rathbone looks bewildered.

  ‘Sheila Smith’s,’ I retort, ‘senior art curator at the National Gallery. As a patron of the gallery, I’m sure you know her.’

  ‘She’s been missing since last Friday evening,’ Arthur continues. ‘Is this really the first you’ve heard of it?’

  At this point, Lord Rathbone turns the same shade of red as I’d observed on our school trip. From this vantage point, I can confirm that it is indeed colour #9A0000 in the hexadecimal code – although right now I have rather more urgent concerns, such as the alarm button he’s just pressed.

  ‘You have a nerve,’ he says angrily. ‘You come into my house and accuse me of forging masterpieces and abducting some woman I’ve only met once or twice at gallery functions? How dare you, the pair of you!’

  ‘But your cufflink …’ I say. I look at Arthur, who nods in encouragement.

  ‘I lost that cufflink two weeks ago, when I attended an event for patrons at the gallery. I have no idea how it got stuck behind a painting, but I can only imagine someone thought it was a good joke.’

  ‘What about my mother?’ I ask. I doubt I’m going to find out anything now, but I have to ask.

  ‘Your mother?’ he says, and now he looks genuinely confused. ‘What on earth has she got to do with it?’

  Just then, the door opens again, and a man in a security guard’s uniform appears. ‘Sir?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, Giorgio. Please escort these two visitors off the premises.’ He looks from me to Arthur and back again. ‘You are not welcome to return, unless invited – do you understand?’

  ‘Well, that didn’t really get us very far,’ says Arthur, as we watch the gates buzz shut behind us. ‘I really thought he’d crack.’ He gestures for us to walk, and we start back towards the Tube.

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that Lord Rathbone isn’t involved after all?’ I suggest. ‘He was angry – but not alarmed or frightened. He didn’t behave as if he’s a master criminal who’s just been found out.’

  ‘He probably thinks we’re just kids, and so we don’t pose a threat.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I mean, he must be aware that I was involved in getting to the bottom of the bank heist … It was in the papers, and his daughter is at school with me.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look like we’ll get another audience with him for a while. But we should tell the Guild about our meeting. They might want to do some behind-the-scenes investigating of Lord Rathbone themselves.’

  Without warning, he stops walking and stands very still, gazing into space. I reckon he’s Auto-Focusing, so I give him a moment. After a while, he blinks and then he’s back with me. It reminds me of someone coming out of a hypnotic trance. I wonder if I look the same when I’m Changing Channel.

  ‘Well, whether or not Rathbone’s involved, you’re right abou
t one thing,’ he says. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence that Sheila’s replaced two of her pop art pictures with at least one forged one.’ He pulls out his mobile and types something in. ‘Shall we check out the Georgia O’Keeffe landscape, to see if that’s been forged too?’

  ‘Won’t it be in the States? I think most of her work’s over there.’

  He shakes his head. ‘The Tate Modern’s hosting a major exhibition of her work.’

  I stare at him as the pieces of the puzzle start to click into place. ‘How long’s it been on?’

  ‘At least a month.’

  ‘So Sheila could have visited …?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Excitement is fizzing inside me.

  ‘What’s the quickest route to the Tate Modern from here?’

  Arthur points to an old brick wall, covered in ivy.

  ‘There’s a gate through there,’ he says.

  ‘Just like in The Secret Garden!’ I say. ‘I’ve always wanted to find a door like that one.’

  He grins. ‘I know – it’s great, isn’t it?’

  We wait for a couple of joggers to pass, then duck under the green foliage. The vine screens us completely, reminding me of the secret area behind some waterfalls. There’s not much room in this magical space, however, and Arthur hastily pulls out his Guild key and unlocks the gate. We pass through and into complete darkness.

  ‘Mobiles out!’ he says. I rummage for mine and turn it on. The two narrow beams do little to brighten the blackness. I shiver. We’re in a corridor that slopes down. It’s hard not to run, pulled along by gravity, but I lean my weight back, determined not to trip over in the gloom.

  ‘This tunnel’s definitely one of the creepier ones,’ says Arthur. His voice is muffled.

  ‘Will we be out of it soon?’

  ‘Yep. There’s a bend any minute, and then we join a main passage that’s level.’

  Sure enough, the slope evens out almost as soon as he finishes speaking, and we step round a corner and into a wider tunnel. Here, our mobile phones give far better illumination, reflecting back from pale, whitewashed walls.

  I check my watch. It’s just after two. ‘Do we have much further to go?’ I ask, suddenly conscious that we’ve only got a day and a half left.