He had served Fenston for a decade and watched as the unsophisticated immigrant from Bucharest climbed up the ladder of wealth and status—a ladder he had held in place, while remaining nothing more than a sidekick. But that could change overnight. She only needed to make one mistake, and their roles would be reversed. Fenston would end up in prison, and he would have a fortune at his disposal that no one could ever trace.
“Would you care for some more coffee, Mr. Leapman?” asked the stewardess.
Anna didn’t need a map to find her way to Wentworth Hall, although she did have to remember not to go the wrong way around the numerous traffic islands en route.
Forty minutes later, she drove through the gates of Wentworth Hall. Anna had no special knowledge of the Baroque architecture that dominated the late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century homes of aristocratic England before she stayed at Wentworth Hall. The pile—Victoria’s description of her home—had been built in 1697 by Sir John Vanbrugh. It was his first commission before he moved on to create Castle Howard and, later, Blenheim Palace, for another triumphant soldier—after which he became the most sought-after architect in Europe.
The long drive up to the house was shaded by fine oaks of the same vintage as the hall itself, although gaps were now visible where trees had succumbed to the violent storms of 1987. Anna drove by an ornate lake full of Magoi Koi carp—immigrants from Japan—and on past two tennis courts and a croquet lawn, sprinkled with the first leaves of autumn. As she rounded the bend, the great hall, surrounded by a thousand green English acres, loomed up to dominate the skyline.
Victoria had once told Anna that the house had sixty-seven rooms, fourteen of them guest bedrooms. The bedroom she had stayed in on the first floor, the Van Gogh room, was about the same size as her apartment in New York.
As she approached the hall, Anna noticed that the crested family flag on the east tower was fluttering at half-mast. As she brought the car to a halt, she wondered which of Victoria’s many elderly relatives had died.
The massive oak door was pulled open even before Anna reached the top step. She prayed that Victoria was at home, and that Fenston still had no idea she was in England.
“Good morning, madam,” the butler intoned. “How may I help you?”
It’s me, Andrews, Anna wanted to say, surprised by his formal tone. He had been so friendly when she stayed at the hall. She echoed his formal approach. “I need to speak to Lady Victoria, urgently.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” replied Andrews, “but I will find out if her ladyship is free. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait here while I inquire.”
What did he mean, that will not be possible, but I will find out if her ladyship . . .
As Anna waited in the hall, she glanced up at Gainsborough’s portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. She recalled every picture in the house, but her eye moved to her favorite at the top of the staircase, a Romney of Mrs. Siddons as Portia. She turned to face the entrance to the morning room, to be greeted with a painting by Stubbs of Actaeon, Winner of the Derby, Sir Harry Wentworth’s favorite horse—still safely in his paddock. If Victoria took her advice, at least she could still save the rest of the collection.
The butler returned at the same even pace.
“Her ladyship will see you now,” he said, “if you would care to join her in the drawing room.” He gave a slight bow before leading her across the hall.
Anna tried to concentrate on her six-point plan, but first she would need to explain why she was forty-eight hours late for their appointment, although surely Victoria would have followed the horrors of Tuesday and might even be surprised to find that she had survived.
When Anna entered the drawing room, she saw Victoria, head bowed, dressed in mourning black, seated on the sofa, a chocolate Labrador half asleep at her feet. She couldn’t remember Victoria having a dog and was surprised when she didn’t jump up and greet her in her usual warm manner. Victoria raised her head, and Anna gasped, as Arabella Wentworth stared coldly up at her. In that split second, she realized why the family’s crest had been flying at half mast. Anna remained silent as she tried to take in the fact that she would never see Victoria again and would now need to convince her sister, whom she had never met before. Anna couldn’t even remember her name. The mirror image did not rise from her place or offer to shake her hand.
“Would you care for some tea, Dr. Petrescu?” Arabella asked in a distant voice that suggested she hoped to hear her reply, No, thank you.
“No, thank you,” said Anna, who remained standing. “May I ask how Victoria died?” she said quietly.
“I assumed you already knew,” replied Arabella dryly.
“I have no idea what you mean,” said Anna.
“Then why are you here,” asked Arabella, “if it’s not to collect the rest of the family silver?”
“I came to warn Victoria not to let them take away the Van Gogh before I had a chance to—”
“They took the painting away on Tuesday,” said Arabella, pausing. “They didn’t even have the good manners to wait until after the funeral.”
“I tried to call, but they wouldn’t give me her number. If only I’d got through,” Anna mumbled incoherently, and then added, “And now it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” asked Arabella.
“I sent Victoria a copy of my report recommending that—”
“Yes, I’ve read your report,” said Arabella, “but you’re right, it’s too late for that now. My new lawyer has already warned me that it could be years before the estate can be settled, by which time we’ll have lost everything.”
“That must have been the reason he didn’t want me to travel to England and see Victoria personally,” Anna said without explanation.
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Arabella, looking more closely at her.
“I was fired by Fenston on Tuesday,” said Anna, “for sending a copy of my report to Victoria.”
“Victoria read your report,” said Arabella quietly. “I have a letter confirming that she was going to take your advice, but that was before her cruel death.”
“How did she die?” asked Anna gently.
“She was murdered in a vile and cowardly fashion,” said Arabella. She paused and, looking directly at Anna, added, “And I have no doubt that Mr. Fenston will be able to fill in the details for you.” Anna bowed her head, unable to think of anything to say, her six-point plan in tatters. Fenston had beaten both of them. “Dear Victoria was so trusting, and, I fear, so naïve,” continued Arabella, “but no human being deserved to be treated in that way, let alone someone as good-natured as my sweet sister.”
“I am so sorry,” said Anna, “I didn’t know. You have to believe me. I had no idea.”
Arabella looked out of the window across the lawn and didn’t speak for some time. She turned back to see Anna, trembling.
“I believe you,” Arabella eventually said. “I originally assumed that it was you who was responsible for this evil charade.” She paused again. “I see now that I was wrong. But, sadly, it’s all too late. There’s nothing we can do now.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Anna, looking at Arabella with a fierce determination in her eyes. “But if I’m to do anything, I’ll have to ask you to trust me, as much as Victoria did.”
“What do you mean, trust you?” said Arabella.
“Give me a chance,” said Anna, “to prove that I wasn’t responsible for your sister’s death.”
“But how can you hope to do that?” asked Arabella.
“By retrieving your Van Gogh.”
“But as I told you, they’ve already taken the painting away.”
“I know,” said Anna, “but it still has to be in England, because Fenston has sent a Mr. Leapman to pick up the picture.” Anna checked her watch. “He’ll be landing at Heathrow in a few hours’ time.”
“But even if you managed to get your hands on the painting, how would t
hat solve the problem?”
Anna outlined the details of her plan and was pleased to find Arabella nodding from time to time. Anna ended by saying, “I’ll need your backing, otherwise what I have in mind could get me arrested.”
Arabella remained silent for some time, before she said, “You’re a brave young woman, and I wonder if you even realize just how brave. But if you’re willing to take such a risk, so am I, and I’ll back you to the hilt,” she added.
Anna smiled at the quaint English expression, and said, “Can you confirm who collected the Van Gogh?”
Arabella rose from the sofa and crossed the room to the writing desk, with the dog following in her wake. She picked up a business card. “A Ms. Ruth Parish,” she read, “of Art Locations.”
“Just as I thought,” said Anna. “Then I’ll have to leave immediately, as I only have a few hours before Leapman arrives.”
Anna stepped forward and thrust out her hand, but Arabella didn’t respond. She simply took her in her arms and said, “If I can do anything to help you avenge my sister’s death . . .”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” repeated Arabella.
“When the North Tower collapsed, all the documentation concerning Victoria’s loan was destroyed,” said Anna, “including the original contract. The only copy is in your possession. If—”
“You don’t have to spell it out,” said Arabella.
Anna smiled. She wasn’t dealing with Victoria any longer.
She turned to leave and had reached the hall long before the butler had time to open the front door.
Arabella watched from the drawing-room window as Anna’s car disappeared down the drive and out of sight. She wondered if she would ever see her again.
“Petrescu,” said a voice, “is just leaving Wentworth Hall. She’s heading back in the direction of central London. I’m following her and will keep you briefed.”
23
ANNA DROVE OUT OF Wentworth Hall and headed back toward the M25, looking for a sign to Heathrow. She checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost 2 P.M., so she had missed any chance of calling Tina, who would now be at her desk on Wall Street. But she did need to make another call if there was to be the slightest chance of her coup succeeding.
As she drove through the village of Wentworth, Anna tried to recall the pub where Victoria had taken her to dinner. Then she saw the familiar crest flapping in the wind, also at half-mast.
Anna swung into the forecourt of the Wentworth Arms and parked her car near the entrance. She walked through the reception and into the bar.
“Can you change five dollars?” she asked the barmaid. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Of course, love,” came back the immediate reply. The barmaid opened the cash register and handed Anna two pound coins. Daylight robbery, Anna wanted to tell her, but she didn’t have time to argue.
“The phone’s just beyond the restaurant, to your right.”
Anna dialed a number that she could never forget. The phone rang only twice before a voice announced, “Good afternoon, Sotheby’s.”
Anna fed a coin into the slot, and said, “Mark Poltimore, please.”
“I’ll put you through.”
“Mark Poltimore.”
“Mark, it’s Anna, Anna Petrescu.”
“Anna, what a pleasant surprise. We’ve all been anxious about you. Where were you on Tuesday?”
“Amsterdam,” she replied.
“Thank God for that,” said Mark. “Terrible business. And Fenston?”
“Not in the building at the time,” said Anna, “and that’s why I’m calling. He wants your opinion on a Van Gogh.”
“Authenticity or price?” asked Mark. “Because when it comes to provenance, I bow to your superior judgment.”
“There’s no discussion on its provenance,” said Anna, “but I would like a second opinion on its value.”
“Is it one we would know?”
“Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear,” said Anna.
“The Wentworth Self-Portrait?” queried Mark. “I’ve known the family all my life and had no idea they were considering selling the painting.”
“I didn’t say they were,” said Anna without offering further explanation.
“Are you able to bring the painting in for inspection?” asked Mark.
“I’d like to, but I don’t have secure enough transport. I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“Where is it now?” asked Mark.
“In a bonded warehouse at Heathrow.”
“That’s easy enough,” said Mark. “We have a daily pickup from Heathrow. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?”
“Today, if possible,” said Anna. “You know what my boss is like.”
“Hold on. I’ll just need to find out if they’ve already left.” The line went silent, although Anna could hear her heart thumping. She placed the second pound coin in the slot—the last thing she needed was to be cut off. Mark came back on the line. “You’re in luck. Our handler is picking up some other items for us around four. How does that suit you?”
“Fine, but could you do me another favor and ask them to call Ruth Parish at Art Locations, just before the van is due to arrive?”
“Sure. And how long do we have to value the piece?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“You’d come to Sotheby’s first if you ever considered selling the Self-Portrait, wouldn’t you, Anna?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” said Mark.
Anna replaced the receiver, appalled by how easily she could now lie. She was also becoming aware just how simple it must have been for Fenston to deceive her.
She drove out of the Wentworth Arms car park, aware that everything now depended on Ruth Parish being in her office. Once she reached the orbital road, Anna remained in the slow lane as she went over all the things that could go badly wrong. Was Ruth aware that she had been fired? Had Fenston told her she was dead? Would Ruth accept her authority to make such a crucial decision? Anna knew that there was only one way she was going to find out. She even considered calling Ruth, but decided any prior warning would only give her more time to check up. If she was to have any chance at all, she needed to take Ruth by surprise.
Anna was so deep in thought as she considered every possibility that she nearly missed her exit for Heathrow. Once she had turned off the M25, she drove on past the signs for terminals one, two, three and four, and headed for the cargo depots just off the Southern Perimeter Road.
She parked her car in a visitor’s space directly outside the offices of Art Locations. She sat in the car for some time, trying to compose herself. Why didn’t she just drive off? She didn’t need to become involved or even consider taking such a risk. She then thought about Victoria and the role she had unwittingly played in her death. “Get on with it, woman,” Anna said out loud. “They either know or they don’t, and if they’ve already been tipped off, you’ll be back in the car in less than two minutes.” Anna looked in the mirror. Were there any giveaway signs? “Get on with it,” she admonished herself even more firmly, and finally opened the car door. She took a deep breath as she strolled across the tarmac toward the entrance of the building.
She pushed through the swing doors and came face-to-face with a receptionist she’d never seen before. Not a good start.
“Is Ruth around?” Anna asked cheerily, as if she popped by the office every day.
“No, she’s having lunch at the Royal Academy to discuss the upcoming Rembrandt exhibition.”
Anna’s heart sank.
“But I’m expecting her back at any moment.”
“Then I’ll wait,” Anna said with a smile.
She took a seat in reception. She picked up an out-of-date copy of Newsweek, with Al Gore on the cover, and flicked through the pages. She found herself continually looking up at the clock above the reception desk, watching the slow progress of the minute hand: 3:10, 3:15, 3:20.
Ruth finally walked through the door at 3:22 P.M. “Any messages?” she asked the receptionist.
“No,” replied the girl, “but there is a lady waiting to see you.”
Anna held her breath as Ruth swung around.
“Anna,” she exclaimed. “It’s good to see you.” First hurdle crossed. “I wondered if you’d still be on this assignment after the tragedy in New York.” Second hurdle crossed. “Especially when your boss told me that Mr. Leapman would be coming across to collect the picture personally.” Third hurdle crossed. No one had told Ruth she was missing, presumed dead.
“You look a bit pale,” continued Ruth. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” said Anna, stumbling over the fourth hurdle, but at least she was still on her feet, even if there were another six hurdles to cross before the finish line.
“Where were you on the eleventh?” asked Ruth with concern. “We feared the worst. I would have asked Mr. Fenston, but he never gives you a chance to ask anything.”
“Covering a sale in Amsterdam,” Anna replied, “but Karl Leapman called me last night and asked me to fly over and double-check that everything was in place, so that when he arrives all we have to do is load the picture onto the plane.”
“We’re more than ready for him,” said Ruth testily, “but I’ll drive you across to the warehouse and you can see for yourself. Just hang on for a minute. I need to see if I’ve had any calls and let my secretary know where I’m going.”
Anna paced anxiously up and down, wondering if Ruth would call New York to check her story. But why should she? Ruth had never dealt with anyone else in the past.
Ruth was back within a couple of minutes. “This just arrived on my desk,” she said, handing Anna an e-mail. Anna’s heart sank. “Confirming that Mr. Leapman is scheduled to land around seven, seven thirty, this evening. He expects us to be waiting on the runway, ready to load the painting, as he’s hoping to turn round in less than an hour.”
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