The Hogarth Conspiracy

by Alex Connor

  “I also feel a little … out of place.”

  Oliver sighed, thinking of home and how much he wanted to be in bed—Sonia next to him—nursing a glass of brandy and a copy of The Burlington Magazine.

  “I was talking to the girls.”

  “I only spoke to one girl,” Lim Chang offered, as though that minimized the offense. “What were they saying to you?”

  “They were just talking about their work. Well, about who they worked for…. I didn’t know they’d be like that. Well read, intelligent. It’s not what you expect.” Uncomfortable, he slid off the subject. “We’ve still got hours to go before we get to London. Are you going to work until then?”

  In answer, Lim Chang looked at the BlackBerry and then glanced back at his fellow passenger. He seemed to be toying with his answer.

  “I think,” he said finally, “that perhaps I’ve worked long enough.”

  Two more awkward hours passed, Oliver in an agony of physical pain and mental unease and Lim Chang reserved, difficult company. Sleeping most of the time, Kit Wilkes barely stirred; the stewards attended to the passengers’ needs with quiet efficiency. Back in the private cabin, the girls were back to amusing Bernie, only occasionally tripping through to fetch drinks or go to the bathroom. Their lack of both clothing and any kind of inhibition was unnerving, and when the pilot announced that the plane would be landing in ten minutes, Lim Chang and Oliver Peters breathed a genuine sigh of relief.

  Then, just when the passengers were getting ready to prepare for landing, a befuddled Bernie Freeland, his eyes bloodshot, suddenly staggered and stumbled into the main cabin. Although a known teetotaler, to all appearances he was very drunk.

  Lurching toward Oliver, he leaned forward.

  “Jesus, I feel ill,” he said, wrenching open the top of his shirt. “Listen to me,” he whispered between short, rasping breaths, and leaned closer to Oliver. “If anything happens to me. If anything happens—”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Just listen,” he urged, his voice hoarse, his breath foul, “I can trust you. I know that…. I’ve got the Hogarth, the painting the art world’s always talked about. Guy Manners stole it; then he panicked and offered it to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The missing Hogarth—I’ve got it.”

  Three

  OLIVER WAS HAVING TROUBLE HEARING OVER THE NOISE OF THE engines, but it was obvious to him that Bernie Freeland was close to panic, and the other passengers were turning around and straining to listen.

  “Bernie, sit down.”

  “NO! Listen to me!” His voice was almost a hiss. “It’s the famous Hogarth … the picture with the Prince of Wales in it.”

  Startled, Oliver gripped the arm of his seat; the plane was lurching, and the older steward came and hurried Bernie to his seat and put on his safety belt. His eyes wide, Bernie stared imploringly at Oliver across the aisle, then slid off into a drugged torpor.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Oliver asked Malcolm Jenner, the steward, who was bending down toward his employer.

  “I think someone’s spiked his drink,” Jenner replied, his voice low. “One of the girls probably, for a laugh. They know Mr. Freeland can’t handle it. Any alcohol has a really bad effect on him.” He nodded toward Oliver, all brisk competence. “Don’t worry; it’ll wear off. Mr. Freeland won’t remember a thing later.”

  Mr. Freeland won’t remember a thing…. Oliver hoped not. Leaning back in his seat, he was suddenly aware that both Kit Wilkes and Lim Chang were staring at him. He closed his eyes, Bernie’s Freeland’s words echoing in his head:

  I’ve got the Hogarth painting. The one the art world’s always talked about…. It’s the Hogarth with the Prince of Wales in it….

  Oh, Jesus, why? Oliver thought. Why now? He felt a queasy terror, his blood running faster, his brain pumping. Was it true that Bernie Freeland had the painting of the Prince of Wales with his whore, Polly Gunnell?

  Oliver tried to keep calm. How could the Australian have the Hogarth? And what had he said about Guy Manners selling it to him? Manners, a notorious gambler who hung around the art world like a ghoul. Adopted by a wealthy banker, he had been a troubled child, expelled from Eton for theft and later disowned by his family. Oliver thought about the Hogarth, the third picture in the lost series of The Harlot’s Progress, which was the artist’s damning criticism of his society—of prostitution, of the whorehouses, the pimps, the lechers of his time. The world had believed it long destroyed, and it was imperative that everyone continue to believe that.

  Because only he, Oliver Peters, knew the painting still existed—because he had it.

  Or did he?

  Four

  THE CAR PARK WAS QUIET. OLIVER LEANED BACK IN HIS SEAT, remembering the last minutes of that fateful plane journey. He knew that soon he would begin his drive home, but not until he had composed himself. Closing his eyes, he could picture the events as though they were taking place again. The jet had been circling, coming in to land at Heathrow, while Oliver stared at Bernie Freeland in open shock as the Australian’s words reverberated in his head. Guy Manners had stolen the Hogarth, then sold it? If that was true, it would matter more to his confidant than Freeland realized.

  Because they had stolen the painting from him.

  Oliver knew that it hadn’t been taken from his gallery—the Hogarth had never been housed there—but from the bank where he had a safety deposit box. The same bank where the Hogarth had been placed over fifteen years ago when his elderly father had passed it on to him.

  “Guard it with your life,” his father had urged. “The painting has incredible power. Men would kill to own it.” His father had paused and then told him, “There is also an inscribed ring with a message from the Prince of Wales. Together, they prove the existence of a royal bastard. For safety’s sake, the ring must never be hidden with the painting. It must be kept separate.” He had clutched Oliver’s arm tightly. “If this evidence fell into the wrong hands, it could bring down the monarchy. But of the two, the painting is the more important because no one knows of the existence of the ring.”

  Oliver had looked at his father in astonishment and disbelief. “Why hasn’t the picture been destroyed?” he’d asked.

  “Because it’s proof. Like the ring. Without them there’s no evidence; with them there’s confirmation that there’s an alternative successor to the English throne. One day it might be useful. If the House of Windsor faltered after the queen’s death, there would be an alternative.” He had paused again, an old man passing on an inheritance he revered and feared at the same time. “No one must ever know about Polly Gunnell’s child. And no one must ever find out that there’s a living descendant.”

  Oliver’s mind went back to the flight. He had sat in his seat, rigid, thanking God that they were coming down to land before people could use their BlackBerries or cell phones. No one, he had reassured himself, could have made contact with his or her cohorts on the ground. No one could have passed on the damning news about the Hogarth. Or maybe, he had thought hopefully, none of them had overheard Bernie Freeland’s garbled, panicked confession.

  Then again, maybe they had….

  He relived those minutes, sitting in the plane, his mind churning. Had Freeland really got the Hogarth, or had he been duped? Perhaps the work was a fake … perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Maybe the Hogarth hadn’t gotten into Bernie Freeland’s hands. It was intolerable to imagine how the painting’s secret might have been exposed, touted around by the likes of the Australian: the scandal fanned for the sake of publicity, the royal family humiliated, and, worse, the line of succession threatened. Freeland wasn’t the type to act nobly, not when there was money in ignominy. At least the ring hadn’t been stolen, Oliver thought with relief. That damning piece of evidence had been hidden elsewhere and remained safe.

  Thinking back, Oliver remembered how he had turned to look at Kit Wilkes, thinking, Please, God, don’t let
him be in on it. If Wilkes knew the secret, it would be exposed as soon as they arrived at Heathrow. Realizing that he was being watched, Wilkes had looked up and caught Oliver’s gaze. A knowing smile had flickered around the fleshy lips before he had turned his attention back to his magazine. What had that been about? Oliver had wondered. Had he been intimating that he had heard what Bernie Freeland said? Or had it just been that ambiguous smile of his, which only just managed to be this side of a sneer? Unsettled, Oliver had leaned back in his seat, staring out of the window as the airport came into view. If it was the real Hogarth, he had to get it back. He had to. He had breathed in, trying to steady himself.

  Just as he was breathing in now in the confines of the airport car park, locked into his Daimler, unable to move, to go home, to think of the repercussions of one explosive remark. If the news came out, everyone would be after the picture. To own it—or to destroy it. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Lim Chang, recalling the man’s placid expression as they had landed. God, had he heard what Bernie Freeland had said?

  He knew the extent of the task that faced him. He would be up against interested parties who would vie ruthlessly for the masterpiece for their own reasons. Some would want to expose and profit from the royal scandal, a scandal that could have changed the course of history and that might still undermine the House of Windsor. And then there were others who would want to make sure the painting was never seen, the truth of the alternative succession forever suppressed.

  One thing was for certain: the picture would be worth a fortune on the open market. Every country on earth would scrabble to own it. And its secret. But to what lengths would some interested parties go to make sure the secret was kept? Oliver shuddered, remembering his maternal ancestor, the sly courtier Sir Nathaniel Overton. The man who had used the painting like the sword of Damocles, suspending it over the heads of the unsuspecting royals. But gradually, over the generations, the weapon had changed its use, finally becoming a treasured and protected secret. Oliver sighed. If the real Hogarth was waiting to be sprung, it could turn out to be the most pernicious jack-in-the-box in history. Worth stealing.

  And well worth killing for.

  The secret discovered by Overton so long ago had to be kept at all costs. But the only man who knew the whole truth was he, Oliver Peters. He and he alone. From choice he had cultivated no confidants. There were no advisers, no other relatives privy to the truth, and his son was still a boy, too young to inherit the secret. There was only he to succeed or fail. To protect or neglect.

  And he was tired to the bone, mortally afraid, and riddled with cancer. He, Oliver Peters, had only weeks left to live.

  Five

  WHEN HE FINALLY RETURNED HOME, OLIVER PARKED THE CAR IN THE garage and walked out into the garden. The lights were on in an upstairs bedroom, but otherwise the house was in darkness. As he had hoped, his wife was preparing for bed. He could imagine her taking off her clothes and hanging them in the walk-in closet, dropping whatever needed cleaning into the white laundry hamper for the housekeeper to deal with. She would step out of her shoes and pad into the bathroom, her narrow feet making imprints on the carpet. Whatever the fashion, Sonia liked carpet under her feet, liked the feel of the wool, the give of the luxurious pile.

  Oliver was in love with Sonia. He had always been in love with her. For all the oppressive duty of his inheritance, his love for his wife had always been calm, steady, graceful. Staring up at the bedroom window, Oliver let himself imagine Sonia’s nightly routine, the silly vanity of products that promised a reversal of experience, a wicked rubbing out of the marionette lines around the mouth he had watched develop over years, along with the slight lengthening of the earlobes, the hardly discernible pigmentation under the eyes that darkened in summer. The measured, minute infractions of her beauty that to him were beautiful in themselves.

  In a few minutes he would enter the house and act normally. Just as he had withheld the gravity of his illness from his wife, he would withhold the theft of the Hogarth. It was his only comfort to know that by keeping her in ignorance he could retain a pretense of normal life for a little longer. Before exposure. Or worse, if he failed—before disgrace.

  The royal bastard, the offspring of Polly Gunnell and the Prince of Wales, had been a rumor in the art world since Hogarth’s day. But it was nothing substantial, merely gossip to be shrugged off as just another salacious tidbit. To the general public it was one of the many romantic storylines about the English royalty, but Oliver knew otherwise. The royal bastard had existed. And had survived. In fact, his descendant was now living and working in Europe, blissfully unaware of his parentage.

  Only a handful of people at the time of his birth and subsequently had ever known the secret of the royal bastard, and all of them had been loyal servants of the Crown—especially the opportunistic Sir Nathaniel Overton, admired and feared in equal measure. Overton’s hold over the Georgian court had been legendary, his means ruthless, his protection of the royal family absolute. Although thinking that some of his ancestor’s methods were suspect, Oliver recognized that Overton had been perfectly placed when the scandal broke. Acting quickly, he had forced Hogarth to remove the image of the Prince of Wales from his painting, and any mention of a bastard child had been ruthlessly suppressed. To all intents and purposes, Polly Gunnell and her child had simply disappeared, and the only proof of any liaison between the prince and the prostitute was the painting and the ring. The ring was safe, but the painting. Bernie Freeland claimed, was now in his possession.

  The question of who had stolen the painting—and how—played relentlessly in Oliver’s mind. But then it was surpassed by another, even more unwelcome, notion. If Bernie Freeland did have the Hogarth, how much did he know about its history? Was the lusty Australian just smug at the thought of owning such a prize, or was it the value of the painting that mattered? Perhaps there was more to it. Could Freeland possibly know the story behind the picture? And if he did, was he clever enough to keep quiet? Was he discreet? Honorable?

  A whirlpool of questions flooded Oliver’s thoughts: Could he get to Freeland before anyone else did? Could he regain the Hogarth before other factions intervened, factions Freeland would neither anticipate nor be able to control? Could he save the painting and the Australian, or would Bernie Freeland turn out to be a blundering fool? Would the man prove brave or reckless? If threatened, would he run? Or would he fight to protect knowledge that others had died for?

  In short, did a loudmouthed man who ran with whores and couldn’t hold his liquor know the secret? Know of the blood that marred the English throne?

  Dear God, Oliver prayed, let him be ignorant and stupid. Let him be a fool who knew nothing—and thus would live.

  Six

  FLINGING HER CASE ONTO HER BED IN THE AIRPORT HOTEL AT Heathrow, Marian Miller flopped down beside it, staring at the light over her head. It was a godsend—if you believed in God—but it was fucking lucky anyway, and that was a fact. She touched her stomach with the index finger of her left hand, then jabbed it into her flesh. What a mess! What a bloody mess! Getting pregnant; what a fucking screw-up that was, she cursed. Well, she knew that she had to get rid of it, but until the Freeland trip, she had been short on cash. She’d recently spent her savings buying and furnishing a new apartment, and it would normally take at least a couple of weeks to raise enough to pay for a discreet abortion in a private clinic.

  Of course, if Mrs. Fleet happened to find out first—which she well might, as Marian’s checkup was due with the obnoxious Dr. Fountain—there would be hell to pay. Every one of Mrs. Fleet’s girls was warned never to get pregnant, but Marian had always been told that she was infertile, rendered sterile by one too many abortions in her teens. However, now that her hormones had pulled this peevish, inconvenient little stunt, it appeared that the condition had been temporary,

  Luckily, she had a way out. Her little jaunt on Bernie Freeland’s jet had made her a pile of welcome—and quick—money. Enough to get he
r sorted out within twenty-four hours—if she tipped Dr. Fountain a bit of cash on the side for arranging it.

  Putting in a call to Mrs. Fleet, Marian Miller got straight down to business.

  “You won’t believe what I just heard on Bernie Freeland’s jet.”

  Mrs. Fleet was all glacial poise. “Is that you, Marian?”

  “Yeah, it’s me—with some news which is worth real money. And don’t say you’re not interested; you’re always interested. I’ll sell you the information.”

  “Really?”

  Confident, Marian crossed her legs as she sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her left foot. For the last two years she had been selling information to her madam, passing on tips and gossip that could be useful later or news about a painting that would be vital to interested parties. It didn’t happen often because her johns were mostly discreet, but some liked to talk, to brag, and Marian listened. And passed it all on, which had made her indispensable to Mrs. Fleet. In fact, over time, Marian had created a lucrative little niche for herself as the perfect spy, an adept sexual quisling.

  “It’s worth good money.”

  “You expect me to buy blind?”

  “I’ve never let you down before,” said Marian, “and this one’s big, very big. Worth a couple of thousand, at least.”

  “So what is this great piece of news?”

  “It’s about a famous painting.”

  “What about it?”

  “Pay me first,” Marian pushed her. “Put a couple of thousand in my account today and I’ll tell you.”

  Surprised, Mrs. Fleet took a moment to reply. “You can have the money, Marian, if what you tell me is worth it, but pay you before you tell me? Never.”