‘… I carried a candle round the walls and there is a draft from an opening.’
‘I beg your pardon, am I to understand that there is a hidden door in room six?’
‘Yes. But there is no handle or lever of any kind. I was a fool not to have locked the door then I would not have been interrupted by that man. But I don’t think he intended to harm me, in fact, he seemed concerned. He was trying to persuade me to go up to the tavern room, when you came rushing in through the doorway.’
‘I came rushing in! Is that all I get for tackling your assailant and saving you from death by fire?’
‘Sir, I did not mean it like that. I am indebted to you, for I was terrified when the flames began to flare up my dress. You were, indeed, my saviour this afternoon.’
She was turning him upside-down and inside-out: one moment melting in his arms, then an ice-maiden, now a demure lady.
She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘I must go back tonight.’
‘We will go back.’
‘If you will accompany me, I will accept your offer, Mr Fox. The Grapes Inn is a place I should not like to visit again on my own.’
‘I would not expect you to frequent an establishment like that.’ He stared at her and saw colour spread over her cheeks. ‘I will collect you the same time as last night. I am most grateful that you discovered the back entrance.’ He put the china back on the tray, the tea untouched. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Sanders.’
Meredith stood up. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Fox. I will show you out.’
The hackney clattered to a stop close to The Grapes Inn and Adam helped Meredith out. He instructed the coachman to return in one hour.
Opening the back gate Adam led Meredith across the yard and down into the cellar, the lighted lantern still hanging from its hook. He took a key from a pocket and opened the door of room six.
‘Where did you get that key? I thought I had the only one.’
‘It’s a little trick known as copying into dough, Miss Sanders. I did it last night.’
‘Oh, how clever!’ There was a slight sarcasm to her tone. ‘Where did you get it made?’
Mr Fox ignored her question. He didn’t think she would approve of his ways and means at the moment, considering her prim countenance that afternoon. He guided her in and lit several candles. Then he closed and locked the door.
‘The paint smell is stronger tonight.’
He sniffed. ‘I’m not sure. You probably have a more sensitive nose for it than I. Where is this hidden door?’
Meredith went to the back wall and ran her hand along. ‘Here, I can feel the draft again.’ She moved on and stopped. ‘And again, here.’
Picking up two lighted candles he gave one to Meredith. ‘Run it up as far as your arm will reach and then down to the floor. I will try to find a latch.’ He took a thin stick from his jacket pocket and slipped it into the crack and ran it up and down. Two bricks from the bottom it stopped. ‘I think this is where we open it.’ Nothing happened when he put pressure on the stick, or when he tried pressure from below the steel rod. Prodding the bricks, the bottom one moved in and the camouflaged door slid forward and sideways. ‘A magician’s trick, no doubt, but we have an entrance.’
Meredith stepped back. He expected fear to be on her face, but instead there was a radiant sparkle to her eyes and an excitement in her voice.
‘Halleluiah! Oh, Adam, we are getting somewhere at last. This is what we have been hoping for. Quickly, let us go inside.’
In the midst of her excitement, Adam heard his name slip from her lips. It sounded strange, yet beautiful. He wanted to say so, but feared she would return to the prim matron of that afternoon and held back his words. Instead he barred her way with his arm.
‘Not so fast, ma’am, I don’t fancy being trapped inside without knowing how to get out.’ He pushed his foot against the brick and the false door slid back into place. ‘Excellent, it opens and closes from this room. I will go in to see if it can be closed and opened from inside. If it cannot, you are on this side to let me out.’
‘You cannot do that. What if it doesn’t open from your side and I cannot get it open from this side? You will be trapped. I’ll go inside.’
‘No. Nothing will go wrong. We will test the mechanism again. This time you operate the brick.’
Meredith pushed the side of her foot against the brick and the door opened. ‘There you are, perfect. Now close it.’ Without too much weight applied, she closed it.
Adam opened the door again, held his candle high, and stepped into the hidden room. He could definitely smell new paint now. As he swung his light in an arc, he saw four unframed paintings were hanging from nails on the wall. He was not a follower of the arts, but he had to assume they were all copies of famous artists’ work. He went to one: a landscape of red poppies scattered like drops of blood in a cornfield with distant hills under a cloudless sky. It could be in England or France – there was no signature. He stepped to the next, a portrait. The world of artists was a long way from the ships and dockland warehouses he did business in each day.
‘Are you there? Mr Fox, answer me.’
‘I’m here. I’ll try and close the door now. Stay where you are.’
He might have known she would not obey him. Her candle held high, she came in.
‘Oooooh! Paintings.’ She went to the one at the end of the row.
‘Meredith, – Miss Sanders – will you please go back? I need to test the latch.’
‘Just a moment, is this the one?’
‘I wouldn’t know. What did Madame Lightfoot say?’
‘She just said the Turner, as if I knew which one. But I don’t.’
‘First, we test the latch; then we study the paintings. Outside, please, Miss Sanders!’
This time she obeyed.
Adam ran the candle light along the bottom of the opening. There was a lever; he pushed it down and the door slid back into place. With only the one candle, the room dimmed and it became difficult to see the paintings. A long time ago he had been in the hold of a ship when the cover had been pulled shut. The darkness had been complete: a cloying, suffocating cloth of black with only his own breathing to fill the void. He had that same feeling now. He pushed the lever up and the door opened and he stepped quickly out into the outer room.
‘It works all right.’ Meredith sounded as excited as a child opening a present.
‘Perfectly. Whoever did that work, knew his trade.’
‘What do we do now? The originals are not in there.’
‘One must assume they are back where they belong: hanging in our public galleries, or on the walls of the great houses of our honourable lords.’
‘But not the Turner painting Frederick was using. We are no better off than before. I still have to find the original.’
He was not listening to her, but to the sounds in the corridor. The voices were coming closer and the footsteps had stopped outside room six. Seconds later, a key was being inserted into the lock. He pushed Meredith through the false doorway, with one huge intake of breath he blew out the candles and followed her into the secret room. He pushed the lever and the door closed.
The slit gave only a view of the outside door and then only silhouettes. Two people came in, a large canvas balanced between them. One had a lantern and he put it on the table.
‘It looks like there’ve been visitors already. The shipment must be soon. Open the door, so we can get out of here, I don’t want to bump into Lightfoot. Rumour has it she’s not happy, something to do with one of her regulars dying.’
Adam pulled Meredith beyond the sliding door and pressed her against the wall. He turned to her and hoped his dark clothes would be enough to hide them. If they were discovered he could pretend to be another artist taking advantage of the secret room for a bit of skirt lifting. The door opened. A faint light filled the doorway and someone came in. Meredith moved slightly and he tightened his hold on her shoulde
rs. He was responsible for her safety and this was the second time she had been in danger today. Why did he let her do it? Because her independent ways mirrored his own. He was a man of the docklands, a place he had worked all his adult life. His father had made him an apprentice, made him learn his trade from the warehouse men, endure the cuffs and knocks from burly dockhands and sea captains. Only then did he work beside his father, negotiating cargos and experiencing how to run an export/import business – a man of his own making, independent and worldly. He had not worked it out yet, but something had made Meredith a woman of spirit. Together they would beat Madame Lightfoot.
There was a sound of shuffling feet, then a grunt. ‘That’s my last for this trip. The money is good, but the risk bad. The Bow Street men are growing in numbers. I hear they pay well for information; perhaps I’m on the wrong side.’
The accomplice gave a harsh laugh. ‘That’s as may be, but watch out for Cuba John. He’s a mean man with a sharp knife.’
The light faded as the door closed.
Meredith relaxed in his arms. ‘Be calm. I want to look into the other room.’ Through the slit he saw the outer door close. ‘They’ve gone, we can leave now.’ Her hand touched his sleeve, and taking hold of her fingers he tried to rub some warmth into them. ‘It’s all right. We’re safe.’
‘Safe! I have never felt so unsafe in my whole life. Now I must look properly at the Turner. I think it may be the one that Frederick painted.’
With a new candle lit, she stood in front of the painting. ‘It’s the one. I recognise it from a sketch that was in Frederick’s portfolio. Below the sketch were test colours. So, here is the forgery, but where is the original? We seem to be solving this crime backwards.’
‘It seems that way. We should go now; one near discovery is enough for tonight.’
The hackney was waiting, although he had been longer than the promised hour. Adam helped Meredith inside as the coachman woke from his dozing.
‘Away, man and extra pay for waiting.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Madame Lightfoot stepped from a coach and walked to the back entrance of The Grapes Inn. Cuba John stepped from the shadow of a wall and opened the gate for her. Without a word of acknowledgement, she raised her skirts and crossed the yard to the lighted passageway leading into the tavern. Descending the steps she opened the door to room six and stepped back. Cuba entered and soon a candle flared.
Everything she wore was a flagrant snub to the clientele of the inn and the Aldgate district. Dressed in a flamboyant green silk gown and matching high-collared cloak she entered and locked the door. Her hands covered with cotton gloves and her face hidden by a leather mask, nothing of her dark skin could be seen.
‘Get the cloth and other items.’ Her tone was harsh and she waved her hand in a dismissive manner.
The man scurried like a rat to the corner behind the door and pulled a wooden chest into the circle of light. He took out a blue cloth and two six-branch candelabra. While he set the table, Madame Lightfoot opened the door to the secret room. One by one she brought the paintings out and hung them on nails fixed in the wall. The room was transformed into an art gallery, with the Turner in pride of place on the easel.
She breathed one word, ‘Beautiful,’ but it told all. ‘We shall strike a good bargain, this night, Cuba. Go to the gate, our guest will be arriving very soon.’
He grinned and went over to the easel. ‘And a fair share for me?’
‘Get away,’ she shouted, ‘your breath is like poison to such a masterpiece. Oh, I shall miss Frederick so very much. He was a genius. But what has he done with the original? That girl is like a fish bone in my throat. But I will not be put in jeopardy; she will do my bidding.’
‘Would you like me to visit her again? Later, before the dawn; I made her a pretty little offer last time.’
‘Keep your evil thoughts and dirty hands off her. The Bow Street men are the last people I want asking questions. Go to the gate, you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I want him in a pliable mood. These canvases are exceptionally good. I want the guineas to match.’
Cuba John left, leaving the door unlocked.
The room was hot and Madame Lightfoot pulled the mask off and dabbed her forehead. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and she replaced the mask. A short man in a monk’s habit entered, his tonsure circled by wispy grey hair. He stopped by the table. ‘Good evening.’
‘Good evening. I trust you are well.’
‘I am always well, madame.’
‘Then let us get on with our negotiations. I have five for you tonight on the walls plus the one on the easel.’ She signalled to Cuba John. ‘Hold one of the candelabra high and follow us.’
The monk went to the first painting. He stepped close and swivelled his head in a circle, seeming to look at every inch of the work. He took several steps back and studied it for a long time. ‘A fair canvas, madame, it would not, however, fool a Master. But then, those who will buy, the colonials, can be convinced easily enough. They are nothing but peasants who have made good from their criminal pasts, who couldn’t tell a Rembrandt from any governess’s paltry attempts.’
Madame Lightfoot inclined her head. ‘Quite so, but they get better as we proceed.’
He moved on to the next.
Each painting was inspected as the first. This made for slow progress and Cuba needed to keep changing hands to hold the light high. Finally they came to the Turner.
‘This is the exception I told you about, Frederick’s “Turner”, it is, in my opinion, his finest.’
‘You speak as though it is his last.’
‘Yes, it is. He died recently. I fear he is irreplaceable.’
‘So be it, but I bless his soul, let it rest in peace with our God.’
‘Thank you.’ And she bowed her head in reverence.
The monk scrutinised and studied the work far longer than he had the others. He tilted the canvas and looked at the back, nodded and walked away and looked again at one he had already viewed. He circled the room with his hands behind his back until he stopped in front of the easel.
‘It’s almost perfect. Just a few errors, but it will pass, admirably, for an original. It will be hung with pride in one of our distant colonies. A pity he is gone.’
A sigh came from behind the mask. ‘I am honoured to be of service to our foreign brethren. I would like to price this one separately. I know this is not our usual way of dealing, but you must appreciate, I have taken quite a risk in getting this particular painting … or shall we say … original?’
‘Of course, I am most willing to oblige.’
She sat on the chair. ‘Put the candelabrum back on the table, Cuba. Go and get yourself a tankard.’ She threw a coin onto the table and waited for the man to leave.
The monk leant against the closed door and turned the key. ‘Our privacy must always come first, madame.’ He walked back and stopped at the table. ‘What is your price?’
She took a sheet of paper from her reticule and handed it to him.
He did not open it. ‘I believe I will see a very high figure. You know I will have to bargain with you, let us not waste our time and patience in vulgar haggling; my usual price, plus ten percent.’
‘Plus twenty percent, sir’
‘My client would not go above twelve percent.’
‘I’m afraid not. I can sell elsewhere and you know it.’
‘You drive a hard bargain. My final offer is fifteen percent and that surpasses the value of that one painting.’
She nodded her head in acceptance. ‘One painting you will trick some untutored ass to believe he has a masterpiece painted by the very hand of Turner. Oh, no. You have a very valuable item for sale.’
‘I will have the money delivered by hand in the usual way. The delivery date will be notified in The Times, as before. Good night, madame.’
‘Thank you for a satisfactory evening. Good night.’ There
was a gloating tone to her voice. ‘Bon voyage.’
The monk unlocked the door and left without responding.
She circled the room and twirled; her gown and cloak billowing like a bell. ‘I did it. I won. I would have settled for twelve, you foolish man.’ She sat down on the chair, leant back, and took off the mask. She threw back her head and laughed until a tap on the door ended her triumphant call.
In the corridor a big man held a tray with a tankard and jug of ale on it. ‘Just bin asked to bring this to yer, ma’am.’ She held the door half-open, just enough to see. ‘I didn’t order any refreshments.’
‘No, ma’am. Your man did.’ He stepped forward. ‘Shall I put it on the table?’
Madame Lightfoot blocked his way. ‘I’ll take it.’ As she held out her hands the door opened further, letting the man see inside. ‘You may go. Ask my man to come back, now.’ She placed the tray on the table and then closed the door with a bang, shouting. ‘You are an idiot, Cuba!’ Her hands shook as she poured the ale and downed the full tankard until empty.
Sitting down she drummed her fingers on the table. When the door handle turned and Cuba John came in she stood up.
‘The paintings must be stored in the secret room until the sailing date. What have you been up to? Don’t bother to answer; you have half of it down your jacket. Unhook the paintings with great care, I’ll store them away. I wish to be gone before that serving lout comes down here again. Leave the tray outside.’
With the room restored to its bare, dark state, they left the tavern through the back yard.
CHAPTER NINE
Meredith bathed her face and chose a blue cotton and muslin dress to wear.
She had not seen Adam since he had left her on Friday night after their discovery of the paintings in the hidden room. Nor had she been to Tallow House on Saturday. Miss Fox had requested she forego a sitting with Sarah, saying the child was being taken to visit friends for the day.
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