“But you were leaning toward fraud,” Henrietta said briskly. “How did Graham react when you told him?”
“He was very understanding, but he said asking questions and an appraisal would be a waste of time and money. He wasn’t going to do anything about it even if the painting wasn’t Fletcher’s work. He wasn’t going to stir the pot. Those were his words. Then he asked me not to meet Adalyn’s mother. I agreed. He went to tell her I wasn’t coming. Then he didn’t get on the plane with me.”
Henrietta considered a moment. “Graham bought the disputed painting after the fire? Ophelia was gone by then and Fletcher was very ill.”
“No, no—Graham bought the painting last fall when Fletcher was still working on it, but he only picked it up in July, a couple of weeks before Rex returned to England to start closing up the cottage.” Verity paused, grimacing. “We hoped Fletcher and Ophelia would get back to Oxford after the winter, but she went downhill and died in April. The shock and strain took a toll on Fletcher. Graham walked over to their cottage and collected the painting himself. We have a key. It was the only River Cherwell painting there. If Fletcher did others, he must have taken them back to the US with him. Maybe he ended up only painting the one.”
“Except he didn’t paint it,” Henrietta said.
Tears formed at the corners of Verity’s eyes. Oliver was impressed with her clarity under the circumstances. “I’m afraid that’s right. Graham adored the Campbells. He was distressed to see them go through so much. He wanted to help them if he could.”
Henrietta moved closer to Verity. “Whose idea was it to go to Boston and then to Maine?”
“I don’t remember who suggested it, Graham or me, but it was a mutual decision. We wanted a change of scenery after Stefan’s death and decided to visit Fletcher while he still might recognize us. My questions about the painting weren’t at the forefront of my mind. I’m fond of Adalyn and wanted to see her, too—how she was getting on with Jolie Romero. I knew Rex had hired Jolie to work on the fire-damaged paintings.”
“How was your visit with Fletcher?” Henrietta asked.
Verity adjusted her blanket. She had more color in her face, if only because of the energy she was expending to speak with her two guests. She glanced out the window, as if she was watching a scene play out, a memory—her husband and a brilliant artist whose mind was deteriorating. “It wasn’t as sad as I thought it might be,” she said finally. “Fletcher didn’t recognize us at first, but he came round, or at least he pretended to. Rex brought him up to the farm for our visit. We talked about the heat wave and how beautiful New England is. Graham was so good with him.” She licked her lips, her eyes puffy, more tears welling. “It feels strange to talk about him in the past tense.”
Oliver noticed Verity’s increasing fatigue. Henrietta picked up the water glass and handed it to her. “You can stop at any time, Mrs. Blackwood. This is entirely voluntary on your part.”
“I just want to understand what’s happened.” Verity’s arms collapsed at her sides, the modest strength to keep them in her lap clearly no longer available to her. “I’m sorry. The nurse gave me your surnames but not much else. Who are you? Why are you asking me these questions?”
Oliver took on that one. “I’m Oliver and this is Henrietta. We were with Wendell on Sunday. He wants to help if he can.”
She accepted his response without argument. “That’s decent of him after he found me...in distress. I still can’t figure out how oxycodone tablets ended up in my possession. I didn’t think twice when I took them. I don’t know anyone on pain medication. I’m not, obviously. The doctor indicated I’m a ‘naive’ patient—not as in innocent and oblivious but someone new to opiates. A habitual user might have managed better with the dose I ingested. One builds up a tolerance.” She shuddered. “I never want to. The tablets I took...”
“Were they in the bottle on your bedside table?” Henrietta asked.
“Yes—I thought they were herbs. I remember wondering why they were white tablets instead of green capsules, as most of my herbal remedies are—the ones that aren’t tinctures, of course. I take several tinctures, too. I don’t remember, but I must have decided they were different because we bought them in America.”
Henrietta stood, her expression gentle. “Where did you buy them?”
“Graham got them for me from a chemist in Heron’s Cove. I stopped to see Lucas Sharpe—but you know that already, don’t you? I have a feeling you’re police. You are, aren’t you? Maybe the doctor said. It doesn’t matter. I have absolutely nothing to hide. We had our visit with Fletcher, had a wonderful dinner with Rex, Jolie and Adalyn and drove to Maine to enjoy ourselves for a few days. We took walks and ate ourselves sick on clams and lobster. I told myself friendship was as good a reason as any to buy a painting, but I wanted to talk to Wendell Sharpe in case I was missing something. In case Graham and I both were missing something.”
“Then you don’t think your husband—”
“I love and trust my husband, Miss Balfour, and I don’t think he was trying to pull a fast one on anyone, including me.” Verity sniffled and brushed her fingertips under her eyes, catching tears. “Loved and trusted. Oh, God.” She sniffled. “That doesn’t mean he wanted my advice, or anyone else’s for that matter. Not Graham’s style to seek advice.”
Henrietta smiled. “I know the type. Did he take any meetings while you were in the US? Did he see anyone associated with his think tank, for example?”
“No. We didn’t see anyone else. Adalyn, Jolie, Rex, Fletcher, the Sharpes, townspeople.”
Oliver spotted a nurse frowning at them from the doorway. Henrietta either had an instinct they were about to get the boot or had spotted the nurse, too, and wrapped up with Verity, who was visibly done in. “Please thank Wendell Sharpe for me,” Verity said. “I’ll thank him myself soon. I know he’s elderly. I hope my situation didn’t cause him too much distress.”
“Wendell’s a tough old bird,” Oliver said. “He’s seen it all in his lifetime. No worries.”
Verity looked relieved, but a tear slid down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re done in,” Henrietta said. “We’ll go. Do take care, Mrs. Blackwood.”
“Come back if you have more questions.” Verity shut her eyes, visibly fading. “I want to help in any way I can. Graham... I know he was murdered. I just know it.”
“Mmm. We’ll give Wendell your best.”
“Adalyn’s mother...”
Henrietta turned again. “Tamara McDermott?”
Verity was half asleep. “Graham was worried she’d meddle. He called me when I was at the gate about to board and said he’d reassured her all was well. Then he told me he’d decided he wanted a few days to himself. He was going to learn to kayak.”
“How did you take that?” Henrietta asked.
“Not well. I suspected he was going to follow up with Adalyn’s mother and make sure she didn’t cause trouble, but I didn’t argue with him.” Her voice was barely audible. “I just went home to London.”
“And when you arrived in London, you immediately rang Wendell Sharpe.”
“Yes, I did.”
Oliver was about to drag Henrietta out of there, but she said farewell to Verity and spun around, exiting ahead of him. He caught up with her. She glanced at him with those turquoise eyes. “Forgeries and such are out of my area of expertise. Yours, Oliver?”
“I don’t know about forgeries.”
“Of course not. You only stole works of real value.”
“Why would anyone want to steal works of no value?”
“Or hang a forgery in their drawing room. I don’t think Verity lied, but I’m not convinced what she told us is complete.”
“She never said why she believes the painting is a fake.”
“She didn’t, did she?” Henrietta hooked her arm into Oliver�
�s. “We’ll let her rest, and then we’ll see if she’ll answer a few more questions.”
* * *
They slipped into a traditional tea shop that served cakes, scones, soup and light sandwiches—and a wide variety of tea—and sat at a table in a quiet corner. Plain scones, gooseberry jam, cream, English Breakfast tea. For two. Henrietta hadn’t asked Oliver what he wanted. Obvious, he supposed, that he, too, preferred to keep things simple.
“I wonder how far we’ll get into our scones before I’m hauled in for a tongue-lashing,” Henrietta said when the tea and scones arrived.
Oliver lifted the sturdy pot and poured the tea into the two cups. “I thought you had permission to speak with Verity.”
“Yes, well...” Henrietta didn’t finish.
“How would MI5 know? The flowers were my idea. They couldn’t have been bugged.”
She ignored him and picked up her tea, closing her eyes as she breathed in the steam.
Oliver was still on the case and couldn’t relax. “What if Graham Blackwood knew the Campbell painting was a fake and wanted to talk to Tamara McDermott about it? What if he was afraid it had something to do with Stefan Petrescu’s death? What if the painting was payment somehow for taking out Petrescu?”
“I don’t see the Campbells as assassins, Oliver.”
“The son? Jolie Romero? Graham, Verity—”
“Alfred the wire-fox terrier puppy? Let’s throw him into the mix.”
“I’d be his first victim,” Oliver said, but he didn’t feel any humor. “We could be trying to connect dots that might have nothing to do with each other. Are you going to check into Mr. Petrescu’s MI5 and MI6 connections?”
Henrietta slathered gooseberry jam on half a scone. “I’m starving. I could eat fish and chips but scones will do for now.”
“Henrietta?”
She sighed. “Any intelligence work he might or might not have done isn’t why he’s dead.”
Oliver felt her frustration. “Law enforcement here and in the US will do their work, Henrietta. Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan won’t leave a stone unturned. You know what they’re like.”
Her rich turquoise eyes settled on him. “And you, Oliver?”
“I want to hold your hand and walk with you to my apartment and enjoy this fine summer day. It’s London, Henrietta. We can’t let the day go to waste.”
“Not any day,” she said, smiling at him as she popped her scone into her mouth. But the moment didn’t last. She sighed as she reached into her pocket for her phone. “Here’s my tongue-lashing now.”
Oliver started into his scone while she took the call in the toilet. She rejoined him moments later. “It was about something else, not a tongue-lashing after all. I suspect we’re being left alone.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Depends on the outcome, doesn’t it? I want to talk to Verity again, after she’s had a chance to rest.”
“Is that wise?”
“Necessary. Wisdom isn’t always a consideration for me.” That incisive gaze of hers settled on him. “That’s something we have in common, isn’t it, Oliver?”
“That and a love for dahlias.”
She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t know what a dahlia was until I showed you.”
“I didn’t know their name. There’s a difference.”
“You are incorrigible.”
They finished tea and returned to the hospital. Verity had tea and scones of her own on her table. “Please, come in. I’m feeling better. Speaking with you helped everything feel real and chased away some of the fog in my brain. I’ve never been so sick in my life. And Graham... I can’t believe he won’t be coming home.”
“It’s dreadful,” Henrietta said. “Do you mind speaking with us again?”
“If you think I can help.”
“What else can you tell us about the Fletcher Campbell painting? Did Graham commission it, for instance?”
Verity shook her head. “Fletcher didn’t take commissions. Graham said Fletcher took his easel to the river and painted what he saw. He didn’t always work that way.”
“Did you ever witness him painting at the river?” Oliver asked.
Verity broke off a piece of scone. “In fact, I did. The Campbells’ cottage is a short distance from our home. I’m an early riser. I take the dog for a walk first thing.”
“I didn’t see a dog at your house,” Oliver said. “What breed?”
“Springer spaniel. She’s with friends. She needs considerable exercise.”
“I have a wire-fox terrier.” Oliver smiled, having discovered talk of puppies usually eased people’s tension. “I should say Alfred has me. I doubt he considers himself in anyone’s care.”
That brought a smile to Verity. She looked less drawn than she had earlier. “Alfred is establishing terms early, then. I can’t say I’d roll out of bed before nine if not for walking the dog. Graham and I take turns...” She caught herself. “She was his dog. There’ll be an adjustment without him.”
“You’ll have each other,” Oliver said. Henrietta gave him a look, as if she hadn’t expected such a comment from him. Now that he’d done the job of settling Verity down a bit—perhaps a first for him—he hoped Henrietta would dive in and take charge of the interview.
“What did you see that morning while out walking?”
“Only where Fletcher was and that he was painting a river scene. That’s why I didn’t question at first that the painting Graham bought was authentic.” She slowly put her piece of scone into her mouth, as if she needed to buy herself a moment to think. She chewed, swallowed, took a sip of tea. “As I explained earlier, Graham didn’t do due diligence,” she added, returning her tea to the table.
“What prompted you to question its authenticity?” Henrietta asked.
Verity’s shoulders slumped. She stared at her scone. “Stefan told me at the dinner that he noticed small differences between it and a similar painting he’d seen at the Campbell cottage. He wouldn’t go into detail. I was going to talk to him after the dinner, alone, but then he was shot to death. He was such a lovely man.” She placed her hands at her sides and pushed herself up. “I can’t imagine who killed him, or why, but his death has nothing to do with the painting.”
“Mmm.” Henrietta’s tone was neutral—obviously wasn’t going to argue with Verity. “How well did Stefan know the Campbells?”
“We were all neighbors but we seldom socialized together. Graham and I hosted the dinner because Rex, Adalyn and Jolie were in Oxford. It was Rex’s first visit since his mother’s death and the fire and putting his father in a care home.”
Henrietta touched a bright daisy, tracing a blossom with the tip of her finger. “Did Stefan have anything else to say when you two talked about the painting?”
Verity didn’t answer at once. Finally she cleared her throat and sat up straighter. “He said if it’s genuine its value would increase, given the fire and Fletcher’s illness. The fire reduced any inventory, and the Alzheimer’s meant he wouldn’t be painting any more. He asked me if I agreed. I said I did.”
“But he suspected your painting wasn’t authentic.”
“That’s right. Stefan was observant—he paid attention to the tiniest details. It’s one reason he was so good with languages. He could discern the smallest differences in dialects. I never could. Everything sounds the same to me.”
“When did he see the other painting?”
“Last fall sometime.”
“Did he tell anyone else what he noticed?”
“I don’t know. I asked him not to. At first I wasn’t sure what to make of his observations—that’s what he called them. He didn’t offer a definitive take on the painting. He simply was trying to reconcile the painting he saw in the Campbell cottage with the one he saw in our drawing room. Honestly, for all I knew there w
as an innocent explanation and it really was Fletcher’s work.”
“You didn’t tell police about Stefan’s comments,” Henrietta said.
Verity reached for her tea with such force she almost fell out of bed. “I didn’t, but I haven’t lied to anyone. How could Stefan’s fussiness about a few potentially misremembered details of a painting possibly have anything to do with his murder?”
Oliver leaned against the door. Should he state the obvious? Yes, he should. “Given what’s happened, I would think a connection between Stefan’s and Graham’s murders and the painting isn’t outside the realm of possibility.”
“A possibility isn’t a probability or a certainty,” Verity said, ready with an answer.
He shrugged. “True enough.”
“You went from uncertain about Stefan’s take on it to convinced,” Henrietta said abruptly. “Why? What happened? What finally convinced you the painting isn’t authentic?”
“It was something Fletcher said when we saw him last week,” Verity said, her voice just a whisper. “I asked him about the river painting, and he remembered Stefan liked it. It wasn’t much, I know.”
“But it was enough,” Henrietta said.
“His tone, his eyes—I think he knew we ended up with a fake.”
“Oliver and I aren’t detectives, Verity. We’re as mystified by what’s going on as you must be.” Henrietta smiled, her amiable manner easing the palpable tension in the room. “What was your relationship with Stefan?”
Tears shone in her eyes. “I admired him. He was a kind, good man.”
“But nothing—”
“No, there was nothing between us beyond mutual respect. He was pleased Graham had found someone after his first marriage fell apart. That was years ago. The pressures of his long absences wore out his first wife. I’ve never met her.” Verity inhaled deeply. “It’ll come out sooner or later—Graham had a brief affair with Ophelia Campbell before we met.”
“Ah,” Henrietta said. “What happened there?”
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