A Trace of Deceit Page 8

  He leaned forward. “My dear Celia, I am so very sorry to tell you this. But the painting you consigned—the Boucher—has been stolen.”

  Her beautiful eyes blinked twice, and her cheeks blanched. “Stolen,” she said under her breath, and her gaze flicked over her shoulder to Mr. Hallam and me before returning to Felix. “By whom? How?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Felix answered. “The Yard is looking into it. And I feel myself largely to blame. As I told you we would, I sent the painting to be cleaned prior to the sale, so the colors would show up to best advantage. It was taken from the restorer’s studio.”

  Her lips parted, but she made no reply.

  Felix leaned forward. “Naturally, we’ll do all we can to resolve the matter. But this is why the inspector is with me today. He has some questions for you.”

  She shifted backward, as if to put a shred more distance between Mr. Hallam and herself. “Of course.” Her expression was composed but I heard the constraint in her voice.

  I sensed Mr. Hallam did as well. When he spoke, his tone was perfectly courteous and respectful. “Mrs. Jesper, how did the painting come to be in your possession?”

  “It was intended as a gift from my late husband. However, he passed away before he could give it to me. Until I began to make arrangements to move from this house, I had no idea it was even in the cabinet. When I found it, I was surprised; but my husband had done this sort of thing before.” She gave a graceful wave of her hand. “Bought things and tucked them away there, to give me later.”

  “I understand. Could you show us the cabinet?”

  She rose, and we all followed her into a library. A trio of tall windows at the far end admitted plenty of light for us to see. This room, like the parlor, had been partially packed. The uppermost bookshelves had been emptied, and some of their contents were in sealed boxes on the floor next to a rolling wooden ladder. A marble-topped table and a semicircular wood table were stacked with books. My eyes scanned the spines and found titles in French, German, English, Latin, and a language whose letters I didn’t recognize.

  Mrs. Jesper led us to the center of a paneled wall, pressed on a small tile in the inlay, and a panel shifted outward. She laid her fingertips along its wooden edge and swung it open to reveal a recess approximately a foot deep, three feet wide, and six feet high. Within it were two shelves, both empty.

  She pointed to the larger, upper compartment. “It was there.”

  “Was it wrapped?”

  “It was enclosed in a bespoke wooden case. I opened it, of course, and recognized it for what it was.” She gave a small, sad smile. “My husband’s last extravagance.”

  I didn’t dare look at Felix or Mr. Hallam. “You’ve seen Boucher’s work before?” I asked.

  She closed the panel. “Yes. And I recognized Madame de Pompadour from a traveling exhibition at the National Gallery two years ago.”

  I’d seen the same exhibition.

  “Was there anything else in this cabinet, with the painting?” Mr. Hallam asked.

  “Yes. A necklace, in a box. Our jeweler confirmed Stephen purchased it, intending it for my birthday.”

  “When is that?”

  “The ninth of March. Our anniversary is the following week.”

  We walked back into the parlor and took our places again. I was almost holding my breath, waiting to see what the inspector would say next.

  “May I ask why you chose to sell it?” he asked.

  A spark flashed to her eye. “I assume you mean, why, given my apparent resources”—her right hand gestured in a way that encompassed the house—“would I sell my husband’s final gift. It doesn’t please me to do so. But I have no stake in the Jesper Shipping Company and no claim upon any of its profits from the day that Stephen died.” Her spine straightened, as if to show that she hadn’t made this admission to elicit our sympathy. “You see, his grandfather began the company, and he stipulated that it be passed on only to the male heirs.”

  “It’s not a joint-stock company?” Mr. Hallam interjected in surprise.

  “No, it’s still privately held. Naturally, Stephen made provisions for me out of his own fortune in case of his death, but our income came from the company. His portion immediately passed to his cousins Arnold and Francis.”

  “When did your husband’s grandfather begin the company?” Mr. Hallam asked. The question may have come across as idle, but I’d begun to recognize the tone his voice took when he had a particular purpose in asking.

  “In 1816, just after the wars. He was a captain in the navy, and he began with a single sailing ship. He imported wine from France, port from Portugal, lace from Belgium, that sort of thing. And he’d carry woolens and manufactured goods back. Now they use mostly steamships, of course, and I believe there are twenty-four of them.”

  “Do the ships ever carry paintings?”

  “Not that Stephen mentioned in particular,” she said coolly. Clearly she imagined he was halfway toward accusing her husband of wrongdoing.

  “Mrs. Jesper, I’m afraid that your husband may not, in fact, have intended the painting as a gift for you.” Mr. Hallam’s voice was gentle. “He did not own the painting. We believe he may have been merely holding it—keeping it safe for someone else.”

  She recoiled, and over her face came shock, disbelief, and then—finally—horror, as she realized the implications. At last she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper: “What do you mean?”

  “It’s our understanding this painting was owned by the late Lord Sibley.”

  Her eyes widened. “Lord Sibley? The MP? Why on earth would you think so?”

  “His stepson saw the painting on the cover of the auction catalog and came to the Yard immediately. He provided written proof—including a notarized photographic record from his solicitor—that his father purchased this painting from the LeMarc family early in 1872.”

  She gave a wretched little moan, and for a moment I was afraid she was going to faint. Perhaps Felix thought the same, for he shifted to sit beside her on the couch, but she seemed not to notice. Her fingers clutched at the fabric on the upholstered arm and she stared at Mr. Hallam. “How on earth was it in our library cabinet? Are you saying my husband stole it?”

  “Not at all. As I said, he may have been holding the painting for Lord Sibley, and in fact that is my suspicion,” he said hurriedly. “But do you have any idea when the painting might have been brought into the house?”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “I’ve no idea—none at all. We were always in and out of the house, so he could have brought it any day, any night . . .” Her eyes sought Felix’s. “What does this mean?”

  “I’m very sorry,” he said unhappily. “I’m sure Bettridge’s will make restitution in every possible way we can, to all the injured parties.” But even in her shock Mrs. Jesper seemed to hear the tentative note in his voice, and I watched her expression change as she realized the truth: if the painting wasn’t hers, Bettridge’s would bear no responsibility to her.

  “Oh dear God,” she murmured under her breath. Her slender neck bowed, and her gaze dropped to her lap. Suddenly, her head jerked up and she turned toward Felix: “Surely you know I had no idea—”

  He rested his hand on her arm. “Celia, of course. Don’t even think it. No one would.”

  She gave a ragged gasp, but his words seemed to give her a measure of comfort.

  “Mrs. Jesper, how well was your husband acquainted with Lord Sibley?” Mr. Hallam asked.

  Her eyebrows rose in delicate arcs. “He wasn’t, so far as I know. Of course we knew who he was—but to my knowledge, my husband and he never met. We’re not in those social circles.”

  There was a long moment, and then she flinched, her expression suggesting that a deeply painful possibility had occurred to her.

  Her right hand, slender and slack and ringless, went to her chest. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I need to lie down.”

  Felix immediately rose and pull
ed the silken cord for the bell. A maid appeared in the doorway.

  One glance at her mistress’s drawn face, and she leapt forward. “Mrs. Jesper,” she cried.

  “Please, Betsy, I’d like to go to my room.”

  “Yes, mum.” Betsy bent to put a hand on Mrs. Jesper’s elbow and another at her waist. She gave the three of us a disapproving glance and helped her mistress out of the room. Sitting in silence, we followed their progress by the sounds of their shoes on the bare stairs.

  As the footsteps faded, Felix turned to Mr. Hallam. “Are you satisfied?”

  I flinched at the coldness in his voice. “Felix! That’s not fair. None of us wants to cause her distress—”

  “It’s all right,” Mr. Hallam interrupted, and though there was a flash of resentment in his eyes, his voice was even. “Clearly she believed the painting was purchased for her, like the necklace, as a gift.”

  “I told you as much,” Felix muttered.

  Mr. Hallam’s jaw tightened, but he only turned wordlessly and started out of the room. Both of us followed, and Felix headed toward the back of the house, leaving Mr. Hallam and me in the hallway with the Cézanne.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “Felix is upset. He didn’t mean it.”

  He turned over his palm in a deprecating gesture. “I understand. I feel sorry for her myself—this, on top of losing her husband and her home.”

  As I made a sound of agreement, Felix reappeared, his face heavy with disapproval and frustration. He stalked past us and opened the door, and the three of us left. As I walked down the steps to the street, into my mind came the image of Mrs. Jesper, upstairs in a chair, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed. I felt a pang of regret, for I wished I could offer her something in the way of encouragement or comfort. On the contrary: I could only provide details about the theft that she would find still more disturbing.

  Without another word to either Mr. Hallam or me, Felix climbed into a cab, and we watched as it rolled away. Only then did I realize, with a quickening of fear, that Felix had said not a word about the guaranty. I attempted to reassure myself with the thought that most likely the solicitor hadn’t answered his query yet. I’d see Felix tomorrow, at the funeral. Perhaps he would have news for me then.

  Chapter 7

  The morning of Edwin’s funeral, the air in the church was cold and damp and smelled of burnt wax. Behind the main altar, the wall of the apse held an intricate stained glass window, but with the sky full of clouds, the window’s colors were dull.

  I’d been allowed a quiet moment with Edwin in a side chapel before the pallbearers brought his casket in for the service. With his eyes closed and his face blandly expressionless, Edwin appeared wholly unlike he’d ever been in life. Perhaps that is why my sorrow felt blunted and unreal. By contrast, there was a sharp quality to my memory of the last time I stood before a coffin like this. It was Mother’s. Edwin was beside me, and we’d both been sobbing. I sighed. The quality of my heartbreak was different—and so much more complicated—now.

  The bells tolled eleven, and I left the chapel and entered the nave. As I expected, most of the pews were empty; there were perhaps thirty mourners present altogether. Most of them sat silently, looking straight ahead or with their heads dropped over the prayer book. To my surprise and gratification, Mr. Poynter and some students from the Slade had come, and several gave me nods of sympathy. Aside from Felix and my aunt Caroline, I was wholly unacquainted with most of the others present, and once again I had the sensation of having been left out of a significant part of Edwin’s life. Faces young, old, round, reddened by the wind, sturdy, delicate, with brown eyes heavily lashed, with reddish spots on the pale cheeks—

  Who were all these people to him?

  I took my place in the front pew beside my aunt. She barely acknowledged my greeting. My subdued demeanor was met with disapproval rather than sympathy, and whether she was my closest blood relative or not, I fervently wished she had stayed in Leeds. My aunt stared straight ahead, her wide bosom stretching the black silk across her chest, her chin high, as if to keep the flesh underneath from wobbling.

  Behind me, there were a few tears and clearings of throats, the rustle of bombazine skirts, the creak of a wooden pew as people took their places. The rector, Mr. Martin, had told me he’d been asked by the police not to allude to the manner of Edwin’s death, so as he began the service he only spoke somberly about the unexpectedness of Edwin’s passing.

  I couldn’t concentrate on the words of the service or the sermon and found myself again thinking of my mother’s funeral and also of my father’s. His had occurred first; his father, a dour and deeply religious man, took charge of it, and it was a grim affair. My mother was too ill to attend, so Edwin and I attended alone, half of our hearts back at the house with her. When she died four days afterward, a superstitious neighbor said it was because my father had mistakenly been carried out of the house headfirst. Had the undertakers done it properly, my father wouldn’t have been able to beckon to my mother to follow him, and she’d still be alive. Edwin had cursed the old biddy and stormed off, not reappearing until the morning of Mother’s funeral.

  By then, most family members had heard that Edwin had brought the disease into the house and refused to acknowledge him at all. Aunt Caroline, religious and self-righteous, had swept up the aisle in her heavy black weeds and ignored both Edwin and me. After we returned from Mother’s grave, she had the servants drape the mirrors of our house. It wasn’t from any foolish superstition that Mother’s likeness would have been trapped in the glass, she insisted; it was out of a need to instill a proper degree of shame and contrition in Edwin. Surely, she said, Edwin shouldn’t be examining his visage but rather considering the state of his soul. She needn’t have bothered; Edwin never came inside the house again after my mother was gone.

  And now here was Aunt Caroline again. Throughout the entire service, her eyes remained dry. She was making a point, I knew: Edwin wasn’t worthy of her tears.

  My mother’s eyes wouldn’t have been dry. She would have wept for Edwin, for his wasted life, for the pain he must have suffered in death. She had loved him and kept her faith in him despite everything he’d done. I felt a lump as rough and unyielding as a lump of quartz in my throat. How desperately I wished she were here now.

  MY AUNT PLANTED herself beside me as I accepted the condolences of people leaving the church. I’d rather have done this alone, but she was one of those who took profound satisfaction in demonstrating to herself and everyone else that she was performing her duty.

  “Miss Rowe.” I turned to find Mr. Poynter extending his hand jerkily toward me to take mine. “I am so very sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We . . . that is—” He halted and two pink spots appeared at his cheeks. “Please do not feel as though you need to rush back to your studies. We will hold your place, of course.”

  “Thank you,” I said again—and again, and again, as students from my school approached, expressed their condolences, and moved on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Poynter speaking with Mr. Hallam and then Felix. He stayed until the last student from the Slade approached: Geoffrey Wright, looking shamefaced. But he drew near, and no matter what resentment he held about my presence at the Slade, there was a light of honest sympathy in his face, and I was sincere in my thanks for his coming. And then Mr. Poynter, like a benevolent caretaker, shepherded them all away.

  I was grateful as well when people I didn’t know slipped by without greeting me. There was an elderly woman with a cane who leaned on the arm of a younger woman whose face showed signs of tears. A young man shot a bitter look in my direction that at any other time might have unsettled me, or at least made me curious, but I had no time to consider him. With a sense of relief I greeted the second-to-last mourner—a man who was tall and attractive with brown curly hair, broad shoulders, and a confident way of moving. He introduced himself: “Will Giffen, miss,” he said. “Edwin and I were
at Tennersley together.”

  “Oh.”

  He tipped his head forward with an ingratiating smile. “Don’t suppose he ever mentioned me?”

  “I’m . . . I’m afraid not,” I fumbled, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “He . . . well, he didn’t talk much about his time at school.”

  A peculiar expression flashed across his face, so quickly I couldn’t read it. Was it regret or relief?

  “Well,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” By this point the words came mechanically from my lips, and he moved on.

  The last to approach was a middle-aged cleric who came toward me with an uneven gait, favoring his right leg. He was short for a man, for he was barely my height, but sturdily built. He had brown hair, graying at the temples but still thick and wavy. Above his white collar, his face was ruddy, as if he spent a good bit of time outdoors, and his nose was bulbous. But his brown eyes were kind, and the smile he gave me was mild and amiable. I sensed he’d held back so that he might speak to me at some length, and he extended his hand to take mine. “You must be Annabel.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m Mr. Pascoe, and I serve as vicar at St. Pancras Old Church, in Camden.”

  He gazed at me expectantly, but I must have looked nonplussed, for I couldn’t imagine how he knew Edwin. My brother had never been to church voluntarily that I knew of. “Edwin attended your services?” I asked politely.

  “No. I never won him over so far as that.” He gave a slight, rueful smile. “I visited him when he was in prison.”