by Sara Rosett
Reams of legal documents held together with a thick clip detailed the transfer of the painting from one family member to another. After skimming through the legalese, Zoe was glad to see the paragraphs related to Woman in a White Fur were fairly straightforward. Harrington had already sent the documents to his legal team for them to review.
The last set of papers was an inventory of the Blakely collection, dated nineteen fourteen. She skimmed the handwritten list until she found the entry for Woman in a White Fur. The notation beside it matched the photo of the tag on the back of the painting, and the rest of Blakely’s paintings had been inventoried with the same pattern referencing the artist, year, and location of purchase. “Excellent,” Zoe murmured as she jotted a note.
Zoe skimmed over the photos and paperwork, her pen tapping away on the island as she thought. It wasn’t quite the open-and-shut case she’d thought, but she could still wrap it up fairly quickly. The inventory along with the photographs and snapshots provided evidence that the painting was in Blakely’s possession and had hung in Hawthorne House from nineteen twenty-four through the thirties, then legal documents traced the painting from after the Second World War to the present. Zoe needed to get a copy of the original bill of sale from the artist’s estate to nail down proof that Blakely had acquired the painting at that time. And since the blog post brought into question what had happened in nineteen twenty-three, she needed to sort out the hints about what had transpired that year.
She typed up a quick email to the artist’s estate, following up about the copy of the original bill of sale, then began to return the papers to the file. As Zoe tapped the edges of the pages of the inventory on the island to square them, a paper on the bottom of the stack fell away, a photocopy of a note. It had been stuck to the last page, and Zoe hadn’t seen it.
The note was dated in November of nineteen twenty-three and had Sebastian Blakely’s signature at the bottom. It opened with the salutation, “Dear Thea.” Zoe consulted the family tree and worked out that Thea was Blakely’s sister.
It was a chatty letter. The opening paragraphs were about a mutual friend who had asked after his “dear sister.” Sebastian inquired after the health of his niece and nephew, then he mentioned the latest night club that had opened in London.
Zoe was about to tuck it into the folder, but then she went still as she read the last paragraph.
* * *
No need to worry about the situation at Hawthorne House. I’m sure these rumors you’ve heard are simply that—rumors. But to put your mind at ease, I’ve hired the ever-resourceful Olive Belgrave.
I’m sending her up to Hawthorne House to update the inventory of the paintings. The last one was done before the war. That shouldn’t raise any suspicions with Frank.
After all, I sent that buffoon Corway to catalog the library last year —for all the good it did. Corway did nothing but drink my scotch and laze about the place. Thank heavens I had to run up there unexpectedly and was able to roust him out before he emptied the cellar.
I have no worries about Olive idling her time away. She’s the industrious sort. She’ll report back, and I’ll let you know what she finds. If there’s pilfering going on, I’ll put a stop to it. Give my love to Paul and Rose.
* * *
Rumors and pilfering. Zoe didn’t like the sound of that—and right at a critical point in the timeline.
Zoe went back and paged through each document in the file, looking for another reference to this Olive Belgrave. She finally found something mixed in with the legal paperwork—a copy of a letter on stationery and several typed pages that had been held together with a corroding paperclip from the looks of the rusty imprint left on the top corner.
She read the handwritten letter first.
* * *
Dear Sebastian,
I leave Monday morning for Warwickshire. I have your letter of authorization in hand and will let you know how the situation stands after I arrive. Thank you for entrusting me with the task of completing a new inventory of the paintings at Hawthorne House.
* * *
Sincerely,
Olive Belgrave
5
Olive
2 November, 1923
* * *
Olive Belgrave and Jasper Rimington stood in a London art gallery that buzzed with the low hum of conversation as people circulated through the small room. Most of the attendees seemed to be more interested in talking to each other than looking at the art—except for Jasper, who was staring intently at the display in front of them. It was a postcard reproduction of the Mona Lisa, but a mustache and goatee had been penciled on the famous face, and five capital letters had been typed across the bottom of the card.
Olive looked from Jasper and his concentrated gaze back to the postcard. She tilted her head, squinted, then gave up and turned to Jasper. “Is this really art? Or is it some sort of rag—an elaborate practical joke?”
Jasper pulled his gaze away from the postcard. “I take it you don’t think I should purchase one of these fine examples of Dada art?”
“Do you want to purchase something here?”
“Wouldn’t it be the perfect touch over the mantel in my lodgings?”
Olive had known Jasper too long to be taken in by his serious face. “Honestly, no. I can’t imagine your taste would run to something like this.” She looked at another piece of art, which was a gramophone turned upside down and bolted to the underside of a large shelf. The next display was made from ticket stubs that had been glued to a rough wooden board so that they formed the word “No!”
Olive paused in front of the mass of ticket stubs. “I’m sure your rooms are tastefully furnished.” Not that she’d ever seen them. She might be a modern working girl making her own way in the world, but even the most forward-thinking young ladies did not visit gentlemen’s rooms—that is, the well-bred young ladies didn’t. But Olive knew Jasper was quite the connoisseur. He was partial to first editions and fine art. She couldn’t imagine he’d add something like the postcard with scribbles to his collection.
His face broke into a grin. “I have a very nice Impressionist landscape above the fireplace. I have no intention of replacing it.”
“Then why come here if you’re not interested in buying any of this?”
“Because this is a rising trend. It’s always good to keep an eye on what’s en vogue.”
The crowd was pressing in on them, and they moved on, allowing a new group of people to surge up and take their place. Olive scanned the art gallery again. “I’ll confess, I don’t see the beauty in this art. Is it even art?”
“Excellent question.” Jasper’s hands linked behind his back as they strolled into a less crowded part of the gallery. “Does art have to be beautiful?”
“I suppose not. Honestly, it’s not something I’ve thought much about. I’ve been so busy looking for a new place to live that I don’t have much time to contemplate such things.” Olive waved a hand to indicate the gallery’s displays. “What did you call this art?”
“Dadaism. Irreverent art created from ready-made items, which makes us ask questions about the art, the artist, and society.”
“I suppose that’s one way to describe it. Although I’d prefer a beautiful painting on my wall to bits of paper glued to a board.”
A few moments later they stepped into the shock of the chilly November air, and Olive wrapped her scarf more tightly around her throat. Jasper placed his hat on his wavy golden hair. “I’m feeling a bit peckish. Would you like to join me at the Grill Room?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Jasper extended his arm. Olive hooked her hand around his elbow, and they set off, heads down as they leaned into a blast of wind.
After they’d finished their porterhouse steaks, Olive sipped her coffee, replete and satisfied. Since moving to London and earning her own income, she’d had many days where her meals consisted of tea and a single bun. A steak was a feast, something to be savored. “Delic
ious. Thank you for lunch, Jasper.”
“It was the least I could do after dragging you off to look at something you’re clearly not interested in.”
“I wouldn’t say I wasn’t interested. I did find it . . . strange, but it was appropriate timing. I’ve picked up an assignment that centers on art. At least now I’ll know not to throw away a postcard with a sketch on it—it might be art.”
“Or gramophones attached to the underside of shelves,” Jasper said. “What’s the new job?”
“I’m off to Hawthorne House. Sebastian’s asked me to inventory his paintings. It will fill the gap before I visit Gigi.” Olive put down her empty coffee cup. “That sounds terrible—am I on the cusp of becoming one of those hangers-on, a permanent houseguest shuffling from one friend to another?”
“I have no worries about you on that count. You’re not a sponger. Any luck on new lodgings?”
Olive’s boardinghouse was closing, and she had to find new rooms. “Yes. After running all over the city, I think I’ve found something that’s not horribly overpriced or already taken. It’s a tiny basement flat.”
“Good. I hope it works out. And how is our favorite parrot faring?”
Olive had unexpectedly come into possession of a parrot during her last case. “Fortunately, my landlady is quite taken with Mr. Quigley. She’s agreed to keep an eye on him for me while I’m away.”
The waiter appeared at Jasper’s side, offering more coffee.
“None for me,” Olive said.
Jasper shook his head and asked for the bill, then turned back to Olive. “I thought Sebastian was in town, not at Hawthorne House.”
“Oh, he’s in town. He’s sending me to Hawthorne House unannounced.”
“Why?”
“Apparently he’s heard his estate manager there isn’t keeping a close eye on things.”
“A bit dodgy, this estate manager?”
“Perhaps. But you know how it is with rumors—it’s probably nothing more than gossip.”
Jasper frowned. “I don’t like it.”
Olive looked up from pulling on her gloves. “Don’t like what?”
“You going up there alone. If this estate manager—who is it?”
“Frank Carter.”
“If this Frank Carter is doing something shady, he’ll resent your intrusion.”
“That’s the whole idea—to catch him unaware if he’s up to something.”
The frown deepened on Jasper’s face. “Sebastian should go with you or do it himself.”
“Sebastian? Inventory his own art?”
Jasper sighed. “You’re right. Too menial a task for him, I’m sure.”
Olive tapped her chest. “Thus, a job for me. If Sebastian announces his intention to travel there and anything untoward is going on, Mr. Carter would have time to cover his tracks. With me arriving unexpectedly, Mr. Carter won’t have time to do anything like that. I’m sure he’ll see me as nothing more than a glorified secretary, not a threat at all.” Olive had performed another job, arriving at a country house in the role of editorial assistant and found that despite her job description, the lady of the manor considered Olive a stand-in for a personal secretary.
“That would be a grave mistake on his part,” Jasper said.
“What do you mean?”
“If Mr. Carter thinks you’re inconsequential, he’s underestimating you.”
“Why, thank you, Jasper.”
“But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go up there alone.”
“Oh, what could happen? I’m only going to look at some paintings.”
Zoe
Present day
* * *
The rattle of the garage door pulled Zoe back to the present. Jack came into the kitchen, loosening his tie. “All packed?” he asked as he kissed her.
“Hardly.” Unlike Jack, who’d had his suitcases ready for several days, Zoe’s was empty, her clothes strewn across the bed.
He grinned. “I didn’t think you would be. You like to leave it to the last minute.”
“The last minute is when I do my best work.” She tilted her head as she studied Jack’s face. He looked worn out. “You okay?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Yeah. Just a long day. Lots of following up leads.”
“And that’s your least favorite thing to do.”
“Got to be done, though. Have to keep the clients coming in the door.” Jack glanced at the thick file folder. “What’s this?”
“A new case.” Zoe glanced at the clock and reluctantly put Olive Belgrave’s report down. “Just provenance research for a painting. I’ll make copies and bring those on the plane. Should make good reading for the flight. Right now, I’ve got to find my passport.”
The next afternoon Zoe sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the gate area. Her passport was tucked into her messenger bag. It had taken all evening to find, but she’d finally discovered it at the bottom of her jewelry box.
Jack returned from his reconnaissance of the terminal and sat down beside her, cracking open the lid on a bottle of water. He offered it to her and took a second bottle out of the plastic bag. He gestured with his water to the stack of papers in her lap. “Anything useful?”
“Nothing about Woman in a White Fur so far, but it’s fascinating reading. This report was written by a woman named Olive Belgrave. I looked her up this morning. There’s a couple of articles about her online. She was known as the ‘high society lady detective’ and solved problems for the posh set in the nineteen twenties.”
A chime from Jack’s phone signaled an incoming email. “I need to set my Out of Office reply.” He capped the water bottle and reached for his phone. Zoe went back to Olive’s report.
5 November, 1923
Hawthorne House
* * *
I arrived at three in the afternoon and received a lukewarm welcome from Mr. Carter. No one seems very happy to see me, but it may simply be resentment for the extra work I’m creating. I’ve begun inventorying the art . . .
6
Olive
5 November, 1923
London
* * *
Olive looked down into the mass of metal that made up the engine of her Morris Cowley motorcar. Beside her, Tommy, the boy who retrieved keys and ran errands for the owner of the garage where Olive parked her motor, shoved his flat cap up and scratched his forehead. “I’m afraid there’s nothing else I know to do, Miss Belgrave. Herbert might know how to fix it, but he’s on holiday until the end of the week. Can you wait a few days?”
“No, I need to leave London today.”
For the last quarter of an hour, Tommy had cranked the engine while Olive tried to coax the Morris to start. Then they’d changed places and Olive had turned the hand crank while Tommy tried to rouse the engine. But they didn’t get even a sputter. Despite the frigid air sweeping in through the wide doors of the garage, Olive was a little warm from her efforts and blotted her forehead with her handkerchief. Tommy closed the bonnet, pulled a rag from a pocket, and wiped away his fingerprints from the glossy blue finish. “I’m sorry I don’t know more about how to fix motors. Herbert’s a right wizard with the engines, even the finicky ones. All I do is fetch keys and hand Herbert the tool he asks for.”
“There’s no need to apologize, Tommy. It’s not your fault my motor won’t start. Thank you for giving it a try.” Olive picked up her handbag and took her suitcase, which Tommy had retrieved from behind the driver’s seat.
“I’ll have Herbert look at it as soon as he gets back.”
“Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate it.” A gust of icy air swept over Olive as she emerged from the garage and retraced her steps along the pavement back to her boardinghouse. This evening the city would be bustling with Guy Fawkes celebrations, but the streets were fairly quiet now. She ran through alternative transportation possibilities as the wind buffeted her. The train was out of the question. Hawthorne House was a good distance from the railway line,
and Sebastian had been quite clear he wanted her visit to be a complete surprise. Cabling that she was on her way and expected to be met at the station this afternoon would give the occupants of Hawthorne House several hours’ notice of her arrival, and that just would not do. Not many of her friends had their own motors. Those who did have motorcars weren’t exactly the reliable types one wanted to bring along when engaged in professional work. There was really only one option.
She let herself into the boardinghouse, plunked down her load in the hall by the telephone table, and asked the operator to connect her to Jasper’s lodging.
Jasper’s man, Grigsby, grudgingly turned the phone over to Jasper, who said, “It’s awfully early, old bean. Don’t tell me you woke up with a hankering to see more avant-garde art?”
“No, I have a spot of bother. I hope you can help me out.”
Olive explained the situation, and Jasper said, “I’ll be around in an hour.”
“An hour?”
“No matter how dire the situation, Grigsby won’t allow me to leave the house without achieving a basic level of sartorial acceptability.”
Jasper might blame his delay on his gentleman’s gentleman, but Olive knew Jasper was more finicky about his appearance than she was about her own clothing. But she was in no position to argue. “Thank you, Jasper. I’ll see you soon.”