by Karen Odden
We turned away, and as we dragged ourselves down the first row yet again, I became aware that my feet hurt, and I was becoming desperately thirsty. I spied a selection of apples and led Celia toward the booth. I took out some coins and paid. The apples were sweet, tangy, and deeply satisfying, and we walked and munched in silence, making our way up the middle of the aisles, with people bustling and dawdling at the booths on either side of us, Celia looking one way and I the other.
“Don’t give up yet,” Celia replied, her voice hopeful. “There’s nearly two hours before it closes.”
“Celia!” came a man’s voice. “What a pleasant surprise!”
We both turned to find a tall, clean-shaven man in his forties smiling jovially down at my friend. “I haven’t seen you in months.”
“Carl Fowler.” She smiled up at him and extended her hand cordially. I was bumped from behind, and I edged sideways to be out of the way. She turned to me. “He owns my favorite gallery in all of London.” She withdrew her hand—I detected some reluctance on his part to let it go, which made me smile, despite everything—and she used it to gesture toward me. “And this is my friend Miss Annabel Rowe, who is a painter at the Slade. She’s never been here, so I thought we’d take in the market today.”
He looked up at the sky. “The weather is unfortunate, isn’t it? Have you just arrived? Are you here looking for anything in particular?”
Celia ignored the first two questions. “Not really. It’s more an excuse to be out of doors. And, well, my house is uninhabitable at the moment.”
“Of course,” he said, the smile slipping away. “I’m so sorry. I had forgotten. When will you be moving to Gwendolyn’s?”
“In a few days. No doubt she’ll have you to dinner soon.”
His eyebrows rose, and he chuckled. “Your sister does love her parties.”
“I don’t think she knows how to dine alone.” Celia smiled up at him.
“Well, I shall look forward to it,” he said, and with a bow, he left us.
I turned to watch him go, and my eye was caught by a figure I knew—
Mr. Pagett was making his way toward us, slowly, one hand holding a walking stick.
I turned toward Celia, positioning myself with my back to him. “He’s here,” I said breathlessly. “Look over my shoulder.”
Her eyes darted, and I heard her quick intake of breath as my eyes began searching for a plainclothesman.
It seemed there was none in sight. I spun, frantically, to see if I might find a telltale cap.
After all this time searching, to let our chance slip away—
“I see him,” a masculine voice murmured in my ear.
Celia and I turned to find not one but two brown caps.
“Now we just need to wait,” the other said. “Stay here.”
We both nodded our assent, and I saw Mr. Pagett dawdling beside a booth that displayed bolts of cloth, examining the collection of woolens. He moved on to the next, which carried a range of scientific instruments. Suddenly, I saw another man proceeding along the row. He had a mustache and beard and walked with a stiffness that might have been due to an injury from his struggle with Matthew. But it was Sam Boulter, and tucked under his arm, as nonchalantly as if he carried this sort of parcel every day of his life, was a wooden box approximately a yard long with the words E. BUK, LTD. TELESCOPIC APPARATUS stamped in large black letters on the side.
We’d been ordered to stay where we were, but I hurried toward the policeman and bumped him with the left side of my body. “Telescope box,” I said, as loudly as I dared in the direction of his ear, and continued on my trajectory away from him.
I couldn’t be sure he’d heard me, but not wanting to attract notice, I strolled toward a booth that sold homemade preserves and butter. The crowd had thinned as the day waned, and God forbid either Mr. Pagett or Sam Boulter caught sight of me. My heart beating in sickening thuds, I fixed my eyes on some jars of strawberry preserves, straining to hear above the low chatter of market-goers, the clinks of jars, the bark of a dog.
Waiting—
Waiting—
Waiting for voices raised in protest, a crash as someone was shoved into a table, the clatter of Mr. Pagett’s walking stick as it fell, the scream of an onlooker—
At last I could stand it no longer. Warily, I turned, craning my neck to peer down the aisle—
And I saw evidence of none of those things.
Celia appeared at my side. “There.” She nodded, and I followed her gaze. The aisle was nearly empty, and I could see them, three-quarters of the way down the row, a tidy group of seven: Mr. Pagett walked between two policemen while Sam Boulter walked between two others, and Matthew brought up the rear, the telescope box under his left arm.
With a profound feeling of relief and anticlimax that almost made me want to laugh, I watched them go.
And then, suddenly, coming toward them with a bold, purposeful gait, was a man, tall and handsome, with brown hair and a face I’d seen before—
A warning bell sounded in my head, loudly.
Still, I couldn’t place him—and yet it seemed terribly important that I remember who he was—
Then I knew:
Will Giffen. Sam Boulter’s best friend.
His hands had been down by his sides, but now one was unbuttoning his coat.
My feet moved of their own accord, and I raced toward them—
“Matthew!” It came out as a shriek that sliced through the rumble and mutter of the market.
He whirled, and I saw his eyes searching desperately for me.
My arm was stretched straight out, my hand pointing—
Even as he turned away, his left hand dropped the box and his right drew a pistol.
Not ten steps from Matthew, Will Giffen jerked to a stop, his hand reaching inside his coat—
But Matthew closed in with long strides, and Will Giffen froze as Matthew’s hand grasped his arm. In an instant, one of the other policemen was beside the pair, surreptitiously drawing Will Giffen’s arms behind his back and clasping metal cuffs around his wrists. Now it was Matthew’s hand slipping inside the man’s coat at the waist. When it emerged, his fingers were wrapped around something dark and shining, and he slid it into his coat pocket without a glance.
Celia had reached my side. “Who’s that?” she asked between gasps.
“Will Giffen,” I said. “He came to Edwin’s funeral, but they weren’t friends. Lewis called him Sam Boulter’s henchman.” In the aftermath of my terror, my heart was pounding uncontrollably. I put my hand to my stomach, fearing I’d be ill.
A pair of women peered curiously at me.
“Be you all right?” one of them asked.
I nodded. “Yes. I thought I saw someone I knew.”
Her thick brown eyebrows rose and she turned away muttering under her breath to the other, something about seeing folks you know without screaming like a banshee. The other woman chortled in reply.
Celia’s hand grasped mine, and together we watched as two more policemen appeared. Each took one of Will Giffen’s arms and steered him away. Matthew retrieved the box—which had remained intact, thank goodness—and I watched as they all vanished around the corner.
The very lack of furor, so in keeping with Matthew’s usual equanimity, stunned me. How could anyone think that plainclothesmen weren’t superior at their work? I glanced around at the cheerfully mundane scene—a woman packing carrots and potatoes into a crate, another woman tugging at her two children, a man examining some old books at the next booth—and marveled.
A thief, a murderer, an accomplice, and a museum-quality painting had been removed from the scene, and no one was the wiser.
Chapter 24
The knowledge that the men had been caught and the painting found permitted me to slumber heavily, and for the first time since the attack, I woke without feeling the flare of anxiety along my nerves.
I drank my tea and dressed quickly, and soon arrived at the Yard. Th
e men to be questioned had already been put into separate rooms in the back hallway. I sat on the same bench that I’d occupied twice before, the wooden seat at the junction of the hall and the main room. That morning it seemed to me there was a heightened intensity about the entire division, and no one paid a whit of attention to me as I waited for Matthew to emerge from the chief inspector’s office.
At last he did, and I rose to meet him. I laid a hand on his forearm and under my breath, I pleaded, “I want to talk to him. Just for a few minutes.”
Matthew shook his head. “Annabel, you can’t. He’s in custody. I’m sorry.”
“You might not even have found him without me,” I whispered. “Edwin was my brother. I’ve a right to know what Boulter did, to hear it from him.”
“I understand.” His gaze met mine. “But there are procedures. Having you speak to him could jeopardize any evidence he gives.”
He’d said the one thing that would stop my protests. I eyed him suspiciously. “Is that the truth?”
He nodded. “But you can listen from the monitoring room. I convinced the chief you might catch a lie that the two of us might not. It’s the best I could do. All right?”
My disappointment faded. “He won’t know I’m there?”
He shook his head. “There’s only a vent connecting the rooms. You’ll be able to hear, though you can’t see. And you can’t make a sound.”
“Of course,” I agreed hastily, grateful for the concession.
“We’ve already questioned Giffen and charged him as an accessory, but he claims he didn’t know anything about the painting or Edwin. The chief and I will question Mr. Pagett and then Sam Boulter in turn.” He hesitated then added haltingly, “You may hear . . . well, some things that will surprise you—and upset you.”
“I’d still rather hear them than not.”
“All right, then.” He led me through the middle door of the three, and I sat in one of the wooden chairs.
A few moments later, I heard footsteps in the corridor, and a door opened and closed.
“Mr. Pagett, Chief Inspector Martin,” Matthew said.
“It was not necessary to keep me overnight when I’d have immediately answered any question you asked. I’ve done nothing unlawful.” Mr. Pagett’s voice sounded icy. “I was purchasing a painting that by rights belongs to me already. The only person injured is myself.”
The sound of scraping allowed me to imagine Matthew and his chief drawing out chairs and sitting down.
“That isn’t true, is it? I believe your father intended to return the painting to the LeMarc family,” Matthew said.
“That was never definite. At one point he also considered taking the painting to our estate in Salisbury.”
“Not by the time he was planning on accompanying the LeMarcs to France,” Matthew replied.
A heavy sigh. “If that’s true, it was only because he was being tricked out of it.”
“Tricked out of it,” Matthew repeated. “You make your father sound like a gullible fool. Isn’t it true that he was in love with Heloise and wanted to return it to her family as a gift? That’s hardly a trick.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mr. Pagett burst out. “There is no one on this earth who thought more highly of my father than I, and he was no fool! But in later years his judgment was . . . compromised. Naturally, he was lonely after my mother died and susceptible to being infatuated with a beautiful young woman. Surely you’ve heard of that situation.”
“Indeed, I have,” said a third voice, regretful but eagerly conciliatory. “A young woman will sometimes play to an older man’s need for companionship, make his evenings more pleasant.”
I stiffened with annoyance. Why was the chief inspector being so solicitous?
“Exactly. She quickly discerned his preferences. She played whist with him, read the books he liked, and purposefully cultivated his affections.”
The entire timbre of his voice had altered, and I could tell from its volume that Mr. Pagett had turned away from Matthew toward the chief.
“You don’t think it’s possible there was sincere affection on her side?” Matthew asked, his voice skeptical. “By all accounts, your father was a personable man.”
“He was,” he said earnestly, and his voice carried an edge of pain. “Personable and brilliant and cultivated. Heloise wasn’t his equal in any way—in intellect or understanding or character. The truth of it is she wanted a comfortable place to stay while her country was overcome with turmoil. And she’s the sort who enjoys conquests.” His voice soured. “She plays with men like other women dabble in needlepoint.”
“Was there perhaps some jealousy on your part?” Matthew asked.
A silence, and then he replied stiffly, “When she first arrived, she made clear her interest in me. When I rebuffed her—as tactfully as I could, for I had no desire to stir up animosity between the families—she turned her attentions to my father. At first, I thought the disparity in their ages would lead her affections to a natural death, and he would recognize how shallow and stupid she was. But he didn’t.”
“Was she really so shallow and stupid?”
A snort. “Heloise would take a fancy to one portrait or another, for no reason other than she thought some carved flowers on the frame were pretty, or because she liked the lace on a woman’s dress and might see about having some made in Brussels. That was the extent of her understanding.” A pause, and then, as if he realized how narrow that perspective was, he added, somewhat impatiently, “That is only one example.”
“And yet your father was drawn to her.”
“Yes.” He admitted, reluctantly, “She is beautiful, and as I said, she was attentive.”
“But you don’t think she was attached to him? He went back to Paris with them.”
“I watched her. As soon as she learned they’d be returning to Paris, she began to draw away from him.”
“Oh?”
“It hurt him,” he said, his voice brittle. “But he ascribed her growing indifference to anxiety about returning home. It was only after they left that I discovered that she’d had relations with one of our footmen. My father was in love and wouldn’t have believed me.” His voice dropped so far I had to strain to hear. “I never told him.”
Matthew coughed. “You were angry that he was giving away this painting.”
A sigh. “I don’t expect you to understand. If it were going to someone who would appreciate it, I wouldn’t mind half as much. But it is an extraordinary painting, the sort of painting one builds a collection around—a collection that transcends one person’s life, a tangible manifestation of intelligence and knowledge—” He halted. “It shouldn’t be used as a mere token in a doomed romantic scheme with a shallow, grasping woman.”
“I understand,” the chief interjected. “You want to create something that will last—something that will survive into posterity, something valuable that will stand up against time.”
“Yes.” Mr. Pagett sounded relieved. “I do.”
“When your father returned from France, in March, he became very ill,” Matthew said.
“Yes. He had influenza,” Mr. Pagett replied.
“It appeared to be influenza.” Matthew’s voice was perfectly calm, the way it often was when he had something shocking to reveal, and I felt myself tense. “In fact, we now believe your father was poisoned.”
Even as I felt the rush of surprise, I remembered I must stay quiet, and I silenced my gasp with my palm.
“But—but the doctor—but he—” Mr. Pagett sputtered.
“One of our specialists, Dr. Dunning, recently reviewed your doctor’s notes,” Matthew said. “And we consulted with an apothecary.”
There was only silence.
“Mr. Pagett?”
“I—I—” His voice caught. “What—was it arsenic?”
“Not arsenic,” Matthew said. “There was vomiting, headache, and tingling in the hands and feet, which could be due to either influenza or poiso
n. But with a toxin such as arsenic, there are usually signs on the skin—lesions, redness and swelling, and a darkening of the skin over time; your father didn’t have any of that.”
“So it was something else?”
“Yes. As Dr. Dunning continued reading the list of symptoms, he noted that Lord Sibley was having problems swallowing his food, his vision blurred, and his hair and eyebrows had begun to fall out. The apothecary described a recently discovered poison named thallium that dissolves in liquid and causes not only symptoms of influenza but also dysphagia—difficulty with swallowing, sometimes caused by injury to the esophagus—as well as injury to the eyes, and hair loss.”
The thought of suffering those symptoms made me shudder.
A groan from Mr. Pagett. “My poor father.”
Silence.
“Just how much did you want the Boucher?” Matthew’s voice was soft.
I heard the shrill scrape of a chair against the floor, as if Mr. Pagett had pushed back from the table. “I loved my father! I would never, ever do something like that! Certainly not over a painting!”
“He was your stepfather,” Matthew said quietly.
“Stepfather or not, he was the only father I ever knew! My mother married him when I wasn’t yet two years old!”
“But it wasn’t merely the painting you’d lose,” Matthew pressed. “If your stepfather remarried, and Heloise had a child, you’d lose the Sibley inheritance and the entire collection, wouldn’t you?”
His voice was hard. “You’re right, most of my father’s wealth would probably go to his new wife and heir. But I have my mother’s inheritance, and it’s plenty for my needs—including purchasing other paintings.”
“How much was it?”
“Nearly twenty thousand pounds per annum.” His voice was clipped.
I caught my breath. Felix had been mistaken. It was a substantial fortune.
The room was silent, and I understood that Matthew was temporarily nonplussed.
“My mother was an heiress,” Mr. Pagett continued. “What I might inherit from Lord Sibley is less than a third of what I inherited from my mother. I would certainly never kill him for it.” His voice sharpened. “But who would have wanted to poison my father? And why?”