He found Angela sitting on his desk, rubbing her engagement ring absentmindedly, tears streaming down her face. She had a habit of spinning the slightly too-large band around her fourth digit with a swipe of her thumb. Now, the twirling became almost manic. He watched her for several moments, unsure how to approach the lass. She had not even noticed him enter the office as she gaped out the window upon a rainy Edinburgh afternoon, whirling the ring around her finger. The large diamond refracted light from a desk lamp, creating a miniature disco ball effect on the ceiling.
"I'm sorry, Darling. I came as soon as I heard," Duncan said, approaching the desk.
Angela didn't budge or even shift her gaze. He reached out and gave her a gentle touch on the arm, then brushed a lock of her auburn hair aside. He'd never seen her like this, and it unnerved him. She looked so tiny, pale, distraught, and vulnerable. Several seconds ticked by as large raindrops pelted the window, creating a blurred view of the city and a sound akin to the snare section of the drum corps in a military tattoo.
"Are you, Duncan? Are you sorry or just relieved?"
He drew in a breath, ignoring the sting of her words. They had fought on more than one occasion about her involvement with Sunny. He filled his lungs with oxygen and lifted Angela from his large, wooden desk, placing her squarely in front of him. He stared down into her eyes, trying to read her feelings. The color of her irises changed, depending on her mood and attire, and they no longer showed the violet-blue he'd grown used to. She searched his dark eyes, matching Duncan's intensity. His instincts took over as he enveloped the lass in a bear hug, attempting to comfort her.
He whispered, "I can't suffer anything that pains you."
He wanted to add, Please don't let this come between us, but he thought better of it. Although he loved Angela with every fiber of his being, he was wise enough to recognize he was no expert on the female species. He feared saying something that would make matters worse. Instead, he kept quiet and allowed her to grieve in her own way. When she eventually excused herself in order to splash cold water on her face, he called his mum and asked that someone bring a car by the office to pick them up.
Back at the house, Margaret put on the kettle and comforted Angela as best she could while Duncan looked on. His mum had dropped everything at the restaurant and driven to his office as fast as regulations and Edinburgh traffic allowed. Now, she wrapped his fiancée in a soft throw and handed her a cup of steaming tea. The three of them huddled close as the lass spoke of her regrets and fond memories of Sunny.
"Don't be surprised when your grief suddenly erupts, Dear. It takes a good two years before one doesn't feel it on a daily basis. Take comfort in knowing you were a blessing to the poor woman when she needed it most," Margaret said as she poured a second cup of liquid comfort for the girl.
After some time, Angela decided she'd contact Hadley and explain she'd need a few more days away from the office. Then, she hoped to take a nap. When she retired to the bedroom, Margaret put her finger to her lips, indicating for Duncan to keep quiet.
"I wish she had someone to talk to," she finally said in a hushed tone.
"She's got me!" he responded in a loud whisper, producing a fine mist of spittle.
"Of course, Dear." Margaret patted her son's forearm. "But you've never lost your parents, and it's obvious this Sunny became somewhat of a surrogate for all of Angela's daughterly feelings."
"That's true. Surely, you can help her, Mum. You went through that kind of loss when Grandma died."
"Hmmm. I'll certainly be here for her if she needs me, but I'm not certain how much a lass wants to confide in her future mother-in-law. I wish she had someone neutral. Say, isn't your neighbor a counselor of some sort?"
"My neighbor?" Surely, carpenter Trotter doesn't hold a degree in psychology?
"Yes, at the office. The woman above you. Isn't she a—"
"She's a psychologist."
"It might not be a bad idea for Angela to pop in and see her."
Duncan frowned. He didn't like the idea of a head shrinker getting hold of his fiancée. Besides, he knew nothing of the woman's credentials.
"I don't know if that's a good idea. I'd recommend the vicar at Taye, if he were still around. I hear the new chap's too young." He stared at his cup for a moment, recalling Skye's complaints regarding the fresh man, then added, "What about our vicar?"
Margaret made a face, and he realized relations had not improved between his mum and the rector. The man ousted her from a hospitality position in favor of his wife when he first arrived at the kirk. That led to her trip to Spain and ultimately opening Cocina Gaélico with Mondo. Business had been good their first week, too, with no sign of letting up.
"I'm going to stick around here the rest of the day in case Angela needs me. You might as well get some work done on that computer of yours," she said, smiling as she sauntered to the hall and pointed at a framed magazine cover featuring her son. "Remember, you're the Dashing Duncan, A Cute Actuary, and—"
"All right, Mum." He stopped her before she progressed to some of the more unflattering titles the print media had recently bestowed upon him. He'd seen the gleam in her eye and knew a joke at his expense was on its way.
"Deranged Dewar," she muttered, sporting a sly grin and hoping to lighten the mood.
He reached for his laptop and went over the information he'd been gathering. Herbert Smith, his forensics expert, agreed with the conclusions of law enforcement that Wainwrithe had hung himself. Charles Bishop, L and G's fine arts expert, expressed concern at the handling of the Munch painting. He relayed that the piece had been in the possession of Begbie and Wainwrithe for several years before selling almost six months ago. He expressed surprise at it being returned by the buyer.
"Munch left most of his paintings to the Norwegian government, so there aren't many in private hands. Summer Night on the Beach, referred to by some as Midnight Sun, is in a private collection somewhere, and the one you saw is its partner," Charles said.
The untitled masterpiece Duncan had seen half-wrapped, on the floor, had disappeared after its sale at auction in Geneva in 1921, only to resurface through Begbie and Wainwrithe. They'd purchased it from an anonymous Swiss collector who'd held it throughout the war years in obscurity and safety.
The books provided by Abigail added kindling to the ideas burning in the investigator's brain. Duty-free art warehouses, where high-rollers stored art they would never see, recently all the rage, received criticism. An irate Russian oligarch spoke out regarding being taken advantage of by a former friend and expert, upon whose opinion he'd over paid for several masterpieces traded in these depots of luxury goods. Of course, his one-time comrade received exorbitant commissions or finder's fees for the paintings.
An artist, who'd already served prison time for his part in a scheme, claimed several well-known museums had, unbeknownst to their advisors, counterfeits of masters hanging on their walls. In other ruses, copies of works taken in famous heists were sold over and over on the black market as the originals. Bogus, phony pieces held pride of place in many would-be-collectors' safes. Then there was all the art illegally seized by the Nazis that still resided in town halls, galleries and private collections all over Europe, separated from rightful owners by red tape. One scam touched on caught his attention above the others, and it had taken place right there in the UK.
It seems a talented young man had been recruited to paint pictures in the same style as various well-known artists from the nineteenth century. His cohort then doctored phony pages to insert in old legitimate sale catalogues, creating instant provenance for the fake paintings. When presented for sale, the duo simply cited the artwork's history at prior auctions. A buyer's agent would be shown the catalogues with the sham information, and a heretofore unknown masterpiece was created and sold. With World War II providing the perfect cover for unknown transfers and acquisitions, and no one left alive who could attest to the supposed sale and authentication of the work, purchasers sn
apped up these new discoveries as legitimate masters.
Bertram Wainwrithe had worked at three major auction houses, including one in Geneva, before joining Clarence Begbie's establishment. Duncan guessed the man had ample opportunity to doctor old sale catalogues, newspaper clippings, etcetera, and he probably had unlimited access to the archives at his prior workplaces. He may have even been an inside man for years before leaving the world of public sales to become Begs's official partner.
Duncan's instincts told him something was amiss with the Purveyors of Antiquities and Curiosities, in spite of the likeable Begs and everyone's conclusion that his partner's death was a suicide. He'd have to do some additional digging before presenting his hunch to L and G. For now, he'd enter a few more tidbits into his fault tree analysis and wait to see what popped out.
He tapped out a message to Charles Bishop asking for an inventory and history of all the artwork and antiques covered for Begbie and Wainwrithe over the years. Then, he perused Bertram's health records closely, looking for any mention of dementia or other mental health issues. The man appeared to pass his physicals with flying colors, with the exception of a slight case of high blood pressure for which he took medicine . . . not bad for a man of his age. Something else occurred to him, and he made a mental note to pursue the idea.
Duncan held his breath as he opened an email from Ben Davis. The private detective worked fast. He'd uncovered that Peter Menzies had complained for his safety during his first days at Greenock. Peter asked to be separated from the general population but wouldn't name the source of his fears or mention any specific threats, so officials refused his request. His mental health deteriorated rapidly, and a week before his death, a doctor ordered a mild antidepressant for the prisoner under the Act2 Care program. In addition, the sheriff's determination in conjunction with a doctor's examination ruled the death a suicide. Menzies had chipped away at the plaster ceiling above his cell with a utensil smuggled from the dining hall. After locating a pipe, he'd fashioned a noose from his shirt and killed himself.
"Making progress?"
Margaret's voice snapped him from his thoughts. His head pounded and his neck hurt. Duncan stood and stretched, then reached for the aspirin bottle in a nearby drawer. He ran his fingers through his hair before sitting back down with his head in his hands. Bad things come in threes.
"Yes and no, Mum. Yes and no."
Chapter 9
Do You Ever Really Know A Person?
Nigel approached them dressed in a bespoke dark navy Savile Row suit, his uniform de rigueur. His carriage and skin tone signified exhaustion, even while he projected a masculine elegance and sophistication. The man's thick salt and pepper hair conveyed his age more than any other feature, but his normally sparkling blue eyes now appeared dull. Since the burden of caring for his ex-wife was over, the youthful vigor he'd maintained seemed somewhat collapsed. However, he broke into a broad, dazzling white smile when he spotted Angela.
"So good to see you, Dear," he said as he enveloped her in an embrace.
Angela broke into sobs again. She tried to pull away, but Nigel just hugged her tighter.
"I… I don't want to ruin your suit," she said, gasping for air.
"Oh, pshaw! I've a dozen just like it in my closet."
An unspoken air of intimacy existed between these two, which Duncan sensed. He knew his fiancée had visited Spain once or twice to see Sunny, but that would hardly account for the degree of closeness he detected between them.
Eventually, the men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries after the lass regained some composure. Nigel led them into a conference room, pulling a chair out for Angela and offering them each a drink. A tea and coffee service had been laid out by hotel staff, along with a large assortment of biscuits. After they'd settled in, the former race car driver began.
"I want to read the part of the will that pertains to you, Dear," he said, pulling a thick document from a briefcase. He continued, "As you may have guessed, Sunny named me her executor. Her estate was completely separated from that of her current, or last husband, years ago when they came to a financial agreement. The solicitors will handle all of that while I deal with the personal aspects of her wishes."
Nigel smiled at Angela before continuing, his eyes glancing from the document to the girl at regular intervals. "It is my express wish that Angela Smith receive my entire Chanel archive, along with a monthly stipend of seven thousand pounds, to be adjusted for inflation, for the rest of her life. I hereby appoint Angela Smith to the board of the Sunny Bentwell Foundation for the Advancement of Fashion as Art, heretofore to be known as FAFA, with an accompanying salary as seems proper to my executor and chairman of the board of FAFA. In addition, should Ms. Smith choose to include the Chanel archive or any pieces thereof under the FAFA umbrella, she will be granted control of those pieces and a special position shall be created on the board of directors and filled by Ms. Smith to oversee such activity. Such position shall also have a salary as deemed appropriate by the chairman of the board of FAFA and—"
A loud bawl escaped from Angela, interrupting Nigel. The lass had sat quietly in shock at Sunny's generous bequest until this point, but now she cried uncontrollably. Duncan, who already had his arm around the girl, gave her a squeeze as she mustered all of her self-control in an effort to stifle her sobs. Both men encouraged her to take some tea, and Sunny's executor wisely put aside the will for the time being.
"I can't get over how kind she's been to me," she managed to squeak out in a voice quite different from her own. "Sh–she knew how m–much I adore Chanel," she stammered between sobs.
"She recognized your true heart, Dear. In the end, you and I were the only ones who cared for her. The time you spent with her meant everything to Sunny."
"I loved her, Nigel."
"I know you did, Dear, and more importantly, so did she."
His words, coming from one who knew Sunny better than anyone, brought immense comfort to Angela who, truth be told, was torturing herself over not doing more for her friend. Duncan sensed the lass relax, and Nigel once again took up the will.
"To my dear friend, Angela Smith, I want to say that you have been as close to a daughter as I was ever given the opportunity to have. You have blessed an old, unworthy woman with great joy and the distraction needed in her last months on earth. You brought comfort and companionship when others deserted me, and for that I am grateful. I go to meet eternity knowing I am forgiven for my wrongdoing because you have shared Christ's love and his plan of salvation for me, His child. Knowing that I can contribute to your future comfort in some small way gives me great pleasure. Be happy."
Nigel's hands trembled noticeably, making the pages rustle like dry leaves. His own eyes filled with water, but not one drop slipped from his lashes. He set down the papers and smiled at Angela, who had tears streaming down her face.
"I'd like to express my own gratitude for the care you showed Sunny. We can work out the details later, but you should give some thought to establishing a small museum at FAFA's headquarters to house the Chanel. I think that's what she had in mind when she talked about a special position for you on the board. But, she'd want it to be your decision, Angela. We'll discuss it when we meet again, say, in a month or two. By the way, you're the only one she made such a bequest for. She also added a clause that should anyone contest her will, they would be cut off completely."
"I'm overwhelmed."
Duncan, who had kept silent during most of the meeting, felt overcome as well. His fiancée could quit her job and do anything she pleased, within reason, thanks to Sunny's generosity. When he took the case in Spain, he could never have foreseen this outcome. Angela never would have met the woman had not his mum invited her. He shook his head at the memory. He first recognized his feelings for the lass in Manchiego.
"Nigel, can you join us for dinner?" he asked.
The older man checked his watch.
"Yes, I think that's a wonderful idea. Should we step
out or enjoy luncheon at the Balmoral?" he replied, some of the brightness having returned to his eyes.
After a light meal and an explanation from Nigel that Sunny expressly requested no memorial service, their party split up. Nigel Carlyle flew off to Paris to see other future board members of the newly established FAFA. Angela said she fancied a stroll, and though he offered to accompany her, she insisted he go to the office. When Hadley Cocoran heard about her loss, he made an excuse to come to Edinburgh. He'd requested a meeting with Duncan the following day to go over the investigator's progress on the insurance case, so he needed to prepare for that. Besides, she wanted to be alone, think, and enjoy Edinburgh's fresh air. She'd join him later.
By the time he reached Dewar and Associates, mist had turned to drizzle and he sensed a downpour approaching. He raced up the stairs, nearly bumping into a woman.
"Pardon me," he said, bobbing his head to the right. "Got carried away trying to escape the mizzle."
"No harm," she said without glancing back.
When Duncan stopped at the first floor landing and she proceeded on, he acted on impulse.
"Excuse me," he called after the woman.
She stopped and turned, giving him a quick once-over.
"Are you the h—ah, psychologist from up above?" he pointed to the ceiling with his forefinger, glad he'd stopped himself before saying head shrinker.
When she laughed, he noticed how young she looked, not nearly old enough to be a psychologist in spite of her dark business suit and sensible matching shoes. She joined him on the landing, and he saw she was short as well.
"When you say from up above, are you suggesting I'm heaven-sent, an answer to a desperate prayer, maybe?" the raven-haired lass suggested, tilting her head back so she could look at him from under her small glasses.
Her round face made her appear as if she were a secondary school student. With long hair reaching well below her shoulders and a slight figure, she reminded him of an annoying classmate he had back in the States. All she needed was to plait her hair into pigtails. He felt his neck turning red, and he quickly ran his fingers through his hair, not knowing how to answer.
The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6) Page 8