As soon as she had gone he plugged in the memory stick and read what was probably one of the last things Ivan Rabinsky did before he was murdered. It was a comprehensive report and did not pull any punches about what he saw as an attempt to involve him in a potential scam.
Ralph decided that Linham needed to see the report right away as it could point to a motive for murder. When he was put through to Linham’s office and explained what had happened he was surprised at Linham’s apparent calm at what Ralph saw as vital information for the case.
“Well Professor Chalmers we were starting to think that Rabinsky was murdered before he got a chance to send it. I presume that you’ve had a look at it?”
“Just a glance, but enough to see that Rabinsky discovered that the paintings were modern copies of the originals, made about 20 years ago.”
“Well, well, so they are not old Masters as we had been led to believe.”
“No, and I think that would be sufficient motive for Richardson wanting to silence Rabinsky. He stood to lose his reputation and a potential fortune if his plan to sell them at auction as 18th Century copies was thwarted.” Ralph waited for Linham’s response.
“I think we must move cautiously on this, Professor. Let me have a look at the report first and we can go from there. I’ll have one of my officers come straight over to collect the elusive memory stick.”
“Okay. I’ll be in my office at Gypsy Hill. But I think that Christie’s have to be told that they have been involved in the sale of fakes,” said Ralph. He felt that the Inspector was not taking his theory about Richardson seriously.
“Look Professor, you’ve done your bit, but I must ask you to keep all of this to yourself for the time being. This is a murder investigation, after all, and quite frankly you should leave it to the police at this stage. I agree that fraud is a serious offence, but murder is quite another matter.” With that he thanked Ralph once again and said that an officer was already on his way to Gypsy Hill.
Once he had rung off the Inspector immediately placed a call to Richardson’s home to arrange a visit, as he had some questions to ask about Rabinsky’s valuation of the paintings. He was interested to see how Richardson would react to knowing that the police had the report and that he had knowingly sold fakes at the Paris auction.
***
Two days later Linham and Wilson caught the early train to Cambridge where they took a taxi to Richardson’s home. As they rang the ornate bell pull, a large ring in the shape of a lion’s paw, Wilson looked around at the opulent surroundings.
“Georgian or Palladian, Sir?” Linham grunted but did not answer.
“Remind me never to eat one of those damn cheese and raw onion sandwiches when we travel by train, Wilson. I should have stuck to coffee and a blueberry muffin.” They were interrupted as a footman opened the door.
“Welcome to Byron Hall, gentlemen. Mr. Richardson is waiting for you in the long library. Can I take your coats?”
Having placed their raincoats in an annex by the entrance hall, the servant led them into a magnificent oak paneled library. Grant Richardson was sitting in a deep leather armchair in front of a glowing log fire reading The Times. He stood up to greet them.
“Good of you to come all this way, Inspector Linham. I hope it won’t prove a waste of your time.”
“All part of the job, sir. What we have to discuss is a delicate matter that could have some serious implications, but at this stage we are only conducting enquiries. We would appreciate your help.”
“I am happy to help in any way I can, Inspector. But please sit down,” he said, and motioned towards the two leather club chairs on the other side of the fireplace.
“You were a bit oblique on the phone,” Richardson remarked once everyone was seated and he had dismissed the footman. “I trust there is no need for me to have my lawyer present.” Richardson laughed, but the Inspector knew from years of experience that wealthy people who can afford the best legal advice never joke about such things. While the butler served coffee Linham prepared his first question, wondering if the coffee would help his indigestion.
“Mr. Richardson, were you aware that the late Ivan Rabinsky had discovered that the paintings he was valuing for you were fakes?” Richardson hesitated for a second before answering.
“May I ask how you came to that conclusion, Inspector?”
“We have just received a copy of a report that he wrote before he was murdered.”
“It was recorded on a memory stick which has just come to our attention,” said Wilson. Grant Richardson almost smiled but managed to control himself.
“Well, I was hoping that report would never see the light of day, what with Rabinsky’s death and all. Well you know what I mean; damned awful business.”
“Why not just tell us your side of the story, sir, and how some of your fakes managed to be sold at Christie’s for over 6 million dollars.”
“Yes, 6 million would be a lot of money for fakes, as you put it, but the paintings that I sold recently at Christie’s in Paris were genuine 18th century as shown in the catalogue. I can understand that it could be a bit confusing. Perhaps I can put the record straight before we all go off on a tangent. I do accept responsibility for the mistakes because it was I, after all, who entrusted all of the paintings to Paul Scott in the first place.
“Can you enlighten us on those so called mistakes Mr. Richardson?”
“I’m sorry. Let me start at the beginning and try and fill in some of the blanks, so to speak. When I bought the paintings in St Petersburg some twenty odd years ago, the first thing I did was to have an artist friend of mine make copies.
“And this artist friend’s name?” Inspector Linham interrupted.
“It’s Beatrice. Beatrice Mannings.
She had been trained in Moscow and St Petersburg and knew the styles of the three artists who created the originals that are hanging in the Hermitage Museum there. Young student artists are always trained by spending months copying old Masters, you know. She had my 18th Century paintings in her studio for about 3 months doing the work. She used canvas from old paintings and aged them to make sure that the craqulure, that’s the cracked effect old paintings acquire, looked authentic. I paid her well, as she was very good. It’s quite normal to do this with rare and potentially valuable paintings that one acquires. My wife has her address somewhere and I will give it to you before you leave. I then loaned the copies to Kingston University for their new museum at Dorich House.
“But you led Miss Harper to believe they were the originals?” Linham stated somewhat disapprovingly.
“No. Not originals. But yes, that they were the 18th century copies rather than modern ones. I’m afraid that was a bit naughty. You see, they were excellent modern copies, and as they were simply a loan, it never occurred to me that the museum would actually have them valued. They were happy to put them in their collection and I kept the originals, or rather the old copies, safely at my home. As I saw things, everyone was happy.”
“Well, as it turned out, very few people were happy with the events that followed, Least of all Ivan Rabinsky,” Inspector Linham pointed out.
“Yes, that was unfortunate,” Richardson agreed. “However, in my mind I had done nothing wrong. After all, it wasn’t as though I was trying to sell the copies to the Museum.”
“So why didn’t you simply advise Miss Harper that the ones on loan were modern copies and avoid the expense of an evaluation in the first place?”
“Well, by that time I had decided to sell the originals, or to be more precise, the eighteenth century copies. And as you might imagine, the market is very sensitive to gossip that modern copies exist, and I wanted to minimize any possible damage my mistakes might cause. So when the University made all that fuss about revaluation I just went along with it to keep them quite. But as I didn’t want word to get out about the modern copies, I had to swap the paintings prior to the revaluation without drawing attention to what I was doing. That Harper wom
an would have had a fit if she knew that she had been showing visitors and important people a bunch of modern copies. When I discovered that Paul Scott had been hired to do the shipping to Rabinsky’s workshop, I interceded and asked him to collect both the modern copies from Dorich House and the 18th century ones from my home. Then he was instructed to deliver the vintage copies to Rabinsky and keep the modern copies in his warehouse until the valuation was completed.”
“Nothing illegal there, sir. But a bit risky if anyone found out,” said Wilson as Linham gave him a look of disapproval. Richardson continued.
“Unfortunately, the plan went wrong. That idiot Scott must have mixed up the paintings and delivered the modern copies to Rabinsky’s workshop. Obviously the old chap was very good and he must have worked it out pretty quickly. He phoned me and I tried to explain what had happened but he wouldn’t listen. In fact he got into quite a lather about it all. Eventually I got hold of Scott and he took the 18th Century paintings to Rabinsky to be valued.”
“So you are saying that Rabinsky wrote two reports. One that referred to the modern copies you loaned to the Museum and another saying that yours were genuine 18th Century paintings?”
“That’s correct,” said Richardson. “When I spoke to him on the phone a few weeks later I told him that I had decided to auction the eighteenth century paintings at Christie’s in Paris and would in the meanwhile have Scott collect them from the workshop and deliver them to Dorich House. Obviously Miss Harper was less than pleased when I told her about my decision, but she calmed down once I assured her that I had already paid Rabinsky for the valuation and that I would also allow the Museum to display them until time for them to be shipped to Paris for auction. I can see how it could be a bit confusing, but I hope that I have cleared it up for you.”
“Well, not entirely, Mr. Richardson. We would like to see the second report, just for the record, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course. Here it is,” Richardson said as he unlocked a file drawer in his desk and handed the report to the Inspector.
“So let me get this straight,” Linham said. In total there were six paintings, the three eighteenth century copies of originals that hang in the Hermitage that you bought in St Petersburg, and the three modern copies that you commissioned afterwards.”
“That is correct.”
I went with Scott to the workshop to make sure he got it right the second time. I kept the copies and the 18th Century paintings went to Dorich House. They were the ones that I eventually had Scott ship to Christie’s in Paris. So they sold the genuine article. It all went right in the end, but what a mess. I hope that all makes sense, gentlemen?”
“Quite a story, sir. Can you tell us where the copies are at this time?” Asked Linham.
“Funny thing, but I sold them only yesterday.”
“Who to, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Well these things are usually confidential, but in this case I’m sure I can make an exception. An old friend, John Weston bought them. He had tried desperately to buy the 18th Century paintings at the Paris auction. I felt a bit sorry for him and he managed to twist my arm. They are now hanging in his gallery in Cairo, I expect.”
“One last question if I may, Mr. Richardson?”
“Of course Inspector. Would you like some more coffee?” Linham managed to control his annoyance at the way Richardson tried to make everything appear trivial.
“Could you tell us where you were on the day Mr. Rabinsky was murdered?” For once the Inspector thought he had thrown Richardson off his guard.
“I know you are only doing your job, Inspector, but I really know nothing about Rabinsky’s death other than what I read in the papers. And not that I need an alibi, if that is the correct term, but my wife and I were here getting ready for a party that we were hosting for some friends that weekend.”
“I see. Is there anything else that you are aware of that may help with our enquiries?”
“No, nothing specific. But it could be that Rabinsky told someone about the paintings and they wanted to know about his valuations, particularly if they knew they would be up for sale soon. That would give them an edge at the auction, you see. Or perhaps someone wanted to steal them and offered Rabinsky a lot of money if he would pretend that there had been a break-in at his workshop. There are people around who would go to a lot of trouble to get their hands on those paintings. It could even be the same gang who kept trying to break into Dorich House. But I expect that you have a lot of theories of your own, Inspector. These are only my amateur guesses. You can see that I would never make it as a criminal. Not clever enough by half.”
“Well, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Richardson,” Inspector Linham said as he deftly avoided addressing Richardson’s remarks.
“I am only too happy to be of help. Now if there is nothing further, I will have Robinson order a taxi to return you to the station.”
Linham realised that Richardson had put up a clever smoke screen. There was really no point in asking Mrs. Richardson whether she was with her husband during the time in question. In his experience spouses rarely failed to support each other in these sorts of circumstances. As the train sped them back to London they reflected on the interview.
“Seems to me like a cock and bull story, Wilson; too much detail and too many coincidences. I must hand it to him, though, the bloke is smooth. He had it all worked out before we got there. And he sidestepped any suggestion that he was implicated in Rabinsky’s death.” Wilson felt more positive about the progress they had made.
“I agree but we can check out his story with Paul Scott and trace that woman who did the paintings. He gave me her phone number as we left. Then we can get on to that Weston chap. At least those parts of his story can be authenticated. If Weston really does have the copies, then the ones he sold at Christie’s must be the 18th Century ones. So apart from not knowing if Richardson actually murdered Rabinsky, the rest is provable.”
“You’re right, Wilson. We need to check out his story. Paul Scott appears to be his main witness, and so far as we know he should have no reason to cover for him, particularly if the mafia is on his back, not to mention the possibility of being involved in a conspiracy to commit murder.”
“What is the first order of things when we get back to the station, Sir?”
“Get started on Scott and Weston right away and see if their versions match up with Richardson’s.”
“Right, Sir. I’ll get onto them as soon as we get back.”
They settled back and stared out at the rolling countryside, some of the prettiest in the country.
“What do you think, Wilson? Should we risk another cheese and onion sandwich? I’m starving and it’s nearly teatime.”
“I think some tea now and then a pie and a pint when we get to London would be a better bet, Sir.”
“You sound just like my wife, Wilson. She would say exactly the same. Let’s go for that pint. I know a little pub just off the Waterloo Road that used to be full of villains and policemen.”
“Just our sort, Sir.” After Wilson brought the tea back to the compartment and placed it on the little table between the seats they settled back thinking of the pleasures to come.
“Why do you think Mrs. Richardson didn’t make an appearance during the interview, Sir?” But all he got was a grunt from his boss who was now fast asleep, his tea swirling dangerously in the cardboard beaker precariously balanced on the edge of the table as the train gathered speed.
***
The next day Linham spoke with Paul Scott who confirmed Richardson’s version of events. He also contacted John Weston who confirmed that he had bought the modern copies from Richardson and that they were now on their way to Cairo. Europol told Linham they had interviewed Boris Sarovsky and that the paintings had now been collected from Christie’s by the group that he had been representing at the auction. Sarovsky could give them no information about his client other than that the deals were made throug
h a series of ‘dead letter’ drop boxes in Moscow and that payments came from a Swiss bank account. Their view was that a major organized crime group now had the paintings. Roskultural had been informed and they were particularly concerned that an attempt was being planned to swap the paintings with the originals while in transit to England for the exhibition at Houghton Hall in the spring. Linham decided that it was time to make a visit to Beatrice Mannings, the artist that Richardson had employed to make modern copies of his paintings.
___________________
Chapter 10
Ralph met Katie for lunch at the Ferryman’s Arms, a pub by the river just below Putney Bridge on the river Thames. He had often eaten there on annual Oxford and Cambridge boat race days. It was a favourite haunt of the college and boating fraternity. There were crossed oars adorning the walls and glass cabinets with various dark blue and light blue velvet varsity caps donated by previous boat race competitors dating back over 100 years. They found a table overlooking the river where they could see the gulls searching for fish that had been stranded in the mud as the tide had receded. The mid-day sun highlighted the white of the stranded boats against the browns and yellows of their surroundings.
“Seems like ages since we were in Paris, Ralph. I don’t know about you, but a good old English pub lunch suits me anytime. I’m going to have fish and chips and a pint of their London Pride, how about you?”
“Sounds great to me. I’ll order it from the bar. That way at least we’ll get served. I’m famished.”
“Too much night life and not enough decent food. Too bad you can’t find someone who’ll put up with your sleuthing habits so you can get fed properly at home.”
“I’m not a confirmed bachelor just yet; just need to find the right girl.”
“Well, I don’t know how confirmed you are, Ralph, but you have certainly put in several decades already if you’re just testing out the lifestyle.” Katie smiled to herself as she watched Ralph go up to the bar and place their order. She turned her attention to the river scene through the slightly grubby window. Spring cleaning was obviously not a priority and perhaps that touch of grime helped to maintain the riverside atmosphere. Ancient beams should never be cleaned anyway, she had been told by many a proud publican. Ralph was soon back with their drinks.
The Dorich House Mystery (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 3) Page 14