The Hogarth Conspiracy

by Alex Connor

  “No.” Victor could hardly speak. “What are you going to do to him?”

  “What we do to anyone who crosses us or betrays us. Watch very carefully, Mr. Ballam; this is a warning. When our business here is finished, you stay silent. He didn’t. He tried to cheat us.”

  “Jesus, who is he?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “No!” Victor said. “How could I know?”

  “This is your killer, Mr. Ballam. This is the man who killed Marian Miller and Annette Dvorski.”

  He turned to the triad man and looked into the sore eyes and then into the blank darkness.

  “This is Bernie Freeland’s pilot, Duncan Fairfax.” The triad man glanced over to the sobbing victim, his own face expressionless. “After they landed at Heathrow, he overheard a couple of passengers talking about something they had heard on the flight. Something about a priceless painting. And he wanted it. Needed it to pay off his gambling debts to us. He’d been playing recklessly, asking us for credit. Fat prick thought we’d never call in the debt. Jesus, I bet he couldn’t believe his luck; here was a way to pay off his debts in one go! He just had to find the picture before anyone else did.” He paused, watching the squirming man without pity. “It was easy for him to call by later at Marian Miller’s room. After all, they were staying in the same airport hotel. She might even have thought he was the john at first. Fairfax found out what she knew and then killed her, making it look like a sex crime.”

  “Why the thirty rubles in her mouth?”

  “That was a nice touch, supposed to point to the Russians.”

  “And the dog fur?”

  “What?”

  Victor frowned. “Fairfax must have done that.”

  Still staring at the bound victim, the Chinese man continued. “After he’d killed Marian Miller, Fairfax went after Bernie Freeland.”

  Duncan Fairfax’s eyes were bulging with terror. As the dogs barked at the back of the tent, the pilot stared blindly up at the faces that surrounded him.

  He was blubbering incoherently, mad with panic.

  “He went to New York, to Freeland’s apartment, looking for him and the painting. Fairfax didn’t like Freeland, so stealing off him to pay his debts didn’t worry him.”

  “He killed him?”

  “Fairfax denies it. He was keen to confess to everything else to save himself, but not that, and he’d have told us, believe me. Bernie Freeland’s death might have just been an accident, after all.”

  “So why did he kill Annette Dvorski?” Victor asked, then flinched as he heard the dogs coming closer, saw the crowd parting to let the animals and their owners through. It was obvious that the dogs hadn’t been fed for some days; their hackles were raised, the whites of their eyes were showing, and their mouths were working frantically against their muzzles.

  “Jesus, don’t do this—”

  He was immediately cut off, his previous question answered.

  “Fairfax found Annette Dvorski in the apartment and then tortured her to find out where the painting was, but she didn’t know. He killed her anyway and then left. You were supposed to take the blame for that.”

  Victor stared at the man, incredulous. “You were there?”

  “Not me; one of my people,” he replied. “You had a close call, Mr. Ballam. But poor Fairfax. When we caught up with him and he didn’t have the painting, he got all hysterical, pleading for time to get our money back. I knew then that you probably had the Hogarth in that suitcase, so we switched it at the airport. Fairfax was still working with us then, so he organized it. It’s easy for a pilot to get luggage swapped.”

  Confused, Victor’s stared at him. “But if you got the painting … ?”

  “Why kill him? Because it wasn’t Duncan Fairfax that got hold of it; we did in the end. And we knew that if we let him go, he wouldn’t keep quiet. He can’t. We’d always be looking over our shoulders.” He pointed to the pilot; there was foam coming from the sides of his mouth as he struggled frantically. “He’s fucking mad. He’s mad because of the killings, the bloodbath. He didn’t have the stomach for it. The murder of Marian Miller, then the torture of Annette Dvorski turned his brain. It was only a matter of time before the police caught up with him and then us. I had to stop that.”

  In one sudden movement, the man dropped his hand. The dogs’ muzzles were taken off, and the animals hurtled into the ring. They fell onto the bound man, one dog ripping at Fairfax’s throat, another at his chest, a third at his face. Blood was spurting from torn arteries, spouting upward onto the jeering crowd; the pilot’s agonized screams were piercing as the dogs, wriggling in the sand, exposed his guts and tore the flesh off his face.

  Heaving, Victor turned away. At the back of the crowd he could just make out the face of someone he knew—Malcolm Jenner—watching the mauling of the man who had killed his niece.

  “No one talks about us, Mr. Ballam,” the Chinese man said quietly. “And if you ever feel tempted, remember Duncan Fairfax.”

  Behind them the tent had gone silent. The dogs, sated, were quiet, muzzled again. A moment later Victor could see the bloodied remains of Duncan Fairfax being dragged out and thrown into a makeshift hole. As men started to fill it in, he could see a faint flutter of movement as Duncan Fairfax was buried alive.

  Sixty-Three

  LIZA FRITH WATCHED AS VICTOR GOT BACK INTO THE CAR AND STARTED the engine. His hands were shaking, and there was sweat on his brow. He stared straight ahead, silent, not trusting his voice.

  “Thank you,” Liza said, breaking the silence. “Thanks for coming to get me, Mr. Ballam. Not many would have done that, you know … for a whore.”

  “You’re human.”

  She stared ahead. “Most can’t get past the whore bit.” She rubbed her face with the tips of her fingers, then pulled her torn jacket around her.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “No. They just left me in some lousy flat, but I was okay. Honestly. Scared but okay.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Surprised, she looked at him. “You want to feed me? You’ve just saved my life and you want to feed me?” Her voice was full of wonderment. “Why?”

  “Why not?” Victor replied, reaching the end of the country lane and turning onto a main road.

  When he saw the streetlights overhead and noticed other traffic moving around them, he relaxed a little, his grip lessening on the steering wheel. But the image of the mauling he’d witnessed was inescapable. He could see Duncan Fairfax in the windshield, on the road ahead, in the night sky. When he looked into the rearview mirror, he saw Duncan Fairfax. When he turned on the radio, he didn’t hear music but the insane burbling of a man gone mad, the agonizing screams of a man being brutally murdered. He could still smell the blood in his nostrils and, unnerved, pulled over to the side of the road.

  Anxious, Liza touched his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Mute, he shook his head.

  “It’ll be all right,” she said softly. “Honestly, it’ll all be all right.” She stroked his cheek gently, and Victor rested his head against her shoulder. Her hands closed over his as, putting her lips close to his ear, she said, “I’ll never forget what you did for me. Honest, I won’t. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Mr. Ballam, ask. I’ll be there. I promise. I’ll stand in your corner whatever happens.” She held his head between her hands and smiled at him. “I’ve never had any man treat me like you have. You made me feel like I meant something. So remember, if you need me, I’ll be there.”

  His eyes closed to her touch. If he asked her, she would stand in his corner. She had given her word and would not break it. He wondered then if Ingola would have done the same. And immediately he knew the answer. For the first time he saw Ingola clearly. Yes, she had loved him, but with reservations, with conditions, with one eye always on her own advantage.

  Liza’s voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “Who killed her?”

  He was still thinking of
Ingola. “What?”

  “Who killed Annette?”

  “The same man who killed Marian Miller. It was Freeland’s pilot, Duncan Fairfax.”

  “But he was an ass,” she said simply, her voice childlike. “We all thought he was so full of himself. Did he kill Bernie too?”

  “No. I don’t know who killed him. It might have been an accident after all. Maybe it was just the timing and the circumstances that made it look suspicious.”

  “Duncan Fairfax,” Liza repeated. “God, what made him do it?”

  “Money,” Victor said simply, turning the engine back on. “Just money.”

  “So it’s all over?” Tully asked, almost regretful. “I was just beginning to enjoy myself. And I got the door repaired,” he said with a smile. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’ve got one more visit to make.”

  “Mrs. Fleet?”

  “No. She paid up, and that’s the last I’ll see of her,” Victor replied. “And Liza Frith’s not going back to work at Park Street. She’s going to work in France. Said she couldn’t bear to be in London anymore. I like her; we’ll stay in touch.” He grinned. “An ex-con and a whore; how’s that?”

  “Colorful.”

  “We can’t ever mention any of this, Tully. You know that, don’t you? Never let a word slip about the painting or the Chinese. Particularly the Chinese. You must always be on your guard. Say nothing, not a word,” Victor repeated, thinking of Duncan Fairfax.

  “Not a word,” Tully promised, changing the subject. “I’ve just heard that I’ve got a voice-over job—for dental paste. You know, the type that keeps your teeth secure when you bite an apple. ‘For confidence with a smile, choose Fermamint.’ Bastards offered me some complimentary samples, and I’ve still got my own teeth.” He paused, scrutinizing Victor. “You must have some idea what you’re going to do next.”

  “Stay in London, keep my ears open for work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Are you my father now?”

  “Humor me, Victor; you’re the nearest I’ll ever get to having a son. What kind of work?”

  “There’s a lot goes on in the art world. I’ve been a victim of it; I might as well try to profit by it now.” He shrugged. “If I can’t work among thieves, I can catch them for a living.”

  “Dangerous living.”

  “Dangerous world,” Victor said quietly. “And one day I’ll find out who framed me for those frauds. One day someone will slip up, or I’ll hear something. It might take a while, Tully, but I’ll find out who was behind it.” He paused. “Everything that was taken from me I want back.”

  “Does that include Ingola?”

  “No.” He thought of the letter she had sent him. He had torn it up unread.

  Relieved, Tully changed the subject. “What about the painting? What about the Hogarth?”

  “Well, I had it in my hands, if only for a little while.”

  “No regrets that you gave it away?”

  “None.” He stood up to leave. “I’ll be in touch. And thanks, Tully. Thanks for everything.”

  “Paid off, is it?”

  Frowning, Victor studied his old friend. “What?”

  “What I owe you. Have I paid it off?” For a moment Tully looked into Victor’s face, then shook his head. “No, I thought not.”

  Sixty-Four

  CRUMBLING SOME BREAD BETWEEN HIS FINGERS, SIR OLIVER PETERS sat beside the Serpentine and fed the ducks. He felt almost well. The cancer was still there, progressing, killing him, but it hardly mattered. The secret of the royal legacy was safe. He had succeeded in his duty, and that knowledge made him a happy man.

  Suddenly he noticed one scruffy little duck across the water and threw some bread toward it, watching it hustle its way among the bigger birds and fight for its prize. The day had turned warm. One of those London days that act as a welcome reminder that winter is only temporary. That however dark and forbidding the weather has been, somewhere lies the first echo of spring. Grass that had been short and dark with rain now sent its shoots upward, and a few wastrel daffodils lifted their throats to the sun.

  London buses cruised along the streets, newspapers vendors pinned back their tarpaulins, and a few early-season tourists shivering in T-shirts took snapshots of the Household Cavalry riding by. Hyde Park was, Oliver thought, exactly as he had seen it so often through the years since he had started running the gallery, since he had married and brought his new wife to the park. Descendants of the same trees that had populated the park then were again coming into leaf. The continuity, the familiarity of it all, soothed him. He drew some real comfort from the hope that his children would do as he had done and maybe while away an hour or so feeding the birds in the peaceful reaches of Hyde Park.

  A shadow fell across his path. Oliver looked up, pleased to see Victor Ballam standing there. He patted the bench beside him. “Sit down,” he said, throwing some more crumbs to the birds. “They’re hungry.”

  Victor sat, watching as Oliver broke up some more crumbs, noticing the wasted hands, the prominent bones under his shrinking skin.

  “Did the transfer go well?”

  “Perfectly,” Victor replied, his eyes fixed on the scruffy little duck that was fighting for its crust. “I got the girl back. And they got the Hogarth.”

  “So it’s over?”

  “Yes.”

  Shading his eyes from the sun, Oliver turned to him. “Did you find out what you wanted to know? Who the killer was?”

  “The last person you’d expect. Duncan Fairfax, Bernie Freeland’s pilot.”

  Oliver’s surprise was genuine. “I don’t even remember him.”

  “Which is a damning epitaph in itself,” Victor said. “He’s dead.”

  “Dear God.”

  “Yeah.”

  They sat in silence for a while, Oliver feeding the birds and Victor watching. Then he glanced around him and, satisfied that no one was watching, pulled out an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Oliver.

  “What’s this?”

  “A check for half a million pounds.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What? You got my money back?”

  “No. Your money was taken by the triads. You won’t ever get that back. They stole the money from Lim Chang.”

  “So whose money is this?”

  “Yours—now.”

  Oliver stared at the man sitting next to him.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You borrowed half a million pounds to give to Lim Chang in order to buy the Hogarth. You lost that money. I got the same amount from another source. I put the money in my bank, and now I’m giving you a check.” He paused. “It’s legal, and it’s yours.”

  “But—”

  “You told me you were in financial difficulties,” Victor said quietly. “You couldn’t afford to lose that much money, and now you don’t have to. You can pay back the people you owe and get yourself out of debt.” Before Oliver could say anything, Victor went on. “Take it,” he urged. “It was doing no good where it was.”

  “But—”

  “Let me repay an old debt,” Victor said quietly. “A debt of gratitude to thank you for being the only person who stood up in court and spoke in my defense. You helped me then, Oliver; let me help you now. Let me do this, please.”

  Deeply moved, Oliver took the envelope from Victor’s hand, tucking it into his inside pocket. He was finding words difficult, but at last he said, “You can’t begin to know what this means to me.”

  “Oh, but I can,” Victor replied, and fell silent. Several minutes passed, and then he turned back to Oliver with a smile on his face. “Like I said before, the triads are gangsters, not connoisseurs. Good thing, that, wouldn’t you say?”

  Warily, Oliver lifted his head but kept his eyes averted. “You know?”

  “That the painting you gave me was a forgery? Yes.” Again Victor glanced around him, making sure there was no one close enough to overh
ear what they were saying. “I didn’t know when you first gave it to me, but later I had a good look at it and I worked it out. You see, it was too much to expect that you, Sir Oliver Peters, would give up the original Hogarth even for a woman’s life. But then again, you couldn’t let them kill Liza Frith; you couldn’t have borne that. So you had to do something. And quickly.”

  “Go on.”

  “I don’t know if it was because you wanted to protect the secret of the Hogarth or because you wanted to sell it.”

  “No, no! I admit that at one point selling it seemed the answer to my troubles, but I couldn’t. I was terrified of leaving my family in difficulties, but I raised money in other ways and I’ve protected them as well as I can. My son won’t inherit much, but enough at least to help him make his own way in the world. I’ve explained everything to him; he understands.” Oliver paused, his voice even. “I come from what is called a good family, Victor. We’ve always been respected, and we respect what we have—this country and the monarchy. I couldn’t in all conscience have let the original Hogarth go. Who would get it? What scandal could be caused by its exposure? The man in the painting was the Prince of Wales. The picture was a scandal in its own time. I couldn’t risk anyone bringing that out into the open again.”

  “And besides, there’s a living descendant,” Victor said quietly.

  Oliver nodded, his voice so low that Victor had to strain to hear it.

  “Only a handful of people know who he is. It’s one of the most explosive secrets ever kept, held only by the head of the government and certain members of the royal family. Now d’you see why I couldn’t let the Hogarth get into the wrong hands?”

  “Where’s the original now?”

  “In storage, where no one can ever get to it. When I die, my solicitor will confide in my wife and my oldest son, but they will never be able to sell the Hogarth, not that they ever would. It’s to remain hidden as Hogarth hid it but not destroyed. Never destroyed. The future of the monarchy was under threat when William Hogarth painted that work. It’s no less important now.”

  Silence fell between them. Victor was the first to speak.