Altered Images

by Maxine Barry

  Lorcan frowned. ‘Dammit it Richard, what the hell are you doing here? And why are you skulking about in the bushes?’ Now that the initial adrenaline rush had subsided, he felt a cold, unpleasant sensation snake up his back. He ushered his friend into the lounge. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Scotch, if you have it.’

  ‘I always have good Scotch,’ Lorcan agreed cheerfully, and thought grimly, ‘What’s he doing here?’ He poured them both a drink, and when they were sitting in matching comfortable arm chairs, facing each other like two wary gladiators in the ring, he said quietly, ‘So, what brings you to the city of Dreaming Spires, Richard?’

  ‘You do. Or rather, you and Miss Frederica Delacroix do.’

  Lorcan took another sip of whisky. Not a flicker of emotion, alarm, or even interest, crossed his face. ‘Oh?’

  Richard smiled. ‘I had a search warrant for her place at the Ruskin. I thought I’d come and take a look.’ Was it his imagination, or did the gallery owner seem to relax just a little? ‘And, of course, I had another one for her room at St Bede’s,’ he added, as if as an afterthought.

  Lorcan took another sip of the scotch and leaned his head further back against the chair, the epitome of a man at ease. ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘And I found an exact replica of Forbes-Wright’s “The Old Mill and Swans”,’ Richard said, waiting patiently, like a cat at a mouse hole.

  For a long while Lorcan said nothing, his mind racing. Was the policeman bluffing? No, somehow he didn’t think so. Did he know that he, Lorcan, had deliberately lied to him? Lorcan mentally shook his head. No, Richard couldn’t know. He might very strongly suspect, though. He had to find a way of getting back in Richard’s confidence. He had to think, dammit.

  And Lorcan Greene could think very fast and very well. Lorcan Greene could do most things very well. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Then she’s done two copies,’ he mused, watching his old friend carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. ‘The one I found, that she’s painting over in her own style. And another.’ He paused, then went on a fishing expedition. ‘Did you find the one in her own style at the Ruskin?’

  Richard frowned. A tiny pulse jerked in his jaw, and Lorcan was on to it in a moment. A hesitation. A hint of . . . confusion. ‘No,’ Richard finally said. ‘When I found the copy in her room, I didn’t go on to the Ruskin,’ he admitted slowly. ‘There didn’t seem to be much point.’

  Part of his mind warned him to tread carefully. Frederica Delacroix was a stunner. And a man like Lorcan—when he fell, he’d fall hard. But the other part of him, the part of him that valued Lorcan Greene’s friendship, wanted desperately to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘It was in her room?’ Lorcan said, allowing his voice to sound surprised now. ‘Fine Art students aren’t allowed to paint in their rooms.’ Even as he lied, as he cheated, as he manipulated his old friend with a treachery he wouldn’t have thought possible, his heart was aching. Not for Richard. Not even for himself—for what he had become, for what he was doing. But Frederica was worth it. Dammit it, Richard Braine was not a man to mess with. If they weren’t careful, the only time he’d get to see Frederica again would be during the visiting hours of whatever woman’s prison she was sent to.

  ‘Well, Miss Delacroix seems to be breaking all the rules,’ Richard pointed out softly.

  And she’s not the only one, is she, Lorcan? But then, Richard hadn’t gone to the Ruskin. Suppose she really did have a modern version of ‘The Old Mill and Swans’ there? That would account for Lorcan’s telephone call giving her the all-clear.

  ‘So it didn’t occur to you that she might have another painting in her room?’ Richard probed.

  Lorcan took another sip of his drink. Steady, he told himself. Steady. ‘Why should it?’

  Then Lorcan felt himself break out into a cold sweat as he suddenly realised something. If Richard talked to her Tutor he’d find out in an instant that Frederica had never been set an assignment like the one Lorcan had described. Then both he and Frederica would be well and truly up the creek. He had to distract him somehow . . . ‘This painting in her room,’ he said. ‘How near is it to being completed?’

  ‘Very near, I should say,’ Richard said, a reluctant tone of respect creeping into his voice now. ‘She’s done a fine job.’

  Lorcan obviously had something in mind, and Richard was very interested to know what it was.

  ‘I’ll have to see it,’ Lorcan said.

  ‘Fine. You’d better pick a time when she’s out of her room though. I doubt she’d volunteer to show it to you.’

  Lorcan laughed. He couldn’t help it. If only Richard knew . . .

  Richard looked at him oddly. ‘You all right, Lorcan?’ he asked softly. ‘You don’t seem to be yourself, somehow.’

  Lorcan swallowed the last of his Scotch. ‘I’m fine,’ he said flatly. ‘So, what’s the drill? You and I both know that painting a copy in itself isn’t a criminal offence.’

  ‘Right. We’ll have to wait and see where she takes it. She’s got permission to “stay up” only until Monday. Then she has to leave the College. Hopefully, she’ll take it straight to whoever commissioned her to paint it,’ Richard mused.

  Lorcan nodded. It made good sound sense. ‘So you’ll follow her, and see who her client is.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She hands the painting over, and you arrest her?’

  ‘If we can identify her client as a known dealer in fake art, yes.’ Richard corrected cautiously. ‘If her contact is an unknown, it might be best to let Miss Delacroix go about her business unmolested until we can track the final destination of her copy, and thus prove criminal intent.’

  Lorcan felt himself relax a little. So far, Richard was including him in on the deal. Which meant, nominally at least, he was still regarded as being on the team. He should feel like a treacherous turncoat, but he couldn’t. The only thing that mattered was Frederica. That he keep her safe. That he keep her his.

  Lorcan nodded. ‘So, have you had any luck in tracing the original owners of “The Old Mill and Swans”?’ he asked.

  Richard shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’re a bit understaffed at the moment, but I’ve got Collins on it.’

  Lorcan nodded and rose slowly, feeling stiff and oddly battered. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘No.’ He too got up and glanced at his watch. ‘And I should be getting back to London.’

  ‘Let me treat you. The Raleigh’s always good. Or there’s Brown’s.’

  Richard grinned. ‘Go on then. You’ve twisted my arm.’ The two men smiled, neither one trusting the other, as they left the house and walked towards the waiting Aston Martin.

  * * *

  Saturday morning dawned bright and early. In her room, Frederica worked feverishly on the painting. She had to get it finished by the end of the weekend, and nothing was going to stop her. Then she could get on with the rest of her life.

  If she still had one.

  * * *

  In his room at the Raleigh, Ray Verney awoke, and got ready to meet the delegates for the scheduled breakfast at his hotel, due to start at nine o’clock. It was a feature of the conference that they got to dine in one of Oxford’s top hotels during the weekend, and since breakfast was the cheapest meal of the day, Ray had opted for that.

  He hoped Carl Struthers was feeling in a more patient mood than he had been recently. Ray had spent most of last night resisting Struthers’ demands that they do the swap there and then. But Ray had been adamant. It was far better to do the switch during the normal course of the day, when the Bursar would be less inclined to make special arrangements for the guarding of the safe. Ray swung out of bed and began to dress, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. This evening was the best time to strike, whilst everyone else was in Hall having dinner. He could easily pretend to nip off to the loo during the meal, and then make the switch.

  And if something went wrong . . . Ray licked lips gone very dr
y. No. Best not to think like that.

  * * *

  Lorcan Greene didn’t wake up at all on Saturday morning, for the very simple reason that he hadn’t fallen asleep to begin with. He watched the early rising of the sun, his mind crystallising into one obvious, determined, course of action. He had to take that canvas of Frederica’s and destroy it. Then there would be no ‘evidence’ with which Richard Braine could convict her. There would be no sale of a faked painting to a gullible art collector. And he would be rid of the spectre of it once and for all.

  And Frederica . . . ? Frederica would just have to face up to what she’d done and the fact that she wasn’t going to get paid her big fat juicy fee. And if she was mad at him? Tough!

  * * *

  At twelve-thirty the delegates, fresh from a workshop by a guest author in Webster’s Theatre, trooped happily into the Hall. There the Bursar was in good form. Even before they’d started to queue at the hatches for lunch—which was always self-service—he was there, wringing his hands, looking ostentatiously distraught.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Bursar announced, enjoying himself enormously. ‘I’m afraid we’ve had something of an “incident” this morning.’ The group of fifty or so hungry delegates promptly forgot their rumbling stomachs.

  ‘Really, something most dreadful has happened. As you can see . . .’ He led the group to the open archways that led into Hall, ‘. . . One of our paintings has been stolen!’ He threw his arms dramatically wide as he gestured to the empty space.

  ‘A bit overblown,’ Reeve muttered to Annis out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I know. But he’s an academic not an actor. Give the man a little leeway.’

  John Lore walked forward, aggressively looking up at the gap on the wall. ‘There was a glass case covering this one, wasn’t there?’ he challenged. There hadn’t been, of course, and some of the more observant of the delegates knew as much. So when the Bursar nodded, and said emphatically, ‘Yes, indeed,’ they very quickly caught on that this was part of the act.

  ‘The police are here now,’ the Bursar said his final line, and retired to High Table, where Sin-Jun and some other Fellows teased him about his acting abilities.

  Gordon stepped forward and into the limelight. ‘Ladies and gentleman, I’m Inspector Gordon Nye. As the Bursar has stated, a very valuable painting has indeed been stolen. It was housed in a narrow glass case, affixed to this wall, and wired to an alarm. Unfortunately, a panel was cut in the front of the glass without touching or removing the whole thing, and the painting itself was cut and removed from the frame. When the Fellows came in to breakfast this morning it was to find the glass case and frame still on the wall, but the painting, by William Hogarth, gone.’

  He let them chat excitedly amongst themselves for a few moments longer, and then added ominously, ‘So I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that none of you leave Oxford, for the time being.’

  ‘But surely, Inspector,’ Reeve shot out, with just the right mixture of surprise and hurt indignation, ‘you don’t suspect one of us?’

  ‘Well, sir, I don’t imagine the Principal or one of the Fellows took it, do you?’

  ‘But that’s preposterous!’ Gerry spluttered. ‘What about the scouts? What about the kitchen staff? They’d have more opportunity that any of us.’ Annis and Reeve grinned at each other as mayhem broke out. But it was happy mayhem, with the delegates piecing together the timing and offering up suspects—all of them, funnily enough—being members of the Oxford Spires Publishing Company. Annis, Reeve, et al vigorously defended themselves. Eventually Gordon restored order. There was no need, after all, for everyone to go hungry, he pointed out with good common sense. He suggested that they collect their meals and then, after lunch, he’d start questioning everyone individually.

  The bemused and amused kitchen staff, who obviously hadn’t take the slurs on their character to heart, dished out the meals to the excited, chattering delegates.

  ‘I think it was really sporting of the Bursar to get in on the act,’ the woman Reeve had been flirting with on the first morning noted to her fellow delegates.

  ‘Yes. They’re very good. There really was a painting there you know.’ And so it went on over lunch, everyone discussing how it could have been done, everyone agreeing how clever the thief had been to cut out the glass, and so on.

  Gordon announced that he had ‘constables’ searching everyone’s rooms for glass-cutting equipment. Which caused a considerable stir. Of course, they knew that no one really was going through their things, but just the thought of it raised hackles and sent pleasurable goosebumps rising on their flesh. One and all agreed it was by far the best mystery weekend they’d ever attended.

  Ray looked at the gap on the wall and smiled. He caught Carl Struthers’ gimlet eye, and the smiled faltered. Damn him. He was going to blow the whole thing if he wasn’t careful.

  Reeve slipped off his shoe and ran his bare foot over Annis’s calf. Annis choked on a tender piece of turkey.

  Outside, the temperature was rising. It was going to be another scorching day.

  In more ways than one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Frederica put down the paint brush and stepped away from the easel. Just another hour’s work and it would be done. She’d found the process of making the copy fascinating, but there had been no creative buzz. No sense of achievement. She wanted, desperately, to start on another painting of her own. Perhaps another harsh, colourful, powerful canvas, like the one Lorcan had admired so much.

  She carefully covered the troublesome painting and set her brushes in a jar of turpentine which stood on the shelf above. She washed her hands and had just reached up to free her hair from its ponytail when she heard the knock on her door.

  She jumped, then walked warily across the room and cautiously opened the door. Lorcan pushed past her, a hard, set look on his face. Frederica swallowed painfully, then carefully shut the door behind her. When she turned to face him, he was standing in front of the canvas, staring at the covering sheet, but making no effort to remove it. Then he swung round, fixing her with a cold look which pinned her to the spot.

  ‘Detective Inspector Richard Braine was here yesterday,’ he said flatly.

  Frederica blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. ‘What?’ She echoed blankly. ‘Here. You mean, in Oxford?’

  ‘No. I mean here,’ Lorcan pointed down at the floor. ‘In this room.’

  ‘In my room?’ Frederica squeaked. ‘He had no right . . .’

  ‘I daresay he had every right,’ Lorcan corrected harshly. ‘If I know Richard, and I do, he had a search warrant in his pocket and everything was nicely above board.’

  Frederica, her knees suddenly weak, sank down on to the side of the bed. ‘I don’t understand,’ she murmured, her pale face making her dark velvety eyes look enormous. ‘Why is he doing this? Why are you doing this?’ she gritted. And, finally, her sense of grievance at last bubbling over, wailed forlornly, ‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’

  Lorcan gaped at her. Nothing wrong? Was she insane?

  He turned and ripped the sheet off the easel. ‘Nothing wrong? What do you call this then?’ he asked savagely. His face was as pale as her own now. He was obviously a man at the end of his tether, and the fact that she was the one to take him there both appalled her, and deep, deep down, thrilled her. Then both emotions fled. It was just him and her, against the world. Or so it seemed. For a long, long second, Frederica hesitated. Should she tell him the truth now? Or wait. But she was sick of waiting. Sick of the mistrust that ate at her soul. Love was about a lot of things—including trust. She took a deep breath. ‘I call that a favour,’ she said softly.

  Lorcan’s eyes narrowed. ‘A favour?’

  Frederica nodded. ‘Yes. I painted it for a . . . friend.’ Although she was willing to put her own head on the block, and trust that Lorcan wasn’t going to chop it off, she had no right to drag her father into this. At least,
not without consulting him fast.

  ‘What friend?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Frederica shook her head. ‘Does it matter?’

  Lorcan closed his eyes briefly and prayed for strength. ‘Frederica,’ he said, his voice ominously calm, ‘you have one of the best Art Fraud detectives there is breathing down your neck. And if he has his way, you’re probably going to spend the next three-to-five years of your life in Holloway,’ his voice rose in pitch. ‘So yes, off-hand, I’d say that it mattered!’

  Frederica licked her dry lips and looked down miserably at the hands in her laps. He was warning her. He’d even told her about the police plans. Surely, surely, that was enough. That was all the proof she needed?

  ‘I’m not going to sell the painting on, Lorcan,’ she said softly, looking up at him, her face naked in its honesty. ‘We never intended to. So you see, there’s nothing the police can do to us. Whatever it was you and the police thought was happening in Oxford, whatever criminal activity brought you down here, it has nothing to do with me. It never has.’

  Lorcan took a series of slow, deep breaths. She sounded so earnest. But it was not her truthfulness that concerned him now. Jealousy, sharp as a dragon’s tooth, began to nibble away at him. ‘Who’s “we” Frederica?’ he demanded. ‘Who put you up to this? And what rubbish did he feed you? Of course he’s going to sell it on!’ he snarled. ‘Why else do you think he got you to paint it in the first place?’

  In his mind he could just picture some charming con-artist seducing her into this mess. If he hadn’t known better, he would even have bet that he’d sweet-talked her into his bed too, the better to be sure of her.

  Frederica shook her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. It’s nothing like that. I swear. I promise.’

  ‘Frederica, you’ve been conned, sweetheart,’ he said grimly, not liking the look of stubborn defiance in her eyes one little bit. Whoever this scoundrel was, he had a hold on her that was driving him crazy. Why was she being so damned loyal?