by Karen Odden
“Celia would never have spoken to him. So I think it must have been someone inside Bettridge’s, don’t you?”
“You’re sure it wasn’t Felix?” Mr. Hallam asked.
“I’m positive. He was distraught when I saw him last night.” I sidestepped a boy shouldering a crate of potatoes. “Felix told me that Edwin had cleaned other paintings for Bettridge’s in the past few months, so perhaps Fishel spoke to a different specialist.”
“Or he talked to someone from the other auction houses—or one of the galleries. They’d certainly have a motive to make Bettridge’s look fraudulent, and Fishel could either bribe someone for information or blackmail him.” Mr. Hallam had produced the illicit possibilities so easily it made me stare. Well, I reminded myself, this was the world he lived in.
“There’s something else,” I said. “Felix says Edwin never signed the guaranty.”
His eyes widened, and he mulled this for a moment. “So they have no legal lien against your parents’ house.”
“No. And it’s mine now, assuming the papers are in order.”
He halted. “So Edwin made a will?”
“Yes. It’s with a solicitor. Mr. Pascoe, the vicar who came to the funeral, told me so.”
He wore a look of satisfaction. “Good.” And we walked on.
“It doesn’t help Felix, though,” I said unhappily. “According to him, the solicitor claims he gave Felix the guaranty for Edwin to sign, but Felix insists he didn’t. Officially, it’s the solicitor’s responsibility, but apparently he’s a relation of Mr. Bettridge.”
“Hm.” He grimaced. “It’s unlikely Bettridge’s will have any legal recourse against Felix. They can’t seize his property any more than they can seize yours—but I imagine they’ll not keep him on.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” I replied. “He was put on leave yesterday.”
“That’s a shame,” he said and directed me across the street. “Well, it may come right in the end.”
“I hope so.” We reached a long black line of available hansom cabs, and I reminded him, “You still haven’t told me where we are going.”
“To see my friend Tom Flynn. He writes for the Falcon, but he’s not like Fishel. In fact, most of the newspapermen I know are good men and well informed. I’ve often received helpful information from one or another of them.”
“Why are we seeing Mr. Flynn in particular?”
“He regularly covers Parliamentary matters. I thought he might provide some insight into the late Lord Sibley, give us an idea of anything that he and Stephen Jesper might have in common. Quicker than trying to find it ourselves.”
“Oh,” I said. “Do you think he might help Felix?”
“You mean by putting out the proper story?” He swung open the cab door and held it for me. “He might, at some point.”
We climbed in, and when we were settled and Mr. Hallam had given the address, I asked, “Is it true, what Fishel wrote in the article about the police? Do people try to bribe you?”
“Yes.”
I stared. “How often?”
“Plenty.” He grimaced. “Despite what Fishel says, most of us don’t take them.” He shook his head. “You start down that path, and—well, it doesn’t last long. No one trusts you once they know you can be bought. And it always comes to light, sooner or later.”
THE FALCON WAS housed in a building not far from the Thames. As our cab drew up and stopped, I could smell the river, the rancid stink of the slaughterhouses, and the tang of the spice and tea warehouses coming up through the alleys. The three-story building was made of gray brick, with a sculpted figure of a malevolent-looking black iron bird up top and half a dozen wrought-iron lanterns, unlit at this hour of the morning, across the front.
Mr. Hallam pushed the door open and led me up several sets of worn wooden stairs. I held my skirts well out of the way and watched where I put my feet, for the treads were worn, and one was missing altogether. I heard the thumping of a machine—the press, I assumed—like a great heart, and, as we passed the first-floor landing, I heard a group of men talking and laughing behind a door. Mr. Hallam kept on, and when we reached the uppermost floor, he led me down a dim, dusty hallway until he paused at an open door.
The first thing I saw of Mr. Flynn was his head, mostly bald, with a shock of wavy brown hair in the middle.
“Tom.”
He looked up and I noticed his eyes: bright, curious, and an unusual olive green. He was in his mid-thirties, with a round face, a small nose, and a pugnacious chin. He was missing the tip of his first finger on his left hand, and I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d lost it. He stood up and extended his right to Mr. Hallam. “There you are. Hullo. Was expecting you earlier.”
It came to me that we were late because I’d delayed us at the Yard. Mr. Hallam said, “Sorry. This is Miss Annabel Rowe. She’s a painter at the Slade.”
Mr. Flynn grunted and waved us into two wooden chairs. “What do you need? Don’t mean to be abrupt. I’ve a deadline.”
“How well did you know the late Lord Sibley?”
“Lord Sibley?” Mr. Flynn’s eyebrows rose up into points. “What—”
Mr. Hallam gave him a look, and Mr. Flynn raised his hands in a quick gesture of surrender, then leaned back, tapping his fingertips in a staccato on the edge of the desk as he spoke. “I knew him well. He was one of the first who’d speak to me, back when I began reporting. What are you looking for?”
“What sort of man was he?”
“Imposing. Outspoken, even to rudeness, if he thought you were a fool.” A swift shrug. “Persuasive, to be sure, and he was established enough that people tended to listen. Married, two children, a stepson and daughter; no hints of scandal that I know of. A respected art collector . . .” A pause, a quick glance at me, and I saw he’d made the connection to the Slade.
“What about his politics?” Mr. Hallam asked.
Mr. Flynn wrinkled his small nose so it swerved sideways and sniffed. “Oh.” He cocked his head as he thought. “Mixed. In a way that was unusual for someone of his age and position. With his wealth and title, you’d think he’d be a staunch Tory—but he was sympathetic to several of Gladstone’s measures.”
“Which ones?”
“Smaller government, lower taxation, balanced budgets. Believed in the class system, the landed gentry, the House of Lords, and all that.” He waved a hand back and forth. “But Sibley also believed in some class equality—which is why he helped draft a bill to eliminate purchased commissions in the army. That first one was shouted down by Cantrell and his lot, but the later one was ratified.” He paused. “In the year before he died, he became downright strident about England’s position with respect to mainland Europe. And that view was unpopular with plenty of MPs in his party, as well as the Whigs.”
“Was he hawkish?” Mr. Hallam asked.
“No-o-o.” Mr. Flynn sat back, rubbing his thumb absently over the stub of his truncated finger. “He was worried about the Germans. Even before they invaded France, Lord Sibley said we should be forging stronger economic and political alliances in Europe, particularly with France and Turkey and Russia, or we’d be edged out. And history’s proved him partly right. The Franco-Prussian War changed everything.” He scratched at the top of his head, which sent some of his hair up into a tuft. “Afterward, Lord Sibley got up on his legs in the House and called the Germans ‘a coarse, violent, and acquisitive race.’ Said von Bismarck would use the three years that he’d be occupying France to lay the groundwork for invading our shores. He even proposed helping France to pay back their war reparations faster, so they could send the Germans home.” He snorted. “I was up in the balcony that day, and the place was in an uproar. Germany has its admirers, you know, and our new prime minister has praised von Bismarck.”
“So Sibley had his enemies.”
“Oh, yes.” His gaze was speculative. “You’re not thinking his death was—”
“No. Not that.” Mr. Hallam
hesitated and his voice dropped. “Keep this quiet for now, but there’s some confusion about a painting he owned.”
Mr. Flynn took a deep inhale and blew it out in a puff. “Are you talking about the piece Fishel wrote?”
I blinked in astonishment at his intuition, but Mr. Hallam nodded as if he’d expected the question and bent over his pocketbook to scribble a note. “What can you tell me about Mr. Pagett?”
The newspaperman shrugged again, but his expression registered disapproval. “He’s an odd one. I’ve only met him once or twice but both times he blathered on about the importance of funding proper museums for posterity, and the need to fix entrance fees in order to discourage ignorant people who didn’t appreciate art properly. He was bloody earnest—but at least in the circle where I was standing, it was met with dead air.”
Mr. Hallam closed his pocketbook. “Thank you, Tom.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.”
“Then good luck.” A quick smile, and his head bent over his pages again.
We were several steps down the hall when a shout of “Wait!” drew us back to the threshold. Mr. Flynn was frowning. “Fishel said the painting was supposed to have burnt in the Pantechnicon. D’you need to talk to someone about the fire?”
Mr. Hallam nodded. “Do you know someone?”
“Hmph. You could talk to—God’s sake, what was his bloody name? John? No, George—George Radermacher.” He shoved his chair back, making the legs screech across the floor, and strode to a cabinet. I realized then that he was shorter than I had imagined—perhaps only an inch or two taller than I. There was a meaningful disparity between his size and his vitality.
“Managed the place,” Mr. Flynn said. On a shelf were dozens of small pocketbooks and some loose papers, and he riffled briskly through them. “Wouldn’t say a word to me at the time. But it’s been over a year, so maybe he’ll talk to you, considering why you want to know. Seemed a good bloke.” He took out one pocketbook from a stack, thumbed through it, put it back, and plucked another, turned several pages, then scribbled an address on a slip of paper and handed it to Mr. Hallam.
I was in awe. All those notebooks and he knew where to find that piece of information on a single page.
Mr. Hallam held up the bit of paper. “Thanks for this. I owe you.”
“Speaking of that.” Mr. Flynn squinted up at him. “You don’t happen to have an extra pair of tickets for the concert next month, do you? There’s not a single one left for love or money.”
Mr. Hallam grinned. “I’ll ask Nell to leave them at the window for you.”
He pulled at an imaginary cap. “Thanks. Much obliged.” Then he dropped back into his chair and we left.
“Tickets for what?” I asked as we walked down those treacherous stairs.
“My sister is performing. It’s one of Chopin’s scherzos, and the original performer has canceled his appearance, so she’s stepping in.”
I stared. Even I knew that a Chopin scherzo wasn’t a piece one merely stepped into. “Where is the performance?”
He glanced sideways. “At St. James’s.”
“Oh.” It came out as the start of a laugh. He’d given me the impression that Nell was merely a student. I was beginning to recognize his tendency toward understatement.
“Will the auction begin on time, do you think?” he asked as he opened the front door for me. The cab was on the other side of the street, waiting for us.
“I assume so. They usually do,” I replied. “Have you ever attended one before?”
“Not an art auction.”
“I was just thinking that I should come.” I had my arguments ready. “I’ve been to several at Bettridge’s, and I know what to expect. Not only that, I would recognize most people who were at Edwin’s funeral. I can help you find anyone who was at both.”
He nodded. “I’d be grateful if you would.”
I met his gaze. “I thought I’d have to convince you.”
“Not at all. It’s a public event.” He held out his hand to help me into the cab. “You go ahead. I have to go down to the docks.” I climbed inside and expected him to close the door, but he held it open as if there were more he wanted to say. “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he said finally. “There’s nothing to be done until after the auction. Why don’t you get some rest?”
I nodded. “I will.”
“Good.” He looked relieved. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
I smiled. “I’ll be there early.”
“I will, too.” He handed the driver a coin, and bid me goodbye. I watched curiously as he walked away and vanished into an alley that led down to the Thames.
Chapter 10
I took Mr. Hallam’s advice to heart and spent most of Sunday morning idling at home, reading a novel—something I hadn’t done in months. In the afternoon, I worked for a few hours at my easel, and then took a long walk through Hyde Park along the Serpentine. At last, I had a hearty tea, came home, and fell fast asleep, slumbering straight through until the sun was bright in the sky. For the first time in days, I woke feeling refreshed and ready for whatever the day would bring.
As I drew near Bettridge’s, I saw a crowd clustering near the front door, and I felt a flutter of anticipation under my rib cage. At the threshold of the auction hall, I paused in wonder, for Bettridge’s had transformed the room since I’d seen it two years ago. Where there had once been dim gas lighting, now six electrified crystal chandeliers blazed and sparkled overhead, so that any artwork hung on the walls or placed upon the stage would be easily visible. Instead of ordinary paint, the walls were covered in a fresh sage-green silk down to a rich mahogany wainscoting, and in lieu of plain wooden seats and benches there stood perfect rows of chairs upholstered in black velvet, shirred at the corners. An elevated stage, with gilt at the edge and a carved pillar on either side, held an auctioneer’s podium adorned with a shining brass B; and beside it stood a wrought-iron easel, where the paintings would be placed in sequence.
The room was filling rapidly with a steady stream of gapers and gawkers and potential buyers, though only a fraction of the attendees carried a catalog. The crowd was comprised mostly of men, but some women—mostly wives, I assumed—attended as well. There was an air of affluence about everyone seated.
Along the side of the room stood half a dozen men and one woman. The woman appeared vaguely ill at ease but resolute. She held a pocketbook and a pen, and while several of the men around her conducted quiet conversations, she scribbled notes. They were writers for the newspapers, I realized. Well—why could I not fall in with them? They had an excellent vantage point. I drew out a small sketchbook I always carried and took my place at the end of the line. It put me about halfway back in the room, which suited me. I didn’t want to be up front, where people might take notice.
I stood with my left shoulder to the wall, my heart thudding unevenly. As I watched for Mr. Hallam at the entrance, my eyes also darted through the audience, down one row, up the next, looking for anyone familiar. And with each individual I examined, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was this who killed Edwin? Was he here to gloat over having undermined the auction? I searched diligently, but the only face I recognized was Felix’s. Poor Felix. I dared not approach him where he sat in the back row. His face was so pale and stricken, I wondered if Mr. Bettridge had already cast him off permanently.
At last I saw Mr. Hallam enter at the back. He scanned the room, and his eyes seemed to brush over me. Anxiously, I wondered if I should raise my sketchbook to catch his attention. But he began sauntering in my direction, and I felt an easing inside my chest. I bent over and began a sketch of the stage on a blank page. To my relief, the journalists were speaking intently among themselves, so my conversation with Mr. Hallam would likely go unnoticed. The grandfather clock on the opposite wall showed there were only ten minutes until the auction would begin.
Mr. Hallam took his place close behind me. I cast a quick glance upward. His gaze was fixed u
pon the gathering crowd, and his lips barely moved. “Hullo.”
Taking my cue from him, I surveyed the audience and murmured, “There are a good many people here. Just as Felix said.”
“Yes.” His voice was pleasant. “Don’t show any surprise at my question, all right? But by chance did you visit your brother’s rooms last night?”
I bent my head over my sketch again. “No. Why?”
“They were searched again.”
It took all my self-possession to keep my head down. “How? I thought they were being watched.”
“We kept the constable there until yesterday afternoon. He returned the key to the landlady around half past four.”
“How did they get in?”
“The doorjamb was splintered by the lock.”
I felt a sharp spike of anger at the thought of the thief rummaging through Edwin’s belongings again. But what was he looking for this time?
“Was anything taken?” I asked.
“Doesn’t appear so. We might not even have known someone broke in except that about an hour after the constable left, the landlady heard footsteps on the stairs, and when she went to check Edwin’s room, she saw the broken wood. She sent a message to the Yard right away.” He slipped a key into my hand. “A copy for you. She asked the constable when you would be fetching Edwin’s things. Apparently the rent is paid up for several more weeks, so you have time.”
I’d planned to sort through Edwin’s belongings at some point, of course, but I’d been putting it off. Perhaps Mr. Hallam sensed my reluctance, for he said in an undertone, “I understand that’s not going to be easy. If you like, I can help you. And there is a storeroom at the Yard with some space you can use temporarily, though I’m not sure you’d want to leave any of his paintings in it for long. It’s damp.”
I felt his kindness like warmth down to my bones. “Thank you,” I said gratefully and slid the key into my pocket. “I will want a few of Edwin’s things, of course, for sentimental reasons.” A pause. “But why would the thief come back? It’s not as if any of the other paintings were of any particular value.”