‘You could do that?’ Maxine forgot her troubles for a second in admiration for her sister.
‘Probably not, but she doesn’t know that. Would you risk it?’
Maxine shook her head. ‘Shit, no.’
*
While Judith was comforting Maxine, Miranda sat on the patio of her home, shaded from the wonderful summer sunshine by a massive umbrella and trawled her way through art appreciation sites on her laptop. It was all very well having Dominic coming to the town to judge the imminent exhibition, but Miranda needed some help and advice on how to stage the event plus the best way to display the exhibits given their limited resources. She was sure Maxine would have some ideas – as an art teacher for years she must have made sure her pupils’ works had been shown off to its best advantage for parents’ evenings and the like. Not that Miranda wanted this to be in the same league as a parent’s evening – no way. She wanted Little Woodford’s inaugural art exhibition to be up there in the Championship, or preferably the Premiership and not wallowing down in the Isthmian League. Certainly having everything in uniform frames was an excellent starting point and the town hall’s display boards were quite smart but, from her research so far, lighting also looked key. And that was the problem – the town hall lighting was dire; just three rather grim Victorian light clusters hanging from the ceiling. Maybe they could hire in some uplighters or some portable spotlights. The trouble was it was more expense and, while she didn’t resent spending money on the show, she didn’t want to make the exhibitors uncomfortable by playing Lady Bountiful too overtly.
Maybe she needed to look at other exhibition spaces – places not primarily designed as art galleries – and see what had been done with them to make them suitable. She reached for her laptop and Googled pop-up art galleries. A list of possible websites filled her screen. She clicked on one which was labelled The Lamb and Flag – presumably a pub somewhere. Miranda gazed at the images – dark, dingy, crowded… absolutely nothing to be learned from this place. She moved on to the next. This one seemed to be in a disused warehouse so plenty of space that had been used to good effect but some of the pictures seemed quite lost on the huge, stark, white walls. No. She shut the site and tried a third. Better by far. It was an exhibition in a village hall – so not so dissimilar from what was at her disposal. The space was neither too big nor too small and the display boards were a soft shade of grey which seemed to compliment all the pictures and, it seemed to Miranda that there was no extra lighting provided other than the very ordinary ceiling lights. Miranda considered it at length and decided that with a slightly darker shade of grey the contrast between the pictures and their background might be sufficient to allow them to get away with the existing lighting in the town hall. The only trouble with that was the display boards at their disposal were covered in royal blue felt – far from ideal. Maybe she could get a bolt of cheap grey cloth and re-cover them on a temporary basis with the aid of a staple gun. It was a possibility that deserved consideration.
And while she was considering this option she clicked on another website for a temporary gallery – and a picture of Bert Makepiece filled her screen.
Maxine’s picture of Bert Makepiece.
Miranda did a double-take before she regained her composure and scrolled down. And there was Belinda, and Abi, and the church, and the cricket pitch… All the pictures in Maxine’s sketchbook – the one they’d lent to Dominic – were up for sale as signed and numbered limited editions. For sale at between two hundred and six hundred pounds. Bloody hell! Frantically Miranda whooshed the cursor back to the top of the page – Miles Smith Fine Art said the banner.
How had this Miles Smith got hold of Maxine’s paintings? And who the hell was he? Had Dominic done some deal with him, cut Maxine out? Or had Maxine already sold her work and kept quiet about it? But that wasn’t a possibility as that sketchbook hadn’t seen the light of day since the spring, buried as it had been until she and Olivia had rescued it. No, this was all Dominic’s doing. The bastard. Miranda almost threw her laptop onto the patio table as she got up and raced into the kitchen to find her mobile. Five seconds later she was dialling his number.
The number you are dialling is unavailable an electronic recording told her.
‘I bet it bloody is,’ muttered Miranda. She returned to her laptop and typed in Dominic Harcourt. A slew of similar names came up but nothing that seemed to be relevant to the art world and certainly nothing that related to the gallery in South Kensington. She tried Dominic Harcourt fine art dealer. Still nothing. She dropped the word fine. Zilch. She typed in the name of the street where his gallery was supposed to be and Google produced two contenders which, when she dug a little deeper, weren’t owned by Dominic Harcourt nor seemed to have ever had anything to do with Dominic Bloody Harcourt. And that, thought Miranda, explained why they hadn’t met there. The story about the power cut had all been a ruse to keep her away.
Miranda sat back in her chair and tried to think logically. If his card was a work of fiction and his phone number no longer worked how could she get hold of him? Who might be able to help? Eureka – the gallery she’d bought the Bouraine ballerina from, Dominic’s old employer… they might know something. She returned to her tidy kitchen drawer and found their business card and rang the number. Thank God art galleries were invariably open on a Saturday.
‘The Holland Art Gallery, how can I help you?’ asked a young female voice with an improbably plumy accent.
‘May I speak with Emanuel?’ asked Miranda. Emanuel Holland was the owner and director. Nothing like going to the top, she thought.
‘He’s with a client right now. May I ask what it concerns?’
‘Could you tell him that it’s Miranda Osborne calling – and it’s a private matter.’
‘Miranda Osborne,’ repeated the girl. ‘And your number?’
‘He knows it.’
‘Oh, right. I’ll let him know.’ Her attitude had changed in a heartbeat from one of giving Miranda the brush-off to deference.
‘Could you tell him it’s rather important?’
‘Certainly.’
Ten minutes later, Emanuel was on the line.
‘Miranda! Sweetie, so long since I’ve spoken to you. And how is rural living? Aren’t you pining for the bright lights of London?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Emanuel, but no.’
‘Tut. I’ll just have to put on something spectacular to lure you back.’
‘I’m sure you will. Now, I’m going to disappoint you again but this isn’t a social call. I want to talk to you about one of your previous employees – Dominic Harcourt.’
‘Oh dear, you’re going to be joining me in the disappointment stakes; I’ve never employed someone of that name.’
‘But I met him at your gallery; he sold me the Bouraine ballerina.’
‘Dominic Smith did.’
‘Oh. But his card says Harcourt.’
‘I can’t help that. But it’s not illegal to change one’s name.’
No, thought Miranda, who knew for a fact that Emanuel had been given the name Eric by his parents.
‘Anyway,’ continued Emanuel, ‘why do you ask? Or should I say what’s he done now?’
A feeling of unease seeped through Miranda. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because we had to let him go.’
‘Dare I ask why?’
‘Dodgy deals, selling stuff using our name but pocketing the commission, failing to pass on the whole commission on other sales, creative accounting… need I go on.’
Dominic Harcourt, Dominic Smith, Miles Smith… It had to be him. And every one of his personae was dodgier than the last it seemed. ‘And you didn’t tell the police?’
‘Bad PR. And he said he didn’t understand the system, he’d received no training from us in financial matters, he wasn’t being fraudulent, just naive, that he thought, as he’d made the sales himself, he was entitled to the commission not the gallery… You’re the lawyer, you te
ll me if he’d have been convicted?’
‘Tricky – and you’re probably right. I know ignorance is no defence in a court of law but try convincing a jury.’
‘Exactly. So, what’s he done now?’
‘If I’m right, I think he’s reproduced some pictures by an unknown but, in my opinion, very good artist and he, under yet another name – Miles Smith – is selling off signed and numbered limited edition prints.’
‘Sounds like him. And you’re sure the artist doesn’t know?’
‘Pretty sure. She’s got a whole studio full of sketchbooks and paintings that, as far as I know, have never seen the light of day until very recently.’
‘And if the pictures are signed, and if you’re right and the artist doesn’t know, the signatures must be forged.’
‘And that’s a charge he can’t wriggle out of by pleading ignorance.’
‘No way.’
‘Small comfort,’ said Miranda, ‘especially for the artist whose work he’s nicked.’ She wondered how she was going to break the news to Maxine. Jeez, and on top of Anthea’s stroke. When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions, she thought. Poor Maxine; yet more bad news to cope with.
31
Olivia had not long been back from Maxine’s when her doorbell rang. She got up from the kitchen table where she’d been doing some personal admin and went to answer it. One look at Miranda told her something was amiss.
‘It’s Dominic,’ said Miranda with no preamble.
Olivia was at a loss to understand what was going on. ‘What?’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Miranda grimly, leading the way past Olivia and into the kitchen where she plonked her laptop on the table and switched it on.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Quite a lot.’
The laptop fired into life and Miranda tapped some buttons. ‘There,’ she said, swivelling the machine round for Olivia to see.
‘But that’s… that’s Bert. That’s Maxine’s picture.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But…?’
‘Dominic’s nicked it. And a bunch of her other stuff.’ Miranda tapped the touch pad and the screen showed a montage of the work on offer.
‘But they’re signed. Surely, that means Maxine must know about this.’
Miranda raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought that for a second, but remember he took a photo of Heather’s little watercolour. Maxine’s signature was on that. I’ll bet my bottom dollar he used that to forge the others.’
Olivia peered at the screen and whistled. ‘Just look at the prices.’
‘I know. He’s got ten or so of her pictures, and if he’s got a hundred prints of each, and if we reckon the average price is about three hundred quid a pop…’
‘That’s thousands.’
‘Around three hundred thousand if he sells them all.’
‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Olivia. ‘And it’s all our fault.’
Miranda shook her head. ‘My fault.’
‘The idea for the exhibition was mine.’
‘I suggested Dominic should judge it.’
‘It doesn’t matter whose fault it is – Maxine is a victim here.’ Olivia stared at the screen again and at the examples of her work. ‘So this Miles Smith…?’
‘An alter ego of Dominic. He’s also gone by the name of Dominic Smith too. And it seems our Mr Harcourt – or Mr Smith – has previous.’ She told Olivia about her earlier phone call to the Holland Art Gallery.
‘What can we do?’
‘The Met Police have an art fraud and crime department.’
‘Really?’
Miranda nodded. ‘But whether they’ll be interested in taking on something that involves an unknown amateur—’
‘—who had no idea her pictures might be worth anything.’
‘Exactly. And it was sheer chance I found Maxine’s stuff on the internet.’
‘But you did find it, she’s being ripped off and, whichever way you look at it, it’s fraud.’
Miranda nodded. ‘Now what?’
‘You mean, do we tell Max or report it to the police or both?’
‘Yes, all of it. And telling Maxine isn’t going to be pleasant; we nicked her sketchbooks, we conspired to get her work in front of a bigger audience—’
‘—a much bigger audience if things had panned out properly.’
‘Well, we’ve achieved that,’ said Miranda. ‘But in doing so she’s dipped out massively. The only good thing I can see – a tiny bit of silver lining – is that Maxine is really good if this guy thinks he can get all this money from her stuff. She’s better, much better than we ever imagined.’
Olivia sighed. ‘It doesn’t alter the fact we need to talk to her. But let’s leave it till tomorrow, eh? I think she’s had enough bad news from me for one day.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miranda.
‘Ah… of course, you don’t know about Gordon, do you?’
Miranda’s brow creased. ‘Gordon?’
‘I’ll make us tea and fill you in.’
*
Maxine heard the click of a key in the lock.
‘Hi, Max. I’m back,’ called her husband.
Maxine sat by the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea that had long since gone cold and wondered, for the umpteenth time, whether she should have it out with her husband or pretend she was still in the dark.
‘Hi, Maxine,’ he called again not having had a response to his initial greeting.
‘In the kitchen.’
He ambled in, not a care in the world. ‘Oh, tea. That’s an idea. Has the kettle just boiled?’
Maxine shrugged. ‘About an hour ago.’
Gordon stared at her full cup. ‘But…?’
Maxine got up and chucked her cold cuppa in the sink.
‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.
Yes, massively. And the instant she thought that, she knew she couldn’t pretend. She was going to have to have the conversation she was dreading and this was the moment to do it. ‘You tell me.’
Gordon failed to spot her tone of voice. ‘No, no, I don’t think anything’s the matter. The hospital says Ma’s still critical and may be in for weeks and, if and when she gets discharged, we’re going to have to sort out proper care – but you know that.’
‘Oh, so you were at the hospital.’
He stared at his wife. ‘Of course I was at the hospital. Where else would I have been?’ There was silence. ‘Maxine?’
She took a deep sigh and stared out the window. She didn’t want to look at him while she made the accusation. ‘I thought you might have spent the day with Ella instead.’
‘Ella?’ He was trying to sound innocent.
Maxine turned back and saw his face flare. Gordon had always been a shit liar, she thought. ‘Yes, Ella. Ella from the pub.’
‘I know Ella.’
‘And just how well do you know Ella? Biblically?’
‘Bib…’ Gordon’s face colour-changed from beetroot to ashen like a chameleon on fast-forward. ‘No! No, of course not.’
Maxine believed him – being such a shit liar, no way could he have been so convincing if that wasn’t the truth. Not that she was going to cut him any slack just yet. ‘Really? Because that’s not what’s being said around the town.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. What’s being said around town and who by?’
‘Belinda, Olivia, a woman called Amy.’ She paused for effect. ‘My sister.’
‘Your sister?’
Maxine nodded. ‘Uh-huh, she affirmed. ‘She saw you with her the night Anthea had her stroke.’
‘She couldn’t have. I mean, she was at the pub but not…’
‘But not when you were canoodling with the bar staff?’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘That’s not Judith’s version. And what’s more, since then she’s had a bit of a chat with your Ella.’
Gordon lowered himself into a chair. ‘I… she… it’s nothing,’
he finally managed to get out.
‘I don’t think Ella thinks so. According to Judith, Ella wants you plus your house and your money – or rather, she wants my husband plus our house and our money. To be honest, I’m not sure she knows how she’s going to achieve it. I’d like to say over my dead body but I wouldn’t put it past the scheming tart not to think that’s a good idea. From what Judith has learned you are a means to an end and I will be collateral damage.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
Maxine snorted. ‘I don’t think it’s me being ridiculous.’ She stared at her husband. ‘Think about it. Gordon, much as I love you – and I do, although it’s been a bit of a stretch just recently – as much as I love you, you are not the catch you once were. You’re pushing sixty-five, a bit overweight, going bald and getting a tad craggy—’
‘Steady on.’
‘But I don’t care because that’s you. That’s how you are. My husband.’ Maxine could feel her eyes pricking. ‘The love of my life, or I thought you were till recently. And I compare myself to Ella and I can see why you’re attracted. Why wouldn’t you be? She’s a beauty. She’s got the face, the figure… everything.’ She gestured to herself. ‘And I… I’m older, greyer, more lined. Maybe I haven’t looked after myself like I ought to have done – like Ella or Judith. If I’m honest, I’m a frump compared to them. So it’s no wonder you’re flattered by her attentions. But she’s not after you for your body or mind; to Ella, you’re a meal ticket. And when she’s got what she’s wanted, she’ll spit you out.’
‘That’s really harsh, Max. I really don’t think she’s like that.’
‘Really? She’s middle-aged, she’s living with her parents, she’s desperate.’
‘I don’t think she’s as nasty and as scheming as you’re making out.’
‘She is.’ Maxine saw the anguish on her husband’s face as he came to terms with reality. ‘Look, I can understand. She’s beautiful, she’s charming and she made you feel like you are fifteen years younger. She flirted with you which is something I don’t suppose has happened to you for years. I have days when I feel like I’m about twenty-six – and then I catch sight of myself in a mirror and I’m back in the real world.’
Homes and Hearths in Little Woodford Page 25