The Montague Portrait

by Matt Drabble

  ‘Now that is a question I never want to discover the answer to,’ Lochay said. ‘But he has the painting now and the longer we wait the closer that answer gets.’

  ‘So where are they?’

  ‘Vargas has a country estate back in England. I have it on excellent authority that he, the portrait, and your lady friend are all there snug as little bugs in rugs.’

  ‘And how do I know that if I hitch up with you, I’d be on the winning team?’ Travis asked.

  Lochay looked over at the spot where a dead body had been only a short time earlier. Now there was no trace of the homeowner or the crimson mess she had left behind. He smiled. ‘I have my ways, Mr Parker. My organisation is vast and potent, and my own power is almost limitless.’

  ‘Then I’m going to need you to fetch something for me.’

  ‘A little test of my abilities?’

  ‘Not exactly. Just something I think we’re going to need.’

  Lochay grinned. ‘Then you have but to name it.’

  ‘Then I’m in,’ Travis said, standing up and walking over to his new partner.

  ‘Excellent.’ Lochay smiled and nodded. ‘I have the feeling that we’re going to get on like a house on fire.’

  Travis stared at the man. He wondered if his choice of words, given how every owner of the portrait ended up, was an innocent choice – or something more sinister.

  ----------

  Charlotte woke up in strange surroundings – a large room with an impossibly high white ceiling. Groggily she sat up to find she was in a dark oak four poster bed, a hand carved masterpiece of exquisite craftsmanship, draped with delicate net lace. The whole room looked to her as if it belonged behind a velvet rope on display in a museum.

  She eased her feet off the bed and waited for her head to stop spinning. She touched her neck and found a small sore spot which was no doubt the source of an injection. This fuzzy feeling she had could only mean that she had been drugged.

  She tried hard to think through the haze. She had finally found The Montague Portrait only to become so overwhelmed that someone had taken her unawares. She cursed herself for her carelessness and prayed that it hadn’t cost Travis his life.

  She walked on unsteady legs to the bedroom door. She was still wearing her own clothes and was grateful that they were undisturbed. To her surprise she found the door unlocked and pulled it open.

  The corridor outside was equally deserted. She stared in shock at the size of the building. The wood panelled walls stretched on seemingly forever, and in every direction they were lined with masterpieces of art. The wooden banister ran the length of the hallway and she peered over to the two floors below and up to the two above. A glass-topped dome covered this section of the building and the morning light flooded downwards.

  A voice startled her from behind. ‘This way, Miss.’

  She turned to find a small, bald, wrinkled man dressed in an old-fashioned service outfit. His crisp white shirt was in stark contrast to his jet black jacket. His eyes were dark and deep set and there was nothing threatening in his expression or his body language.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she said, nevertheless a little uncertain.

  ‘Breakfast, Miss. This way.’ With that he turned and began to walk slowly away.

  Charlotte shrugged and followed. Her defences were up but she felt she had little choice other than to follow.

  Logically she should have no idea where she was, and yet she did. The whole mansion was massive and over the top. It was a monument to be displayed, not a home to live in, and it seemed to fit only one man in her life – Vargas. And if he was here, then no doubt so was the painting. And as she was still alive, it must be because Vargas needed something from her.

  The old man shuffled his way along the corridor before descending a staircase. They walked in silence. The paintings they passed appeared to be originals. Not surprising as the egotistic Vargas would never allow fakes in his home. She shuddered to think of the value of the pieces as she glimpsed a Monet, a Pollock, a Picasso, and even a Cezanne that she thought had been sold to the Qatar royal family for a world record price.

  The old man led her through a door and out into a surprisingly small kitchen. Beyond the kitchen lay a glass conservatory that looked like a modern addition. This was baffling as she would have assumed that no-one could alter a building of this age without jumping through a myriad hoops. She shook her head: but this was not just anyone. This was Vargas.

  The great man sat out in the conservatory, at the only table which was covered with a pristine white cloth. Despite the breakfast hour, Vargas was adorned in a crisp white shirt and tie, and a full suit exquisitely tailored in the finest tweed.

  ‘Good morning, my dear. I trust that you slept well?’ Vargas said from behind his broadsheet newspaper.

  For once Charlotte successfully held her tongue and temper in check. Perhaps it was Travis’s influence rubbing off. ‘Fine, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Please sit,’ Vargas said.

  As soon as she was seated, the old man appeared at her elbow holding two pots. ‘Tea or Coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ she said and he poured.

  ‘And for breakfast?’

  ‘Surprise me,’ she said, without looking up at him.

  Eventually Vargas lowered his paper and smiled across the breakfast table. ‘I imagine that you have plenty of questions.’

  ‘One or two do spring to mind,’ she answered honestly.

  Vargas stood, towering over the table. ‘Well, I’m sure they can wait until after you’ve eaten,’ he said.

  Every instinct in Charlotte’s body screamed at her to snatch up one of the knives at her disposal, but she knew that would be the end of her. Her new found caution wanted answers rather than fruitless gestures.

  ‘I shall bid you adieu for the moment as I have many things to attend to today. William,’ he called to the busy butler in the kitchen, ‘see that Ms Goode has everything she needs. I shall be in the garden when she’s done.’ With that he offered her a small bow and turned on his heels.

  With white knuckles Charlotte gripped the edge of the table as she swallowed her anger. ‘One thing,’ she called after him. ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Mr Parker is in rude health,’ Vargas said without turning around. ‘For how long, depends on you.’

  ----------

  Sage Adderley wandered through the upper halls of the Vargas mansion with confusion reigning. Last night was everything she had dreamt of. She was taken into his arms and into his bed and this placed her above all others. Her gift of the painting and of the Goode woman was enough to offset his displeasure at her going off script.

  First he had taken her roughly, mounting her like a wild beast, and despite her natural aggressive tendencies she willingly succumbed to his strength. Later he was gentle and soft, with delicate fingers that stroked and caressed. By the end of the night she was his completely. It was a simple animalistic surrender to a superior beast that she had revelled in.

  But despite her most subtle inquires, it vexed her that he did not reveal his plans for the painting or the woman. Her life had been spent in control and now she had for the first time given that precious commodity over. She knew that if she wanted to be Queen, there would have to be a King, however temporary.

  She woke this morning to find their bed empty. Her pique was further increased when she followed the voices from downstairs to surreptitiously spy on Vargas and the woman conversing across the breakfast table. Although Vargas had left soon after the woman arrived, it still felt like a slight to her own ambitions and position. She had crept back upstairs like an intruder, hating the feeling.

  She dressed quickly and began to stalk the long halls looking for her King. The echoing corridors seemed to mock her and her aspirations. The house was huge and seemed endless. Its historical bricks and mortar told a thousand tales of feeble minded mortals that walked before it with schemes and plans that were laughable in the face of eternity. She fe
lt the mansion’s contemptuous laughter at her ambitions to rule, and hated herself for doubting.

  She finally found Vargas in a large private office. The room was roasting hot. She peered around the huge door and saw him sitting in a high backed leather chair. His gaze was upon the painting above the mantelpiece. The one confidence he had taken her into was to show her the portrait the night before.

  They had both been naked as the cold breeze slipped in through the window and tightened her already taught nipples. Her body was lithe and firm and was confident that it was every bit as desirable as any woman ten years her junior. She was prepared to overlook certain infirmities in him due to his age, but his physique was impressive and his staying power had exhausted her beyond normal limits. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad and his arms as hard as granite.

  Despite her fatigue she felt a stirring in her loins as he stood before the dancing flames of the candles. His body was smooth and graceful with a feline agility. She had wrapped her arms partly around his muscular chest and squashed her breasts against his back. His apparent oblivion to her overtures only fuelled her desire more.

  With one hand he had pulled the cloth off the painting and she heard his gasp as his whole body jerked.

  She looked at the portrait and found little to justify his anticipation. The portrait showed a man and a woman. The man had a certain cruelty in his gaze and the woman looked positively soporific. There was something vaguely familiar about the man that she couldn’t quite place, but by then Vargas had turned his attentions back to her and had taken her on all fours in full view of the painting. Afterwards, during the wee hours, she crept from his bed and stood before the painting again. Her art knowledge was admittedly lacking, but she could find no obvious value in his prized possession. He had spent a small fortune and more than a few lives to find the portrait, but she could not see why.

  She stood unobserved now, outside his office. His face was upturned to the portrait.

  ‘Come in, my dear.’

  She entered as commanded and walked to his chair. Without turning to face her he raised a hand and she took it. For once his palm was sweaty and warm where normally his touch was powder smooth.

  ‘It is something is it not?’ he said in a strangely choked tone.

  ‘Yes, my love,’ she replied.

  ‘A whole lifetime’s efforts and now the hour is rapidly approaching.’

  ‘If you have the painting then what else is there?’ she asked, confused. ‘And what exactly do you need the Goode woman for?’

  ‘Stow your jealously, my dear, we are only halfway to the finish line and I have such a choice to make. Two paths of infinite possibilities and repercussions lie before me. It is not a decision I would wish on anyone. A family’s honour and a son’s loyalty on the one hand, and on the other, a destiny of limitless power.’

  Sage listened as the great man talked, and for the first time she wondered about the star she had hitched her wagon to. Vargas had always seemed an ethereal force of nature. But now he seemed almost human – with all the frailties that came with it.

  ‘There will be a party to end all parties tonight. Every member of my congregation will be present and I’m sure you know just how crucial security will need to be,’ he said. His voice was growing stronger again. ‘You will need to be on your most vigilant and ensure that nothing is left to chance.’

  Sage bristled at being spoken to like staff again. ‘You want me running the detail tonight? What about … you know, last night?’

  Vargas withdrew his hand from hers as though noticing it for the first time. ‘Don’t trifle with your petty concerns now,’ he said brusquely. ‘You will do your job and you had better do it well,’ he snapped. ‘Now leave me and go about your business. You have much to do.’

  Sage left the room with an equal amount of anger and frustration. It would seem she had been placed at his side for one night only and then swatted aside without much thought or care.

  ‘One other thing, Ms Adderley,’ Vargas called from inside the room. ‘I am making you personally responsible for our guest. You are to make sure that nothing happens to her. Understood?’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the bitch, but this is such an old building that accidents could happen.’

  He was on her in a flash. He grabbed her blouse and she vaguely heard the material rip in his grasp as he pounded her hard against the corridor wall.

  ‘If that woman loses so much as an eyelash I will skin you alive!’ he roared. ‘Do you understand?’

  Sage cringed. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘I was only joking.’

  ‘It’s best not to joke about such things,’ he said calmly as the rage washed away. ‘Oh look, I’ve torn your lovely blouse,’ he said absently. ‘I’m terribly sorry, please do send me the bill,’ he whispered as he held her gently. ‘Believe me there is no-one else that I would dream of tasking with such an important assignment. You are my right hand, Sage, now and forever.’ He held her face with both hands and kissed her softly on the lips and then he was gone, with the door to his office closing smoothly behind him.

  Sage stood still for a moment trying to process the spinning ride of emotions that she had just experienced. She had been charmed, excited, dismissed, threatened, terrified, and seduced all in the space of a few minutes. As she calmed down, her breathing returned to normal. Whatever was going on with that damned painting, the Goode woman was obviously important to it. That meant that there were possibly two roosters in the henhouse, and that was one too many.

  ----------

  After she had eaten a surprisingly large breakfast of kippers, eggs and bacon, Charlotte allowed herself to be led out into the grounds of the mansion. The elderly butler had served and cleaned the table all without a word. His face was impossible to read and she quickly gave up.

  She had scanned every hallway and room she had passed through looking for a phone, but there was none to be found. Her sense of direction was good and despite the size of the mansion she was confident she could find her way out. There seemed to be no-one directly guarding her, which gave her more cause for concern than optimism. Vargas was too big a fish to leave anything to chance and she had to know what he wanted before she tried to run.

  She had no idea where Travis was. For all she knew he was tied up in the basement or dead already. She couldn’t risk making a move until she knew what the hell was going on. Like it or not she couldn’t just think about herself anymore.

  The butler handed her a dark green wax jacket and a pair of matching Wellington boots, and she followed him out into the cold and damp. She checked her watch and was surprised to see that the day was already more than half over. Whatever she was drugged with was powerful stuff.

  The land seemed to stretch as far as her eye could see, with rolling green hills in the distance framed by lush woodland. The immediate grounds were landscaped to a French aristocratic standard. Vargas was indeed lord of the manor.

  She found him strolling in one of the rear walled gardens. Three chocolate coloured Labradors were charging around the lawn, rolling and playing happily. The scene seemed odd to her. She couldn’t quite picture the man partaking of anything so mundane.

  ‘There’s nothing quite like the loyalty of a dog, Ms Goode,’ Vargas said as she drew close. ‘There’s a bond that is impossible to break between a canine and its master. They are unburdened by greed or jealousy and unfettered by the complications of any human emotions. They only seek to serve and to obey.’

  Charlotte watched as one of the dogs came to him and he plucked a treat from his pocket. When he offered it, the dog sat down immediately and waited. He placed the treat on the ground and the dog looked at it without moving. With the slightest of nods he allowed the dog to take the biscuit then scratched it gently behind the ear.

  ‘It’s a big day today, Ms Goode, or may I call you Charlotte?’ Vargas asked politely.

  ‘My friends call me Charlie, but you can call me Ms Goode,’ she
said.

  ‘Very well, Ms Goode,’ Vargas said without anger. ‘So how is my little retreat serving you so far? It is quite something, is it not?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a fucking palace.’

  ‘Quite.’ Vargas was unaffected by her tone. ‘You wouldn’t believe just what strings I had to pull and what strings I had to cut to purchase this property. I would be glad to give you the grand tour if you like? There’s a mountain of history buried within these boundaries.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll pass. How about you get to the point sometime soon?’

  ‘Very well, you have a certain directness that I find most appealing, Ms Goode.’

  ‘Then how about you try some of your own and tell me where Travis is.’

  ‘As I told you before, Mr Parker is fine and dandy. Just how long he remains so is up to you.’

  ‘What do want from me, Vargas?’

  ‘Well, I find myself in need of a replacement. A young Irish woman was due to assist me in some delicate and vital matters, but unfortunately she has been unavoidably and permanently detained.’

  ‘Who?’ Charlotte was thinking about Gemma Wheeler, the divorcee who died in Ballytona after her husband purchased the portrait.

  ‘The who is not important. What is important is that I need your help. Then I will allow you and Mr Parker to ride off into the sunset together and live happily ever after with bulging pockets and bright futures. I seek the same thing that you do, my dear. I wish to see The Montague Portrait destroyed and the curse broken.’

  She stared hard at Vargas but his face was unreadable. ‘Yeah, right, and how exactly am I supposed to believe you?’

  ‘Well, think about it, Ms Goode. I have been the one protecting you and Mr Parker all this time. The good Dr Lochay was the one trying to put you both in a body bag.’

  ‘But you were suing me to recover what you thought was a fraudulent insurance claim.’

  ‘Because it has to be stopped,’ Vargas said quietly. ‘This cycle of death has gone on for far too long. Too many families have been ripped apart by Hugo Montague and his insatiable appetite for vengeance from beyond the grave. You should know better than most about that. This painting took both your parents and even your home. Don’t you want to see it brought to an end?’