A Trace of Deceit

by Karen Odden

  “He didn’t grow up here in London?”

  “Well, nominally. But he spent most of the year with his father on the ships. He took his books with him and had a tutor sometimes. He read voraciously.” Her eyes wandered to the shelves in this room, all of which were empty. “He always knew he’d join his father’s company, but he wanted to go to university first.”

  “I saw the books in the library when we were here last time. Is that where he learned his languages, traveling?”

  She came back to the couch and sat. “He had a good ear for them. The crewmen all spoke different languages, of course—German, Dutch, French, Spanish, Portuguese, even Arabic—and when they’d arrive in port, they’d sometimes spend days or even weeks on land. Stephen would linger about the warehouses or shipyards or shops, just listening until he picked up a few phrases. He was never shy about talking to strangers.” Her expression betrayed admiration and pride. “He was open to new things—new languages, new people, new ideas. It was Stephen who convinced his partners to change over to tramper steamers.”

  “Tramper steamers?”

  “Yes. The company now belongs to the Baltic Exchange, so their ships bring any goods to any port, at any time, rather than working on a set schedule. As a result, the company ships fewer consumable goods and more machinery and tools, steelwork for bridges and pipes, and such. There is a large demand in Europe now for these things, and while timing is more critical, the profits are better.” She paused. “Was the Sibley family connected in any way with shipping or the building of bridges and roads—or perhaps some other industry with goods that require shipping?”

  “Not that anyone’s mentioned. I assume most of their wealth comes from the funds and rents, in the way of most of the landed class.” I paused. “What about the LeMarc family? The ones who owned the painting originally. Did your husband know them?”

  “I don’t recall the name.” She stood and paced again, her brow creased in concentration. “I’m trying to assemble all of this in my head, and I can’t help but wonder at the coincidences. The painting could only have been in the Pantechnicon for a matter of—what—six or eight weeks, at most? And during those few weeks, the man who owns the painting departs for France; the Pantechnicon goes up in flames, after having stood perfectly intact for forty years; the man who was holding the painting for the owner dies; and then the owner dies. Doesn’t it seem peculiar?”

  I acknowledged it did.

  “So did someone remove the painting for Lord Sibley,” she continued, “knowing there would be a fire? If someone did, was it Stephen? And if not, why give it to Stephen to hold? The questions keep accumulating.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “And why is this painting so important? There were others in the Sibleys’ storage room that were even more valuable, including a Rembrandt, which would probably be valued at nearly twice the amount. Why wouldn’t a thief take that one instead?”

  Our silent musing was interrupted by the door opening. Betsy entered carrying a tray of tea things tinkling against each other. I glanced up at the clock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  “I brought enough for two, mum,” Betsy said to her mistress as she set the tray on the table.

  “Thank you, Betsy.” Celia sat down to pour.

  Betsy left, and I took a sip of the tea; it was hot and strong and tasted vaguely of lavender. “Would you call yourself a serious collector, like the Sibleys?”

  A diffident look. “Not really. I haven’t the money they do, for one thing. But it is my special interest, and my family has collected for years.” She glanced at the portrait above the fireplace.

  “That’s a Gainsborough, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Of my father.” She smiled ruefully. “It would probably fetch a good amount at auction, but of course I won’t part with it at any price. We have a fine Watteau and a good Renoir, and a few Dutch Masters as well. I’d show them to you, but they’ve already been packed in crates, I’m afraid.”

  “I saw the Cézanne in the hallway.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You’re familiar with his work?”

  “Not really. I saw the signature.” I smiled. “I did view some prints at school, and I recall what the papers said about him.”

  “Stephen bought that for me last year, not long before he died.”

  It was the first opening I had to voice what had been in the back of my mind since my first visit. “It’s very different from the Boucher,” I said tentatively.

  She gave me a keen look. “You mean to ask whether I doubted that Stephen would have bought the Boucher for me as a gift.”

  “Well, yes,” I admitted.

  “Now the thought occurs to me, of course, but before last week it didn’t.” She set the teacup onto her saucer soundlessly. “He’s purchased five paintings for me over the years. Only one other was from a previous century.”

  “Really?” I reached to pour myself more tea.

  “He liked to support emerging artists. I think often he was charmed not by the artwork itself but by the idea that a young man or woman was ambitious, trying to make their way.” She shrugged. “Each time, he concealed the painting in the special closet until a special occasion came around.”

  “That’s a lovely tradition,” I said.

  Her smile flickered and faded. “Yes,” she said, averting her gaze. “It was.”

  I hadn’t meant to steer her thoughts toward her loss, and I produced the first practical question that occurred to me. “You said he had planned to go to university,” I said. “Did he?”

  She nodded. “He studied politics, economics, and the history of Europe at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, near Brussels. His special interest was France.” Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. “Do you know where Lord Sibley attended? Perhaps—”

  “Oxford,” I interrupted, but her words sparked a notion of my own. “Tell me, how—precisely—did your husband feel about France? And the Germans, after the war?”

  “Oh.” She winced and propped her elbow back on the chair arm. “He was very sympathetic to France’s plight. You see, his family had dear friends in Paris and Alsace, and several of them died fighting the Prussians. Others died in the siege. But even before the war, Stephen was concerned that England and France were trapped in ways of regarding each other that were terribly outdated—and dangerous for our foreign policy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, France and England have been at war with each other on and off since Normandy was part of England,” she said.

  I didn’t know it had been, I thought with a twinge of embarrassment.

  “According to Stephen,” she continued, “for most of those six hundred years, England considered itself vis-à-vis France. She was perpetually our strongest adversary, and we were hers.” Her expression was earnest; clearly she had been convinced of her late husband’s ideas. “But Europe is changing, and countries such as Russia and Germany are developing their economies, building alliances, and strengthening their positions. That’s why, even before the war, Stephen was worried about how the balance of power in Europe was shifting, and how England would fit in.”

  My heart tripped. Her report of Stephen’s concerns reminded me of what Mr. Flynn had said of Lord Sibley. A thrumming started in the back of my brain.

  “When did the Franco-Prussian War begin?” I asked. “Was it 1871?”

  She shifted against the cushion. “No, 1870, in July. Germany had secretly gathered three-quarters of a million soldiers and dozens of trainloads of munitions at the border, with Bismarck waiting until just the right moment to provoke France into declaring war. That would make the southern states beg protection from Prussia, and Bismarck would have his united Germany, which was his purpose all along.”

  I stared. “That’s rather Machiavellian.”

  She nodded. “German troops reached Paris in September, and the city was under siege for four long, dreadful months. It was terribly chaotic, and people i
n the countryside were starving. I know that Stephen’s company was shipping more supplies than usual.” Her delicate features were drawn with regret. “Germany was permitted to occupy France for three years, until the reparations were paid off. By then the balance of power had shifted in Europe, perhaps forever. It troubled Stephen very much.”

  I rested the teacup in my palm. “I wonder if that might be where he and Lord Sibley have some common ground.”

  “Did Lord Sibley have sympathies in that direction?”

  “Well, he hated Germany,” I said. “And he invited the LeMarc family into his home when they fled Paris.”

  “Oh!” She blinked in surprise.

  “From what I gather, Lord Sibley was against England isolating itself from Europe. He even proposed legislation that would forge a stronger economic tie with France.”

  She went still, and when she leaned forward to set down her cup and saucer, they jittered softly against the table. “Well, that’s something Stephen and he could have agreed on, certainly.”

  “Celia, did Mr. Jesper keep records of his travels? I’m just wondering if he and Lord Sibley might have crossed paths abroad. Lord Sibley was in France for several months last year before he died, visiting the LeMarc family—but he traveled to Europe often.”

  She nibbled delicately at her lower lip. “I know Stephen went to France shortly after the war ended, but most of his foreign trips were to Holland and Belgium, where his company has divisions.”

  Surely those countries were common destinations for a wealthy traveler. Still, my heart skipped a beat. “Mr. Pagett mentioned his stepfather traveled to Amsterdam and Antwerp.” I paused. “I assumed it was to buy paintings. The art markets there are so robust. But perhaps he had another reason.”

  She looked disconcerted. “Is there any way to ascertain his exact travel dates? I can provide you with at least most of Stephen’s itineraries.”

  “Would it be too much trouble?”

  “Not at all. He wasn’t gone so very often, and I haven’t packed my diaries yet, thank goodness.”

  She went to her desk and set about the task of paging through some small leather-bound books and compiling the list. Not wanting to hover, I took a turn around the room and went to the window to look out. Hansom cabs rolled along the street; a young woman tucked her hand inside the arm of an older gentleman; a crossing-sweep rested his weight against his broom. The entire scene could be painted in shades of gray and green, with the exception of a few bits of color for the flowers on the woman’s hat.

  “Annabel?”

  I turned.

  She held out a piece of paper, with each of Stephen’s trips and dates entered separately. Her expression held some consternation. “There’s one odd thing I should mention about the last one, in December 1873. He told me he went to Belgium, but he may have made an ancillary trip to France. He brought me some special lace from Paris.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The packaging showed the address. It was a present, for Christmas.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t omit it to deceive you,” I said hesitantly.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, either,” she agreed. “Or he would’ve redone the wrapping on the lace.” She frowned. “But now I wonder if he didn’t go to Paris. Perhaps Lord Sibley was in Paris and brought the lace to Belgium.”

  “He might have,” I said, folding the paper into quarters. “I’ll give this to Mr. Hallam. He may find similarities with Lord Sibley’s travel.”

  She rested her forearm along the chair’s wooden back, her hand curved around the corner, her dark silk sleeve falling as gracefully as if she were sitting for her portrait. “We certainly can’t base anything on the packaging of some lace. But you’ll tell me, won’t you, if Mr. Hallam finds that he and Lord Sibley were meeting?”

  I nodded. “You said your husband went to school in Leuven. Did he correspond with anyone there? Any old friends or professors?”

  She shook her head. “He mentioned them to me in passing, but I’m afraid I don’t remember the names.”

  “What about his books?” I asked. “Perhaps one of them was written by a professor of his.”

  “We could look.” She led the way into the library and pointed. “These three tables have his books from university.”

  We each began with a stack, paging through the volumes, and I tried to conceal my astonishment at the breadth of topics. There were books on European history, the Orient, Africa, religion, botany, architecture, astronomy, shipbuilding, the oceans, mapmaking, war, politics, trade, geography, and philosophy. Many were in English, though others were in Dutch, German, and French; however, we found none by a professor at the university.

  And then I found an inscription, in a heavy, masculine hand, on the first page of a bound volume of Plato’s Works. I might have missed it except the ink ran close to the edge of the page. “Here,” I said and handed it to her. “Can you translate this?”

  Celia glanced over the first few words. “It’s German.” Then she read aloud: “‘To my dear Stephen, with my best wishes for continued success in your studies. May you . . .’” She shook her head. “I beg your pardon. The man’s writing is atrocious. It says, ‘May you always sustain your profound faith in humanity. J. Mertens. Leuven, 1857.’” She looked up. “Now I remember. Stephen mentioned him.”

  “Perhaps he knows if your husband met Lord Sibley there, and why.”

  She closed the book and drew it to her chest. “It’s possible,” she said slowly.

  “Where is Leuven?” I asked.

  She bit her lip. “Perhaps twenty-five miles south of Antwerp. On a train, it would be no more than an hour or two.”

  I felt a beat of encouragement at discovering this connection, however loose, between the two men. But Celia’s entire frame had gone tense.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked.

  She managed a smile. “No. I just . . .”

  I kept silent, waiting.

  When at last she spoke, there was a tremor in her voice. “I hate the idea that he had a secret from me. But I very much want to know the truth, no matter what it is.”

  “Of course.”

  We started back to the parlor, her arms still clasping the book to her chest. “I’ll never be easy in my mind until I know what he was doing, and what Lord Sibley was to him. I’ll find a moment this evening to write to the professor.” She glanced around. “I still have a good deal of packing up, and the removers are coming for the last bit on Saturday.”

  I took the hint, went to the couch, and picked up my gloves and my wrap. “I have some things to do this afternoon myself.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to—wait, please.” She laid the book on a table and came close, looking up to meet my gaze. I noticed again how beautiful her eyes were, with the mix of brown and gold and green. “If the professor conveys something upsetting,” she said steadily, “I don’t want you to feel sorry about it. This is my choice. I dislike the idea of being a coward about the truth.”

  I felt a wave of sympathy. “I do hope you find that there is an explanation for your husband’s actions that accords with what you know of him.” I swallowed. “From what you’ve told me, I cannot believe that he would do anything unethical or—or disloyal.”

  A faint, grateful tuck appeared at the corner of her mouth.

  We walked into the hallway, and she noticed my glance at the sparkling Cézanne. She paused to give me the opportunity to look. “Do you paint landscapes?”

  “Not often, and not well.”

  “You know what they said of his work. That it was inane. Terrible.” She brushed her fingertips across the gold frame, as if to remove a speck of dust. “But it gives me a peculiar feeling, the same sort of openness or . . . expansiveness around my heart that I used to feel with Stephen.”

  My own heart ached for her. “I understand.”

  We continued toward the door, and she waited to open it until I finished buttoning my coat.

  “Celi
a, there’s one last thing,” I said. “Last night the Beacon published a rotten article on their front page. It contained all sorts of spurious ideas and innuendoes, including that the Boucher was a forgery and the auction house knew it all along.” I hesitated. “They called it ‘Bettridge’s Grand Swindle.’”

  Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

  “I know.” I took a deep breath. “In the next few days, you may see more unpleasant publicity in the press. The inspector asked me to advise you to not take much notice.”

  “Thank you for warning me. It’s not likely I’d have seen it—I don’t read that paper, and honestly, I haven’t had much time to read anything the past fortnight—but it’s better to know.”

  I nodded and tentatively put out my hand to bid her goodbye. To my surprise, she clasped mine warmly, with both of hers. “Thank you for being kind,” she said. “For breaking the news gently, and for understanding.”

  Her appreciativeness felt larger than I deserved. Feeling gratified but awkward, I merely squeezed her hands in return.

  WHEN I REACHED my flat, I made myself some bread and butter and took up my sketchbook and pencil, for I had a picture forming in my mind of Celia that I longed to capture. I fed myself with my left hand and sketched thumbnails with my right. Though the moment when she turned and rested her arm along the back of the chair had the grace befitting a portrait, the moment that drew me with its complexity was Celia sitting on the couch, her hands holding the framed photograph of her husband.

  It only took three sketches before the picture’s composition began to take shape. The light entered from a window on the left side of the canvas. The couch I placed straight on, with Celia seated, holding her husband’s photograph in its silver frame. I swallowed down the last of the bread as I went to my easel, my left hand reaching to take the apron off the nail.

  I slipped the apron’s loop over my head, wrapped the ties to the back, and knotted them. I brought my three best lamps close, chose a canvas of my usual size, two feet by three, and placed it horizontally on the easel.

  I began to block out the elements with Celia at the center. Though I worked with purpose, after an hour, I felt dissatisfied with the result. Celia and the frame needed a third element, something more substantial than the window light to balance the image. Tentatively I moved her over to the right and sketched in myself on the left. I was little more than a gray blur, but it was enough.