Old Cases New Colours (A Dudley Green Investigation) (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 9)

by Madalyn Morgan

  Mr Walters cast his eyes down thoughtfully and shook his head again. ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll soon know who is stealing from you,’ Ena said, standing up and preparing to leave. ‘So, mark the notes as I suggested and let’s catch this thief.’

  With a broad smile on his face, Mr Walters said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Green.’

  ‘No need to thank me, Mr Walters, I’m doing this for Mrs Hardy, to whom I owe a great deal.’

  ***

  Ena took the glass that George’s father had been drinking from out of her handbag and put it on the floor where she’d found it. A second later, there was a tap on the door and a young nurse entered. She looked nervous.

  ‘I understand you want to see me, Miss Derby-Bloom?’

  ‘Yes, thank you for coming, Nurse McKinlay. This is my friend, Ena Green. She’d like to ask you some questions.’

  The nurse looked at Ena and nodded.

  ‘Hello, Nurse McKinlay,’ Ena said with a smile. She picked the glass up from the floor and put it on the bedside cabinet. ‘Can you tell me what was in this glass?’

  ‘Lemon and barley cordial – and water, of course. Mr Derby-Bloom enjoyed a glass at breakfast. It helped his digestion. Several patients drink it as a tonic. Some of our patients don’t have much of an appetite, so lemon and barley water is a source of nourishment.’

  ‘How did Mr Derby-Bloom’s cordial end up in his bedroom?’

  ‘After breakfast, he took it through to the resident’s lounge as he always did. When he asked to go back to his room, he asked me to bring his cordial.’

  ‘He asked to go back to his room? Do patients need permission to go to their rooms?’

  ‘No, but Mr Derby-Bloom said he wanted to lie down. When I helped him out of his chair, he was fine and walked back to his room unaided. I picked up the cordial from the table and carried it for him.’

  ‘So had he already drunk some of the cordial before he went to his room?’

  ‘Yes, about half. Some with breakfast and some afterwards, but it couldn’t have been the cordial that made your father ill,’ the nurse said, turning to George, ‘I poured it myself. One-part lemon barley and three parts water. Mrs Thornton had the same and she was fine.’ Nurse McKinlay’s eyes filled. ‘It couldn’t have been the cordial,’ she said again, wiping her tears.

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t the cordial that made him ill,’ Ena said, ‘not if Mrs —?’

  ‘Mrs Thornton and Mr Derby-Bloom got on really well. They sat together at mealtimes.’

  ‘And Mrs Thornton was with him in the lounge when he began to feel unwell?’

  ‘For a short time, yes. Her granddaughter came to visit her. She wanted to talk to Mrs Thornton about a private matter she said, so they went to her room. When her granddaughter left, I popped in to see if Mrs Thornton wanted anything. She said she didn’t, but she was tired and was going to rest.’

  ‘She was tired. She didn’t feel ill after drinking the cordial?’

  ‘No. At least she didn’t say she felt ill.’

  ‘Have you seen her today?’

  ‘At breakfast and again at lunch.’

  ‘She didn’t suffer any ill effects after drinking the lemon barley water?’

  ‘None.’ The nurse’s eyes sparkled with tears and she wiped them again with the back of her hand. ‘She was devastated when I told her Mr Derby-Bloom had died. They had become good friends.’

  Ena put her hand on the nurse’s forearm. ‘What happened to Mr Derby-Bloom was not your fault. Do you understand?’ Ena looked at George, who nodded in agreement.

  Nurse McKinlay sniffed and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Thank you for looking after my father,’ George added.

  ‘It was a pleasure.’ Nurse McKinlay looked from Ena to George, and, appearing to take George’s thanks as a cue to leave, left the room.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Inspector?’

  Ena leapt from her chair and ran across the room. ‘Inspector Powell. How lovely to see you,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I’ve been meaning to telephone and ask you to come over and see the office. Sit down, sit down. Artie’s making a cup of coffee. Artie?’ Ena called, ‘we have a visitor.’

  Artie poked his head around the kitchen door and grinned. ‘Hello, Inspector. You’re not here to see me, are you?’

  ‘Not today, Artie.’

  Artie raised the back of his hand up to his brow. ‘In that case, I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’

  ‘The old place has certainly changed.’ Inspector Powell said.

  ‘It needed to. The cold case office was very … sterile,’ Ena said.

  ‘Dowdy,’ Artie corrected, carrying in a tray of tea cups and a plate of biscuits which he put down on Ena’s desk.

  ‘Good to see you and Ena working together again,’ the inspector said, putting out his hand.

  Before shaking the inspector’s hand, Artie whispered, loudly, ‘We’re working together, alright, but she won’t actually give me a job. I’m only, what did you call it yesterday and again today?’ he asked Ena. ‘Oh yes, holding the fort!’ Artie put his hand up to the side of his mouth and whispered, ‘Put a good word in for me, will you, Inspector?’

  ‘Help yourself to sugar,’ Ena said, pretending she hadn’t heard Artie’s aside and pushed the bowl of sugar towards the DI.

  The telephone began to ring. Artie jumped up. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘He’s worth his weight in coffee, but I don’t have the money to pay him,’ Ena whispered. She took a drink of her coffee with one ear on the telephone call.’

  ‘That was Doreen,’ Artie said, replacing the telephone receiver on its base. ‘She hasn’t heard anything and will be here in the morning as arranged.’ Having passed on the message, Artie went into the kitchen.

  ‘Thank you for referring Mrs Hardy to me, Inspector.’

  ‘I’d have been happy to help her, but she didn’t want the Met officially involved.’

  ‘And as you’re a DI in the Met…’ The rest of the sentence Inspector Powell was aware of and she let it trail off.

  ‘She told me that she’d been accused of theft where she worked and that the stolen money was in her coat pocket. I believed her when she said she hadn’t stolen it.’ The inspector laughed. ‘She wanted my advice because she said I’d been good about the mischief her boys got up to last year.’

  ‘She meant you’d ignored the fact that they’d taken money from Helen Crowther to say they’d seen Henry’s car outside the office when Crowther killed herself?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘I’m glad you sent her to me. I’m hoping that by looking into the theft – and clearing her name – it will go some way to thanking her for what she and her boys did for Henry. If Doreen hadn’t brought the boys to Bow Street and made them confess that they hadn’t seen Henry’s car, he’d have hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. Henry owes Doreen Hardy his life.’

  The inspector took a drink of his coffee. ‘Is it a lot of money that’s missing?’

  ‘Not really. Thirty-five pounds, as far as I know.’

  ‘Suspects?’

  ‘A waitress named Dolly is jealous of the friendship between the hotel manager and Mrs Hardy. There’s nothing in it of course. The manager’s just a nice man as far as I can tell. The waitress had her nose put out of joint when the manager offered to train Mrs Hardy to be a barmaid, a job the waitress had been coveting. I’m going back to the hotel later this afternoon to see if any marked notes have come into the till of the public bar since I was last there. According to Mrs Hardy, Dolly frequents the hotel bar when she isn’t working.’ Ena gave DI Powell a quirky grin. ‘I met her the day I came to see you. I haven’t decided yet whether she’s a hard case or whether she felt threatened by me and was being defensive. Either way, she’s a feisty madam.’

  ‘She might have been drinking.’

  ‘According to Doreen, she does drink.’

  ‘Let
me know if I can do anything to help. Doreen’s a decent woman. I wish there were more like her.’

  ‘Have you had the result of the cordial I gave you; the supposed lemon and barley from the nursing home?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ll chase it up and let you know as soon as I get it.’

  ‘So, is this is a social call?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then what can I do for you?’

  ‘I have a job for you, but with thieves and poisoners to investigate, you may not have the time.’

  ‘For you, I’ll make time. Is it a personal matter? I mean, with you coming to me instead of using the Met’s resources.’

  ‘It isn’t personal to me, but it is personal to a friend who I trust and respect. Do you need to know the name of the person before you take the job?’

  ‘No.’ Ena shook her head. ‘If you trust the person that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Thank you, Ena. I’ve been asked to make private enquiries into an art gallery. The gallery owner, Giselle Aubrey, is the goddaughter of my friend, which is why I’d like you to investigate the setup, unofficially. Depending on your findings, I may have to make it official, but for now, I just want you to go to the gallery and have a look round, meet a few people. I’d go myself, but Giselle knows me. I don’t want to alarm her by telling her I think someone involved with the gallery could be an art thief. Let me explain. There’s been a spate of art thefts, mainly from offices in and around Covent Garden. Recently two paintings were stolen from private individuals and one was stolen from the German Embassy. All three were replaced by forgeries. Neither of the house owners knew their paintings had been stolen. One was in storage because the owners were moving home, and the other couple had been away on holiday. They didn’t realise for some weeks after they got back because the painting had been replaced by a forgery. The same with the painting that came out of storage, that had also been replaced by a forgery.

  ‘The MO’s aren’t the same. Someone with a German accent told the guy on the front desk at the German Embassy that the painting was being taken away to be cleaned. It was wrapped in thick brown paper and carried out of the building in the middle of the afternoon. Two weeks later the same man took it back to the Embassy and hung it in its original place. He’d have got away with it too, but for the guy whose office door is opposite the painting. He noticed there was something different about it, argued that it was not because it had been recently cleaned, and got an expert in. By the time the painting was confirmed as a forgery, several weeks had passed and any trail that there might have been, had gone cold.’

  ‘If the man on the desk at the German Embassy remembered the man taking the painting to be cleaned had a German accent, did he remember anything else about him? Could he describe him or remember what he was wearing?’

  ‘No. He only remembered the thief’s accent,’ Inspector Powell said, shaking his head.

  Ena sat back in her seat. ‘You don’t think the forgeries could be anything to do with Horst Villiers? Do you remember me telling you about the phoney uncle of Frieda and Walter Voight who Henry knew when he shared a cottage with Walter while they were at university, and again when he worked undercover and went on the run with Walter at the end of the war?’

  ‘No. Villiers has been off the radar since ‘46. He’d have hightailed it back to Germany.’ The inspector’s brow furrowed. ‘No…’ he said again.

  ‘Do I detect the smallest degree of doubt in your voice?’

  ‘Anything is possible, but why would Villiers risk coming back to England where he’s wanted by military intelligence?’

  ‘You’re right, he wouldn’t. I don’t think he’d be that stupid. Sorry, I interrupted you. What have thefts in a private house and at the German Embassy got to do with the goddaughter of your friend’s art gallery?’

  ‘An oil painting, one of a set of four, by the 18th Century artist, William Hogarth, was mislaid while being transported from The Savoy to the art gallery. The gallery is exhibiting paintings and antique jewellery in advance of an auction later in the month. Until last week the four paintings – called the Four Times Of Day – had hung in The Savoy. The ground floor of the hotel is being decorated and the paintings had hung in the private office of the outgoing manager. The new manager, a young chap, wants to put his mark on the place and likes modern works of art. No one realised the value of the paintings until the manager took an art dealer who was a guest at the hotel to see them.’

  ‘Was the art dealer German?’

  ‘No, American.’

  Ena exhaled. ‘Private houses, hotels, embassies – I wonder what the common denominator is here. There must be one. German and American accents?’ she mused. ‘It isn’t difficult to put on a German accent or an American one for that matter. However,’ Ena shook her head, ‘there has to be more than one thief. If all the thefts were carried out by the same person, he’d have to be Houdini. No, there are at least two people involved in the thefts, if not more.’

  ‘I suspect the American and German – if they are different people – are part of a bigger gang.’

  ‘I agree. Whoever is pulling the strings may not even be in London. Or England for that matter.’

  ‘Can the manager of The Savoy describe the American art dealer he showed the paintings to?’

  ‘Yes, but his description is sketchy. The receptionist on duty the day the American left The Savoy remembered him.’ Ena put her cup down to concentrate. ‘Average height and she thinks he had brown hair. He wore a lightweight, stone coloured raincoat and a grey trilby. She said he didn’t have a strong American accent and at first thought he was Canadian.’

  ‘Or he’s an American who has lived in London a long time.’

  ‘It was impossible to tell his nationality from the hotel register. His name was Bartholomew Hudson.’

  Ena laughed. ‘If that’s his real name, I’ll eat my hat. And if it is, he could be from anywhere. Bartholomew shortened to Bart, sounds American. Hudson on the other hand is very English. Either way he’s no fool. German for one sting and American for another.’

  ‘And I don’t think he’s finished. He’s got away with several thefts that we know of, but there could be others that haven’t yet been reported.’

  ‘They may never be reported, if the forgeries are good.’

  ‘He’s clever, but if he carries on stealing there’s every chance we’ll get him. Thieves don’t usually give up when they’re on a roll as lucrative as this one. Anyway, the security guard from the gallery boxed up four paintings.’

  ‘And only three arrived?’

  ‘Good guess. But the missing painting turned up. It was brought into Bow Street the following day and left by the desk sergeant’s hatch.’

  ‘Anyone see who left it?’

  ‘The desk sergeant. But, like the German at the Embassy and the American at The Savoy, there was nothing memorable about him. Again, average height, brown hair. He was wearing a lightweight mackintosh and a brown trilby. The only thing the sergeant was sure about was the man spoke with an American accent. Apparently, he pushed in front of a woman the sergeant was dealing with, saying he’d found a painting in the alley at the back of The Savoy.’

  ‘He said a painting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t it wrapped up?’

  ‘Yes, in the same thick brown paper the other three were wrapped in and then in a wooden crate.’

  ‘Then how did he know it was a painting?’

  ‘He couldn’t know. Unless he’d seen it.’

  ‘Exactly. So,’ Ena said, her eyes sparkling with interest, ‘what do you want me to do?’

  ‘The Hogarth was stolen en route from The Savoy Hotel to La Galerie Unique, the gallery that was commissioned to exhibit it before taking it to be auctioned. Therefore, the responsibility lies with the gallery owner. The young woman who owns the gallery knows if word got out that a painting had gone missing while it was in her care, she would lose a lot of business. The art world
generates a great deal of money – and some of it is under the counter, if you get my meaning? Documentation confirming a painting’s authenticity – its previous owners’ history – goes with the artwork to prove it’s genuine. If a painting is stolen and there’s no documentation, it means its provenance isn’t known, and the painting plummets in price.’

  ‘A collector wouldn’t spend thousands on something that wasn’t the real thing, surely? Unless the document proving its provenance is also a forgery.’

  ‘That’s right. Some art collectors would still have a painting authenticated by an expert. Don’t quote me, but I’m told that some collectors in the Middle East will buy works of art for their private collections – no questions asked. They don’t require a receipt of purchase. As long as there’s a certificate of provenance, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘I don’t see the point of that. Why own a painting you can’t show anyone?’

  ‘Apparently, it’s very exciting to own a piece of art that no one but yourself can look at.’

  ‘Not exciting for the people who have had their painting stolen.’

  ‘For them, depending on the value of the painting, it can be a huge financial loss. It’s even worse for an art gallery. If the Hogarth that was brought into us is found to be a forgery, La Galerie Unique, who was responsible for the painting when it was stolen would have to make an insurance claim, which means their insurance premium would go up to an unaffordable price; that’s if the insurance company pays out of course. If they don’t, the gallery would be sued for the amount the stolen painting was worth, plus the insurance company’s time and several other inconveniences. In this young woman’s case, it would mean the gallery would have to close. Even if the insurance company paid up, it would still mean a huge financial loss.’

  ‘As well as the loss of trust and respect. Do you know who she’s insured with?’

  ‘Galbraith. They’re a big insurance company. They specialise in insuring the contents of museums and art galleries in London.’