Altered Images

by Maxine Barry

  Prints by Salvador Dali and Jean-Honore Fragonard adorned the walls. A messy desk, covered in papers, sat underneath the single window. But, instantly attracting his eye and easily dominating the room, was a covered canvas on an easel.

  He had no way of knowing it, but he’d just missed Frederica, who had retrieved her canvas from the Ruskin and was now in the library, photocopying other works of Forbes-Wright from the reference books.

  Lorcan stared at the white sheet covering the canvas for some time before slowly walking towards it. Every step dragged. His heart thudded, sickeningly in his breast.

  He didn’t really want to know. Didn’t really care.

  Richard Braine had called him last night, confirming that ‘nothing was known’ about Frederica Delacroix, but asking him to have a good nose around. Well, he thought, his lips twisting bitterly, he was certainly doing that, wasn’t he?

  Always before, he’d been keen to track down the scavengers who haunted his world like ugly vultures, bringing greed and deceit to something that should be beautiful and pure. But now he felt sick to his stomach, although it didn’t stop him from taking a deep breath and slowly lifting the sheet from the canvas.

  The painting was emerging so fast it was breathtaking.

  He could now make out the definite tree-line, and a small pond. The square building and waterwheel. A flicker of recognition shivered over him, found a home, and lodged. He dragged in a deep breath. It was the water mill at Cross Keys!

  For an instant, relief, delightful in its profundity, swept over him. He’d got it wrong. She was painting a scene from her own home! Nothing wrong with that . . .

  And then, suddenly, the relief was gone. The Mill being outlined and taking shape on the canvas was nothing like the Mill he remembered seeing just before making love to her. Where was the out-of-place conservatory, the new windows? Perhaps it’s a deliberately romanticised painting, a desperate voice suggested, coming from the region of his heart and utterly bypassing his head. But he couldn’t forget her other paintings—Post-Millennium Home, the combine harvester, the depictions of satellite dishes and dustbins and cars. She believed in painting things as they were. But this scene could have been painted over one hundred years ago.

  He moved closer, studying it. The swans on the water were as yet bare lines, but the style reminded him of someone. One of the early Victorians. Who . . . ?

  He shook his head and studied the work she’d done so far. The brushstrokes were vastly different from those he’d noted on her other pieces. Finer, more delicate, more in keeping with someone like . . . Forbes-Wright. For a long while he studied the emerging painting on the canvas, trying to project in his mind’s eye what the finished piece would look like. An old mill house, trees, sky, lake and swans.

  Then he turned and left. A grim, deeply horrible sense of betrayal was taking the place of pain in his heart. A part of him knew it was irrational, senseless. But he took that faked canvas like a personal insult, like an injury aimed right at him. Dammit, did he mean nothing to her? Nothing at all? She’d given him her virginity, but what about her trust? Her confidence? Her honesty? She must know how he felt about forgeries—he’d given two lectures already on the subject.

  If he’d gone to the library he would have run into Frederica, and found her with piles of photocopies of Forbes-Wright’s work. But he didn’t. He turned instead to the big City Central Library opposite Bonn Square. There he spent the afternoon looking up the early Victorian artists. And found, in one big book chock-full of prints, a painting attributed to Forbes-Wright. ‘The Old Mill and Swans’.

  Looking down at the glossy reproduction of the painting he’d seen emerging on the canvas in Frederica’s room, Lorcan felt a hard, cold knot form in the pit of his stomach. This time there could be no doubt—the evidence stared back at him with harsh cruelty. There was no excuse for stealing another painter’s work. None. Not even for Frederica Delacroix.

  Not even for the woman he loved.

  * * *

  Frederica was just changing to go into dinner when a Classics student on the ground floor knocked on her door and yelled that she had a phone call. She skipped quickly down the stairs to the public telephone, and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Freddy,’ her father’s voice sounded purposefully cheerful. ‘How are you? I thought you’d be home by now.’

  ‘No, I’m staying up for a little longer. I’ve got things to do,’ she drawled. As if he didn’t know, the old faker!

  ‘Oh. Ah. Right. About that, Freddy . . .’ James Delacroix cleared his throat portentously. ‘I think, you know, that it wasn’t such a good idea after all.’

  ‘What?’ Frederica squeaked, scandalised. ‘After all the hard work I’ve done? And the money I’ve spent on it. Are you mad? I only need another week or so and it’ll be finished.’ After sweating blood over it and tip-toeing around the greatest fake-buster in the country, surely he didn’t expect her to chuck it all in, just like that? No way, José!

  Then she felt a small shudder of foreboding slip down her spine as she realised that something must be wrong. Badly wrong. It wasn’t like her father to chop and change his mind.

  ‘Daddy,’ she said quietly, her voice falling to a mere whisper. ‘Daddy, is something wrong?’

  James sighed, heavily. ‘Well, Freddy, I’ve heard . . . on the unofficial grapevine, that certain people have been . . . interested in us, recently. Making discreet enquiries, as it were.’

  It took Frederica a few moments to interpret all this careful wording. When she did, she almost yelped. ‘The police you mean?’ she squeaked.

  ‘Freddy, please! Not over the telephone!’ her father admonished.

  Frederica cast a furtive look around, but Walton Hall was deserted. ‘Oh Dad, you can’t be serious!’ she gasped. ‘Why . . . how . . . ?’ Suddenly all words left her. All thought left her. Because something dark and dangerous was creeping up on her, slithering into her subconscious like a carnivorous monster. Lorcan Greene, fake-buster. Lorcan Greene, suddenly and without warning, appearing in Oxford. Lorcan Greene, jet-setting, millionaire playboy, taking out an unknown little Fine Art student. Lorcan Greene, policeman’s friend and expert witness.

  She found herself leaning hard against the wall, the phone shaking in her hand. No, it couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t!

  ‘Freddy?’ a worried voice called her name over the phone.

  No, how could he possibly know what she was doing? He was not omnipotent. And why should the police be asking around about her in the first place?

  ‘Freddy. Are you still there?’

  She closed her eyes, a great miserable gulf of pain washing over her. Had it all been a con then? Had he, somehow, found out about her project? Had all their time together, their closeness, their laughter, their sharing of thoughts, their very lovemaking been nothing but a sham?

  ‘No!’ she groaned. ‘Oh no, no, no . . .’

  ‘Freddy! Are you all right?’ Her father’s voice, raised in uncharacteristic panic, roused her from the black hole she was sinking into, and she lifted the receiver once more to her ear. It felt absurdly heavy—as if it weighed pounds and pounds . . .

  ‘Daddy, are your sure about this?’ she asked, her voice small and weak

  James Delacroix sighed. ‘I’ve been making some discreet enquiries of my own, and there are definitely rumours circulating about some kind of art fraud case being investigated in Oxford. The man in charge is a D.I. Braine. He was the policeman involved in that forged painting case at the Greene Gallery,’ her father went on helpfully.

  Lorcan! Again, Lorcan. Frederica caught her breath, stopping the wail of pain and denial that clogged her throat and literally hurt her. She coughed back the tears.

  ‘But this new case can’t be about us,’ she said, struggling to get some sort of perspective. ‘I mean, how could it be? We’re not criminals—we don’t have any criminal contacts. Surely . . . they can’t be after us!’ Frederica whispered. Instinc
t told her that this just didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. But then, what did logic matter? In her heart of hearts, she knew that it was no mistake. That she wasn’t being melodramatic. Lorcan was hunting her. He’d been hunting for her all this time. All that attention he’d paid to her paintings—it wasn’t because he really liked them. He was just studying her style. Memorising her methods. So that, if she hadn’t thoroughly studied Keating, she might have left some tell-tale personal touches that he would pick up on in her finished Forbes-Wright copy. And, expert that he was, he must then have expected to be called on to go over it all in court. If he thought she was going to sell the painting on—and why else would the Art Fraud Squad be involved otherwise—then, all this time, he’d just been biding his time, waiting to help put her in prison. Just like he had all the other forgers.

  The darkness washed over her again. She sagged against the wall, the pain so great she thought she might pass out. She shook her head. Took a ragged breath.

  ‘I think you should just come home now,’ James Delacroix was saying, his voice soft and full of loving understanding. ‘Just forget about the . . . favour . . . I asked you to do and come home.’

  Frederica’s eyes snapped open. ‘And let him get away with it?’ she hissed. ‘Never!’ Yes, that was better. Anger was so much easier to cope with than agony.

  ‘Frederica!’ her father said warningly. ‘Let’s not get silly over this.’

  ‘No, let’s not,’ she said, her voice hardening like iron. ‘We’re doing nothing wrong. Nothing even remotely illegal. He’ll be helpless to do anything about it,’ she added, with a ragged, consuming satisfaction. ‘I’m going to finish what I started, so there’s no point in getting yourself into the doghouse with Mum. And as soon as I’ve done it you can hang it up, and then we’ll forget all about this.’

  ‘But Freddy . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll be careful. Talk to you later.’ And before he could argue any further, she carefully hung up. Oh yes. She’d be careful. From now on, it was Mr Lorcan Greene who’d have to watch out!

  * * *

  Lorcan, back in Five Mile Drive, reached for the telephone and dialled the London number of the Art Fraud Squad. He was put through to Richard Braine in a matter of moments.

  ‘Hello, Richard. Yes. I’ve seen the canvas. No, it’s not quite half-finished yet. Yes, I’ve identified it, and the artist. Got a pen?’ Then he gave his friend all the details, aware of feeling nothing but calm. In fact, too much calm. Sometime, sometime soon, he knew was going to pay for doing this.

  ‘The thing is,’ he finished, ‘I haven’t traced who has the original now. You’ll have to put a team on it and find the owners.’

  Detective Richard Braine promised he would and hung up, a very happy man. Lorcan Greene hung up a very unhappy one.

  Lorcan poured himself a stiff whisky and soda. When the telephone rang a few minutes later, he was already half-way through it, and slumped wearily on the sofa.

  He reached for the phone and froze, as the sound of her voice, soft and sweet and innocently trusting, filled his ears. ‘Hello . . . darling.’

  Lorcan sat up stiffly, the drink sloshing over his hand. The promised pain had suddenly arrived. ‘Frederica,’ he said huskily.

  ‘I was wondering if you would be free some time soon?’

  ‘Of course,’ he swallowed hard. ‘I . . . we need to talk.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frederica said softly. ‘How about lunch, in my room? This Friday?’

  Lorcan closed his eyes, picturing her tiny room. The waiting bed. He’d be mad to be there, alone with her. Mad, mad, mad. ‘Yes, all right,’ he agreed hoarsely.

  Frederica sighed softly and hung up.

  When she put down the receiver, the expression on her face was as cold as arctic ice.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ray Verney checked into his room at the Raleigh Hotel and signed his name with a somewhat nervous flourish. Although he’d masterminded several felonious scoops before, he’d never contemplated something quite like this. But big rewards always required bigger risks. Still, he comforted himself, if everything went according to plan, nobody would even know anything was amiss, let alone be on the lookout for one Mr Raymond Verney, organiser of murder mystery weekends.

  He walked to his window and found a pretty view overlooking the Martyr’s Memorial and the golden-stoned facade of St John’s College. But he quickly drew the curtains on such splendour, and the bright sunshine with it. The second week of June had begun as the last had finished off—hot and sultry.

  It was Friday tomorrow, the first day of the conference, and Ray nervously checked that the door was locked, before unpacking his clothes. The suitcase was made of fake grey leather, and once empty, looked like just any other suitcase. But when he turned the brass knobs on the side in and anti-clockwise, the bottom of the case flicked open quietly to reveal the hidden compartment underneath.

  The item Ray reverently pulled out of the bottom of the case was a loose, dirty-looking scroll. Even though he knew differently, it felt old, dirty and genuine. He unrolled it on the bed and stared down at the bewigged portrait of Alfred Gore, St Bede’s one-time Principal. It seemed to bear all the expertise and beauty of the great artist, William Hogarth. It was even signed.

  But it had actually been painted by a man called Clive Billings, and Ray’s client had paid over twenty thousand pounds for it.

  Ray stared at the fake for a long, long while, just checking that it had suffered no mishaps in transit. It hadn’t. He carefully put it back, locked the empty case and stashed it in his wardrobe.

  Tomorrow he had to play the role of his life, but today he might as well enjoy himself, do a bit of sightseeing. But first, he’d take a taxi over to Headington and check up on his cast. Tomorrow morning was Show-time!

  * * *

  At nine o’clock promptly the delegates, who’d been arriving in dribs and drabs all morning, gathered together in the JCR in Webster. The noise level was a tolerable murmur. The College Butler circulated with tea trays, containing toast and little individual pots of marmalade and conserves. The tea was excellent. The china good quality Spode. It didn’t take the veteran conference-goers long to realise that this was a vastly different experience from the usual fare. Big hotels were so charmless—so predictable. But this was utterly different. A grand piano, that was often played to good effect by the Music students, stood in splendid isolation in one corner. The sofas were well-worn and extremely comfortable. Sunlight picked out the dust motes that danced in velvet-curtained windows. All of this helped add an air of unexpected contentment and expectation to the whole assembly.

  But if the venue was unique, the delegates themselves were the usual mixed-and-matched bunch.

  By ten o’clock the noise level was much louder, and Ray watched his cast with quiet and unobtrusive approval. They were circulating nicely, and although it had been advertised that there would be a murder mystery over the weekend, so far, he was sure, nobody suspected the members of the newly-formed Oxford Spires Publishing Company to be anything other than what they purported to be.

  Reeve, over in one corner with the real editor of a large paperback house, smiled at the older woman winningly. ‘Of course, I started off in admin,’ he mused. ‘But I much prefer editing. We’ve just signed up a new author—he writes medieval murder mysteries. Anyway, I found him, helped him along, put him right when he started to get too technical, you know the kind of thing? But then, when we’d got to contract stage, John Hendrix assigned himself as his editor.’ He allowed venom and disgust to creep into his voice.

  The editor of the paperback house found herself bridling on his behalf! ‘No? After you’d guided him through the first manuscript?’

  Reeve gave a hard, tight smile, and nodded towards John Lore, the first ‘murder’ victim. ‘Yeah, that’s him there, in the blue jacket and grey slacks. Little creep!’ His face twisted in disgust and futile animosity. It made the older w
oman feel quite . . . shivery, for a moment.

  ‘But didn’t your author want to stay with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course he did. But I’m still only an editor, and John . . . well, he’s a Senior Editor and he’s already been with the firm a few years. He doesn’t like any competition.’

  The woman cast John Lore a fulminating look. ‘Those kind of people make me sick,’ she lowered her voice, beginning to enjoy herself. She’d forgotten how gossipy conferences could be. ‘Publishing needs all the good people it can get.’

  Reeve nodded, and leaned just a little closer. As he did so, Annis, talking to a lowly PR man, glanced across and quickly looked away again. Even though she knew what he was doing, building up his role, it still hurt to see him flirting with another woman. Which was as good a warning to keep away from him as any.

  Thrilled by the attention, the older woman leaned a little closer to Reeve, putting a hand on his arm. What wonderful dark-blue eyes he had.

  ‘Between you and me,’ Reeve said softly, ‘he’s been trying to get me fired for the last few weeks.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. You know, dripping poison into the MD’s ear. That’s him over there,’ he pointed out Ray Verney. ‘So far, I think, Ray’s not being fooled, but I don’t know how long I can rely on that.’ He shot the innocuous John Lore another hate-filled glance. ‘The little creep’s really got it in for me.’

  The editor shook her head and sighed. ‘There’s so much backbiting going on nowadays,’ she moaned.

  Reeve nodded, murmured a few more pleasantries and moved on, knowing that the word would soon spread that the good-looking guy with the Oxford company was holding on to his job only by his fingertips. He knew that the rest of the cast, scattered throughout the room, were doing the same as he was—sowing the seeds for their own characters.