by Maxine Barry
‘Whoever this man is, he means to make money out of the fake,’ Lorcan gritted. ‘And if anything goes wrong, it won’t just be him that pays for it. You will too.’
Frederica burst into tears. She couldn’t help it, because, suddenly, and without a shadow of a doubt, she knew that he meant every word he was saying. He thought she was innocent. He loved her. He was willing to fight her corner. Days and restless nights of suffering were suddenly washed away in a glorious, wonderful, tidal wave of relief.
Lorcan groaned and gathered her into his arms, holding her tight, rocking her back and forth as she cried as if her heart was breaking, instead of mending.
‘You d-d-don’t understand,’ she hiccuped, trying to pull away, to look him in his wonderfully handsome, loving, face. ‘It isn’t l-l-like you th-think. I . . .’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ Lorcan insisted, one hand cupped behind her skull, caressing her. ‘You’ve got to let me take the painting,’ he said flatly.
He felt her stiffen. ‘Take it?’ she asked, her tears drying up instantly. ‘Take it where? Why?’ she demanded.
‘To burn it,’ Lorcan said. ‘I’ve got all I need to do it back at the house.’
Frederica wiped the tears off her cheeks, her eyes scanning his face restlessly, searching for signs of deceit. ‘Can I come with you?’ she asked quietly, her eyes intent and full of fear. If he really wanted to burn the painting, he’d have no objection, would he?
Lorcan frowned. Was she afraid of this man, whoever he was? ‘Of course you can come,’ he agreed.
‘And watch you burn it?’ she added persistently.
Lorcan nodded. ‘Yes. We’ll burn it together,’ he agreed eagerly. ‘And then we’ll be rid of the damned thing.’
Frederica laughed. For one awful moment back there, she’d thought . . . Oh, but she was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
‘All right,’ she agreed, getting up.
Lorcan let out a long, wilting sigh of relief and pulled her close. His mouth fastened on hers, hard, strong, hungry.
Frederica melted against him, gloriously happy, her heart singing, her blood pounding. ‘Oh Lorcan,’ she murmured, when he finally lifted his head.
His green eyes glinted. ‘Come on, let’s . . .’ A knock at the door made them both freeze. Lorcan slowly turned his head towards it. ‘You’d better see who it is.’
Frederica nodded, and walked to the door. She half-suspected to see the now infamous D.I. Braine standing there, but it was one of the scouts. ‘Hello luv,’ she said cheerfully. ‘This was in the lodge for you. I thought I’d bring it up, since I was headed this way.’ She handed her a letter, casting the handsome man standing behind her a curious, smiling look.
‘Thank you, Edie,’ Frederica murmured and closed the door behind her.
She looked down at the envelope, and recognised the writing at once. It was her father’s. In the left hand corner he’d written the single word ‘urgent’. Frederica opened it, unaware that Lorcan was watching her, his sudden jubilation draining out of him as the old dragon’s tooth, jealousy, took a savage bite out of him. Was the letter from the creep who’d dragged her into this? Somehow, he was sure it was. Frederica read her father’s letter quickly. It was brief and to the point.
Her mother had noticed the missing Forbes-Wright. He’d told her it was being cleaned. Should he now admit to selling it, or had Frederica been serious about finishing the painting?
He needed to know. Either way, he’d informed their insurance company that the painting had been sold. It was a typical letter from her father—honest and fair. She’d have to ring him up and tell him that yes, he’d have to confess to Donna and take his medicine. She looked up, about to show the letter to Lorcan. To tell him that there was no conman, no deceiver, out to make money from her. Just her father, needing a favour. But there was a strange, tight, angry look on his face. A worried look.
‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’ Lorcan said flatly. ‘You’re not going to let me burn it.’
‘No,’ Frederica said, stunned. Of course she was going to let him burn it. ‘Lorcan . . .’ she held a hand out to him, but he was already moving past her.
‘Leave it, Frederica,’ he said, his voice more weary than she’d ever heard it. ‘Just leave it.’ He left the door open behind him as he walked away.
Frederica rushed forward, about to call him back, and then hesitated. No. She had a much better idea. She’d take the damned painting home. Let Richard Braine’s detectives follow her. Then they would all know that she had nothing to hide.
Then she laughed hollowly. She’d been so busy testing Lorcan for loyalty and honesty and trust, that she’d forgotten that he had every right to test her.
There’d be no chance of happiness, for either of them, until they’d proved their love to each other, once and for all.
* * *
The afternoon passed happily for the delegates. Some checked out Oxford’s pretty Botanical Gardens. Others opted for a punting expedition from Magdalen Bridge on the River Cherwell. Some die-hards went Saturday afternoon shopping. Reeve and Annis caught the bus back to Squitchey Lane. As they got off and walked hand-in-hand along the pavement towards their love-nest, Annis sighed happily. ‘You know, I’m always going to remember Oxford,’ she murmured fondly. ‘As a place in which to fall in love, we could have done worse, couldn’t we?’ she mused.
Reeve pushed open the gate and dug into his jeans for a key. ‘I’d say so.’
Inside, they headed for the conservatory, where the scent of orange blossom hung headily in the moist, hot air. Reeve opened the windows and glass doors as Annis flopped down into a sun lounger. ‘Get me a long tall glass of lemonade, lover, loaded with ice cubes. Please,’ she drawled lazily.
Reeve looked down at her, his lips twisted into an amused curve. ‘And what did your last servant die of?’
‘Sexual exhaustion,’ she purred.
Reeve felt his breath catch. The minx knew what it did to him when she said stuff like that! ‘In that case,’ he drawled, ‘lemonade coming up.’ When he returned a few minutes later, with two tall iced glasses full to the brim, he glanced at her. ‘Madam’s lem . . .’
Annis was naked. Lying on the sun lounger, one knee slightly bent, she was leaning back, her black hair splayed against the cheerful red and yellow lounger, her breasts already beading with sweat in the humidity. His hand shook, and drops of ice-cold lemonade splashed on to her navel. Her eyes snapped open, and she shuddered. ‘Clumsy,’ she said, shaking one fmger at him. ‘For that, you have to be punished. Come here.’
Reeve put down the glasses, his heart leaping about all over the place, and dropped to one knee. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said huskily. ‘Fifty lashes?’
‘Something like that,’ Annis murmured, her arms looping over his shoulders. ‘Why are you wearing so many clothes?’
Reeve shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he gulped.
‘Well, get them off. Huh-huh,’ she waved a finger under his nose as he fumbled feverishly with the top buttons of his shirt. ‘Slowly. I want to watch.’ Her amber eyes glowed as she leaned back, curving one arm behind her head, and settling in for the show. Reeve slowly stood up. He eased his feet out of the sandals he was wearing, then slowly unbuttoned the cuffs of the shirt. He pulled the shirt free from his jeans and slowly, from the bottom up, began to unbutton it. Annis’s breath caught, making her breasts rise and fall erratically. Reeve’s eyes darkened.
Annis was like mercury, he thought dizzily. One moment a spitting cat, the next . . . a sleepy-eyed seductress. Life with her would be a wild roller-coaster ride. Especially if either one of them, or both, made it big in their chosen careers. He knew, too, that he would never be bored. Never get a moment’s peace. Never know what she was going to do next. And that was a wonderful prospect. He slipped the shirt from his shoulders, exposing tanned, lightly but firmly muscled, flesh.
Annis let her mouth fall open, and held out her hand vaguely for the glass.
Reeve, eyes glinting, gave it to her. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving his. ‘Lose the jeans, Reeve,’ she said huskily. Reeve lost them. For a long moment they froze as they were—Annis, reclining naked on the lounger. Reeve, naked and erect, standing over her. Then Annis slowly got up. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she moved towards him. She reached up and put one hand against his chest, then slowly lowered her head, pulling one hard male nipple into her mouth.
Reeve threw his head back, throat taut, as he stared up at the glass ceiling and the blue cloudless sky above him, before slowly, carefully, pushing her back on to the lounger.
Annis sighed, closing her eyes as his dark head lowered over hers. She arched her back as he repaid the compliment, his tongue laving first one nipple then the other in loving tenderness. She reached up one hand, running it though his dark curls, pushing him down, lower, lower, letting her legs fall apart, and soon her gasps and cries echoed out, filling the conservatory with sound.
* * *
Ray arrived at St Bede’s an hour early for dinner, coming in by one of the postern gates on Walton Street. If anyone had seen him, and later, for any reason, happened to remember it, he had the perfect excuse. For tonight was the most dramatic scene in his murder mystery. Tonight, when the delegates entered Hall, it would be to find John Lore slumped theatrically across one of the tables, his head ‘bashed in’ by a heavy silver and artificially-blood-stained candlestick. Naturally, ‘the police’ would then have the body removed, whilst everyone—civilised society being what it was—enjoyed a fabulous dinner. With such shenanigans to supervise, he had the ideal excuse for moving around.
Just as he was passing the college clock he recognised the Bursar leaving Webster’s main doors, and heading straight for the Lodge. Ray instantly made his decision. He had the lock pick in his briefcase, along with the copy of the Hogarth. There was not a soul in Wallace Quad. He strolled casually across the gravel towards Webster and walked inside.
He felt sick. His skin was sweating, a slick mixture of hot and cold. There was no one in sight as he approached the Bursar’s office. He tried the door. It was of course locked. Which meant that there was no one inside. He cast one last glance around, then dropped carefully to one knee and extracted the lock pick from his case. He inserted it, added just the right amount of pressure, turned and . . . ‘click’.
Ray stood up and looked around again. Nothing and no one. He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him within the space of a second or two. For a moment he just stood, looking around the office, taking deep calming breaths. Then he went straight to the cupboard. It too was locked. Ray’s trusty lock pick went into action once again. He recognised the heavy, old-fashioned safe instantly, and grinned. It would be no problem. After three minutes, he was down to the last number. After four, he’d found the combination. He pulled open the safe door, his heart thudding so loudly he felt nauseous. But there, amongst the ledgers, iron petty-cash boxes and papers, the dirty, carefully wrapped scroll was instantly recognisable. Ray carefully removed it, his hands shaking just a little as he unwrapped the white linen. He had the Hogarth in his hands. Literally. He yearned to unroll it, to feast his eyes on it, but he knew better. There was no time for that now. He removed the copy from his briefcase and made the exchange. It took him only moments to shut the safe and twirl the dial and carefully wipe a handkerchief over it.
He wiped every surface he’d touched, then walked to the door for the final gamble. The last risk. He eased the door open a crack and looked out. Clear. His heart skipping nervously, he pushed the door open and stepped outside. And, with the original painting of Alfred Gore by William Hogarth in his briefcase, Ray Verney walked across Wallace Quad towards Hall. Now he would have to sit through the ‘murder’ scene at dinner with the painting in the case beside him, but he knew his nerves would hold out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunday, the final day of the conference. In her room, Frederica put the last brush stroke to ‘The Old Mill and Swans’, not caring if she never saw it again. It was nearly ten o’clock when she left the college to collect a rental car. Outside, a man watched her, then followed.
The city dozed in a typical Sunday morning torpor, as the city’s many clocks and church bells tolled for Sunday Morning worship. It was a glorious day, in a glorious city, but Frederica, for once, failed to notice. Instead, she glanced at her watch. If she wanted to, she could be home in time for Sunday lunch. The sooner she was away from here, the better.
Oh Lorcan, what a mess we made of things, she thought bitterly, as she turned into the premises of the garage. Behind her, the man following her extracted a mobile phone and made a short call.
Frederica paid for the car, returned to St Bede’s, and carefully manoeuvred the estate car into the small car park. She was watched by more than one interested party. Parked in Walton Street on a double-yellow line, a silver Aston Martin was attracting many admiring glances.
Lorcan was just walking through Becket Arch when he saw a familiar red head disappear through Webster’s main doors. He paused in the shadow of the arch, a tired, blonde Adonis in his blue shirt, navy trousers and jacket.
His eyes roamed around casually. No policemen. They must be parked outside, watching for her to come out.
Lorcan straightened up, wincing as he watched her emerge, the sheet-covered canvas glaring whitely in the morning sun. Dammit, why didn’t she just carry a great big sign, saying, ‘Here I am, the Forger—Come and Get Me’! The woman’s recklessness was enough to make his blood freeze.
Lorcan followed her as she disappeared into the car park, watching as Frederica very carefully placed her burden in the back of the spacious vehicle.
Behind him, a gang of conference delegates headed for the Chapel, curious to experience Oxford College worship for themselves. Inside, Annis was already in place, waiting to enact her big dramatic scene about sitting in a pew which didn’t have a radiator next to it.
Frederica, suddenly remembering she’d left her jar of brushes behind, sprinted back to her room. Lorcan tried the door of the estate, relieved that she hadn’t locked it behind her.
He looked around, very carefully scanning non-college windows, but could see no tell-tale movement. He carefully extracted the canvas, shut the car door behind him, and headed for one of the postern gates that led into the alley.
He quickly checked both ends, and once he was certain that it was deserted, sprinted towards Walton Street. Carefully placing the canvas on to the back seat of his sports car, he covered it with a black-and-red checked picnic cloth. Then he gunned the engine and roared off just as Frederica returned to the car park. Her footsteps faltered. Where in the hell was the painting?
* * *
In the Chapel, everyone rose for the opening hymn, wondering about the significance of Annis’s half-hysterical choice of seat. The Chaplain’s service was simple, reverent and touching, leaving everyone feeling uplifted and relaxed.
Everyone, that is, except Ray. He had his briefcase beside him, and instead of it being innocently empty now, it still contained the Hogarth. As he sang ‘Abide with Me’ his eyes bored into the back of Carl Struthers’ neck, in the pew in front. Ray could cheerfully have strangled him. Right now, the painting could be in his suitcase in the wardrobe back at the Raleigh, and as safe as houses. But no. Struthers had rung him this morning demanding to see the painting. Demanding to inspect it. Threatening to withdraw his offer to buy it if Ray refused. Damn him! First he’d insisted on joining the conference, now he was throwing his weight about.
The service came to an end and people began to leave.
‘I don’t know why you made all that fuss,’ Reeve said loudly, glaring at Annis. ‘You’re a real spoilt brat, you know that?’
Annis glowered back at him. ‘I just don’t like radiators, that’s all,’ she snapped, both of them ramming home the clue for the benefit of the late arrivals, who hadn’t been there in time to catch it.
&nbs
p; Reeve shook his head. ‘What’s up, Annis dearest? Nerves a bit on edge, hum? Perhaps you know something about dear John that nobody else does?’
‘Oh shut up,’ Annis snapped, taking a step back and unintentionally bumping into Ray. Ray, caught half-rising from the pew, found himself knocked forwards, the briefcase falling out of his hand and down on to the hard tiled floor with a dull thud.
‘You’re the one John was gunning for, not me,’ Annis snapped, desperately ignoring Ray’s fumbling. Reeve’s eyes glinted as he realised the problem, but they were in no danger of losing their audience! By now everyone was watching them. The conclusion to the murder mystery was tonight, and everyone was determined to get the identity of the murderer right. It had become a matter of principle to everyone, especially the publishers who specialised in books on crime.
Ray watched, aghast, as the locks of the briefcase caught on the side of the pew and snapped open. Annis half-looked down, aware that she’d been clumsy, trying desperately to think of a way to cover it up. Reeve’s voice rose magnificently. ‘Hah! I know a few things about the dearly-departed John that would make your hair curl. And I have a good idea who killed him!’ he announced dramatically. All eyes flew to his face.
Ray scrabbled for the briefcase. As he did so, some of the papers became dislodged, revealing the scroll. Out of the corner of her eye, Annis saw it. One end had come undone and unfurled a little, giving her a glimpse of dark, deep, oils. Ray shut the briefcase with a snap and stood up. His face was flushed.
He glanced around quickly. Luckily, everyone was too busy concentrating on the performance by the two actors to pay any attention to him. But as he turned, he caught Annis’s eye, just as she was looking up from the floor. And he felt a hard, cold, snake of fear lance through him.
If he’d seen the rolled up painting, so had she!
‘Oh that’s just so much rubbish, Reeve darling,’ she purred. ‘If you know who killed him, why don’t you just tell the police? The Inspector is just outside, after all.’