A Trace of Deceit

by Karen Odden

  “That’s probably true,” he allowed.

  I stared, nonplussed. I’d expected him to resist the idea out of hand.

  Somewhat warily, I continued, “I’d like you to promise me two things, if you can. That I may accompany you, so far as it is practical, and you will reveal to your chief inspector only what is absolutely necessary from what I tell you.”

  The frown that had been gathering deepened, and I sensed him weighing my offer. At last he shifted, and his chair creaked underneath him. “In cases of murder, it is not our usual method to enlist the help of civilians, particularly interested parties, largely for their own safety,” he said slowly. “But I understand your wishes. I will do what I can to keep you apprised of my discoveries, and I promise to take any information you provide into account.” There was a pause, and when I didn’t immediately acquiesce, he prodded, “Will that suit?”

  It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, though I sensed he was trying to accommodate me so far as he was able. Disappointed, I nodded. “I suppose.”

  “As for discretion, well—I don’t think there is anything to be gained by scattering information about like birdseed when it will serve no purpose.” His gaze was steady and straight on; but I had seen Edwin fix his gaze in just that way, only to find out later that he had been dissembling or had already broken the promise he was making. Still, I thought I might trust Mr. Hallam with a few small pieces of information and inch my way forward from there.

  I sat back until I could feel the wooden slats against my spine and deliberately laid down my first offering:

  “I had a visitor last night who has a possible explanation for why Edwin was killed. As you might expect from what you saw in his rooms, it has to do with a painting. But it isn’t a copy; it’s an original, and a valuable one.”

  I expected him to look surprised or skeptical, but the only sign of him having heard me was the barely perceptible tightening of the skin around his eyes. He was a man who kept his thoughts private, I realized, and his gestures small. After a moment, he tipped his head and waited for me to continue.

  “Mr. Hallam, how much do you know about auction houses?” I asked.

  “Not much,” he admitted.

  Reassured, I drew my coat more securely across my lap as I considered where to begin. “The two principal ones here in London are Christie’s and Sotheby’s. They’re like the Montagues and Capulets. Or perhaps York and Lancaster.”

  A faint smile appeared. “Feuding houses, you mean.”

  I nodded. “Rather. Christie’s is generally the better regarded, although Sotheby’s was founded first. Neither sold paintings in the early years.”

  “No?”

  I shook my head. “Sotheby’s first auction was a private library, and Christie’s was some Madeira, claret, and a few bales of hay. But Mr. Christie was a friend and neighbor of Thomas Gainsborough—” I broke off. “Do you know who he is?”

  “The painter, yes.”

  “And so first Christie’s and then eventually Sotheby’s began to sell artwork. The two houses have controlled the European auction world for over a century, but sixteen years ago, Mr. Jacob Bettridge, the father of the current owner, wanted to try his hand at it. And the way the auction world works, the better the items that collectors consign—that is, put up for sale—the better the class of buyers they’ll attract to the auction; and when those buyers want to sell, they’ll consign better pieces, and the house makes more money.”

  “Because the seller’s fee is proportionate?” he asked.

  I nodded. “On paintings, the house usually takes a five percent commission from the seller and buyer, both, out of which come the fees for things such as cleaning the work and publicizing the auction. Given that most expenses are fixed, the house naturally prefers to handle more expensive paintings.”

  “I see.”

  I shifted, and my chair creaked under me. “There is a collection of important French paintings to be sold next week. It’s Bettridge’s first successful inroad, as it were, into the upper levels of the market, and Edwin was working on one of the paintings—a portrait by François Boucher.”

  “I beg your pardon.” His voice was still easy, but his blue eyes had gone keen. “Did you say Boucher?”

  So he had heard of him. With a feeling of relief that I wouldn’t have to explain the rarity and value of the painting, I continued, “Yes. It was a portrait of Madame de Pompadour, King Louis XV’s mistress. It’s the most important of the lots, with an estimate of something above six thousand pounds, and Edwin had been commissioned to clean it, so it would look its best for the sale.”

  His body was unnaturally still, as if he were struggling to contain his response, and I wondered at his inordinate surprise. Before I could inquire, he recollected himself and gave a small cough. “So the Boucher was supposed to be in your brother’s room.”

  “Yes. Bettridge’s doesn’t have a shop for restoration, so they send the work out.”

  He rose and went to stand at the lone window. I could still see him in profile, and he was tall enough that his gaze slanted downward. He seemed to be following the motion of something on the Thames, perhaps one of the boats. But it also seemed he was laboring to assimilate what I’d said with information he already knew.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Did you find a mention of the Boucher among Edwin’s papers?”

  The questions shook him out of his thoughts, and he turned toward me. “Do you think it was taken out of one of the broken frames?”

  “I couldn’t say for certain,” I admitted. “But the heavy gilt one was approximately the proper size and workmanship.”

  He rubbed his hand across his mouth thoughtfully. “How long would it take to cut that painting out of the frame without damaging it?”

  “For someone who knows how, a minute or two,” I replied. “Obviously it’s easier to carry, rolled up.”

  “And a good deal less conspicuous.”

  “Much less,” I agreed. “I’ve been trying to assemble the event in my mind. What if Edwin came home, surprised the thief, they struggled”—my breath caught, but I kept on—“and the thief ran off with the painting.”

  “It certainly is plausible,” he said slowly. He moved so he could rest his hands on the top rail of his wooden chair. “Who was your visitor? Someone who works at Bettridge’s?”

  I nodded. “Yes. And a friend.”

  “I imagine he’s eager to have the painting returned.”

  “Of course. Not only for the sake of the sale. His reputation, and Bettridge’s, will be in tatters without it.”

  His expression grew skeptical. “Over one painting?”

  “If you owned a valuable painting, would you consign it, knowing it might go missing before it made it to auction?” I countered. “Not to mention buyers might think it had been merely a ruse.”

  Acknowledgment flashed across his face as he grasped the implications. “To lure other collectors,” he said. “And then if it’s reported stolen, they’d think it’s a feint to cover up a lie. Either it’s a forgery or was never intended to be sold at all.”

  “Yes—although I’m sure neither of those things is true,” I amended hastily. “My friend would never have taken part in that sort of scheme.”

  “Well, I see the importance of it. Remind me, when is the auction scheduled?”

  “Monday next.”

  His eyebrows drew down. “Frankly, I care less about the painting than finding a murderer. But it’s not lost on me that the thief and the murderer are likely one and the same—and if we find the painting . . .” He sat back down. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the Boucher? Do you know who consigned it?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t. My friend didn’t tell me.”

  “I need to meet him—your friend, that is.”

  I had a moment of misgiving at having said so much. It was all well and good for me to tell Mr. Hallam what I knew myself, but Felix had never agreed to speak to anyone. In fact, he�
��d made clear his attitude toward Yard men. My discomfort mounted as I began to see there was no way forward without introducing the inspector to Felix. I was about to propose certain conditions when he pushed back his chair. “Miss Rowe, will you excuse me for a moment?”

  “All right,” I said uncertainly.

  He left the room and returned a moment later with an envelope that he placed on the desk before he took his seat again.

  “I want to share something with you. But first, can you promise you’ll be discreet?” he asked.

  I managed a wan smile. “I suppose we have to trust each other so far as that goes.”

  “My thought exactly.” He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and clasped his hands loosely at his waist. “I had a visitor several days ago. A young man named Mr. Pagett. He’s the stepson of the late Lord Sibley, who was an influential MP and apparently an avid art collector. Do you know the family?”

  I shook my head. “Should I?”

  “Mr. Pagett came to report a stolen painting. A Boucher from his stepfather’s collection.” He paused meaningfully. “A portrait of Madame de Pompadour.”

  My breath caught. “The same portrait, or a different one?”

  “The same, or so he says.” He opened the envelope, removed a slender catalog, and handed it to me. BETTRIDGE’S was in fine black calligraphy above a rectangular image of the Boucher. Below it were the words: An Offering of Thirty-Two Important Eighteenth-Century Paintings from France.

  The crisp blue paper was thick and the calligraphy elegant. A quick flip through the pages revealed printed images with descriptions for every painting in the sale. Remembering what Felix had said about the number of catalogs mailed, I realized this must have cost a small fortune. Mr. Bettridge had spared no expense in his bid for respectability and prestige.

  Mr. Hallam asked, “Have you seen this?”

  “No.” I studied the image on the cover. Even in reproduction, the portrait was stunning and sensual. It showed Madame’s face and shoulders, with her chin dropped slightly to make the eyes look deeply set and inviting, as if beckoning the viewer. Her right hand was delicately positioned, the fingertips brushing the bare collarbone above her décolletage. I opened the catalog and saw the description on the following page: A heretofore privately held portrait by François Boucher. Oil on canvas, 1755. 36 × 28 in. Estimate: £6,00–8,000. Proof of provenance upon request.

  I looked up. “Did he have proof of ownership?”

  He hesitated. “Well, yes. But it’s complicated—not least because as far as Mr. Pagett knew, the painting was burnt to ashes nineteen months ago.”

  At those words, I laid the catalog in my lap and sat back. He had every speck of my attention now.

  “Pagett’s stepfather, Lord Sibley, was a viscount with houses in London and Warwickshire,” he began. “He traveled abroad frequently and had close friends in France. A few years ago, he bought the Boucher from the original owners. It hung in his house in Brook Street until he placed it in the Pantechnicon for safekeeping.”

  I sat up straighter. “The Pantechnicon.”

  “Yes. You know about the fire?”

  “Of course,” I replied. It was one of the worst fires in London in years, engulfing over an acre in the middle of Belgravia. For three days it threw up clouds of smoke thick as bulwarks, and the sky glowed a lurid orange all through the night. Nearly every fire truck in the city had been called upon to extinguish the flames.

  Until it burned to the ground, the Pantechnicon had been a private warehouse, where wealthy West End families stowed their valuables when they left the city for travel abroad or to spend summers at their country estates. The building was ostensibly impervious to water, fire, and thieves—and until the fire broke out, the owners smugly declared that they’d never had so much as a small piece of jewelry go missing. But afterward, the Spectator maintained that over two million pounds sterling’s worth of fine art, furniture, and valuables were reduced to smoking black piles of ash and rubble. Naturally, many of the families wanted to rebuild their collections, which was why art auctions this past year had been unusually well attended.

  “It happened in mid-February of last year,” he continued. “Less than two months after Lord Sibley deposited the painting.”

  “I see.”

  “A month later, in mid-March, Lord Sibley returned from Europe. The journey had been cold and damp, and he caught the influenza. He died a few weeks later.” I made a sound of regret that he acknowledged with a nod. “Mr. Pagett says the only people authorized to enter the Sibleys’ room at the Pantechnicon were himself, his stepfather, and their solicitor. So as far as the family knew, the Boucher was burnt to bits, along with other valuable paintings in their collection. They were contacted by the Pantechnicon’s owner or manager—I’m not sure which—and offered a settlement for all of them, which Mr. Pagett accepted.”

  “But then he saw the catalog,” I said, beginning to understand.

  “Yes. Apparently it arrived in the post while he was away. Once he saw it, he went straight to Bettridge’s. They told him the painting was off premises and unavailable for viewing.” He spread his hands. “Obviously it was at Edwin’s.”

  I nodded.

  “Not wanting to reveal too much about his interest, he left the auction house and came straight here.”

  I felt a chill roll over me. “Do you think there’s a chance he tried to find Edwin? Do you—”

  He shifted in his chair, and it replied with a creak. “No. He’s not the type to do that, I don’t think. He struck me as proper and law-abiding—and very intent on keeping this out of the papers. But he was certainly . . . well . . .” His eyebrows rose. “He was upset and full of theories.”

  “This would mean the painting Bettridge’s is selling is a forgery,” I said hesitantly. “That seems impossible.”

  “Would Edwin have known the difference between a real Boucher and a copy?” he asked.

  “If he had them side by side, I think he would. But my friend—” I broke off, but it had become clear that the possibility of secrecy was past. “His name is Felix Severington. He’s their specialist for European paintings, and he could distinguish a forgery, even without the original for comparison. He knew Boucher’s work intimately, and he would never jeopardize his reputation by accepting a questionable painting for sale, no matter how much it might bring at auction.”

  “Hm.” He frowned, not in disbelief, but as if he were putting these bits of information with others. “How long has he worked for Bettridge’s?”

  “Five years or so. Prior to that he was at Christie’s and one of the galleries here in London. Before that, Paris.”

  “And he handled all types of European paintings?”

  I nodded, and a thought occurred to me. “Did Mr. Pagett find any of his family’s other paintings in the catalog—any others that were in the Pantechnicon at the time?”

  “No. He looked because there were a few other French paintings stored in the Pantechnicon. Most of the collection was Dutch or Flemish, though.”

  “So they wouldn’t have been included in this sale,” I said.

  Mr. Hallam leaned forward, clasped his hands, and rested his forearms against the table’s edge. “Mr. Pagett proposed another alternative to forgery. In fact, he leans toward believing it was stolen out of the building before the fire.”

  I was silent for a moment, adjusting my thoughts to this new idea. “If that were true, I suppose he could hold the Pantechnicon owners responsible. But does he have any legal standing for bringing a case? The family’s been compensated for the loss.”

  “Well, yes. But the painting is worth more than six times what he was given in the settlement. Like many people who trusted the Pantechnicon’s reputation, Lord Sibley insured the paintings for only a portion of their value. So Mr. Pagett believes he has a right to at least a portion of the proceeds from the sale.” He touched the empty envelope absently, squaring it with the edge of the table. “He als
o made all sorts of noises about prosecuting the person who stole it, how he must be found and punished. He even raised the question of a greater crime—that if the thief stole the Boucher, other paintings might have been stolen as well. Maybe the fire was merely a cover.”

  I stared. “Is he suggesting that someone set fire to that whole building merely to conceal the theft of some paintings? That would be madness!”

  Mr. Hallam shrugged. “The cause of the Pantechnicon fire was never discovered, and plenty of us here at the Yard have devoted time trying.”

  I sat back, thinking hard. “Who else knew the Boucher was in the Pantechnicon? Surely there must have been others. Perhaps Lord Sibley’s wife? Or members of the household?”

  “Lord Sibley’s wife—that is, Mr. Pagett’s mother—passed away some time ago, and I’ve no idea what was known by anyone else. I plan to visit Mr. Pagett shortly to inquire about that—and other things.”

  “Might I come with you?” I shifted my coat.

  “Just a moment.” Mr. Hallam leaned back. “Your friend . . . Felix, was it?”

  “Felix Severington.”

  “He won’t be pleased to discover he might have been selling a stolen painting.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Might we go visit him first?” he asked. “I had planned to spend the morning putting the word out to some fences we know, but I can ask someone else to do that. Time matters, particularly in cases like this.”

  “Why in particular?”

  He rose and held out his hand for my coat, to help me with the sleeves. “The longer we take, the more likely it is the papers will notice. A scandal involving an auction house and an expensive painting is the stuff they thrive on.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob as I fastened the buttons. “The problem is, they muck around with the facts, put ideas into the mind of the public, and make our task more difficult.” He peered down at my shoes. “Do you mind a walk?”