The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  ‘Don’t take it to heart. The art world is riven with feuding and rivalries.’ He gave a reassuring smile. ‘I don’t know if it’s because there’s little scope for real power. A lot of people need at least an illusion of power, so they play it out in petty jealousies.’

  ‘A few months ago I might have found that hard to believe, but our trustees and Harriet Fairfax are enough to convince me. It is, in part, why I abandoned the curatorship here.’

  ‘Power doesn’t interest you at all, does it? You’ve become caught up in this mystery, but you’re not really driven by chronic nosiness, like me, either.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m driven at all.’

  ‘We never see ourselves as others see us. The mirror and the portrait display different images. You dislike the power-plays and you want to bring the hidden to light. I think that’s because you most value justice.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m that noble.’

  ‘But I am that nosy.

  He lightened the mood and demonstrated his curiosity as they walked on, asking about her family, her work and her life.

  When they reached the station, there were only a few minutes before his train was due to leave. He was standing very close and she had to tilt her head to look into his eyes.

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t touch the painting or the frame with your bare hand?’

  He didn’t answer, but inspected his hand and then raised it to her cheek, drawing her into a kiss. He held her close.

  ‘Don’t worry, Julia,’ he said, stroking her hair, ‘You’re safe with me.’

  Chapter 35

  Julia watched Tristan catching his train, waving his phone at her, which she took to mean that he would call. She returned to work with the memory of his kiss driving all thoughts of Henry Morton from her mind. She was content, for the moment, with the prospect of seeing him again the next week.

  He called the next day, suggesting a late supper on Friday night.

  ‘I’m giving a lecture and I won’t be free until 10, I’m afraid, but I know a great place. I already know you love Italian food.’

  ‘I’d love to, but it’s a bit too late for me - I’d need to run for the last train.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to catch the train. If you didn’t want to.’

  Julia was tempted, but it was too soon. ‘Perhaps I should just see you when the picture of the earl is ready for us to view.’

  ‘It will be a long week.’

  ‘Patience, Dr Kernow.’

  ‘A virtue, like so many others, I do not possess.’

  ~

  When Julia arrived at Fathon House on Friday morning, to finish off her catalogue of the auction-box contents, Penny instantly dragged her down to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

  ‘So what’s he like? Beyond the thousand megawatt smile.’

  ‘He’s really sweet. Very knowledgeable, but he always sort of implies he thinks you already know what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Cassie whisked him off as soon as he arrived, so I didn’t get any further than the grin.’

  ‘He seems genuinely warm and interested in everyone. He says he’s chronically nosy.’

  ‘And he’s rather attractive of course. No wedding ring.’

  Julia knew Penny never gave up hope of her finding the right man. ‘Trust you to notice. He’s divorced with a grown up daughter.’

  ‘He must have started young. So you did have a more personal conversation.’

  ‘If you want to know his age and any more personal details, you’ll have to ask him yourself.’

  Penny grinned as if she might do just that. ‘He sounds perfect so far. Any vices? Bad habits - that you know of?’

  ‘He has a taste for alliteration. Evil Earl, Nefarious Nobleman and so on. I can’t decide if it’s annoying or endearing.’

  ‘You’re in love already. When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘He’s going to call when the painting of Henry Morton is ready for us to view. It should be before the end of next week.’

  ‘No date planned in the meantime?’

  Julia debated for a moment whether to say it. ‘Actually, he did ask me to supper tonight.’

  ‘And you turned him down? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘It would have been a bit late to get a train back. I didn’t want to rush.’

  ‘For a train, or into his bed?’ Penny said.

  ‘Well, either, actually.’

  ‘Hmm. He looks like a good one to me. Seriously, though, I know you’re still cautious about getting involved with anyone. Don’t make him wait too long and think you’re not interested.’

  ‘He did say he doesn’t have any patience.’

  ‘I’ve never known any man to be patient when it comes to sex.’ Penny smirked.

  ‘I’m not going to continue this conversation.’

  ‘Don’t pretend to be so high-minded. I know you had fun transcribing Edmond’s romps in that grubby diary.’

  ‘Eighteen year olds on their first trip abroad don’t change over the centuries.’

  ‘And don’t change the subject.’

  ‘I have work to do, even if you haven’t.’ Julia fled upstairs. She wouldn’t be drawn into discussing it with Penny, but the icy caution that was a legacy from her experience of being stalked was rapidly being melted.

  She had no intention of letting Tristan think she wasn’t interested.

  It didn’t take her long to complete the last of the cataloguing. Cassie could decide whether the documents with no apparent Seckfield connection should be kept or thrown out to save space.

  She was intending to take advantage of Cassie’s invitation to access the archive and to leaf through documents for the second half of the 1700s. Finding the name Morton in the Venice archive had been serendipity. A thorough review of the Seckfield papers could reveal something new.

  The scrutiny paid off when she discovered loose papers tucked into a monograph on four-field crop rotation which was dated and so filed in 1785.

  There was a bill from a doctor with a letter appended, dated 1794, apparently for treating a servant. The treatment was unsuccessful and the patient died.

  The record of treatment referred to an earlier accident and injury while hanging a picture - presumably the subject of a previous visit and bill. The injury had evidently developed into a protracted illness, culminating in death.

  Julia turned her attention to the letter.

  My Dear George

  I have addressed the enclosed account for your attention, as I know you are now managing both the household and the estate, on behalf of your father.

  I deeply regret that it was beyond my skill, and not the Will of Our Lord to preserve Chapman’s life. He was a diligent worker and a loyal servant. His death is a sad loss for both his family and your own.

  I was surprised that what appeared to be a clean and uncomplicated fracture should bring on a protracted fever. The sequalae included curious symptoms, such as mortification of internal organs - more akin to a poisoning than proceeding from corruption at the wound site - but I hope I was able to bring some relief from his distress, at the end, and that he is now at peace.

  If you will forgive my presuming on my position as an old family friend, in proffering advice when

  none has been sought, I will say this: return that painting to its storage crate and leave it there.

  I understand that you may treasure it as a final memento of your dear brother, but there is something uncanny about the portrait. Edmond was as dear to me as a son. After nine years, we should have no need of such an object to help preserve his memory.

  Perhaps I should not listen to below-stairs gossip, but if the portrait is truly inscribed to be the Angel of Death, this only confirms my conviction that it is unholy. I am sure you will dismiss this as an old man’s superstition, but I feel you should also consider the sensibilities of your uneducated maidservants. If the painting has an unsettling effect on one, such as myself, you might, perhaps,
think how much more they may be affected.

  I trust you will not be offended by my words and weigh them according to the spirit in which they are intended.

  Please convey my warmest regards to your father, when next you correspond. I hope that he will find the fresh air and quiet life of the country will be beneficial to his health at this time.

  I remain, Sir, your most obedient servant,

  Wm. Huntleigh, Physician

  The reference to the Angel of Death confirmed without doubt that Huntleigh was referring to the Assassin. Julia had to share her new find immediately.

  ‘Penny, sorry to interrupt your work, but listen to this...’ She read the lines from Huntleigh’s letter referring to the Angel of Death.

  ‘Did this superstitious old sexist think our Assassin killed one of his patients?’

  ‘Not exactly. But his letter describes symptoms that he thought were poisoning. I can’t understand all the Georgian medical terminology, but it sounds a bit like John Carmichael’s illness.’

  ‘I thought we’d worked out that you’d have to gnaw the laburnum wood frame before you got the least bit sick?’

  ‘Tristan thinks the frame might have been coated with another poison.’ Julia hoped she wouldn’t be repeating “Tristan thinks...” and “Tristan says...” too much, like a star-struck teenager.

  ‘It sounds a bit weird, but I think I’d be relieved if all the deaths could be explained by poisoning. But why on earth would you coat a picture frame with poison?’ Penny said.

  ‘I wish I had a good answer. It’s clear that Huntleigh, like the rest of us, found the painting “unsettling”, but I’m beginning to think it’s the frame that’s the really dangerous thing.’

  Penny had been scanning through the letter and bill while Julia was speaking. ‘Do you think this Chapman got scratched by the frame, when he was hanging the picture? That might have made him lose his balance. So then he fell off his ladder and broke his arm or leg.’

  ‘It’s a tempting idea. I’m going to email the description of the symptoms to Tristan to see what he can make of it.’

  ‘I thought his doctorate was an arty one. He’s not a medic as well?’

  ‘No, not as far as I know, but he’s familiar with 18th century language and idioms. He might be able to say if the death does resemble John’s.’

  ‘I think you ought to tell Inspector Barrett as well.’

  ‘Yes I will, but I hope he doesn’t think I’m wasting his time. The police can’t prosecute a killer who’s been dead for quarter of a millennium.’

  ‘No, but I sense he’s another inquisitive person who likes to solve mysteries.’ Penny grinned.

  Julia refused to rise to the bait. ‘I’d love to know for sure if the Assassin wasn’t unpacked and hung until 1794.’

  ‘The letter implies that - “... A memento after nine years...” - but why is it important?’

  ‘If James Mackenzie, the tutor, had been there when it was unpacked, he would have identified it as the Earl of Somerset - if that’s who it was. It wouldn’t be an unknown Venetian. After Edmond’s death, with no younger boys in the family, Mackenzie would have left the Seckfields’ service.’

  ‘Wouldn’t anyone else in the family recognise the earl? It seems he was quite infamous.’

  ‘Not unless they frequented London Society and even then, they would have moved in different social circles. There was a culture of celebrity, but without photography, celebrity recognition was pretty limited.’ Julia’s library research had made her conscious of the similarities and differences between Georgian and modern gossip magazines.

  ‘And I suppose if the family had been distraught at Edmond’s death, they could have left his trunk untouched when he reached home?’

  ‘It’s all supposition with little evidence, again. But I think Edmond’s brother George finally unpacked the travelling trunk, nine years later, when he took over the household management.

  ‘Well, haven’t you checked the Accession Inventory?’ Penny asked.

  ‘The what?’ Julia knew what it meant, but she had no idea the Seckfields had kept a record of their assets, let alone listing when items were added to the collection. If anyone had thought to mention it to her earlier, it might have helped her quest to identify the Assassin.

  But then she realised if it gave 1794 as the date of acquisition, it was only with the letter she had just found that it would have made sense.

  ‘Sam’s got it in the workshop, so she can use the dates to check likely materials used in the works she’s cleaning.’

  Julia ran up the two flights. Since her holiday, she had ramped up her exercise regime and was again able to manage the stairs without feeling the exertion.

  The Assassin was still out of its frame, leaning against a wall, about as far from Sam’s workstation as possible. The frame lay on a table near her bench, now tagged with a label saying “Do not touch. Suspected toxic material”.

  ‘Have you come up to take a closer look at him?’

  ‘I hadn’t, but I will do while I’m here. I’ve never seen the inscription or graffitti - whatever it is - on the back.’

  ‘I’d rather not handle it, if you don’t mind,’ Sam said, shuddering.

  ‘I was actually surprised it’s still here.’

  ‘Cassie wants it cleaned while it’s out of the frame, but I don’t want to touch it. On the other hand, I don’t want it in here any longer than necessary. I’ll do it as soon as I’ve finished off this one.’ Sam indicated the small landscape painted on a board, on an easel in front of her.

  Julia took a pair of conservator’s gloves from a small stack by the door and lifted the canvas up, tilting it to vary the way the light shone on the brushwork. She had previously noted the fine white lines near the Assassin’s wrists, where they emerged from the peacock silk of his jacket.

  She had assumed earlier that the marks were craquelure, more noticeable against the skin tone, for some reason, but now she realised they were an intentional part of the painting: The lines left on the skin by earlier scars, probably from duelling.

  She turned the picture over and tried to imagine the words being penned - by Morton himself, most probably, thinking it was a great joke. If this was the Angel of Death sent to poison his cousin then, as Tristan had said, it seemed an unreliable way to accomplish a murder. There were surely simpler ways to go about such a thing - even when stranded in a foreign country.

  Henry would probably not have confessed any such plan to a naive country gentleman, but in Edmond’s diary, Henry’s principal concerns had been his inability to play an active political role.

  Perhaps the poison was intended for a political rival. The relationship between Henry and his cousin had not been discussed or, at least, not recorded by Edmond.

  Julia returned the Assassin to the corner of the room. ‘Sam, do you have the Collection inventory, up here?’

  Sam had both hands and mouth filled with cloths, sponges and brushes. She pointed at a shelf, where Julia found the relevant folder. She scanned the list for some time.

  ‘This is really annoying. I can’t see anything being added between the 1740’s and 1794 when there are a whole load of new ones, including the Venetian Nobleman.’

  Sam removed the brush that had been clenched between her teeth. ‘There were probably updates in between, but the original inventories have been lost. If you take a look at the original 1794 document in the archive, it should indicate which works were new at that point.’

  ‘Good idea, thanks.’ Julia turned to run back down to the archive.

  ‘Wait up. I thought you wanted to show it came to the House in 1785?’

  Julia told her about the letter she had just discovered.

  Sam poked the frame further away from her with a brush. ‘The Assassin’s first kill on English soil!’

  ‘We became fixated by the spookiness of the portrait, but all along it is the frame that we should have worried about,’ Julia said.

  S
am removed the brush from her mouth again and shook her head. ‘Poison impregnated into the frame explains a lot but it doesn’t account for everything and you know it. Was there anything special about 1794? For the Seckfields, I mean.’

  ‘I think Emma Seckfield died of pneumonia at the beginning of that year. Sometime after that, they are thought to have spent most of the time on their estates, not at the town house. That all ties in with George senior retiring to the country and his heir taking over the management.’

  ~

  Julia left a message for Inspector Barrett and he returned her call a few days later. He told her they no longer had access to a full forensic service which could have undertaken a thorough analysis of the composition of the frame of the painting.

  However, he had persuaded the hospital pathologist to visit the museum and take a sample from the frame to screen for the more common toxins.

  Cassie gave her permission for the sample to be taken, under strict supervision to ensure minimum damage to the historically significant - if not necessarily valuable - frame.

  By the time the pathologist visited, Tristan had replied to Julia with a translation of the archaic medical terminology. “Mortification” suggested necrosis and “corruption” often indicated an infection.

  Julia seized the opportunity to get a medical opinion and quizzed the pathologist on whether the 1794 servant’s death was compatible with multiple organ failure.

  The pathologist had undertaken John Carmichael’s post mortem. She would admit the symptoms were not dissimilar, but refused to be drawn beyond that.

  Julia phoned Tristan to report her conversation. ‘Do you think I should let John’s sister know?’

  ‘Maybe wait until you get a report on the frame back from the pathologist, but yes.’

  ‘You don’t think it would be upsetting - to stir everything up again - if she’s come to terms with John’s death.’

  ‘If I were in her position, I think I’d be touched that someone hadn’t given up - that they were continuing to investigate.’

  ‘Even if we don’t get anything conclusive?’ Julia remained uncertain.