Artful Deception
The Clearwater Mysteries Book six
by
Jackson Marsh
First published in Great Britain in 2020
Copyright © Jackson Marsh 2020
The right of Jackson Marsh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Proofread by Ann Attwood
Cover Design by Andjela K
Printed by CreateSpace, an Amazon.com company.
ISBN- 9781704638393
Available from Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com, and other retail outlets. Available on Kindle and other devices.
Also by Jackson Marsh
Other People’s Dreams
In School and Out
The Blake Inheritance
The Stoker Connection
Curious Moonlight
The Mentor of Wildhill Farm
The Mentor of Barrenmoor Ridge
The Mentor of Lonemarsh House
The Mentor of Lostwood Hall
The Clearwater Mysteries
Deviant Desire
Twisted Tracks
Unspeakable Acts
Fallen Splendour
Bitter Bloodline
Artful Deception
One
London, July 1889
Henry Beddington had served as the concierge at the National Gallery since 1865 and took great pride in the fact that, despite the large number of visitors passing through its doors each day, there had never been any trouble in his foyer. Keeping watch over the entrance from his counter on a sunny morning in July, he had no reason to suspect that today would be any different.
The marbled foyer echoed with the sound of shoes on tiles set against the comforting underscore of hushed voices as ladies and gentlemen entered, gasped at the magnificence of the hall, and fell into reverent whispers when they saw the Gainsborough hanging above the divide of the stone staircase. If a visitor had been before, they would make directly for the stairs, knowing the treasures of the art world were housed on the upper floors, but if they approached Beddington’s station, he would know they were new to the gallery and would prepare himself to give directions. It was a necessary and helpful part of his work, and he relished being of service while maintaining a well-run building and keeping a close watch for unruly children or drunks seeking shelter from the weather. On occasion, it was difficult to tell the inebriates from the art students who came seeking inspiration, but after twenty-four years at his post, his eyes were keen and his wits sharp.
Which was why, when he spied the well-dressed lady standing stock still amid the sea of visitors like a rock in a river, he knew she was merely another well-to-do come to view the collection of Dutch and English school masterpieces. She, and the young man beside her, were new to the gallery, because they appeared confused, looking about as if they expected to be met and personally guided to The Raising of Lazarus. They would—Beddington knew from experience—soon approach and ask for directions. He would give them, they would thank him and begin their exploration. Everything would be conducted with politeness as pressed and neat as his uniform, and the world of his foyer would continue to turn in its seemly manner.
He was very wrong.
The couple approached, her dress unruffled as she glided over the tiles, her rolled parasol tapping one step ahead. The young companion, also well dressed and carrying a satchel, Beddington imagined to be a student of the arts, and the woman, his lecturer. They were not from the city, but had come from the country to further the youth’s education which he probably received at university, judging from his tailored suit and well-groomed hair. The box-satchel he carried suggested he had brought his sketching set, and once directed, would spend an hour cross-legged on the floor studying a Botticelli.
Beddington was wrong again.
‘Good morning, Madam,’ he greeted them when the woman glided to a stop at the counter. ‘You’ll find the exhibitions upstairs.’
Usually at this point, the visitor, if English, would apologise for not knowing and then retreat, while a visitor from abroad might need a guiding finger pointed towards the staircase.
This lady required neither. She needed lorgnette, which she took from a clutch purse and arranged above her nose. The glass enlarged her eyes which pierced the concierge sharper than the arrows in El Greco’s Saint Sebastian.
‘The Countess of Woodside and her nephew, the Honourable William Wicklow to see Mr Anthony Redmond,’ she announced. ‘And not, as you make me sound, the owner of a brothel and her client.’
Suitably shamed, Beddington cleared his throat, straightened the ledger on his counter for no reason, and began again.
‘Good morning, Your Ladyship... Sir.’ The words combined greeting and apology and came with a deferential bow. There was another apology to come. ‘I regret to inform you, but Mr Redmond is not at work.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the countess barked. ‘I have it on good authority that Anthony never stops working.’
‘I dare say, Ma’am, but sadly, he is not in the restoration room today.’ Beddington indicated his register and assumed that was the end of the matter.
Three wrongs in a row; a record for the concierge.
The young man helped himself to the ledger and examined it, his startingly blue eyes scanning the entries and dates. The forwardness made Beddington bristle and straighten his back. On closer inspection, he realised that this was not a youth, but a man probably in his early twenties, who, being an Honourable, should have known better.
‘In fact,’ he said, ‘if I may make so bold, the door to the restoration room is locked. No-one is at work downstairs, so I am unable to call on any of Mr Redmond’s colleagues. It is a summer recess, you see.’ Beddington even went as far as to turn the handle of the door, providing proof the private area of the gallery was locked. ‘I wouldn’t be able to let you visit him even if he was in as I have no key.’
‘Well, this is all very unfortunate,’ the countess grumbled, turning to her nephew. ‘I am terribly sorry, William, and this was your only opportunity to meet the great man.’
‘Hugely disappointing,’ the young man replied with a hint of an Irish accent. He turned the ledger the right way. ‘I am an admirer of his work.’
‘Perhaps, as we have come so far, only to be defeated by Cerberus at the gates, we can view his restoration of “Brothers in Arms”,’ the noblewoman suggested before addressing the official. ‘It is in room nine, I believe?’
‘Sadly not, Ma’am.’ Beddington adjusted the disturbed ledger, so it sat perpendicular to the counter edge. ‘Following a recent unfortunate incident in room nine, that work is being repaired. Mr Redmond intended to have it back on exhibition by the end of the month, but…’
‘Being repaired? I don’t believe it!’ The power of Her Ladyship’s outrage attracted the attention of visitors milling near the door, and eve
n shocked the concierge.
‘Perhaps I can leave a message for Mr Redmond,’ he offered to restore calm.
‘You may,’ the lady barked. ‘You can tell him he has greatly disappointed my nephew, who has come up to town on the promise of meeting his godfather, and you can tell him that Lady Woodside will have something to say.’
‘Don’t fuss, Aunt Perfidia, it can’t be helped.’ The young man brushed her sleeve, an act which calmed her somewhat.
Beddington was about to offer his apologies again, when he was distracted by a commotion taking place at the entrance. An art student was in a noisy flap, searching the pockets of his flouncy smock while turning and knocking people with the easel he carried beneath one arm.
‘I am not fussing, William,’ Her Ladyship continued. ‘I am just severely disappointed. Now listen…’
‘I do apologise, Ma’am…’
‘Oi! Watch it, mate.’
Beddington’s blood ran cold. The student had caught a teenager a glancing blow with his easel. Visitors were concerned, and the reverential ambience of the foyer had been tainted.
Her Ladyship turned to the kerfuffle. ‘This gallery has gone downhill,’ she complained, searching her purse. ‘I am forced to leave my card.’
Over by the entrance, the discussion became heated, and the concierge was caught between manning his counter and managing the contretemps.
‘If you are so unwilling to assist…’
‘I apologise, Your Ladyship…’
‘I didn’t no more knock you ’bout the ’ead as I know who you be, you skank,’ the art student complained too loudly for comfort.
‘You bloody whacked me, you ponced up yokel.’
The commotion had worsened to an argument and was in danger of boiling over into a fight. It was time for Beddington to act.
‘If you would wait here, Countess,’ he said. ‘I will be with you directly.’
Leaving the couple, he straightened his uniform and fixed his attention solely on the student and his adversary. The colour of the student’s affronted face matched his red hair, and he stood several inches higher than the poor wretch he was berating. Beddington had little sympathy for either. Art students were the bane of his life, strutting into his gallery with their affected manner, thinking they knew everything and considering themselves better than the Old Masters they plagiarised. They came with egos as over-inflated as the ruffled bows they wore at their necks, and this one was no better. As for the adolescent, he had no right being in the gallery in the first place. His hair wasn’t even combed, and his face was filthy.
‘And now someone’s made off with me money bag,’ the student exclaimed. ‘Oi! Have you thieved me wallet, skank?’
‘Who d’you think you are, making accusations?’ the youth fought back. ‘What you going a give me for me damaged ’ead?’
‘Stand aside.’ Beddington threaded his way through the gathering of shocked patrons, heading directly for the arguing pair. ‘Let me through here. Step back.’
‘Oh, so now you’ve gone a called the nobs on me, ’ave you?’ the younger man shouted before appealing to a woman nearby. ‘Bloody brilliant this place init, Miss? Thinks he’s better than me ’cos he’s got some stupid paint pots and goes to school.’
Seeing the advancing concierge, the lad began to retreat, but the student dropped his easel with a crash and grabbed at the boy.
‘You ain’t going nowhere you cutpurse teg. Oi, someone grab ’old a the nipper.’
‘Stay where you are!’ Beddington yelled, but the street rat was one step ahead.
Slipping from the student’s grasp, he slithered through the throng and headed for the staircase, putting the well-to-do in a dither and sending Beddington’s pulse racing. Alerted to the fuss, a couple of men tried to stop the lad, but he was too slippery, weaving this way and that as he tried to make his escape. If that was his intention, he was heading in the wrong direction. Curators were stationed on the upper floors and trained to intercept anyone heard talking too loudly, let alone running. Two had already appeared on the landing.
‘Stop that thief!’ The student roared, and, thinking he stood a chance, gave chase.
Ladies yelped as the urchin darted between them, leapt onto the stairs and then realised his mistake. Uniformed curators blocked his upward path, and the concierge and student blocked the downward escape. He looked for another way out.
‘Get back here, or I shall fetch a constable!’ Beddington called as he drew near.
The crowd parted for him, but moved into the direction of the oncoming student who knocked people aside like skittle pins, his smock flapping as much as his hands.
‘It were all the shillings I ’ad,’ he bellowed in panic. ‘You comes a the gallery a-see art, not get your savings nicked.’
‘I didn’t steal nothing,’ the lad countered.
‘To think that Gainsborough’s Blue Boy should have to witness this!’ Beddington was on the bottom step with his eyes fixed on the youth and aware the aggravated student was now right behind him.
‘You wait there,’ he ordered the redhead, but was ignored. ‘And you, get down here! Simpson? Davies? Stop that boy, don’t let him pass.’
Beddington and the student had the alleged thief within their grasp, but the boy was craftier than they imagined. Jumping onto the wide, marble bannister, he spread his arms for balance and slid deftly past, laughing and showing them two fingers. He flew from the end, scattering the crowd as he landed, and headed directly for the exit.
Fuming, Beddington, resisted the urge to swear in front of the Gainsborough, and turning to follow, crashed into the student.
‘Ow! You toffed up wether,’ the redhead wailed, covering one eye. ‘You flippin’ poking me eyes out or what?’
They jostled, the concierge stepping one way, but the student stepping in the same direction, until Beddington moved him by the shoulders, and growling, managed to pass, just in time to hear the street rat exclaim, ‘Get your hands off me. I ain’t done nothing!’
‘Oh, thank heavens.’
Hope that the nightmare was over came in the shape of a police constable. Whether alerted by the public, or there by chance, it didn’t matter. There was a man in an official uniform in the hall, and he had taken charge, expertly stopping the fleeing troublemaker with one word, ‘Oi!’
‘Constable,’ Beddington panted as he arrived. ‘Thank you.’
‘What’s been happening here, Sir?’ the officer asked, holding the struggling boy in one hand and his truncheon in the other. Although the officer was powerfully built, the youth had knocked off his helmet. The policeman might have had the neatly cut blond hair and innocent face of a public schoolboy, but he also had an assertive tone and radiated calm authority. He was suddenly the main exhibit.
‘Perhaps they could settle their dispute outside,’ Beddington said, retrieving the officer’s helmet before fawning at the crowd. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are so sorry for this disturbance. Please, the exhibits are on the first and second floors.’
He was ushering people away when the student arrived, no happier now the law was on hand.
‘Officer,’ he began. ‘This scrag of a teg nicked me purse from right out under me nose. Search the bugger.’
‘No need for language, Sir,’ the officer said, putting away his truncheon and taking his helmet. ‘And you, hold still, or I’ll whistle for the paddy waggon.’
‘I didn’t steal nothing, officer. Honest. He banged me ’ead with his painting stick-up.’
‘It be an easel, you thick welp.’
‘Maybe you could discuss this outside, Constable?’
‘Rather not, Sir,’ the policeman said. ‘Over here if you will.’
‘But I must return to my post.’
‘Won’t keep you
long. Over there will do. All of you.’
The constable directed the youth away from the entrance to the well beside the staircase where the balustrade hid the embarrassing scene.
‘Right,’ the officer began. ‘If I put you down, you’re not going to run, right?’
‘I ain’t done nothing wrong.’
‘That’s up to me to decide, Son. I’m letting go of your collar now. You run, and my colleague outside will have you in manacles before your feet touch the pavement, got it?’
The youth grumbled, ‘Yeah, alright.’ When he was released, he didn’t attempt to flee, but Beddington stood facing him, glowering with his arms folded, imagining himself the ultimate deterrent.
‘Right,’ the constable sighed, taking a notebook from his top pocket. ‘Names. You first as you work here.’
‘Officer, is this necessary?’ the concierge complained. The countess was still on his mind.
‘You’re my star witness, Sir,’ the officer laughed. ‘Name?’
Beddington told him and waited while the man wrote it, read it back, incorrectly spelt, and wrote it again. He followed the same process with the other two who stood glaring at each other, and when he had them all, licked the end of his pencil and asked, ‘What happened?’
The student and the alleged thief spoke at the same time, babbling about accidentally this, and, ‘He meant to’, that, while one accused the other of theft and was counter-accused of assault, until the officer had to bellow, ‘Shut up!’, and Beddington felt the eyes of his visitors boring into his back.
The shout did, however, bring the fighting pair to their senses, and each told his side of the story slowly and deliberately. The youngster did it looking at his feet, and the student, equally abashed, was unable to look the constable in the eye. Instead, he told his story over the officer’s shoulder towards the waiting countess.
Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6) Page 1