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

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘You are much more than that, darling.’ Giselle smiled excitedly into Mantel’s eyes. Then turning to Ena, said, ‘He is very modest. But the truth is, if it wasn’t for Louis there simply wouldn’t be a La Gallery Unique.’

  ‘And it is lovely.’

  ‘Thank you, Ena. Now, if I can steal your husband, I have something I’d like him to see.’

  ‘Of course. I shall enjoy looking round without a teacher.’ Ena winked at Henry as Giselle put her arm through his and guided him through the crowd.

  Louis Mantel offered Ena his arm. ‘Shall we?’ Ena put her arm through his in the same way that Giselle had to Henry. She smiled nervously as Mantel led her across the crowded room, stopping now and then to say hello, or reply to someone who had spoken to him.

  ‘Your husband is an artist, Giselle tells me?’

  ‘Yes, and a good one, although he hasn’t painted for some time. I expect it’s because he’s busy at work.’

  ‘Perhaps coming here tonight will stir his artistic loins and he will pick up his brush again,’ Louis said with a dramatic sweep of his left arm. When they had reached the other side of the room and were no longer hindered by people standing around, Louis turned and faced Ena. Looking into her eyes, he said, ‘You have a perfect face, Ena, are you Henry’s muse?’

  Ena hid her embarrassment by laughing.

  ‘What’s funny? I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m not saying you’re cute or anything. I’m saying your features are in perfect proportion. You have good bone structure, your eyes are wide, your nose is aquiline and you have good cheekbones. A perfect face for a muse. Are you Henry’s muse?’ He didn’t give Ena time to answer before saying, ‘If you’re not, you damn well ought to be.’

  ‘I’ll tell him what you said, it might encourage him.’

  ‘Or make him jealous.’ Louis had become animated. His long hair had flopped forward onto his forehead. ‘Okay, Ena, what kind of paintings do you like? Do you like a particular style? Oils or watercolours? Maybe you have a favourite artist.’

  She had neither and knew very little about art so there was no point in pretending she did. ‘No, Louis. Either I like a painting, or I don’t. If I do like something it’s usually because of the combination of colours used. To be honest, I know nothing about art, though I admire those who do.’

  ‘I ought to go to the office, see what the verdict is on the Hogarth. Will you be okay on your own, Ena?’

  ‘Of course. And by the time I’ve been in every room and looked at every painting, I’ll know which style of painting, or artist I like best.’

  Louis laughed raucously and kissed Ena on both cheeks. ‘I’ll see you later and I’ll ask you again which painting you like the best, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Ena didn’t like people who talked about money. In her experience, it often meant they didn’t have any. Louis Mantel, however, was probably the person to prove Ena’s theory wrong. To finance a set up like La Galerie Unique he had to have money – and a lot of it.

  Ena couldn’t get Mantel out of her mind. He was charming and he had made her laugh, but the man who took the painting that had gone missing between The Savoy and the gallery into Bow Street was also an American? But then there were a lot of Americans in London. A lot had gone home to the States when the war ended, and later when they closed the peace-keeping aerodromes like Bruntingthorpe near Foxden, where she was brought up, some had come back to England to marry girls they’d fallen for while they were based in England. Ena dismissed the thought as a coincidence. Louis was a complex character, charming to her, but angry and threatening to the man he was earlier arguing with outside.

  She wandered around on her own quite happily, mingling, chatting about art and when others talked about paintings she appeared interested. She listened openly when being included in conversations and eavesdropped when she wasn’t – all the time hoping one of them would say something suspicious, although because of the artistic language they used – and Ena’s lack of knowledge – everything sounded suspicious.

  She ventured into other rooms. One, an oblong shape, was wall-to-wall with modern paintings. Most of the artists were unknown to Ena. Some names were French, others looked like Dutch, but most were English.

  ‘I love giving unknown artists wall space to show their work,’ Giselle said, suddenly at Ena’s side. ‘And, if one or two paintings have offers made on them in advance of the auction, I shall be delighted for the artists.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen you have a wide variety of the highest standard of work by new artists. It’s most impressive,’ Ena said, repeating what she’d heard someone say a minute or two earlier.

  ‘Thank you for saying so, Ena. But,’ her dark eyes twinkling with excitement, ‘my plan – and it’s a long way off – is to exhibit the works of Cezanne, Braque, Matisse and Picasso.’ Giselle sighed. ‘And to own one of the new Pop Art paintings.’

  Ena felt the heat of a blush rise from her neck to her cheeks. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me. Although I enjoy looking at paintings and I appreciate the talent, the time and effort that goes into creating a beautiful piece of art, I only recognise the work of more popular artists like Monet and Picasso,’ Ena said, surprising herself by plucking the names of two famous artists out of thin air. ‘Henry, as you know, is the artist in our family. I don’t know what Pop Art is.’

  ‘And why should you?’ Giselle was being generous, Ena thought. ‘Although Pop Art has been around for the last two hundred years – portraying the popular culture of the time – it wasn’t until the beginning of the 1950s that it was revived. In simple terms, it is the integration of high and low art, a mix of fine art and popular culture. One day I shall own a Demuth or a Paolozzi!’ Neither names meant anything to Ena. Giselle raised her glass in a toast to the idea. ‘But, I have my feet firmly on the ground. I know that day is in the distant future. For now, this,’ she said, swaying from left to right and holding her glass aloft before draining it, ‘is a dream come true.’

  Ena liked Giselle. She was taken with the young woman’s enthusiasm. She watched her weave in and out of friends and fellow art lovers, smiling and chatting, and beckoning waitresses to fill up the glasses of her guests with a smile that lit up the room. Ena felt a pang of sadness for the goddaughter of Inspector Powell’s friend. Sadness that whether she was involved with the art thefts or not – and Ena was sure she was not – her dream would end if anyone at the gallery were involved.

  Casting her gaze around the room, Ena noticed a middle-aged woman lift the glass lid of a display cabinet and take out a brooch. She then looked around and, unaware that Ena was watching her, unclipped the fastener on her evening bag and dropped the brooch in.

  Ena couldn’t believe anyone would be so brazen as to steal a valuable piece of jewellery in front of dozens of people. She stood open-mouthed looking at the woman when she realised she herself was being watched by an elderly man with silver hair. He smiled at her, creating soft creases at the corners of startling blue eyes.

  The man’s smile made Ena feel awkward. She felt as if she had witnessed something very private – had been a fly on the wall of someone’s bedroom – instead of the theft of an item of jewellery. She turned away from the man’s gaze and, feigning interest in the paintings on the wall nearest to her, made her way across the room to Giselle.

  As she approached the gallery owner, she heard Henry assuring her that the painting left at The Savoy and taken to Bow Street Police Station, was a genuine Hogarth.

  Giselle threw her arms around Henry’s neck. ‘So, can I display it?’ Henry nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she gushed.

  The Hogarth being genuine didn’t make sense to Ena. Had whoever stole the painting got cold feet and purposely left it at the back of The Savoy, hoping it would be found? Was it a bungled theft, or a genuine oversight? She didn’t believe for a second that the men transporting the painting from The Savoy to the gallery had left it behind by mistake. What then?

&n
bsp; ‘Ena?’ Giselle gave her a broad smile. ‘Did you want me or your wonderful husband?’

  ‘Well done, wonderful husband,’ Ena said with a twinkle in her eye. Henry lifted his glass to her. ‘It was you who I wanted to speak to.’ Ena wished she’d been able to tell Henry what she’d seen before speaking to Giselle. It was too late now; both her husband and the gallery owner were looking at her expectantly.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Giselle, but I’ve just seen a woman in a turquoise dress – early fifties, plump with a pretty face and short fair curly hair – steal a brooch from one of the display cabinets.’

  ‘Did you see which brooch she took?’

  ‘I wasn’t close, but I could see it was a coral stone and there were other stones around it.’

  ‘I know the brooch you mean. It’s one of the most expensive pieces in the gallery. It was made by the French designer, Gilou Donat.’ Giselle looked past Ena. ‘If the woman you described wants the brooch, her husband will buy it for her. I assure you she has no need to steal anything. He is very wealthy. And,’ Giselle said, ‘he is besotted with her.’

  He must be, Ena thought. His wife did steal the brooch, both she and the woman’s husband saw her. Ena was fascinated to know why someone would steal something that they could so easily have bought, or asked for as a gift.

  Giselle moved deftly among clusters of people standing around admiring the paintings, sculptures and jewellery on show. ‘Charles,’ she said, kissing the distinguished looking man with silver hair and the kind of tan you get from spending long periods in the South of France, not south London.

  ‘This is my friend, Ena. Ena, these lovely people are Priscilla and Charles. Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘Priscilla has taken a shine to the coral and pearl brooch.’

  ‘As always, you have impeccable taste, Priscilla. It is the only one of its kind. There have been no bids made on it, so it’s all yours. Would you like to take it with you tonight, or shall I have it sent to you tomorrow?’

  The woman’s husband looked at her, a smile on his face and love in his eyes.

  ‘I’ll take it tonight, please, darling.’

  Giselle looked around the gallery, put up her hand and the man who had met Ena and Henry at the door and checked their tickets, made his way across the room to her.

  ‘Victor, would you take the Donat brooch from the showcase and put it in a presentation box.’

  ‘I’d like to wear it now,’ Priscilla said.

  ‘Even better. It will look beautiful on your dress,’ Giselle turned to Priscilla’s husband. ‘I’ll have Victor bring the box to your office tomorrow with the invoice.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Certain that the case was already unlocked, Ena watched as Victor took a small key from his waistcoat pocket. He inserted the key in the lock, turned it and the case opened. As big as he was, Victor skilfully lifted up the brooch and gave it to the woman who passed it to her husband. He lovingly pinned the brooch of coral and pearls onto her turquoise dress and stepped back. He exclaimed how beautiful she looked and she giggled like an excited child.

  Victor, his job done, locked the cabinet. After returning the key to his waistcoat pocket, he straightened his jacket, gave a short nod to his boss and went back to his post by the door.

  ‘I’m going to powder my nose, darling,’ Pricilla said to her husband, ‘I won’t be long.’

  I need to spend a penny too, Ena thought and followed her.

  Ena was washing her hands when Priscilla exited the toilet. A mirror behind the hand basins ran the length of the wall with a full-length mirror at the end by the door. Ena patted her hair, which had so much setting lotion on it that it hadn’t moved. She applied lipstick – she had eaten the first layer, or she’d left it on the champagne glass.

  ‘The brooch is lovely,’ Ena said, as Priscilla washed her hands.

  ‘Pretty isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. The turquoise of your dress sets off the pink of the coral and the cream of the pearls, perfectly.’

  Priscilla dried her hands and moved to look at herself in the full-length mirror as Ena dropped her lipstick into her handbag and headed for the door.

  ‘Have you seen any paintings you like?’ Priscilla asked.

  ‘Not yet. To be honest it’s my husband who has an eye for art. We’ll be moving into a new apartment as soon as it has been renovated and decorated. I’ll wait until it’s finished, see what wall space there is.’

  ‘How exciting. You’ll have a blank canvas to work with, as they say.’

  ‘Yes. I think that will be the time to buy a painting. What about you?’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything that takes my fancy, except my brooch,’ Priscilla said, stroking the beautiful smooth oval coral. ‘I know a good piece of jewellery when I see it, but paintings? Apart from liking or disliking what I see, I know nothing about them. Like your husband, mine also knows about art. I leave anything that hangs on the wall to him. I like what hangs around my neck, can be pinned to my dress or…’ She lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers as if she was playing the piano to show Ena a large heart-shaped diamond engagement ring. ‘I’m a magpie.’ Laughing Priscilla turned her back on the mirror. ‘Come on, let’s find the men and see what’s in the other rooms.’

  As they left the Ladies’ the two women almost collided with a smiling Louis Mantel who seemed oblivious to everyone in the room. Ena put out her arm to save Priscilla from being knocked over as Louis flew past them and disappeared into the room Giselle had taken Henry to when he looked at the Hogarth.

  Giselle followed the excited American into the room and Victor followed her. Some minutes later Louis carried out the two by two and a half feet Hogarth called Night that until fifteen minutes ago was thought to be a forgery, and hung it in the main room beneath Noon and next to Evening. Louis made a meal of standing back and directing Victor to move it a little to the left and then to the right. Ena heard Priscilla sigh. When the American was finally satisfied that the painting was level, he put up his thumb and Priscilla hissed. ‘Silly little man.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A gold plaque on the wall of the Chambers at No 15 Old Bailey listed the names of the barristers who had offices in the building. Sir John Hillary QC was top of the list. Faced with a large black door knocker or a push-bell, Ena chose the bell.

  ‘Mrs Green?’ A man in his mid-fifties wearing a smart grey suit, pristine white shirt, plain black tie and highly polished black shoes greeted her with a professional smile as he opened the door. ‘Jack Martin,’ he said, ‘Sir John’s clerk.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Martin.’

  ‘If you’d like to follow me,’ the clerk said, in a strong London accent. He led her across a black and white tiled hall to the office of the prosecution barrister in the trial of Shaun O’Shaughnessy. Gold leaf gilded lettering across the frosted glass in the top half of the door read, Sir John Hillary QC, Barrister At Law. Mr Martin gave the door a sharp rap, didn’t wait to be asked in but opened it and said, ‘Mrs Green, Sir.’

  A distinguished looking man, tall and lean, with a head of thick black hair giving way to silver strands at the temples, got to his feet and rounding his desk, approached her. ‘How do you do, Mrs Green?’

  ‘How do you do, Sir?’ Ena replied, shaking the prosecuting barrister’s outstretched hand.

  With a swoop of his left arm, Sir John Hillary motioned for Ena to sit in a high-backed maroon leather chair at his desk. Mr Martin followed Ena across the room and sat in a matching chair on Sir John’s right. While Sir John settled himself into his chair, his clerk took a notebook and pen from his briefcase, placed them neatly on the corner of his boss’ large dark wood desk and clasped his hands on his lap.

  ‘Thank you for coming in so promptly, Mrs Green.’ The prosecuting councillor leaned his elbows on the ornate desk and gave Ena a searching, but pleasant, smile. He then looked at his clerk who picked up the pen and pad. ‘Before I call you as a
prosecution witness in the case of the Crown versus Shaun O’Shaughnessy, tomorrow, I’d like to go through a few things with you.’

  Tomorrow? Mr Martin hadn’t said anything about her being called as soon as tomorrow when he telephoned. Still, Ena was aware of court procedure and could remember everything that had happened when she met O’Shaughnessy.

  ‘Before we begin, however, is there anything you would like to ask me?’

  ‘Yes, Sir, there is. Why wasn’t O’Shaughnessy convicted of treason?’

  Sir John took his elbows from the desk and leaned back on the leather backrest of his chair. ‘Because he’s a German national – a citizen of Berlin to be precise with a German passport, who said he was working for the fatherland – he was found not guilty of treason.’

  ‘Damn the man! He had three passports hidden in the house in Brighton. One was English, one Irish and one German. I should have taken the German one when I had the chance.’ Ena was careful not to say it was her sister Claire who had seen the passports and not her. ‘O’Shaughnessy had covered every eventuality.’

  ‘That he had.’

  My late colleague Sid Parfitt, who was murdered on Waterloo Bridge two years ago by O’Shaughnessy or Crowther, or both of them, was in Berlin in 1936 covering The Olympics for The Times. He was also working for the intelligence services. He left me clues to find a key and a ticket to retrieve a suitcase that he had deposited in the left-luggage office at Waterloo Station. There were documents in the case that proved Helen Crowther was German. Her real name was Krueger. There were newspaper cuttings of O’Shaughnessy and Crowther, one of O’Shaughnessy on a Hitler Youth march in Berlin and another on a Nazi rally with Helen Crowther. Beneath that photograph were the names, Frau Krueger and Herr Krueger.’

  ‘Could Helen Crowther have been O’Shaughnessy’s mother?’

  ‘No. O’Shaughnessy was in his teens. Crowther was older than him, but not old enough to be his mother.’