by JRL Anderson
And how did Mrs Vincent’s establishment fit into things? It seemed a straightforward enough business, imaginatively planned and well run. A good deal of capital must have gone into it and it seemed prosperous. No reason why it shouldn’t be – there was undoubtedly money to be made from antiques, and the teas and the holiday art classes and the pictures and things on sale in the barn would provide a steady trade to cover overheads. But there was nothing on display there remotely resembling the pictures in the dead girl’s portfolio. Apart from the portfolio itself, which might have been acquired in the same way that he had obtained his portfolio that afternoon, there was nothing so far to link the dead girl with Mrs Vincent’s shop. But the portfolio needed explaining; there was a lot more work to be done on Mrs Vincent.
Piet must have ordered and eaten a meal, but he couldn’t have said afterwards what it was.
*
He slept badly, his mind occupied with working out all the inquiries that now had to be made and with planning how best to tackle them discreetly, so that as far as possible no one who might have reason to fear police interest should have his or her suspicions aroused.
He left early for the Yard, but although it was barely eight o’clock when he got there, the duty officer met him with the news that a visitor was waiting for him.
‘Who is he?’ Piet asked.
‘It’s a young lady, sir, says her name’s Sally Graham and that you will know what she’s come about. Wouldn’t see anybody else and asked if she could wait for you. So I put her in one of the waiting rooms.’
‘Good. I think I do know what’s brought her here. Give me a few minutes to get to my room and then, perhaps, you’d ask someone to bring her up.’
Piet had been half-expecting a telephone call from Sally, but he hadn’t expected that she’d come to the Yard herself, or so soon. She looked worried and unhappy. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’ve had a cup of tea, but I didn’t feel like breakfast. I’ve had a horrible night and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Tell me about it, then.’
‘It’s Sandra. When you left me I got the tube to Finsbury Park and went straight to the house where Sandra has her studio. I’ve been there several times and I know the people slightly – a nice couple called Ben and Stella Morrison. I found them worried about Sandra. She’d telephoned on Sunday nearly a fortnight ago to say that she was coming on the Monday, but she never turned up. They didn’t think anything about it for a few days, but when they heard nothing more from her they got a bit bothered – it’s unlike Sandra to mess people up. You can’t telephone Poplar’s Fen because there isn’t a phone there – you have to go into Walberswick to get to a phone box. After hearing nothing for three days, they sent a telegram. That brought a phone call from the man Sandra’s been living with – they’d met him when he visited her at the studio. He said they weren’t to worry, because Sandra had gone to France – she’d suddenly made up her mind that she wanted to paint a Normandy landscape. Then he went on to ask about pictures – were there any pictures unlike Sandra’s normal work in the studio?
‘They said they didn’t know. They don’t go into the studio when Sandra isn’t there. It’s a kind of annexe to the house and though they have a key they don’t use it, unless Sandra asks them to send something.
‘The man – his name’s Roger Leplan, by the way – rang off. The next night the studio was burgled and somebody got into their part of the house, too. It happened while they were out late. The place was in a mess as if somebody had been looking for something. As far as they can tell nothing was actually taken, though they can’t say definitely about Sandra’s things, because they don’t know what she had there. They telephoned the local police as soon as they got home and found that the place had been burgled. The police sent a man round almost at once, but as they couldn’t say what, if anything, had been stolen, and as they couldn’t get hold of Sandra, there wasn’t much that the police could do.
‘They’re not happy about the story of Sandra’s going off to France, and I’m not, either. She didn’t say anything to me about it and I’m sure she would have talked about it to me. I knew that she was going to London, but I expected her to come back, either the same day, or the day after.
‘Ben and Stella gave me something to eat and we talked about Sandra. Then I thought of another place she might be, out at Dulwich where she has an aunt she goes to sometimes. She’s not on the phone. Ben got out his car and we drove to Dulwich. The aunt, who’s old, had just gone to bed. She answered the door after some time in rather a state, didn’t know anything about Sandra, hadn’t heard from her for months. So we went back to Finsbury Park, where I slept, or as a matter of fact didn’t sleep, on a sofa. I got up early, knocked up Stella and Ben and told them that I was thinking of going to see you. They thought it a good idea, so here I am.’
She sat looking at Piet, twisting her handkerchief into a tight little ball and untwisting it again.
‘Sally,’ he said gently, ‘I didn’t tell you any lies yesterday, but I didn’t tell you everything. It wasn’t chance that took me to Suffolk – I’m concerned in a case that may relate to your friend. I hope it doesn’t, because if it does, she’s dead. On the Monday that your Sandra came up to London a girl of about her age was found dead in a train at Liverpool Street, She’s not been identified yet, so she may not be Sandra. Could you look at some photographs and say if you recognise her?’
Sally said nothing, but she nodded slightly. Piet took a folder from a drawer in his desk. ‘These are not pretty photographs because they were taken after death,’ he said. ‘But they’re the only ones we have.’
He went over to her with the folder, opened it and stood beside her. She needed only one quick look. ‘Yes,’ she said and broke down sobbing.
Piet put his arm round her. ‘Poor Sally,’ he said. ‘You’ve done everything you could for your friend. Now you must help to find out how she died.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that her death isn’t at all straightforward. She died of an overdose of drugs and we’ve no idea how or when she took it.’
‘Sandra didn’t take drugs. She wasn’t that sort of person.’
‘I’m not saying she was. All we know is that she was poisoned. If she didn’t take the poison deliberately, then someone killed her. You must understand how serious that possibility is.’
‘Let me think, let me think.’
She got up and walked over to the window. Piet’s office was on the third floor, looking onto a courtyard. There wasn’t much to see, but Sally wasn’t looking at anything. She was seeing Sandra, in pigtails at school, sitting at her easel, walking over the marsh grass at Poplar’s Fen . . . She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, turned and faced Piet. ‘Could you die from taking travel-sickness pills?’ she asked.
‘I’m not a toxicologist, so I don’t know. They’re widely used and in ordinary circumstances they must be safe enough. Sandra didn’t die from travel-sickness pills, but of a quite different drug. Why do you ask?’
‘Because that was the only thing I’ve ever known her to take. She was liable to be car-sick or train-sick, and before going on a journey she would generally take a pill. She had them in a little bottle in her handbag.’
‘She had no handbag with her on the train.’
‘She must have had a bag.’
Piet didn’t pursue this. He said, ‘Look, Sally, I’m afraid there are a tremendous lot of questions I shall have to ask you, but I’m not going to do it now. You’ve had a dreadful shock, you’ve had no breakfast and you need someone to look after you. Where are your parents?’
‘My father’s dead, my mother married again and is living in America. I’ve got my half room at Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘I don’t think much of that. Have you no relations or friends you can go to?’
‘Not really. But there’s no need to worry about me.’
‘I can’t help being wor
ried about you. When do you have to be back at Lavenham for your flower-arranging class?’
‘I’ve done my two classes for this week. I don’t have another class until next Tuesday.’
‘There’s a lot I haven’t explained to you – there’s a lot I don’t understand myself. I don’t like the idea of your going back to Poplar’s Fen at the moment.’
‘I don’t either.’
Piet thought quickly. ‘Today’s only Friday, so we’ve got a few days in hand before you need to go back to Suffolk. Would you be willing to stay with my mother at Greenwich? She lives by herself, she’s a nice, gentle person, she’ll look after you and I shall feel that you’re safe.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but I don’t know you.’
‘At least you know who I am and where I work. You probably know me better than most of the people you meet at the artists’ colony.’
‘All right Can I be a female Dr Watson?’
Piet laughed. ‘I think you’re much too clever for old Watson – and I lay no claim to being Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t have much use for the regular police, anyway . . . If you’re ready, I’ll take you out to Greenwich now. Where are your things?’
‘I left my rucksack in your waiting room. I brought it with me because I thought I’d probably be going on to Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘We’ll collect it on the way out. I’ll just write a note for my secretary when she comes in – we’re both so early that she hasn’t got here yet.’
‘Can I ring Ben and Stella Morrison and tell them about Sandra?’
‘I think it would be better not. I’ll see that they are told – I may go out to see them myself.’
*
In the car, Piet gently questioned Sally about Sandra Telford, for although he was convinced in his own mind that the dead girl was Sandra, more formal identification would be necessary. ‘Tell me about Sandra,’ he said. ‘Do you know anything about her parents?’
‘Not much. She didn’t have any – I mean, of course she had parents, but they split up when she was a kid and I don’t think she’d seen either of them for years. She was brought up by the old aunt at Dulwich – a great-aunt, really, I think.’
‘Sandra wasn’t married?’
‘Married? Good Lord, no! She was much too interested in her work. She had one or two affairs, but I don’t think they meant anything until she got mixed up with this man Roger. And that didn’t bring her any happiness. In fact, it upset her work.’
*
‘What a lovely house!’ Sally exclaimed when they got to Greenwich.
‘It’s been in the family for over a century, but it’s turned into flats now,’ Piet said. ‘We have the ground floor, with the garden.’
He had reported with complete accuracy when he described his mother as a gentle person. Mrs Deventer was also intelligent and fundamentally extremely kind. She asked no questions when Piet introduced Sally, but said simply that she was delighted to have someone to stay with her. Then she asked practically when Sally had last eaten. Piet left them together, saying that he would do his best to come home that evening and that he would ring up to give a time. He was desperately anxious to get back to the Yard. Odd how things happen, he reflected as he drove off. This was the first time he had ever taken a girl to his home.
*
He got back to find that a preliminary report about the pictures had come in from the forensic laboratory. He didn’t study it at once, for he wanted urgently to arrange a conference about the case with the real top brass. After some telephoning he fixed up a meeting at two o’clock that afternoon with the Assistant Commissioner, the Chief Superintendent (Crime), and the Superintendent of his own Fine Art Division. Piet was in charge of a section specialising in pictures. The Fine Art Squad as a whole covered a much wider field, dealing with fraud and other criminal activities related to gold and silver articles, important pieces of jewellery, antiques and rare books. Having arranged his conference, Piet turned to the report.
*
‘It is certainly an extraordinary case,’ said the Assistant Commissioner, after Piet had outlined events since the finding of the dead girl in the train. ‘On the evidence so far the girl’s death looks like murder, and in the ordinary way the investigation ought to be carried out by the Divisional CID, calling in your people, Chief Superintendent, if they need help. But this is not in the least ordinary and I’m inclined to think that, for the moment, at any rate, it might well be left to Deventer and his section. What do you think, Chief?’
‘What exactly do you suspect?’ The Chief Superintendent asked.
‘Murder of the girl, forgery of at least two pictures and theft or possibly forgery of a third,’ Piet said. ‘The forensic people have done an excellent job on the pictures found in the portfolio. The canvases all seem to be OK – that is, there is nothing to suggest that they don’t date from the periods of the artists concerned, but the pigments are another matter. Spectroscopic analysis, which doesn’t hurt the paintings, shows conclusively that the possible Turner and the possible Gainsborough have been painted with pigments containing a metallic oxide that was not used in paint until about ten years ago. The genuineness or otherwise of the Constable is still uncertain. It is so good that both Wilbur Constantine, who is an acknowledged expert on Constable, and I myself, for what my views are worth, find it hard to consider it a forgery. The pigments used would seem to fit the period, although one can’t say that this is conclusive, for more detailed analysis can’t be done without risking damage to the picture. If it is a genuine Constable it sets a number of acute problems, for it is not a work that anybody has seen before. Where did it come from? It may, of course, be stolen; but if so, from where? And why has no one, apparently, so far noticed the theft?
‘The fourth picture, a rather poor attempt to emulate, or perhaps simply to suggest, Delacroix, is not important. Here again the tests are inconclusive, but it doesn’t seem to matter much. It’s more like somebody’s experiment, and it might be just that, some art student’s experiment.’
‘If the other three pictures were genuine, or could be sold as genuine, about how much would they be worth?’ the Assistant Commissioner asked.
‘Impossible to say. An unknown major work by Constable, perhaps a quarter of a million pounds, possibly twice as much. The Turner and the Gainsborough are scarcely major works, but they’re good of their kind, and if accepted as genuine they might fetch anything from twenty to fifty thousand pounds apiece.’
‘So, very large sums are at stake?’
‘Yes, but it’s more than that. It isn’t all that difficult to steal a picture. Many important works in country houses, in cathedrals or churches, even in some galleries, are rottenly guarded. The trouble comes when the thief tries to dispose of them. All known works by major artists are recorded, and unless put on the market openly by a rightful owner they almost have no market. That’s not quite true. There are unscrupulous dealers and odd customers who’ll buy something with no questions asked, but only for a fraction of its real value. With unknown works and forgeries, the problem is rather different. If they can be given a reasonable history, they can be sold at auction, but the history has got to be one that stands up to searching criticism by experts. It’s got to be high-grade fraud and not so much a single fraud as a whole chain of frauds.
‘The most serious damage is to the integrity of the art market. The British art market is enormously important and authentication of a picture by one of our major dealers is almost like a signature of a Lloyd’s underwriter on an insurance policy, a guarantee of good faith. If it turns out that such a guarantee is worthless the whole market suffers and large sums of money that would otherwise pass through the hands of our dealers, with resulting benefits to the whole economy, go somewhere else. That’s why we’ve just got to clear up this particular fraud.’
‘Deventer is absolutely right,’ said Piet’s own Superintendent. ‘Work done by one artist in the style of another is not uncommon and sometime
s the imitation is as good, or nearly as good, as the original. The fraud comes with any attempt to pass it off as the more famous man’s work. It’s like debasing the coinage – you can have a counterfeit as good as a genuine coin from the Mint, but that doesn’t lessen the damage when it goes into circulation.’
‘How are you thinking of tackling the suspected murder?’ asked the Chief Superintendent.
‘The first job is to get the girl properly identified. I think there’s no doubt that we now know who she was, but some of the evidence is circumstantial – the portfolio and the bit of sea lavender – and recognition by a friend from a photograph after death isn’t quite enough. She appears to have no close relatives, at least, none that we know about, except the old great-aunt at Dulwich, and she is around eighty. I’m afraid we shall have to ask her to look at the photographs, but the result may not be decisive. There is better evidence in a plaster cast of the girl’s teeth that the Divisional people had made as soon as it was clear that she wasn’t going to be identified easily. She’d had dental work done at various times and if we can find the dentist we can probably get a positive identification.
‘All that’s mainly routine. The more tricky work will be to go very carefully into the break-in at Finsbury Park and to investigate that artists’ colony at Poplar’s Fen. The break-in looks as if somebody is after the pictures. Poplar’s Fen –I’ve not been there yet and I don’t know what to make of it. I thought I’d try to go there as an artist. I can paint well enough to get by and if I can get in I can keep my eyes open without raising suspicions. My own feeling is that it would be best not to have any publicity at the moment about identifying the girl. The Poplar’s Fen people seem to think she’s gone off to France. The only people who already know about it, or will have to know, are Miss Graham, the old aunt, and Miss Telford’s friends at Finsbury Park. I can ask them all to be discreet. Obviously the news will have to come out soon – Sandra Telford was quite well known as an artist – but if it can be kept quiet for a few days while we investigate Poplar’s Fen and the Moat Cottage place at Lavenham, that’s really all that matters.’
