The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  The Art of Intrigue

  P. A. Latter

  Copyright © 2020 P. A. Latter

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Anne Sharp

  Chapter 1

  It was his eyes, of course. They met her gaze, but then seemed to slip away. She felt they were focused on her cleavage. It wasn’t an unfamiliar experience, but never before quite like this. Any competent artist can turn out a portrait whose subject appears to stare back at the viewer, but Julia had never before seen a painting which leered at her.

  ‘John, who was he?’

  John Carmichael, the curator, turned to see which work she meant. ‘Unknown. Inventoried as “Portrait of a Venetian Nobleman.”

  Julia rubbed her arms briskly. ‘He looks like a rapist.’

  ‘It’s also known as “The Assassin”, for obvious reasons.’ John walked over and studied the work.

  The subject was pictured holding a stiletto, testing it against his right thumb. A single drop of blood welled at the point. The blood was lambent, as if still wet.

  There’s no artist’s mark, but someone’s written “Angelo diMorto” on the back. A clumsy pun rather than a signature, I assume,’ he said.

  With a peculiar sense of reluctance, Julia moved closer to examine the scene. The Assassin was seated, partly in shadow, with an array of glass flasks next to piles of books and papers depicted on shelves behind. There was a suggestion of a rounded fruit in the darkest corner. ‘Angel of Death?’

  'Of course. It’s actually rather splendid. I can’t think why it has been in storage for so long.’

  ‘I’m sure the quality is excellent. The hands especially, but…’

  John interrupted her. ‘Oh yes, the hallmark of a good portraitist. Possibly painted by the master himself, but the rest looks like it was dashed off a bit hastily.

  He gestured vaguely towards the corner. ‘Hmm... It would be interesting to get it cleaned up a bit. It’s attributed to the school of Bernadino Castelli. His fame largely rests on painting the last Doge, but that wasn’t one of his best.’

  Julia had been hoping to display her knowledge of the practice of great masters: filling in tricky details and leaving students to do the journeyman work of commercial portraiture for less favoured - or less discerning - clients. But as usual, the curator cut through her words, devoting his attention only to the pictures.

  John had an eye for a beautiful woman in oils, but seemed not to notice them in the flesh. Julia didn’t consider herself pretty but, as a tall, slender blonde, had always attracted admiring glances.

  When she started volunteering at Fathon House, ten years younger and married, she had been gratified by his professional attitude. She abhorred casual sexism, of course, but these days she would appreciate him at least paying attention to what she was saying. She smiled at her own vanity.

  He had spent hours rummaging through the packing cases in the second floor store room, before selecting the works he wanted for the temporary exhibition space. The room was always referred to as the Specials gallery by the team, but if the paintings hung there had been that special, they would be on permanent display. The collection was extensive, but included few works from famous names to help attract tourists.

  Lugging pictures up and down the two steep flights of stairs in the Georgian townhouse was exhausting, so exhibition changeovers were less frequent than ideal and regularly postponed.

  Julia was getting impatient to go home. She thought of herself as fit and no less active at forty than a decade earlier: she took Pilates classes twice a week and swam regularly, but lifting paintings for nearly three hours, while John dithered over their relative positions around the room, had left her with aching arms and a longing for a hot bath.

  ‘Julia would you be kind enough to check that everything in the store is tidy now?’

  He was still intent on the arrangement, so Julia made no attempt to mask her irritation, but curiously she felt more relaxed as soon as she left the room and climbed the two flights of stairs once more.

  All the cases were stacked, as she knew she had left them, but she pushed a few into a neater pile behind a door. Each was clearly labelled ready for the return of its picture in a few months’ time.

  She felt reluctant to return to the gallery and had to resist the urge to sit down. Much as she would love to take the weight off her feet for a while, she had to go back downstairs. Sitting now would only delay her departure further. John must surely have completed his deliberations by now.

  On returning to the ground floor, as soon as she entered the gallery, she felt the eyes of the Assassin mocking her and she glared back.

  John was making yet another circuit of the room, nodding to himself as he stopped in front of each painting and occasionally wincing. It was an eclectic combination - none of the other pieces commanded immediate attention in the way the Venetian portrait did.

  There were a couple of still lifes; some Seckfield family portraits, including one of the prettier daughters; European city scenes and the inevitable depictions of the Kent countryside. The family, whose collection this had been, had never tired of seeing their estates reproduced on canvas.

  Julia sensed John was on the point of changing his mind again and sought to forestall him. She pointedly removed the conservator’s gloves she had been schooled to wear whenever handling any part of the collection.

  ‘I think the selection and the arrangement you have chosen really works well.’ She hoped she sounded sincere. ‘I’m sure the variety will appeal to visitors.’ She wasn’t at all sure.

  Responding unconsciously to her action, the curator removed his own gloves. He continued to stare at the Assassin. It did seem to dominate the room.

  'Perhaps you’re right, but maybe we should swap the position of the Seckfield daughter with the Venetian?’

  He reached up to the Assassin, then yelped and - uncharacteristically - swore. ‘Damn it to hell. I think I’ve got a splinter.’ He scrutinised his finger, sucked at it and re-inspected it. ‘I can’t see anything in there, but it’s stinging like crazy. Look, it’s really cut.’

  He held up his hand for Julia to see, revealing a tiny ooze of blood. She seized the opportunity to extract him from fussing over the arrangement of the pictures all night.

  ‘It must have gone in deep to have drawn blood. We’ll put a bit of antiseptic on it and wrap it up to make sure you don’t drip on anything precious.’

  John nodded agreement, his finger back in his mouth and led the way to the kitchen which served as a staff room, at the back of the house. In her experience, men reacted unpredictably to minor injury, but most were docile and cooperative when being babied.

  She followed him out of the gallery swiftly, suddenly anxious to get away. At the door, she glanced back.

  The Assassin had lost its insolent expression and now seemed lifeless and indifferent. Tiredness and irritation must have led her to imagine its earlier malevolence.

  While she fetched the first aid box, John remained silent and she laid out salve and sticky plaster, aware that he was staring at her. She had sought his attention earlier, but this was different.

  Before that moment his intensity had never seemed threatening - being directed to his work and the artefacts in his care. Having that single-minded focus shift in her direction was unnerving. His posture was subtly alt
ered.

  She became acutely conscious that it was late and they were alone in the building, with the back door bolted. The front exit was locked and they both held keys, but Julia’s were out of reach in the handbag she had placed in the cupboard, when she had arrived that morning.

  Hastily squeezing a little of the antiseptic ointment onto his finger, she enclosed the cut with a plaster. As she replaced the packets in the first aid box, John cleared his throat. She was all ready to say - “It was no trouble at all, I hope it’s stopped stinging now” - but he didn’t thank her for tending to the injury.

  Julia, I have selfishly kept you here all evening and you haven’t even had a chance to eat. Could I buy you a late dinner to make up?’

  In all the time she had been at Fathon House, he had never offered her so much as a cup of coffee.

  ‘Oh, thanks. That’s a nice thought, but I’m actually not really hungry. I had a big lunch. I should be going.’ She made to walk past, but he caught her shoulder, blocking her exit.

  His grip was firm and she stiffened immediately. His bony fingers pressed into the muscle. After an unnaturally long moment, the grasp loosened to an awkward pat on her arm.

  ‘How about a drink, then? I have a bottle of wine in the office. Don’t we deserve a small reward for so much hard work?’

  A Grand cru Bordeaux had been sitting on a shelf in the office ever since it had been given to John by a wealthy museum supporter. But she didn’t feel tempted.

  ‘Thanks, but it is a bit late. Perhaps a drink with the rest of the team next week?’ She walked purposefully past him to collect her bag from the cupboard by the door. ‘Goodnight, John.’ The room was too hot, her mouth was dry and she swallowed. ‘See you next week.’

  The words were tossed over her shoulder as she fumbled to extract her keys, but as she looked back, she noticed his hands clench into tight fists, and her glance lifted involuntarily to his face.

  She saw his eyes narrow and lips compress. Then he blinked rapidly and his expression returned to the vague gaze he customarily wore when not examining works of art.

  ‘Sorry, Julia. I was miles away. You said something?’

  ‘I said “goodnight”.’

  ‘Oh, goodnight. Make sure you lock the door behind you when you go out. I’ll probably be here for a while yet.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  As she secured the front door between her and John she exhaled, tension leaving her chest, as if she had been holding her breath for minutes.

  She walked briskly along the road and turned into the High Street, stopping at a convenience store to buy chocolate. Out in the street, she tore open the packaging and bit off large chunks as she walked down the hill.

  The comfort of the snack bar rendered her earlier agitation ridiculous. Paintings didn’t leer and John Carmichael wasn’t some kind of closet sexual predator. A hot soak and a good night’s sleep will sort you out, she told herself.

  Montagu Family Archive:

  Unattributed Document

  My Dearest Cousin,

  In haste and with all the affection of your fondest cousin. I will explain myself when I have the leisure to write at length. The tide turns and I must board the packet. I do not know how long it may be before we may meet again.

  Henry

  Chapter 2

  Wednesday, mid-morning and Julia was back at her office job, at the other end of Sevenoaks High Street, experiencing what she thought of as pre-emptive boredom. Her role encompassed personal assistant, office manager and accounts clerk.

  There was enough work to be getting on with but, unless something interesting happened, it was likely to run out by the end of the day.

  The position only warranted its four days per week commitment, during occasional surges of client activity. She had tentatively suggested shorter hours, even though she didn’t really want to take a pay cut. Her employers appreciated her honesty - they were more than content with her work and wanted to maintain the regular four days.

  They were young accountants who had been down-sized by their City bank in the last recession and set up shop as wealth management consultants to the well-heeled local community. Sevenoaks was very well-heeled - if not quite all in Louboutins. The area was ideal for their business.

  ‘Morrison, James and Latimer. How may I help you?’ For her first year, Julia couldn’t answer the phone without mentally chanting the AA Milne poem. More recently, she was only reminded of it when, as now, Penny recited it back at her. ‘James, James, Morrison, Morrison…’

  ‘Hi Penny. What’s up? You don’t usually call on the office line.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up a personal call in office hours.’

  ‘Oh, the boys are very relaxed about that sort of thing. Is everything OK? I could swap days if you need cover tomorrow rather than Friday.’

  Penny Mann had been the administrator at Fathon House for even longer than Julia had been a volunteer and swore the building would collapse if she wasn’t there to prop it up. John Carmichael left much of the museum management and all the volunteer coordination to her.

  ‘Thanks, but we’re OK for volunteer cover. It’s John that’s off sick. He’s in hospital,’ Penny said.

  ‘Good heavens. What’s the matter with him? Do you know?’ Julia’s thoughts immediately swept back to the previous Friday evening.

  ‘No, not really, but he’s pretty poorly. When he came in on Monday he just looked a bit grey. But late morning I called a taxi to get him home, because he wasn’t fit enough to cycle back. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t turn up yesterday, but I phoned in the afternoon. He’s on his own and I thought he might need something.’

  ‘I’m sure you show far more concern for him than he’d ever think to have for you. Or anyone else.’

  ‘Julia, when he picked up the phone he was incoherent - it really shook me and I called an ambulance.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the hospital since they took him in?’

  ‘Yes, first thing this morning. They were a bit cagey because I wasn’t a relative, but it sounded as if he’s no better at all.’

  ‘He was acting a bit odd on Friday. But I didn’t think he was ill. Can you manage OK?’

  ‘Hugh’s coming in later to go over John’s diary. Actually, that’s why I called. Hugh asked if you might be able to pop in, during your lunch break.’

  ‘Given the emergency, I suppose I ought to see him.’

  ‘I think he wants to ask if you could help out while John is off. He really respects your abilities, you know.’

  ‘It’s a shame he didn’t have more respect for the marriage vows he neglected to tell me about.’

  ‘I thought you two had reached a truce. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘I was just being cantankerous. Of course I’ll talk to him. I’ll be there about 1.15, if that’s OK?’

  ‘You’re a star. See you then.’

  The call set Julia to daydreaming about what she might be able to do in John’s absence. After regular attendance as a gallery steward for so long, she was proud to be accepted as an unofficial member of staff. She reckoned she knew as much about running the place as anyone, except Penny.

  The MJL partners had always been hugely accommodating over time off at short notice for deliveries or similar. If she promised to keep their work fully up-to-date, she might be able to cut her hours and have the additional time at Fathon House. Surely John was unlikely to be away for more than a week or two.

  If his illness was long-term and serious, the trustees would need a professional to take his place. Julia wondered how one might find someone - temp agencies were unlikely to have qualified museum curators on their books. Although she couldn’t imagine it would reach such a point.

  He had appeared fit and healthy on Friday, but perhaps his out-of-character behaviour could be ascribed to incipient illness. She’d never known him to take time off, beyond an odd day for a stomach bug and when a virulent flu had run through the whole team, one
winter.

  She re-applied herself to the work in hand and decided there was now no reason to linger over it to fill the day. She re-checked that all urgent tasks were up to date, making a list of everything that might need attention over the next week, if she was absent for a few days.

  Kenneth “Jimmy” James was the only one of the partners in the office that morning. At five to one, Julia stuck her head around his door to let him know she was going out.

  ‘No worries. I’ll pick up calls, if there are any. Nobody’s due in before 3PM. Take a long lunch if you need to.’

  ‘Thanks, boss.’ Using his first name felt too informal, but she just couldn’t call him “Mr James”. She found her employers absurdly youthful.

  She set out up the High Street to meet Hugh Reed. She was uncomfortable about calling him anything at all - to his face. Behind his back, to Penny, he was The Git, but there was no longer any real rancour to it. Julia’s affair with Hugh had been her first relationship after her divorce so, no doubt, she had been a bit vulnerable. She had terminated it when she became sure that his marriage wasn’t “over” and that he returned to the marital home - and probably bed - every time he left hers.

  Hugh was the chairman of the board of trustees at Fathon House and their break up had nearly made her quit as a volunteer. Penny had talked her out of it with a combination of solidarity, common sense and guilt trip. Hugh was an infrequent visitor to the museum and easy enough to avoid.

  The break-up had strengthened Julia’s friendship with Penny, at a time when she needed a level-headed chum, and she thought of it as the silver-lining to a cloudy episode in her life.

  Despite frequent gripes about her husband and expressing extreme cynicism about men in general, it was Penny who had encouraged her to try online dating - and had supported her when it went badly wrong.

  Julia had been naive to the strangeness of strangers online. After the usual mix of light flirtations and mild horror stories, there had been an obsessive: A barrage of messages which Julia ignored after her first, polite refusal, only ceased when Julia reported the trouble to the dating site.