Confused, I returned to the altar, intending to blow out the candles on the torchères, but was seduced again by the beauty of The Last Supper. I sank down onto the pew placed in the perfect position to appreciate it and, for a moment longer, allowed the peace imparted by Christ’s calm gaze to wash over me.
‘It is magnificent, isn’t it?’ said my father’s voice behind me.
Immobilised by shock, I was unable even to turn my head. Astonishingly, Father didn’t sound angry and so I took my lead from him and behaved as if my presence here was nothing out of the ordinary. ‘It has me utterly bewitched,’ I said. That at least was true.
‘I didn’t know when I acquired it that it was by Sandro Botticelli,’ said Father, ‘but, like you, I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. I knew immediately I had to have it.’
‘Botticelli?’ I said, shock making my knees weak. I tensed as Father sat down on the pew beside me.
‘One of his early works from the time he was apprenticed to Fra Filippo Lippi. Imagine having such exceptional talent at only twenty years old!’ Father sighed. ‘It was this painting that made me abandon my own dreams of being an artist. I knew I could never achieve half of what he had, even if I spent every day of my life working at it.’ He shook his head. ‘That was when I decided to collect art instead and this was the first item in my collection.’
‘It’s an extraordinarily fine one,’ I said. I glanced at the iron gate at the other end of the chapel. It stood open still and I took a calming breath and forced myself to smile at Father.
‘I’m delighted you like it!’ he said. ‘It’s clear you are the child of my blood, even if you didn’t grow up at my side. This collection is infinitely precious to me and I’ve wanted so much to share the pleasure of it with the right person. Shall I show you the rest?’
I nodded and tried not to flinch as he slipped his arm under mine. Aunt Maude had said he was unpredictable and, if I ran, I might provoke him to violence. All I could do was humour him until it was safe for me to leave. It wasn’t hard to look fascinated as he took me from one extraordinarily beautiful work of art to another. My mouth was dry and my mind whirled as he attributed works to Raphael, Titian, Donatello and Caravaggio as well as a number of other artists I hadn’t heard of. Some were cartoons or sketches, others oil on canvas, but there was an indefinable magic about them all that left me in no doubt that they were priceless.
‘What do you think of them?’ asked Father.
He must have stolen them or he’d have exhibited them where he could boast about them. I couldn’t begin to imagine how he had managed to steal so many treasures without being caught. ‘I’m almost speechless,’ I said at last. ‘It’s overwhelming.’
‘Come and look at these,’ he said, face glowing with excitement. ‘Although the works of the Italian Renaissance are closest to my heart, I enjoy the best of every kind of art, be it Roman sculptures and artefacts or something more contemporary, like these exotic animal studies by Stubbs.’
I peered closer to look at paintings of a giraffe, a lion, a rhinoceros, a tiger and a monkey. Something teased my memory.
‘The especially interesting thing about these,’ said Father, ‘is that Stubbs usually paints horses.’
Then I recalled a comment that Araminta Perry’s brother had made to me. A Stubbs painting of a giraffe had been stolen and the thief had left behind a tiny sketch of an empty picture frame. A companion painting by the same artist had been stolen five years previously from the same owner. My stomach clenched. This was all the proof necessary to confirm Father was indeed the Picture Frame Thief.
‘Fascinating,’ I said.
‘I brought Dolly down here,’ Father said, ‘but he wasn’t interested in the paintings except to ask about their value. Philistine! He thinks they’ll be part of his inheritance but I’m damned if he’ll have them! You appreciate them properly and shall have them after I’m gone. I wish now that I’d shown you my collection before.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ I asked. Would he admit to me that he’d stolen the paintings?
‘This is my secret place,’ he murmured. ‘When the world treats me badly, this is where I come to drink in the beauty of some of the finest art mankind has to offer. It’s a place of healing. After Piers and your mother died, whole days passed by without my noticing while I sat here.’
‘And you didn’t want to share it with anyone before?’
‘It is a question of trust,’ he said. ‘I made an error of judgement when I showed it to Dolly.’ He grasped me by my upper arms so that I had to face him. ‘Now I’ve seen the way you look at these paintings with such awe, I believe I can trust you.’ He looked straight into my eyes and it took a great effort of will for me not to recoil. ‘I can trust you, can’t I?’ he said.
I met his eyes with a guileless gaze. ‘I couldn’t bear it if any harm came to these priceless pieces.’ I was sincere about that, at least, but I had to persuade him to tell me more. ‘Where did you find The Last Supper?’ I asked, freeing myself from his grip to look at the painting again.
‘Where else but Italy?’ said Father, smiling. ‘I was twenty-one and near the end of my Grand Tour, learning the language, painting and sketching the scenery and visiting the churches to see the frescoes. I stayed at a monastery in the hills of Tuscany. This magnificent panel was hanging in the refectory.’
I caught my breath. That was why it had seemed familiar!
‘As soon as I saw it I was lost,’ said Father. ‘It made me angry that none of the monks appeared to appreciate its beauty.’
‘So you took it?’ I hoped he wouldn’t notice the tremor in my voice. I had to convince him I condoned his thefts. If I didn’t, well, I knew from Mother’s diary how violent he could be.
He crowed with laughter. ‘I was in that place for three weeks! The monks believed I was very devout, spending hours alone in my cell reading the Bible. During that time, I secretly painted a replica. As soon as it was finished I took down the original while the monks were at their prayers, replaced it with my copy and escaped into the night.’
I made an attempt to look surprised. ‘That was you?’
‘It made me smile when you mentioned you’d seen my painting,’ he said, ‘even though you were unkind enough to say it was poorly rendered.’
‘But the panel is at least five feet long,’ I said. ‘However did you bring it home without damaging it?’
‘With great difficulty! I wrapped it in a blanket and strapped it to the side of my horse. I travelled overnight. When I reached Florence I had a stout box made for it, wrapped the painting in muslin and packed it with straw. I hired a carriage and conveyed it to Livorno from whence I sailed for London.’
I felt sick to know he’d stolen something so precious from his hosts and now was boasting about his betrayal of their trust. ‘A very clever move,’ I said, unable to look at him.
He laughed again. ‘Wasn’t it? You cannot imagine my exultation when the boat sailed out of the harbour. The painting was mine!’
He had no sense of right and wrong at all. ‘And I daresay,’ I said, ‘you’d have liked to see the monks’ faces when they were eating their bean stew the next day and noticed their painting had been replaced by a copy?’
‘I confess, I’ve often been amused by that thought.’
It made me want to cry that this man, who had appeared to be the affectionate father I’d wanted all my life, had turned out to be utterly despicable.
‘Collecting became a compulsion for me,’ he continued, voice bubbling with enthusiasm. ‘Once I came into my inheritance, I made this hidden chapel into a gallery worthy of my growing collection. I returned to Italy as often as I could. These marble statues came from a site near the Colosseum in Rome.’ He caressed the hair and cheek of the lovely girl with the chipped nose. ‘Venus,’ he said. ‘Isn’t she perfection? She reminded me of your mother before she became such a shrew. The bribe I paid to the guard was only a fraction of the value of the statues. It
was surprising how often fine sketches and paintings were displayed in perfectly ordinary churches, with little to prevent me simply lifting them off the walls when the priest’s back was turned.’
His elation as he described his vile trickery revolted me and I decided to change the subject. ‘There’s something else I wanted to ask you, Father,’ I said, beckoning him towards the small oval frames. ‘Are these the miniatures of the Spanish Infanta?’
‘How sharp of you to guess.’
‘Where did you find them? I’ve spent so much time thinking about where Sarah might have sold them.’
‘Ah, well.’ Father rubbed his nose. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t entirely straight with you about that but I hoped so much you’d lead me to the missing one. After your mother’s maid stole you away I chased after her but lost the trail by the time I reached Lyons. I promised all the art dealers I knew a reward for information leading to the miniatures and, of course, to Sarah.’
It hurt that the miniatures appeared to have been of more importance to him than his own daughter was. ‘You thought that was the best chance of finding me?’ I asked.
He rubbed his nose again and his gaze slid away from me. ‘Yes, of course. If Sarah sold one of the miniatures, I thought I’d be able to pick up her trail again and find the other two.’
‘And me?’ I asked, although by now I knew what his priority had always been.
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I thought it unlikely Sarah would sell all three at once because they’d be a good nest egg for her future. And then, a year or so later, I had a stroke of luck. Her husband, Joe Barton, came to London to find me. He and Sarah had separated and he sold me information about her whereabouts. I gave him half what he asked for, with the promise of the rest if the information was verified. He told me Sarah remained in Milan with the child.’
The child. Me. Shadowy images of those dark days returned along with memories of always being hungry and scared. ‘What happened then?’ I asked.
‘I set off for Milan straight away. I put up reward notices and visited all the local art dealers. You can imagine my joy when I found one of the miniatures. I bought it and was able to glean enough information from the dealer to trace Sarah to Verona. But then the trail went cold again.’
‘Hunger and desperation must have forced her to sell it,’ I said. ‘She was always frightened because she thought someone was searching for us but she didn’t know if it was you or Joe. That’s why we moved so often.’
‘Very annoying it was, too,’ said Father, a nerve twitching in his jaw. ‘Since Barton knew her best of all, I paid him to find Sarah and discover what she’d done with the remaining miniatures. Several times he nearly caught up with her before she did a moonlight flit. It infuriated me that she kept getting away with it. Still, Barton has proved a useful employee over the years.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t like getting my hands dirty. I locate the paintings I wish to acquire and spy out the lie of the land. Barton then brings them to me for a consideration.’
‘So I wasn’t imagining it,’ I said, ‘when I thought I saw him leaving the house in Grosvenor Street?’
‘I told him never to come to my house again,’ said Father, scowling. ‘Such careless disregard for my instructions could have caused untold trouble.’
‘When did you find the second miniature?’
‘Two years ago. I had a letter from a contact in Florence saying he’d bought a fine miniature from an Englishwoman. It was impossible for me to leave the country at that time as Parliament was sitting and I was involved in negotiations for several paintings for one of my clients.’
‘So it wasn’t you Sarah thought was chasing us?’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘Not recently. I decided it was time Dolly earned his inheritance.’
‘Dolly?’ Puzzled, I shook my head.
‘He’d landed himself in severe debt with his gambling habit and his tailor was threatening to have him taken up and sent to debtors’ prison. He went to Florence in my place. I said I’d settle his bills if he collected the second miniature, and promised him half the value of the third if he found Sarah and, shall we say, persuaded her to tell him where she’d hidden it. My patience had worn very thin by then.’
I pressed a hand to my mouth. So Alessandro hadn’t been mistaken about Dolly being in Pesaro.
‘Unfortunately,’ said Father, his lips pursing in annoyance, ‘when he found Sarah, she obdurately refused to tell him where she’d hidden the miniature and he was disturbed before he was able to beat the information out of her. Stupid fool lost his nerve, returned to England and said he’d never go back to Italy again.’
I stared at my father, stunned into silence. I remembered again how that man, a very tall man, in the alley behind the cottage had nearly knocked me over. It must have been Dolly, exactly as Alessandro had said. The true horror of it was that Father condoned, had even suggested, the beating Dolly had given to Sarah, the beating that caused her death. Would he also have condoned it if Dolly had beaten me, his own daughter, in search of the information he sought?
‘Emilia?’ Father was looking at me with a puzzled air.
There was something very wrong with him. He had no conscience at all. ‘I’m surprised that Dolly found himself able to beat Sarah so severely that she died,’ I said. ‘He isn’t usually so…’ I floundered.
‘What?’
‘What I mean is, I’d have expected him to be far too anxious that he might risk dirtying his coat.’
Father hooted with laughter. ‘How true! The threat of debtors’ prison, however, was a bit of a stiffener. He had little choice but to do as I told him.’
I had to know. ‘When you decided you wanted me to marry Dolly, did you know he didn’t like women?’
Father narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ I said, ‘that Dolly prefers men. Do you care so little for me that you are prepared to condemn me to a hollow marriage, possibly without children?’
‘Without children?’ He frowned. ‘You must have children, Emilia. A son is essential to maintain two centuries of the same bloodline at Langdon Hall.’
‘Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree if you believe it’s a foregone conclusion that Dolly will be able to bring himself to give you a grandson,’ I told him.
A dry cough came from behind us.
Father and I spun around to see Dolly emerging from the shadows at the foot of the stairs.
Chapter 37
Dolly’s face was pale and strained as he confronted us. ‘So I was right. I suspected you’d seen me with Francis in the garden.’
‘How did you know?’
He gave a tight little smile. ‘I was your partner in the next dance and you couldn’t look at me. I’d heard a noise in the garden and there were rose petals in your hair.’
‘Rose petals?’ said Father.
‘It was oppressively hot on the night of the ball and I had a headache,’ I said. ‘I went into the garden for some air. It was dark. The petals must have fallen on my hair when I hid in the arbour. I was so shocked when I saw Dolly and Francis together that I barely noticed my hair was tangled in the climbing rose.’
‘Together?’ said Father, frowning.
‘Kissing,’ I said. The expression of revulsion on Father’s face was almost comical but at least it showed that, however else he’d tried to bend my will to further his own aspirations, he hadn’t been aware of Dolly’s particular inclinations.
Father pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m sure whatever Dolly may choose to do in his private life, Emilia, it won’t prevent him from doing his family duty.’
White-hot rage rose up in me then and I threw caution to the winds. ‘It’s clear to me now, Father, how very little you’ve ever cared for my happiness. If you think I’m still going to marry him, you’re quite mistaken.’
‘Of course you’ll marry him!’ said Father through gritted teeth. ‘You ca
n’t cry off so close to the wedding.’
Dolly coughed again. ‘I rather think it’s too late for that, Sir Frederick. You’ve told Emilia that I assaulted Sarah Barton, an assault that led to her death.’ He shuddered. ‘I still have nightmares about the sound of her skin splitting when I hit her. And now I’m sure that Emilia knows about my illegal relationship with Francis, I must take measures to protect us.’ He took a step back. ‘I will not risk my reputation and my inheritance, not to mention my liberty, should either of you decide to inform the authorities.’ Spinning on his heel, he returned through the metal gate at the bottom of the stairs.
‘It’s hardly in my interest to denounce you,’ Father called after him.
The Dressmaker’s Secret Page 35
