“Well, good luck,” she finally said, “and be careful.”
“I will,” I called, climbing into my car.
“And call me!” she shouted, a neighbour across the road looking up in surprise. I smiled and shook my head slightly, waving through the window as I reversed out and drove home.
I glanced at the books beside me, bouncing on the seat as I navigated speed bumps and roundabouts. The sight of them tired me, but there was enough there, mum was right, to tell me anything I needed to know.
I got home finally, throwing my coat on a chair and kicked my shoes off. I reheated some leftover pasta and opened a beer, lugging the books into the flat and dumping them on my coffee table. I wasn’t even sure where to begin. I sent Smith a quick text, asking her for the information on the market, to keep an eye on any new pieces being sold, and as I waited for her to reply, I tried to make some sense of the books. Mum had thrown in, thankfully, a book of local artists, which given the painting in question, seemed a decent place to start.
Digging out my notebook, I flicked through the last few pages, trying to find the name of the artist. It had been something slightly ridiculous, I knew that much. Artists always seemed to have slightly ridiculous names. Part of the image, I supposed, part of the trade. People remembered interesting names, or at least most people didn’t. I was slowly turning into Thatcher, barely remembering anyone’s names unless they told it to me three times.
Brynmor Ragsdale.
Well, if your parents named you that, what else would you be but an artist?
Eating my dinner with one hand, I opened the local book, flipping through the pages for any trace of the oddly named painter, and found him. From the early twentieth century, he had sadly died during the first world war. A local chap, born on the village estate in fact, who painted landscapes of his local surroundings before he was conscripted, and then whilst he was there. Small sketches done in the trenches, only a few still around. Most of his paintings had been sold by him, to look after his mother and sisters, saving one piece of the Hocking Estate, which had been gifted to the Lord by Ragsdale’s sister after he expressed a ‘profound admiration for the image’. So, Lord Hocking hadn’t even paid for it. It had been a gift. I made a note of that, for Thatcher, and my phone flashed up. A text from Smith with the information I wanted.
I quickly ate the rest of my food and opened my laptop, swigging my beer as I waited for it to whir into life and headed to the websites she had listed. No new pieces came up, but a few pop-ups from my virus protection did. Apparently, these weren’t the safest of sites. A good place to sell really, unless it was being sold privately. But that was a market we wouldn’t be able to get into easily, not without help.
I considered, briefly, going to Jeannie without Thatcher, asking her if she knew anyone who could help. But I didn’t like the thought of what Thatcher would say about that, and now that the story was out in the media, I wouldn’t be surprised if she already involved herself. It seemed like the high profile, mildly dangerous thing she liked to wade into. No wonder they were friends, really.
Leaving the sites open, I carried on reading about the artist, but there wasn’t much. His was only a single page, a brief mention amongst the other artists that came from Yorkshire. He was well credited for his use of colour and natural light, pleasing brushstrokes, not that I knew very well what that meant. I did know that since there were few pieces of his remaining, that would make them more valuable, would it not? But mum was right about one thing. There was a difference between stealing this, an image of the local estate that very few people would recognise or even know about, and stealing a Monet or a Van Gogh.
I slumped back in my chair, loosening my collar and took another swig of beer. Reaching over suddenly, I dragged my laptop nearer and did a search for Brynmor Ragsdale, seeing if the internet had any more to offer. The first things that came up were the news article on the case. A photograph of the painting and of the Estate, Sharp’s professional, ironclad statement and few pleas for any information to come forward.
Scrolling down, I found an older piece from a fairly local antique auction. One of Ragsdale’s paintings had been sold, about five years ago, for a price that was neither really here nor there. A good amount of money, but the usual price tags and trails of zeroes you see on pieces of art, this was, inconsequential. I put my beer down and picked up my phone, calling Thatcher.
“Mills,” he answered on the second ring.
“Sir,” I replied, “I’ve found the artist. Brynmor Ragsdale.”
There was a cracking pause on his end, then his gruff voice saying, “Brynmor Ragsdale?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who names their child that?” he asked.
“Someone who wants a painter for a son?”
He chuckled faintly, his voice muffled. “Local chap?”
“Yes. Born in the Hocking Estate village, early twentieth century. Died during the first World War.”
“Born on the Estate?” he repeated.
“Well, the village, sir.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“The piece that Lord Hocking has was given to him a gift from Ragsdale’s younger sister after he expressed interest in it.”
“A gift?”
“Yes, sir,” I clarified.
“Alright,” he urged me to continue.
“One of Ragsdale’s pieces sold five years ago at an auction, made just under one and a half thousand pounds.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” I confirmed, sitting back in my chair.
“Thought it’d be worth more than that,” he muttered. I could picture him, standing wherever he was that was slightly echoey, dragging his hair back from his face, scowling into the middle distance. “Definitely a sentimental piece then.”
“Definitely,” I agreed, “both as a gift, and since it was of the estate itself, I can’t imagine anyone else paying much for it. Smaller than the one from the auction, too, if my measurements are right.” I double-checked the frame size from the auction site and my own note about the gap in the study. Yep, I confirmed, definitely smaller.
“Alright,” Thatcher said. “Good work, Mills. Get some rest now. You’ve done enough for today.”
He didn’t have to order me twice. I turned my laptop off and flipped the book closed. Still had more to learn about the art world, but that could wait for tomorrow now.
“Jeannie called,” he told me, his voice somewhat reluctant.
I knew it. I grinned, glad he couldn’t see. “She did?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Knows an art dealer who handles private sellings that we can meet.”
“That’s good news.”
“If our thief is going to sell,” he reminded me, “but if that’s the profit we’d be looking at, I don’t want to pin all our hopes and dreams on it.”
“What’s the next move then, sir?”
“Richard Sandow. If you wanted to piss off your brother, what would you steal from him?”
I knew exactly what I would steal from my brother. A model Spitfire that he spent about a year building. Kept it in his office, where his kids couldn’t reach.
“The one thing I know he’d probably break my nose for taking,” I told him. Another muffled laugh came down the line,
“We’ll cross the art dealer of the list, more for Sharp’s sake than anything else, but we focus on the brother and the butler. That’s where my suspicion lies right now.”
As did mine, I had to agree. I could never write my brother off, change my name and never see him again. Something bad had to have happened there. As for the butler, well, it seemed obvious, but so did blaming the staff that had come in for the night. And according to Smith, most of the guests seemed to be pushing for that particular narrative, too. Thatcher didn’t believe it, nor did I, but we’d bear it in mind, I could almost hear him say. Always bear it in mind. People didn’t harbour suspicions blindly. There was always something tha
t pushed them in that direction, even if in this case, it would just be blatant class discrimination. Around a man like Thatcher, that was sure to go swimmingly.
“See you tomorrow then, sir,” I said goodbye.
“Tomorrow, Mills,” he replied in that same gruff voice. Courtesy of Jeannie, it seemed. I hung up, tossing my phone onto the sofa and slumped right down in my chair. It could all wait for tomorrow.
Nine
Thatcher
I didn’t stay at home long after Mills dropped me off; I paced the living room, looking at the boxes and piles of things I had salvaged from the coaching house. What Mills had said was stuck in my mind, the thought of taking yourself from your family, left rifts spread and deepen, growing into them. I was a hypocrite, not that he knew that. Crouching down by one of the boxes, I pulled out the photograph of my mother and me, rubbing my face tiredly. I’d hadn’t changed my name, but I’d done just about everything else.
Fed up, I pulled my coat back on and left the house, driving out of the city to my old village, where the coaching house sat shadowed in the slowly approaching night. I left the car and stood there for a while, my hands in my pockets, staring up at the place. It was getting there, slowly. The roof was patched up, the walls rebuilt where they had crumbled on the outside. Most of the plastering was about done, thankfully. I didn’t ever want to look at plaster again. But it would still be some time before it was back to normal, back to the vision my mother had of it all those years ago. Of flowers growing up the walls, the windows clean and bright, the walls painted and covered with pictures. Of the family inside, laughing around the fire as we used to. Only I was left now, of course, but Elsie would be there when it was done. Sally too.
Instead, the place was surrounded by dead plants and weeds, trees that had yet to grow their leaves back leaning scraggly limbed over the roof. I think there was something nesting in the chimney as well and wouldn’t be all that surprised if I went into the back garden and found adders in the long grass. I hadn’t come out here with any one specific job in mind, no determination to see something nailed down or boarded up.
I unlocked the padlocked chain that was slung across the front door and headed in, for the first time not getting a face full of cobwebs as I did. Staying in the main room, I took the boards down from the window, letting the light stream in across the grubby floorboards, sending spirals of dust through the air and tossed the broken boards aside and turned to face the room. With the light coming in, it wasn’t too difficult to see what she saw. The memories of the place, me as a lad sitting on the bar as my grandfather worked, my grandmother pottering around, fluffing cushions and tossing logs cavalierly onto the fire. The walls needed painting. Green, mother had always said. She would paint them green.
I sat down on an ancient stool, leaning against the bar. Families are strange, and to write them off takes effort and pain. People don’t do it for no reason, don’t abandon their blood without cause. Whyever Richard Sandow had chosen to take his father’s name and leave his brother, there would be a reason behind it. Maybe not a very good one, in the light of a new day such decisions never seem as big, the reason never quite as bad as you first thought them to be. Mine certainly wasn’t. But then again, I had no disgruntled relatives breaking into my home to steal paintings, so maybe the rift between the family did come from somewhere dark.
I hadn’t been able to learn much more about the estranged brother. He seemed to keep himself to himself. He’d married and had a daughter and two grandchildren, but none of them seemed to have an inclination of returning to the Hocking estate, claiming themselves a spotlight as the relations of a Lord. The rift ran deep, and even if Richard Sandow himself wasn’t likely to act against his brother in such a way, it was just as likely that his daughter might, or his grandchildren. People do things for their parents, reckless, stupid things sometimes. They steal paintings, renovate decrepit old buildings, even go as far as murder, as I had seen over the years. Perhaps Mills would have better luck learning about the artist, though he didn’t strike me much as an art fan.
As I sat there, stewing over my thoughts, over memories and guilt, my phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket and chuckled at the image of Jeannie’s face and number shining up at me.
“Hello, Jeannie,” I answered. “It’s been a while.”
“Hello, Thatch. Not that long,” she replied.
“Five months.”
“I see you’ve been counting.” I could hear her smirk down the phone.
“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with you knocking around me,” I answered, reclining further against the bar.
She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “I’ve missed you too, Thatch.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“How do you know this isn’t a personal call?” she asked, sounding affronted.
“Is it?”
“No.”
“What do you want?” I asked her, toying with a button on my coat as we spoke.
“I’ve heard about this case of yours,” she told me. I could hear her moving around, her house most likely, and throwing herself down on a chair. “The art theft. Most intriguing.”
“You can’t have the story,” I quickly told her.
“I don’t want it,” she replied just as speedily, “though I am surprised you’re working it, Thatch. Rich people losing their fortunes.” She clicked her tongue. “Just doesn’t quite interest me as much as other things.”
“Like murder and general mayhem?” I asked.
“You know me well. But I think I might be able to help you,” she carried on, “and since you haven’t bothered to ask for my help, although I’m sure it’s occurred to you, I thought I’d be a lovely person and offer it.”
It had occurred to me. It had occurred to Mills too. Only I was reluctant to bring her in on cases all the time.
“How so?” I asked her, resting my elbow on the bar and propping my head upon my fist.
“I know a chap, art dealer in the city. Deal with private sales, very private. As in, unless you specifically know about it, it doesn’t exist.”
“How do you know him?”
“From an old story, back when I was fresh out of uni. Bought a few pieces from him since then, he’s clean,” she added hastily as I grew suspicious, “just rich. Rich people are always secretive, though, aren’t they?”
“In my experience, yes.”
“Mine too. Anyway, if someone’s looking to sell that painting without catching your eye and without going to the auction, he’d know about it.”
“Would he meet with me?”
“Yes,” she said surely.
“Very confident.”
“I spoke to him earlier,” she told me. “He’s rather horrified at the thought of art being so poorly mistreated. He’ll help you out.”
“You do have the most interesting connections, Jeannie Gray,” I murmured into the phone, “very random. Please don’t tell you’ve also got people from the mafia or the secret service on that phone of yours.”
“No mafia,” she assured me, “but I do know a woman who works for Madame Tussaud’s, and you’d be surprised by the things she knows.”
“I dare not ask.”
“Anyway,” she said breezily, “I’m sending you his details, give him a call, Thatch, he can help.”
“Much appreciated, Jeannie.”
“Anytime. Now, where are you?” she asked. “You sound like you’re in a cave.”
“Just an old building,” I replied.
There was a pause. “You mother’s place?” Her voice had softened.
“That’s the one.”
“Mind out for splinters,” she said after another long pause.
I laughed. “I will.”
“Good. Good luck with the case Thatch,” she said.
“See you around, Jeannie,” I replied.
She hung up a moment later, the beeping sound of the disconnect suddenly very loud. I sighed,
lowering my phone and staring at the screen. An email popped up seconds later from her, the art dealer’s information, a Mr Laurin Harrer, strange name included.
I left it, for now, placing my phone down on the bar and looked around the room again. A face appeared at one of the windows, and I yelped, stumbling off the stool, my heart thrumming into action.
Elsie shuffled in, hands spread out placatingly. “Sorry, love,” she soothed, coming over and taking my arm and I tried to lower my erratic heart.
“Bloody hell, Elsie,” I panted, “you scared me half to death. What are you doing snooping around the windows for?”
“I wanted to make sure it was you,” she said, helping me back to the stool. She found another one, dragged it over and hopped up, her short legs swinging.
“Who else would it be? I have the only key, other than you, and my car’s outside.”
She looked over her shoulder to the window, looking at the car. “Well, when you put it like that it all sounds very reasonable,” she huffed, laying her hand over mine. “Sorry for the fright, pet.” She patted my hand and pulled away, looking around the room. “Looks good, with a bit of sunshine coming in. You’ve done good work, lad.”
“You think so?”
“I do. Think you’re a madman wasting all your free time out here, rattling around the old place.” She gave me a moderately withering look. “I’ll be surprised if you haven’t ruined your lungs. But it’s looking like the old place again. She’d be proud,” she added in a much softer voice, her wrinkled eyes lining with water. “I know I am.”
I took her hand properly, squeezing the old, calloused fingers gently. “Thank you, Elsie.”
She reached over, patting my cheek and pulled herself away, sniffing loudly and squaring herself up again. “Much left to do?” she asked.
“Upstairs, mostly. And there’s something living in the chimney,” I added.
She nodded. “Starlings.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“I have. You'll have to find another place for their nest though, Max, I’ll not have you carting starlings around with no home.”
Blood Ties Page 8