A Trace of Deceit Read online

  “Why—” I broke off because my voice sounded accusatory. I took a breath and softened my tone. “Why didn’t Edwin do the restoration at Bettridge’s?”

  “Mostly because he preferred not to. His supplies are in his rooms, and it’s peaceful there, so he can concentrate. It’s a delicate task, as you know.” His eyebrows rose, and I nodded. “But aside from that, we don’t have a space on the premises that would be suitable. With the sales season upon us, any room with adequate ventilation and heat is being used for storage. And there’s certainly no place quiet.” He heaved a sigh that became a groan. “Edwin’s cleaned several paintings for us in recent months—less expensive ones—but there’s been no trouble at all, and the other specialists have been very pleased at his skill.”

  Felix lowered himself back into the chair, sank his head into his hands, and I saw the strands of fraying hair strewn over a scalp freckled with brown spots. The sight twisted at my heart, and my anger dropped as quickly as it had risen. Felix had only been trying to help Edwin find work. He hadn’t drawn the knife.

  “Oh, Felix,” I managed. “Would you—would you like some tea?”

  “No.” A mirthless laugh shook his rounded shoulders. “I’d like something stronger than tea. But make some for yourself. It’s a cold night.”

  I didn’t have anything stronger than tea. Mechanically, I put the kettle on top of the stove and knelt down to add some wood from the box. “There’s an inspector at Scotland Yard looking into Edwin’s death,” I said, wanting to say something heartening. “I’ll go see him tomorrow.”

  He raised his head to meet my gaze. “You can’t tell him. No one can know it’s been taken. Not yet.”

  I stared in surprise. “But whoever took it is probably the one who killed Edwin. I want to know who it is—as I’m sure you do. And you want to get it back, don’t you?”

  He shifted uneasily. “I don’t want you to think I’m hard-hearted. God knows, Edwin’s death is shocking and horrible—I can hardly believe it. But I have to think of Bettridge’s—and the owner of the painting as well. This could be ruinous for both of them, if people find out it’s missing.” He grimaced. “This was the owner’s first consignment with Bettridge’s. She changed from Christie’s partly out of deference to me.”

  I lowered myself onto the stool, leaned forward, and clasped my hands. “When is the sale?”

  “Less than a week. Monday next, at three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “But its disappearance can probably be kept from the public. Surely there’s a price at which the consignor would be happy to consider it as good as sold, so you could avoid the publicity. Bettridge’s could afford it, couldn’t they?”

  He looked at me incredulously. “The low estimate is six thousand pounds!”

  “Oh.” It came out a gasp.

  “Bettridge’s had to mortgage the building to pay for the renovations. They haven’t a shilling to spare.” His fingertips scrubbed again at his forehead. “Besides, it isn’t only a matter of the seller being kept quiet. The painting is the jewel in the crown of this auction. The catalogs went to print weeks ago, with the Boucher on the cover. They’ve been distributed to every significant collector of French paintings in London and beyond. It will be the talk of the art world if the piece is withdrawn at this stage.” He let out a low moan. “The scandal will taint us for years. People will say we let a masterpiece be stolen from under our noses, and we’ll never get another—or that we must have lied about having one in order to puff our sale.”

  I understood enough about auctions to know what he meant. Advertising the Boucher would both snare additional consignments and attract more affluent buyers to the saleroom.

  “And you’d withdraw the forgery at the last minute to prevent the ruse being discovered,” I added slowly.

  “Precisely. And you know what that will do to Bettridge’s—just when they’re on the verge of establishing themselves on par with Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Those two have looked down on us for years, despite their various scandals.” He stood and paced the room again. “When Jonas Bettridge finds out it’s missing, I’ll be struck off immediately.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault it was stolen!”

  He pivoted to face me. “But it was I who recommended Edwin.”

  “Who else might have known Edwin was cleaning it?”

  He spread his hands. “Almost anyone at Bettridge’s.”

  “So dozens of people,” I said. “The thief could have been any of them. Not to mention an acquaintance of Edwin’s, or—”

  “I know.” He shook his head. “And I’m sure they’ll ask me if he was indiscreet. The difficulty is I can’t say for certain that he wasn’t.” His expression changed to one of apology again. “Annabel, I’m sorry. But—”

  “I understand,” I said. “He might have used the painting as gambling collateral or promised someone a copy.”

  He looked taken aback by my words. “Well, I didn’t mean that. I was thinking he might not be able to help showing the painting to a friend who was likely to appreciate it as he did. You should have seen his face when I took it out of its wrappings. He could barely speak for staring.” He heaved a sigh and sat back down, his plump hands on his knees, his pale blue eyes troubled. “I know he disappointed you in the past. But his time in prison altered him for the better, Annabel. Truly, it did. From what I could tell, he seemed to want to live his life differently, to make a fresh start. That’s why I found him commissions. It was a way for him to earn his living legitimately”—he waved a hand over his shoulder, as if thrusting Edwin’s past behind him—“so he wouldn’t be tempted to go back to the forgery business or that wretched gallery.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated your trust in him,” I replied. “But, Felix, I have to tell the inspector about the painting.”

  He scowled so vehemently the skin under his chin trembled. “I’ve no faith whatsoever in the probity of the police. You remember what happened last year.”

  I nodded. Five gallery owners had banded together in a ring so they could buy paintings under market value at Christie’s, and they’d bribed a Scotland Yard inspector hundreds of pounds to ignore reports of collusion. “I remember. But I don’t think Mr. Hallam is that sort. And I could make him promise not to cause trouble for you, or for Bettridge’s. He’ll want information badly enough to agree to our terms, I imagine, at least until the painting is found.”

  After a moment, he gave a resigned shrug. “If you can convince him to be discreet . . .” A sudden thought, and a light of hope, came into his eyes. “I wonder if Edwin had already finished with the painting and arranged for it to be transferred back to the auction house. Perhaps he mentioned something about it to Lewis.”

  “Lewis?”

  “Yes. Edwin’s friend from school. He lives here in London.” He paused. “You’ve never met him?”

  “No.” I tried to hide the feeling of loneliness this gave me.

  But perhaps he saw something of my feelings in my expression, for his own changed. “I’m sorry, Annabel,” he said for the third time; and it occurred to me how each time, he’d been apologizing for a different reason—though so far as I could tell, he was blameless.

  He pushed himself up and reached for his hat and coat. “I should be going.” His steps were heavy on the way to the door.

  I opened it for him. “I’ll come to Bettridge’s tomorrow after I talk to the inspector. I’ll tell him as little as I can.”

  He stood with his hat in his hands, looking undecided and awkward. But our relationship had never been intimate; it was too much to expect that he’d embrace me or utter anything tender. At last he said, for the fourth time, “I’m sorry, Annabel,” and turned away.

  I shut the door behind him and in the silence of the empty room, I returned to my armchair, wrapping my blanket close around me, the ends in my fists.

  What Felix had told me changed everything. If I was being honest, I shrank from the idea that Edwin’s death w
as a result of some reckless or desperate act of his own.

  But Felix seemed certain that Edwin had reformed, and as I reflected on the afternoon, I realized—with something of a jolt—that neither Inspector Hallam nor I had encountered anything that suggested otherwise. We’d found no empty spirit bottles or small brown vials, no angry correspondence, no IOUs or betting tickets. Instead, there were ordinary clothes with nothing hidden in the pockets or seams, painted canvases unambiguously marked with his signature, and tailor’s and chandler’s bills in keeping with a frugal life. As I tallied up what I’d found—as well as what I hadn’t—my sense of fairness revolted at the thought of not doing what I could to discover why Edwin had been killed.

  But even as I thought this, I had the disconcerting sense that I was poised at the edge of unfamiliar waters. Mr. Poynter had recently called me “an acute observer of human nature,” and indeed, I enjoyed being an onlooker. It was a role I’d adopted young, and of late I had come to realize it stood me in good stead as a painter. By contrast, if I were to undertake a search for the truth, it would no doubt bring me pain, confusion, and discomfort. But how could I not?

  The warmth emanating from the stove was fading. I wrapped the doubled edge of the blanket around the hot handle and opened the door. Then I sat back, my hands extended to gather up what heat remained.

  My thoughts were as muddied as pond water stirred up with a stick. But one notion began to rise to the surface: in seeking the truth about Edwin, staying close to the inspector would be my best hope. Could we not construct some sort of arrangement in which I would offer him information in exchange for being included in the investigation? Edwin’s life had diverged from mine over the last thirteen years, since he’d left for school. But still, he and I had shared a childhood, and I was familiar with at least some of his habits and occupations here in London. Obviously Mr. Hallam couldn’t anticipate what information he might need at any given twist or turn, and if I was close at hand, I could provide it as questions arose. Furthermore, from the few questions Mr. Hallam had asked me as we examined Edwin’s room, it was fairly clear he did not know much about drawings, paintings, or the art world in which Edwin lived and worked—whereas I did. Yes, I decided, I could be a significant source of information. I only hoped the inspector would see it this way.

  The fire had dwindled until all that remained were a few flickering pinpoints of amber light among the ashes. I took up a lamp and carried it to my wardrobe. I sifted through my clothes. I had no black dresses, for I’d outgrown the ones I’d worn in mourning for my parents. My dark gray would have to do until I could have some made.

  As I undressed and prepared for bed, a wave of disquiet rose and crested, threatening to engulf me. When it came to Edwin, some of my memories were so vivid they brought me back to the edge of heartbreak, and others made my mouth go dry with remembered fear. As if the scenes were playing out again in front of me, I turned my head away. But my eye caught the motion in the mirror, and I stood still to gaze at my reflection. The face looking back reminded me that I was no longer eight years old, or eleven, or even seventeen. I was a young woman who could tell the inspector truths he needed to know.

  Indeed, I had to do it, for there was no one else.

  Chapter 3

  I’d never been to the Scotland Yard Division before, and it took me some time to find the unremarkable entrance, as it was tucked well out of sight of a main street. With my umbrella up against the blowing rain, I turned off Whitehall Place, passed under a stone archway, and crossed the wet cobbles. As I neared the door, several blue-coated men came out. They passed me with respectful nods, but their gazes were curious and appraising, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks and had to swallow down an unwarranted feeling of guilt. As I reached the door, I lowered my umbrella and shook the folds to get most of the water off. Just inside was a desk, behind which stood a sergeant with a mustache. I inquired after Mr. Hallam and was told he was occupied.

  “He’s a busy man this morning, Mr. Hallam is. Several appointments with visitors of int’rest,” said the sergeant with a frown. But when I remained silent and stood my ground, he grimaced and nodded resignedly toward a wooden bench along a wall. “Probably won’t have time to see you, miss, but wait there, if’n you like. Put your umbrella in the stand. He’ll come out when he’s finished.”

  I dropped said item into the metal rack with several others and took a seat, with a tight feeling in the soft place under my ribs. No doubt Mr. Hallam was busy, and I could easily imagine him attempting to conceal his dismay at my unscheduled appearance, bestowing a polite smile and, out of kindness, making an effort to listen patiently while simultaneously contemplating how to hurry me away. I began to sketch out the lines of the argument I anticipated having with him. But after rehearsing my logic and justifications for a full half hour, my apprehension had begun to give way to curiosity, and I looked about me.

  The weak light of morning filled the three tall narrow windows on the far wall, and through the glass panes I could see the mud-colored brick walls of the building opposite. The room where I sat was large and roughly square, with six doors around the outside, all with brass nameplates. The floor was occupied by a dozen desks spread out in a way that gave only the merest suggestion of having once been in rows. They all had good lamps and one or two plain wooden chairs nearby; most surfaces were piled with papers and files. The inspectors spoke to each other sometimes, always in murmurs, and at first they seemed much alike in their plainclothes. But soon they began to distinguish themselves. At one desk sat a ginger-haired man who twisted the hair on either side of his head as he read the papers in front of him; I imagined him having two bald patches someday. At another desk, a man writing intently had his head down and his left forearm curved partway around the paper, rather in the manner of a dog guarding its dinner. A third man seemed occupied by a report in front of him, but every so often, he raised his head and looked about, his expression uncertain, before returning to his papers. He looked younger than most of the other inspectors; I wondered if he was new to the Yard.

  I had been keeping my eye on the six closed doors. But when I finally heard Mr. Hallam’s voice, it came from down the corridor to my right. I craned my head around to look. He and another man in plainclothes were standing in a hallway with three more closed doors. They spoke in low tones, and at last Mr. Hallam gestured for the other man to enter one room as he entered the one beside it. I sighed. Perhaps I should have made an appointment instead of waiting until he was free. But just as I was about to give up, Mr. Hallam reappeared, escorting a stout middle-aged man with a pinkish nose and a chin like a ferret. Though Mr. Hallam wore a patient expression, the man’s manner was annoyed, and he stalked away, swinging his walking stick so energetically that I drew back and pulled my skirts aside. Perhaps the movement caught Mr. Hallam’s eye, for he appeared a moment later, and after a quick blink of surprise he gave me a pleasant, reassuring smile.

  “Miss Rowe.”

  “Could I speak with you?”

  “Of course.” He gestured for me to precede him down the hallway and opened the last of three doors. I stepped inside and halted. To my surprise, it wasn’t a furnished room but a monastic chamber, with a single window to the outdoors, a table, two plain wooden chairs, and a small vent in the middle of one of the white walls.

  “Is this where you work?” I blurted out.

  “No, I have a desk on the floor. We all share these rooms.”

  “Oh.”

  He went to the vent and flicked a lever.

  “What is that for?” I asked.

  “The rooms connect,” he explained. “I closed it so we can speak privately.” He drew out a seat for me and went around to the other side of the table.

  I stood behind the chair, my hands curved around the top rail. But I found myself unexpectedly feeling as diffident as the young inspector I’d observed in the main room. Mr. Hallam seemed neither annoyed by my presence nor too busy to speak with me, and as a
result I wasn’t sure how to begin.

  “Please,” he said and sat down.

  Taking a seat, I settled my skirts and drew my coat over my lap.

  Yesterday I’d been in such a state of shock that I hadn’t studied him properly; now I noticed not only his blue eyes but also more generally his constitution and countenance. Even seated, he appeared a man of greater height and breadth than average. But far from using his size to intimidate me or to assert his authority, he sat back in the chair and even sank into it, as if to minimize himself. He had a jaw that, while not overly heavy, hinted at stubbornness; his dark brows were too level and thick to be strictly handsome, but they suited him; his quiet hands suggested a calm competence; and there was a faint line at the left side of his mouth that deepened as he recognized my scrutiny for what it was. Still, he sat patiently and did not speak. At last, I said, “I was wondering if we might come to an agreement.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  I drew a deep breath and kept the argumentative tone out of my voice. “Edwin’s death—”

  And there I stopped, for the shape of those words in my own mouth brought me back to the same flattened, breathless feeling as I had yesterday. It took several moments to gather myself, but the inspector waited patiently, and at last I could continue: “It came as a shock, and . . . I need to know what happened.”

  “Of course.” His agreement came readily.

  “I have some things I might tell you about him—details which might prove valuable to you in your investigation.” The ends of the chair’s wooden arms bit into my fingers, and I loosened my grip. “But before I do, I want you to know I don’t want to be left behind. I can’t merely worry and wait and afterward be given some varnished truth that’s deemed suitable for the family.”

  His expression altered, and I saw the beginning of a frown crease the space between his brows.

  “There is so very much about Edwin,” I rushed on, “and about his painting and his life that I know. It’s impossible to tell you whatever might be relevant, as we’ve no idea yet what that might be. Yet at any given point in your detection, you may need answers only I can give you.”