The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  As she strolled to the High Street, her mood lifted and her thoughts recovered some clarity. She walked into a coffee shop and ordered a latte. She selected a seat at the window and took a small notebook out of her bag.

  She started scribbling key words as prompts: “Edmond - 1785 - Venice - Assassin / Local nobleman? - shared social circles??”, when she became aware of someone tapping on the window to attract her attention. It was Inspector Barrett of the bland smile. Someone else who doesn’t like to give anything away, she thought. She abandoned her notes when the inspector stepped inside and greeted her. He pulled an empty stool towards her and smiled a request to sit.

  ‘Please join me, Inspector. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Thank you. There’s no need to look worried. I’m not planning to accuse you of another major crime.’

  ‘I wasn’t actually worried. My mind was elsewhere entirely.’

  ‘Then I apologise for interrupting you.’

  The barista, unasked, brought an espresso over and placed it in front of the policeman, who thanked her warmly.

  He turned back to Julia. ‘You’ll be receiving formal notification quite soon, but when I saw you, I thought I’d take the opportunity to let you know. Barry Ferrers’s trial will be coming up shortly.’

  ‘I had practically forgotten all about the trial. When we got the painting back, it felt like that horrible episode was all over.’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. The CPS has to do their part. It has taken some time for the Met. to trace the ownership of everything they found at Ferrers’s properties, I gather.’

  ‘Is Ferrers still saying that I’m … that I …?’

  ‘That you were an accomplice? I don’t know. But you are likely to be called as a witness.’

  ‘Does that mean I won’t know until I’m on the witness stand whether I’ll just be asked to confirm details of the theft, or interrogated about my possible involvement?’

  ‘It’s not quite like TV dramas, but the defence may try to discredit you as a reliable witness. If you haven’t attended a criminal trial before, you might like to sit in on one beforehand, to familiarise yourself with the proceedings.’

  ‘Now I am worried. If you think I need to prepare…’

  ‘A courtroom can be a very tense environment and it’s not unusual for even highly intelligent and articulate people to find that their minds go blank under stress. Forewarned and all that.’

  ‘Thank you. I think. I might just take a day off work to see what I might be in for. I don’t suppose you can recommend where I could find an appropriate case?’

  ‘I’m sure almost any day in the public galleries at the Old Bailey would suffice.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve given me something to think about.'

  When the inspector departed, Julia picked up her notes again and tried to recapture her thoughts about connecting the Assassin portrait to Edmond Seckfield.

  It was something about giving … or not giving. She caught it, at last. Things that weren’t given away freely had to be paid for. Almost all the documents she had catalogued were bills. Everyone kept records of sales and purchases.

  She wondered what sort of records relating to Bernadino Castelli might survive in Venice. There might be a rich store of information about the artist that she was unaware of and set her mind to how she could find out.

  Chapter 22

  When she got home that night, Julia opened her laptop on the kitchen table. She started googling to try to get a sense of what records might survive from the 18th century in Venice.

  She found references to the SiASVc - the Information System of the State Archives of Venice. That sounded promising, but she couldn’t locate anything from the public access portal.

  There might be more available to the professional community, but if she put in a request using her Fathon House credentials, a check might show they were out of date and raise questions with Cassie.

  Julia wasn’t ready to share her find - or her quest - with the new curator yet. Besides, she couldn’t read or write Italian, so making the request, let alone interpreting any results, would have been problematic.

  She cast around for someone who might be able to help. When she thought of Sofia Romano, she couldn’t imagine why that name hadn’t sprung to mind as soon as she thought about translations.

  She had almost lost contact - their interactions dwindled to little more than a Christmas e-card - but when she studied for her MA, she had been firm friends with Sofia, an Italian spending a few years in London.

  Julia was not certain where she was now, but had a vague memory that Sofia originally came from somewhere near Venice.

  It took her a while to find the email address and rather longer to craft a message to explain her interest in a Venetian portrait and the Grand Tour visit when it might have been purchased.

  Julia crossed her fingers that the address was still valid and the story would catch Sofia’s imagination, and she pressed send.

  It was so uncertain whether Sofia would reply, whether she would be willing or able to help.There was only the faintest chance that anything of relevance could be found in Venice, after more than two hundred years. But Julia felt certain that this would be the route to unmasking the Assassin’s true identity.

  When her phone pinged to flag an incoming email, a short time later, she unreasonably hoped it was an instant reply from Italy. Instead, it was Cassie sending a group message to all the volunteers. The new curator was intent on her agenda of increasing accessibility.

  Cassie had organised a half day “activity session” for a group of Year 4 children from a local primary school. She was asking for a working party of volunteers to put in extra time for setting up the session, supervising children and tidying up afterwards.

  Many of the volunteers were retired teachers. In the replies that copied in everyone rather than replying just to Cassie, Julia saw that a number liked the opportunity to work with children again, but some were evidently concerned about sticky fingers sullying furnishings, and fragile artefacts suffering from boisterous treatment, and they were volunteering to assist primarily to protect the collection.

  The Specials gallery would be closed to the public for the morning and filled with borrowed bean bags to accommodate the young visitors. In smaller groups, the children would have guided tours to explore the rest of the museum.

  Julia met up with Penny for a mid-week lunch, the day before the event was scheduled.

  Penny looked unusually harassed. ‘You wouldn’t believe the angst that this blasted session is causing.’

  ‘I think I can imagine. Some of the volunteers got very cantankerous on my watch. They have probably acquired a taste for whinging.’

  ‘That’s not the half of it. I’ve had teachers complaining. I’ve even had parents complaining.’

  I would have thought Fathon House was just the sort of outing Sevenoaks parents would approve of. What’s the problem?’

  ‘They are saying things like it’s disrupting the kids’ routine; they might get run over in the High Street; they might see “inappropriate” paintings.’

  ‘The Bathing Party?’ Julia named an impressionist work in the main galley.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You’d need a good imagination to see anything inappropriate in that watercolour other than mediocre technique. These sound like excuses.’

  ‘Yes, well, there were a variety of issues.’ Penny sounded evasive and Julia knew what she didn’t want to say: fear of exposure to the Assassin’s Curse had spread to the locals.

  ‘Have you suggested to Cassie that any “inappropriate” artwork could be removed for the visit?’

  For a second, Penny looked as malicious as the Assassin himself. ‘I think our new curator can decide for herself what is appropriate for the school party.’

  Julia realised that the office relationships were not as harmonious as they could be. It took a lot to ruffle Penny’s feathers. ‘I almost wish I was going to be there.�
��

  ‘No you don’t. And I wish I could take the day off and avoid it myself.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to hearing all about it when I’m in on Friday.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be taking yourself off upstairs again?’ Penny mimed a wistful pose. ‘It was fun while you were in the office.’

  ‘Cassie’s not a bundle of laughs?’

  ‘I’m still withholding judgement. Maybe it’s because she’s still nervous in the new role - although she certainly doesn’t seem it - but her mood changes almost instantly some days. She’ll come in the morning, perfectly groomed of course, but you can see she might have made a heavy night of it. And then an hour later she’s hyper.’

  ‘Caffeine kicking in, I’d imagine.’

  ‘If it is, I want to know where to get coffee like that. Julia, whatever she’s using, I don’t think you can buy it in a supermarket.’

  It took Julia a moment to digest this unexpected morsel of gossip. ‘Good Grief. And she’s taking it at work? I suppose I’m naive. I could imagine she might be a… a recreational drug user. Oh God, that sounds so priggish.’

  I know what you mean, though - clubs and parties. I thought doing coke at work was just Wall Street Trader types.’

  ‘Certainly not museum curators. This would really give the schools something to complain about, if they knew.’

  Penny looked aghast. ‘You aren’t going to speak to anyone, are you? It’s just a suspicion - I don’t have proof.’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s absolutely none of my business.’

  ‘Thanks. As long as she’s doing her job, I’ll just get on with mine.’ Penny checked her watch. ‘Speaking of which, I need to get back.’

  ‘OK. Good luck for tomorrow and I’ll see you Friday. Oh no, I won’t. I’ve just remembered, I’m taking the day to go and watch a trial at the Old Bailey.’

  ‘Tell me all about it next week. Must dash.’

  Julia lingered only to finish her salad before returning to MJL. The consultancy was busy with the new clients that Julia had helped to attract via the reception at Fathon House.

  For that reason, she had chosen to forego her museum day that week, rather than ask for a day off, having been absent for so long.

  ~

  She had no idea what to expect at the Old Bailey and as she took a seat in the public gallery, her heart was racing almost as if she was already in the witness box. She quickly became absorbed in the proceedings - both the formalities of the court processes and the issues in the ongoing trial, which she had joined on its second or third day.

  Following Inspector Barrett’s advice, she transferred to a different court for the beginning of the afternoon session.

  Now that she had some sense of the questioning and cross-examination, it wasn’t so exciting to watch. Or perhaps it was just a dull case with tedious minutiae of evidence being picked over by the lawyers.

  Julia’s concentration began to drift.

  The atmosphere at Fathon House had changed since Cassie’s arrival. There was tension, following her less-than-encouraging introduction to the new regime, but it was not quite like the oppressive sense of the Assassin’s presence whenever Julia walked through the front door.

  That didn’t mean she was free of him, though. It was more as if she now carried with her a fragment of Venetian’s persona. It was generally quiescent, but she was still having snatches of odd dreams.

  She thought of Sam propounding her ideas of temporary possession: the Assassin’s spirit returning to his portrait when he had finished with a host vessel. Perhaps he left something behind - like an ongoing infection. Was it that remnant which festered and sooner or later killed its victims?

  Hugh had joked that Julia was having uncharacteristic Machiavellian thoughts. Could they originate not merely from imaging the Assassin’s behaviour, but from his internal prompting? Was she fatally contaminated?

  Her head dropped, then snapped up as she returned to an awareness of the courtroom. She must have dozed off and when she looked around the court, she experienced a moment’s confusion.

  In the time - perhaps seconds - she had slept, she had dreamt of a different chamber filled with arguing men - many of them gowned and bewigged. The image in her head reminded her of parliamentary debates, but felt like another of what she thought of as the Assassin’s memories.

  It meant nothing. The wigs; the judge being addressed “my Lord”; the archaic formality of the court; it must have all contributed to conjuring a random combination of ideas.

  She tried to pay attention to the trial but her mind now felt jumbled with almost-remembered phrases and images. By the end of the afternoon, she was annoyed by her inability to concentrate and mildly frustrated that she wouldn’t see how the case played out in the following week.

  On the train she resolutely ignored the oddities of her dream and went over what she had learned of the court proceedings.

  She had noted the barristers’ mastery of case details and ability to react instantly to the witnesses’ responses in order to tenaciously pursue a point.

  She knew that her own brain functioned at a much slower pace and tried to comfort herself that at least it was retentive. Telling “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but” was second nature.

  However, she still felt uneasy that she had lost details of her conversation with Ferrers. Although her mind shied away from confronting it, she knew it was the day that she had imagined the Assassin had possessed her.

  Had memories of that morning disappeared back into the portrait of the Assassin, along with the malign spirit of its subject? Forcing herself to follow that line of speculation, had they been exchanged for the Assassin’s dreams? Could she reverse the swap?

  If she truly believed in the power of the painting to take over her personality, the last thing she would do would be to invite it in a second time, just for the possibility of recovering details of a few hazy hours.

  But if she didn’t believe in its power, she should have no fear of touching it. But then it wouldn’t be able to help her remember either.

  There was no way to apply logic to an irrational idea. She resolved that the next time she was at the museum she would re-trace the route of the tour once more, to try to capture any significant words that still evaded her.

  If Ferrers persisted in his absurd claim that she was a party to the theft, she would be as prepared as she could be to show it was groundless.

  A summons to appear as a prosecution witness in the case of the Crown vs. Barry Ferrers arrived the next day. Perhaps what she had said to Ferrers was unimportant. A more worrying issue was the possible cross-examination on how the police found where Ferrers had kept the stolen painting.

  If she was questioned on her role in this, she had no idea how she could answer.

  Chapter 23

  Julia didn’t meet up with Penny during the following week, so it wasn’t until Friday that she saw her, when Julia arrived to continue her document-cataloguing project and try to marshal her errant memories.

  Penny was at her desk, but the door to the curator’s office was open. Rather than have Cassie overhear her interrupting Penny’s work, Julia fixed a coffee-break time to chat to her friend and went upstairs to put in an hour’s work, adding summary details of dull papers to her database.

  When Julia went down to the kitchen, Penny was pouring coffee into two insulated mugs.

  ‘I was going to bring these up to your workspace. Less chance of others earwigging than in here.’

  ‘Do you have some more scandal then?’

  Penny’s conspiratorial grin appeared again, ‘Not really, but I take it nobody had spoken to you about the school visit?’

  ‘Not a word. How did it go? I didn’t see any signs of damage on my way through.’

  ‘No. No ill effects to the property, but… come on - let’s go upstairs.’ Penny wouldn’t say anything further until they were settled into the shambles of a storeroom, where Julia had set up a desk. ‘A
few of the volunteers were a bit frazzled by the end of it.’

  ‘How about you?’

  Penny smirked. ‘I found I had lots of urgent tasks that kept me tied to the desk all morning.’

  ‘So you avoided the mayhem altogether?’

  ‘Not quite mayhem. The kids liked the opportunity to sprawl around drawing for half the morning, but I gather they were generally bored by the House.’

  ‘It’s probably pretty dull, for the average nine year old.’

  ‘For most of them, maybe, but two sensitive souls were seriously upset by the Assassin. One had to be taken home, but not before vomiting all over the parquet.’

  ‘At least it wasn’t on a carpet.’ Julia felt relieved her work schedule had prevented her from feeling obliged to help on the day.

  ‘Imogen told me all the volunteers just looked pointedly at Cassie until she fetched a bucket and cleaned it up.’

  ‘The event was an unqualified success, then?’

  ‘Funnily enough, Cassie says she thinks it went very well, and we’ll have to do more like it.’

  ‘I wonder if she’ll have sufficient volunteer support next time.’ Julia certainly wouldn’t be offering.

  ‘Actually, I don’t know if she’ll get uptake from other schools. I heard rumours that a few of the other kids had nightmares afterwards and the Mums’ social media went a bit mad.’

  ‘Frankly, I’m not surprised by the nightmares,’ Julia said, ‘If I was an impressionable child and had to spend a whole morning in the same room with that painting, I’d have nightmares too.’

  She nearly mentioned her “Assassin dreams”. They weren’t conventional nightmares - within the dream she wasn’t scared - it was only when she woke that she felt afraid she had been a different person while she slept. If she said anything to Penny, her friend would think her unhinged.

  ‘Have you been in the Specials room this morning?’ Penny said, breaking in on her thoughts.