by Karen Odden
“I can’t say,” Matthew said. “It’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
“Damn your talk of investigations!” Mr. Pagett burst out. “He’s my father! You can’t merely tell me he’s been poisoned and nothing else!”
“Mr. Hallam, I’d like to speak with Mr. Pagett alone,” the chief inspector’s authoritative voice broke in.
After a moment, I heard the scrape of a chair, and the door opened and closed.
“Mr. Pagett,” the chief inspector said. “I assure you, we will share the truth when we know it. But we want to be very sure of our facts first. I’m sure you can understand. Believe me, we want justice for your father as much as you do. We have our eye on someone, and the man who did this will not go unpunished.”
A heavy sigh. “It’s just . . . oh, for God’s sake. I feel like this is all because of that bloody portrait. I almost hate it now.”
There was a long silence, and then the chief inspector said mildly, “My grandfather was a great admirer of portraits. We spent hours in the National Gallery together. He particularly liked the Old Masters.”
Mr. Pagett made a noncommittal sound.
The handle to my room turned with a soft click, and Matthew stepped inside the room, his finger to his lips. I nodded, for I understood. The clouds of suspicion were clearing from around Mr. Pagett, and the chief inspector wanted to treat him as an ally—a task more easily done with Matthew out of the room.
The chief’s voice continued, “It was he who taught me the difference between a half-length, a kit-cat, and a full-length, and to understand the iconography of the globe, the books, or the pointers at a man’s feet. He impressed upon me from a young age how art was a record of history, not only an indelible record of an individual’s pursuits and interests but also representative of the politics and mores of the time.”
The echo of my own words—knowledge I’d gained myself from Mr. Poynter’s lectures—made me turn to stare at Matthew. There was a glint of acknowledgment in his eye, but his face remained intent. He was listening with every bit of his being.
“My father and I also spent hours together looking at paintings,” Mr. Pagett said, and his voice was low. “One of my earliest memories is of sitting on his knee in the study. He was showing me his grandfather’s portrait and explaining to me what the painter had done and why.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to injure him?” the chief inspector asked. His voice was sympathetic. “A personal quarrel, perhaps something to do with his politics?”
Mr. Pagett gave a choking sort of gasp. “Father had his enemies in Parliament—particularly those in favor of strengthening ties with Germany. He thought they were shortsighted fools, and my father was accustomed to making his feelings known.”
“Anyone in particular?”
He shrugged. “Lord Bartleston. Lord Chelmsley. Those are the two who come to mind.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said despondently.
“Mr. Pagett, I have just a few more questions. First, did you ever speak with Mr. Fishel of the Beacon?”
“God, no. I hate newspapermen.”
“And how did you find Mr. Boulter?” the chief inspector asked.
“Oh.” A sigh. “I didn’t find him. He found me. He sent a letter to my club, suggesting we meet.”
“Where was that?”
“At a coffee shop in Islington.”
“What price did he name?”
A brief hesitation. “One thousand pounds.”
“One thousand pounds!” The chief’s voice registered astonishment. “The painting was worth several times that, wasn’t it?”
“Not with the controversy surrounding it,” Mr. Pagett replied. “If there’s even a doubt as to its legitimacy—and very few people other than myself would be able to distinguish the original from a copy—no one would pay full price for it.”
“And how did you imagine that Mr. Boulter had the painting in the first place?”
The answer came reluctantly: “I assumed that he had been commissioned by Heloise LeMarc to sell it. It’s well known that he frequently sells French art here. But I didn’t ask. Frankly, I didn’t much care.” A pause. “How did he obtain it?”
“It was stolen from the flat of the man who was restoring it for auction.”
Dead silence. And then a whisper: “Oh God.”
“In fact, Boulter at first tried to tell us that you stole it and murdered the man who was cleaning it,” the chief inspector said quietly. “And you knew him because he’d cleaned a painting for you several years ago.”
“That’s absurd!” He hesitated, then asked, “Who was the man cleaning it?”
“Edwin Rowe.”
“The man in the newspaper,” he said slowly.
“Yes.”
“I never met him,” Mr. Pagett said. “When was the painting stolen?”
“Two weeks ago, on Monday, in the late afternoon or evening.”
A sigh. “Well, there you have it. I was in France.”
“What?”
“I can find you the canceled tickets. I went to Paris to see the LeMarc family because I had reason to suspect they had commissioned the sale.”
“How did they receive you?” the chief inspector asked.
“They were civil enough, at first.”
“At first?”
“Yes, until I asked Heloise outright if she’d put the painting up for auction at Bettridge’s,” Mr. Pagett said. “She flew into a temper and told me my father had sold it back to her for a pound, as a present, but she insisted she hadn’t seen the Boucher since they’d left England. I assumed she was lying.”
The chief inspector remained silent, and I wondered if he was imagining what I was: how angry Mr. Pagett would have been, believing that Heloise had sold Lord Sibley’s gift to her—especially after he had done her family the kindness of providing them with a safe haven for nearly two years.
“She wasn’t lying,” the chief inspector said. “We found a notarized receipt of sale signed by your father.”
A sharp intake of breath. “You did? Where?”
“I can’t say at the moment. But it is most assuredly authentic.”
There came a sound halfway between a snort and a sigh. “Very well.” His voice was heavy with resignation. “Then it’s hers by rights.”
“One more thing,” the chief inspector said. “Does the name Stephen Jesper mean anything to you?”
“I assume he’s related to Mrs. Celia Jesper, who consigned the Boucher.”
“She had it in her house because his firm had been hired to ship the Boucher. We found a bill of lading to that effect.” The chief inspector paused. “Would you have had a quarrel with Jesper for heeding your father’s request?”
“Of course not,” Mr. Pagett scoffed. “If Father had ordered it, the shippers certainly weren’t to blame. But I’ve never spoken to Mr. Jesper in my life, much less quarreled with him. If you don’t believe me, ask the man.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pagett. Would it be possible for us to send a policeman round to your house for those tickets? It would be most helpful.”
“Of course. They’re in the top right-hand drawer of my desk.”
“That will be all for now,” the chief inspector said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
The door opened and closed.
I saw Matthew’s chest expand with a sigh of relief, and he wore a look of satisfaction. From the room we heard a soft groan from Mr. Pagett followed by a whispered “damn.”
Matthew came forward to touch my elbow, and his expression seemed to ask for understanding. He tipped his head toward the other room; it was time for him to speak with Sam Boulter. I had a feeling this interview would be more difficult for me to hear. But I nodded, and he closed the vent to Mr. Pagett’s room then left. A moment later, I heard a door open and close. I went to the vent on the other wall and soundlessly slid the lever all the way up, my heart hammering.
“Mr. Boulter.”
Silence.
“Do you have anything you’d like to say, before we begin?” Matthew asked.
“Only that Mr. Pagett wanted that painting.” His voice was churlish. “He would have done anything to get it back.”
“Let’s set the matter of the painting aside for a moment,” Matthew replied. “I want to know about Edwin Rowe. You knew him from school?”
Silence. I imagined the look he was giving Matthew, for asking a question to which the inspector knew the answer.
Matthew’s voice was conversational: “He must have done something to make you angry, all those years ago.”
Still, silence.
“Your father was the art master there, wasn’t he?” Matthew continued.
“Yes.”
“And he took a liking to Edwin.”
“Perhaps. I don’t recall.”
“Right now you’re going to hang for murder,” Matthew said, his voice nonchalant. “If you want any chance at prison instead, you’ll answer the question.”
“You’ve no proof, or you wouldn’t be asking,” he said flatly.
“Aside from the fact that you had in your possession the Boucher that was in Edwin’s room, we have a witness who puts you in Edwin’s rooms that night, and we can probably make a case that it was your knife. You dropped one of the proper length and width in the stairwell the other night.”
I felt myself freeze in my chair. Was Matthew lying? Or telling the truth?
A long pause.
“There are plenty of knives like that,” Mr. Boulter said coolly. “You can’t prove I used it on him.”
“Well, whether you did or didn’t, there’s a factor you’re not taking into account. The painting belonged to Lord Sibley, and he had plenty of friends in legal circles who’d like to see justice done. I’ve seen cases like this, and I can tell you there’s enough evidence that a judge will convict, if only to hold someone accountable,” Matthew said calmly. “But if you tell me how it happened, I will have a word with him. It usually makes a difference in sentencing. Might even be mitigated to transportation.”
Another long silence, as if Mr. Boulter were running through some internal calculation. I prayed that he would resign himself to having nothing left to lose.
“Why did you hate Edwin so?” Matthew asked curiously. “He must have injured you in some way at Tennersley.”
A sigh. “Rowe was an arrogant little ass. No more talented than any of the rest of us.”
“Your father thought otherwise, didn’t he?”
He remained silent, and my spine was pressed cruelly against a spindle in the back of the chair as I waited, wanting to know everything Sam Boulter could tell me but dreading it all the same.
“In fact, he thought a great deal of Edwin,” Matthew said. “They spent hours together in the studio.”
“My father didn’t do those vile things Edwin said he did,” Boulter said, his voice low and defiant. “But Wexford was the head of the school board, and he hated my father, so he wanted to believe Edwin’s lies. No one could stand up to Wexford. He led that entire board around by the nose.”
“There were other boys your father took an interest in, weren’t there?” Matthew asked.
“Not like Edwin.”
“How did you find him, two weeks ago?”
“Saw him on the street by chance,” Mr. Boulter replied. “That hair of his makes him easy to spot.”
“And you followed him,” Matthew said.
A grunt.
“And went upstairs?”
“No . . . not that day.” A pause. “I lost him in the crowd. It took me two days to spot him again.”
“What happened when you confronted him?” Matthew’s choice of word sounded deliberate, and I understood he was coaxing answers from Mr. Boulter while trying to protect me from the worst of what I might hear. I felt a pinch of regret about the additional degree of complication for Matthew, but there was no possibility I would leave. Not yet.
A long pause, and the sound of a chair creaking. “I didn’t intend it to be a confrontation,” Mr. Boulter said. “Not like that! I wasn’t looking for a row. I just wanted him to admit he’d lied. It didn’t have to be public!” His voice frayed around the edges. “I just wanted him to admit it to me, that he shouldn’t have ruined our lives.”
“Ruined your lives?”
I heard the authentic surprise in Matthew’s voice.
“It took my father months to find another position. Finally ended up at a school in bloody Manchester,” Boulter spat. “It was hell.”
“I see,” Matthew said, dragging out the syllables. “And what did Edwin say?”
A nasty little laugh. “He wouldn’t do it. Stubborn little bastard.”
Matthew had been keeping the conversation moving forward, as if he were easing Sam toward an edge. But at those words, time seemed to stand still. I felt my anger spike straight from my heart toward Sam Boulter. And then, the following instant, the anger ricocheted toward Edwin, who might still be alive, if he’d just been willing to lie—
“What if he wasn’t lying?” Matthew asked. “What if Edwin was telling the truth?”
“He was lying, I tell you,” came the response through gritted teeth.
“I don’t think so,” Matthew said.
A snort. “Believe what you like.”
There was a long pause during which I found myself holding my breath.
Matthew asked, “Why did you torment boys like Alan and Edwin and Lewis? You were years older and twice their size.”
There was the screech of metal against wood, as if he’d pushed back from the table. “Bloody hell! That was years ago! What does this matter? They were sniveling little brats!”
Boulter’s remorselessness made tears burn at the sides of my eyes.
“All right,” Matthew said resignedly. “There’s no point in this. But I’ll have you know you’re being charged this afternoon.”
I heard footsteps and the sound of the door opening, when suddenly Boulter’s voice sheared through the vent—
“He wasn’t innocent, you know! Edwin. He wanted things from my father! Things he had no right to. Hours of his time. All of his attention. You should have heard his incessant whinging.” Boulter’s voice rose several registers in imitation of a young boy. “Professor, won’t you look at this painting? Professor, is this a proper line?” A pause filled with labored breathing. “He was my father! Not Edwin’s!”
Against my every impulse, I felt a glimmering of understanding for the man. If this was truly what he believed, no wonder he hated Edwin so.
“You didn’t kill him for the painting, did you?” Matthew asked softly. “You killed Edwin because you felt he took your father from you. The painting was only incidental.”
“Wouldn’t you?” burst from him. “And of course I took the painting! It was lying out in the open, and it’s the least he owed me! After all that?” There was a sound that might have been a sob. “For God’s sake, he bloody well owed me something!”
The last word was a cry, as if from the deepest recess of his heart, and it came to me that Sam Boulter knew Edwin wasn’t the one who owed him. There was a long silence, and then, heavily and slowly, as if each word were a stone he had to heave out of a river, he repeated, “He owed me something.”
Perhaps if I’d been able to see Sam Boulter, I might not have been so attuned to the nuances of his voice. But sitting there, in that bare room, stripped of every sense but hearing, I caught the tones that thickened the air: the fierceness of a boy’s love and loyalty toward his father; the despair at being abandoned; and the shame over the secret that Sam Boulter wouldn’t admit even to himself.
And though this man had killed my brother, God help me, my heart broke for him.
Chapter 25
I left the Yard, not wanting to hear any more. Matthew remained away until late that night, but I stayed awake in the parlor, adding coals to the fire, waiting for him. At last,
the key turned in the lock, and I met him at the door. He looked drained, and I helped him with his coat.
“Do you want something to eat?” I asked.
“I’m not hungry.” He took my hand, drew me to the settee, and pulled me beside him. “I know that wasn’t easy for you to hear.”
I turned sideways, so I could face him. “I know that wasn’t easy for you to do, trying to obtain answers while you knew I was listening.”
A brief nod acknowledged the truth, and his eyes showed a glint of surprise. “Is that why you left?”
“Partly.” I swallowed. “Mostly because I didn’t want to hear any more just then.”
For a few minutes we just watched the fire burning in front of us, every shade of red and gold there ever was. Around us, shadows hovered, but they seemed benevolent rather than eerie.
At last I asked, “Did he say much more?”
“Some.”
“Did he tell you why he attacked me?”
“Mm-hm.” His hand reached over to touch my hair. “He says he didn’t intend to harm you, only wanted to frighten you, to keep you from learning about his father. Hiram Boulter is still alive, although he’s ill, and here in London. His son didn’t want him to spend his last few months answering questions about old crimes.”
“Still protecting him,” I murmured. “Despite everything.”
“Yes.”
“Did he know about my brother having the Boucher?”
“He had no idea. But apparently it was in plain sight, and after he fought with Edwin, he recognized immediately what it was. So he cut it from the frame and left.” He paused. “I think he did it partly for the money, of course, but also just to throw another shade of suspicion on your brother, even after his death.”
The viciousness of it made me shiver. “He’s so angry. Like Lewis.”
“Lewis?”
I nodded. “One of the last things he said to me was Will Giffen has a little boy, and Lewis hopes someone would do to him what Boulter did to Edwin. Maybe to Lewis, too, I don’t know. He didn’t say, but he was so bitter I have to imagine . . .”