by Lena Jones
1. He’s been closely involved with at least two paintings that are known to be forgeries (Sunflowers and The Marriage).
2. We were kidnapped pretty much immediately after confronting him.
3. He owns the car that was used to kidnap us today.
4. I’ve got a gut feeling. (I have a very reliable gut.)
I can’t help laughing at that last one.
So the net is closing around Rathbone. And if he did have something to do with Mum’s death, then he will certainly deserve a long prison sentence.
After I’ve finished messaging Arthur, I use my mobile to call Sam Cohen. His phone goes straight to voicemail. I decide against leaving a message, just in case his mystery visitor is still around.
I have two messages from Brianna on our group chat app.
Brianna
Bonjour, mon amie. Comment ça va avec your investigation? You are manquing to us. We are envious of your nouveau ami
I flinch at her awful franglais. She’s followed this up with:
Brianna
How did you get out of school today? Any leads found or are you still searching?
Still searching
Liam puts in:
Liam
What’s easy to open but hard to close?
I think of replying ‘A case’, but instead I type:
Your mouth?
He fills the screen with laughing emojis. I’m pretty sure they’re meant sarcastically.
I try Sam Cohen again. He answers on my first ring.
‘Hello. Who is it?’ He sounds panicky.
‘Mr Cohen, hi. Sorry to bother you. It’s Agatha Oddlow – Clara’s daughter.’
‘No. Can’t talk.’ He hangs up the phone.
I sit staring at my mobile for a few seconds, wondering what on earth is going on. Then I run downstairs to the kitchen and use the landline to call him again, so he won’t recognise my number.
He picks up immediately. ‘Yes?’
I disguise my voice, deepening it and adding a hint of upper-class drawl.
‘Hell-ooo. Is that the art conservator? My name is Lady Valerie DuBois. I was hoping you could help me with a painting I’ve been left in my mother’s will.’
‘Yes, of course, madam. I’m a little tied up right now, but if you could send me the details in an email—’
‘Oh no!’ I force a little laugh. ‘I don’t do modern technology, I’m afraid …’
‘Right, well, if you give me your phone number …’
‘Perhaps I could pop round with it? I’m going out at seven, and I could drop in on my way …’
‘No!’ There’s no denying the panic in his tone.
‘Very well. I shan’t trouble you further today. I shall call again, to arrange a convenient time to discuss my mother’s painting.’
‘Thank you, Lady Valerie. I look forward to it. My apologies, but I must get on this evening.’
He hangs up without even saying goodbye.
So Sam Cohen is definitely in trouble of some kind. Yet he answered his phone. I wonder whether his mystery visitor has instructed him to wait by the phone for an important call. Perhaps Lord Rathbone has somehow discovered I’m in touch with the art conservator and is pressuring him into dropping his investigations into the forgeries.
Within less than a minute, I’ve made up my mind – I need to pay Mr Cohen a visit. It’s the only way to find out what exactly is going on and if he’s in danger.
I consider calling Arthur, but then I remember the state he was in on our way home earlier. He’s in no condition to be back-up for an evening operation. Liam and Brianna? I check the time. It’s quarter to seven. Should I involve my friends? As I sit on the bed deliberating, I hear my dad shouting from downstairs.
‘Din-ner!’
Of course – the pizza! I haven’t had anything since the hot chocolate at the Guild HQ, and I realise I’m starving. My stomach gurgles as if it’s only just noticed how empty it is.
‘Coming!’ I shout.
I race downstairs, nearly running into Dad as I enter the kitchen.
‘Hey! Slow down!’ He laughs. ‘Your pizza isn’t going anywhere.’
‘Sorry! I’m just really hungry.’
‘Did you get any lunch?’
I shake my head. ‘Not really.’
‘You have to eat, Aggie!’
‘Sorry, Dad.’ I pause, wondering how he’s going to react to my request.
‘Dad …’
He sets two glasses on the table and looks at me. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you think …’ I take a deep breath. ‘Would you mind if I took this away?’
‘Up to your room, do you mean?’
I shake my head. No – I mean out. ‘I’ve just realised there’s a place I need to visit, to check something out.’
‘Right …’ He sits down heavily on a chair at the table. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it’s not always easy being your dad.’
I smile ruefully. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You do?’
I nod. ‘You don’t know whether to allow me the freedom I need to investigate things, or whether that makes you a negligent parent.’
‘You do get it!’
‘Of course. But you don’t need to worry, Dad – I’m only going to visit an art conservator, not the lair of an evil mastermind.’
‘A conservator?’ I nod. ‘Well, that sounds safe enough … And you’ll take a taxi both ways?’
‘Sure.’ He gets up and fetches money from his wallet, which he hands to me. ‘For your fare.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, taking it.
‘And you’ll be careful?’
I give him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Always,’ I promise.
‘You’ll need your coat.’ He gestures to the back of the kitchen door, where my lovely red garment is hanging on the apron hook. All trace of the dirt and dust from the barn is gone.
‘You got it clean! Thanks so much, Dad.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
He’s scrutinising the top of my head. ‘Shame I didn’t get you to hand over your beret.’
I touch my beloved red hat. ‘I forgot I was wearing it!’
‘It’s filthy.’
I pull a face. ‘Maybe I can give it a brush before I go.’
He holds out a hand. ‘Give it to me. I’ll wipe it over while you grab everything you need.’
‘Did I tell you I love you?’
He grins. ‘That’s cupboard love. But I’ll take it.’
Sam Cohen lives in a tiny cottage in east London, not far from Bethnal Green station. The house is so old the whole of the black-and-white structure is wonky, where the timber and plaster have shrunk or swollen over the years. It’s flanked by tall, shiny office buildings from the twenty-first century. This is another time when the word incongruous appears in my head. But which is out of place – the ancient cottage or the modern architecture? I’m guessing that depends on your outlook.
I don’t knock on the door, but check for onlookers before skirting the building, searching for signs of forced entry. The windows all seem intact at the front and side. Access to the back of the house is via a high wooden gate, but this is locked. It looks as though anyone intimidating Mr Cohen must have knocked on the front door, like a civilised visitor.
I use my lock-picking kit to open the padlock and pass through the gate. A light is shining out on the ground floor. I creep over to the window, crouching low to keep from being spotted. There’s a gap between the curtains, and I peer in.
I’m looking in at a little kitchen, where a man with dark but grey-flecked hair is sitting at a round table, with his head in his hands. I’m guessing this is the conservator himself. There’s no sign of anyone else. The phone is next to his hand, as though he’s expecting a call at any minute. When it rings, I nearly jump. I hadn’t taken into account how old the windows are – there’s no noise insulation in either direction. But this should work in my favour.
He an
swers the phone. ‘Samuel Cohen.’ There’s a pause, then he says, ‘I understand.’
It’s frustrating, only hearing one side of the conversation.
‘No, as I told when you called round, I haven’t heard from Ms Oddlow’s daughter. To be honest, I didn’t realise she had a child.’
I am startled at hearing myself mentioned. So I was right: my contact with the art conservator is what’s tipped off whoever’s been menacing him. I was also right about him being a decent person – he seems to be protecting me. He looks so pale and fragile I feel a stab of guilt at having dragged him into all this.
He continues speaking. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know that person either. Smith, you say? Where does she work? … Oh, I see. No, she never contacted me. Look, I really don’t have anything you’re looking for. I’m just going about my business. I’m really not sure what you want from me. If I hear from the daughter, I promise I’ll notify you. No, I haven’t forgotten …’
He’s gone even paler and I could swear his hand is shaking. When the call ends, he drops the phone as if it’s burning his hand.
That’s when he spots me. I’ve got so caught up with the scene inside, I’ve grown reckless. I’m pretty much staring straight at him through the window.
He leaps up. ‘Who’s there? I’m calling the police!’
But he does no such thing: he opens the back door and calls out. ‘I know you’re out there.’
‘It’s me, Agatha Oddlow,’ I say quietly, walking towards him. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘I wondered if it might be you,’ he says softly. He glances around the garden, checking there’s nobody else about. ‘You’d better come inside. It’s freezing out here.’
I hadn’t even noticed the temperature until he mentioned it. Now I realise soft flakes are falling, melting as they touch my coat.
I step inside, stamping my boots to disperse any dirt from the garden.
We’re in the kitchen. There’s a fireplace, but no fire is lit. Instead, Mr Cohen has an electric fan heater blowing. The air is warm and stuffy. He glances out of the window one last time, then hurriedly closes the gap in the curtains.
My host gestures for me to take a seat. ‘Cup of tea?’ he asks.
‘No, thank you.’ I remove my coat and beret, and place them over the back of a wooden chair before sitting down.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just make one for myself …’ He busies himself with the kettle, while I examine the room. I realise the table I’m sitting at is ancient and pockmarked with decades – centuries, even – of use by its many owners. The uneven white-plaster walls are decorated with paintings in ornate frames, and there are small sculptures and knick-knacks on every surface. It’s like a miniature version of Sir John Soane’s Museum.
I’m so busy examining my surroundings, it takes me a moment to realise Mr Cohen isn’t making his tea. He’s leaning against the deep trough sink, still holding the kettle, and shivering.
I get up and take the kettle from him. ‘Sit down,’ I tell him gently. ‘I’ll make your tea.’ I pull out a chair and he takes a seat without a word. Glancing around, I see a blanket, folded over the back of an armchair in the corner. I take it and open it out, spreading the tartan wool throw over his shoulders. He clutches it round him, nodding to me gratefully.
I fill the black kettle and set it on the hob. There are matches alongside the old range cooker, and I light the gas and sit back down at the table, opposite the conservator.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask him.
‘This … is … the first time I’ve been threatened,’ he says slowly.
‘And hopefully the last,’ I say firmly. I take out my notebook. ‘Now, what can you tell me about the person who threatened you? Was the phone call you just received from the same person?’
He nods, shuddering as he remembers. ‘I recognised the voice.’
‘Was it a man?’
He nods again. His shivering is slowing at last. ‘Yes. He was tall – a lot taller than me.’
‘About what? Five ten? Six foot?’
‘A little over six foot. And big – broad-shouldered and heavy.’
I write this down. ‘And can you describe his colouring?’
He shakes his head. ‘They – he – was wearing a …’ He draws a hand over his face.
‘A balaclava?’ I suggest.
‘Yes! So I couldn’t see his appearance. But there was something …’ He grabs a jotting pad and makes a tiny, detailed drawing. I freeze as I see an elaborate letter A materialise on the paper. ‘And he was wearing black-leather gloves.’ He pauses, then says, ‘I thought he’d come to kill me.’
‘That must have been terrifying,’ I say softly.
He nods. ‘I’ve always felt safe here before. I’ve lived in this house for thirty-three years, and nobody has ever so much as shouted out an insult in the street. And now this …’
‘The letter A,’ I say. ‘Where did you see it?’
‘I saw it first on each of the fake paintings I tested.’
‘That makes sense – I thought it must be a way of marking the forgeries.’
‘It was also on the man’s handkerchief.’
‘His handkerchief?’
‘Yes – I saw it when he got it out to mop under his balaclava, as if he was perspiring a lot. Normally, I would think it was just his initial, but it was identical to the one on the pictures.’
I study his sketch. There’s no mistaking the similarity between this A and the one on the Sunflowers canvas.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, and he looks at me in surprise.
‘Why are you sorry?’
I shrug. ‘This didn’t happen until I contacted you.’
‘But you’re not the one forging artwork. You’re not sending thugs round to threaten innocent people.’
The kettle starts to whistle, and I get up and turn off the gas. There’s a row of blue-and-white pottery mugs above the range, so I unhook one and take a teabag from the box on the side. As I place it in the mug and pour over the hot water, Mr Cohen says,
‘Your mum was a brave woman, I think.’
‘She was, wasn’t she? I don’t think I’d realised it until quite recently.’
‘She was much braver than me.’
I turn back to him. ‘You are very brave!’
‘Me? You saw the state I got into, just from a phone call!’
‘But you told the man you’d never heard of me – that you didn’t even know I existed. That was incredibly courageous – you could so easily have told the truth.’
‘You heard that?’
I nod.
‘Well, I could tell from your voice over the phone that you were barely more than a child. I wasn’t going to let them come after you.’ He looks at me for a moment. ‘Although, now I’ve met you, I sense there’s rather more to you than I’d suspected. It must be because you’re Ms Oddlow’s daughter.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You should.’
I find a teaspoon in a drawer and fish out the teabag. The milk bottle is already out on the side, so I pour a little into the mug until the brew turns from golden brown to dark cream. Then I add a couple of heaped spoonfuls of sugar and stir until it’s dissolved.
I place the mug in front of him. ‘I’ve made it very sweet, for the shock,’ I say.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind – just like your mother. I was so sad to hear she’d died.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Not at all. But she was always thoughtful in her dealings with me.’
‘Didn’t you suspect something bad might have happened to her, when you didn’t hear from her again?’
‘I always wondered … But she hadn’t given me any contact details, beyond a postbox address. I searched for her, of course, but I was never able to track her down. The shop that had been handling the postbox addresses was replaced by a takeaway, so I couldn’t find her through that. Eventually, I deci
ded – or hoped – she must have finished the case and didn’t need my input after all.’
‘Can we talk some more about your visitor?’ I ask.
‘I can’t tell you very much, as I said.’
‘When did he come?’
‘Quite soon after you and I spoke on the phone the first time, actually. I started work immediately, researching the current owner of O’Keeffe’s Lake George Reflection.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘Not a lot, to be honest. It’s the property of a private trust – they lend art to galleries and museums all over the world.’
‘How did you find this out?’
‘I placed a call. I have a friend at an archive that specialises in O’Keeffe’s work. But I can’t believe she’d be involved in anything shady.’
‘No,’ I say slowly. ‘I don’t think it had anything to do with her. Your visitor came too soon afterwards for that.’
A cold stone has appeared in my belly. I haven’t felt this unsettled since … when? I reflect, and realise the last time was when I finally gained access to Mum’s file in the Guild HQ – and the folder had been emptied.
How could anyone have found out about Sam Cohen’s research into the possible forgeries? It’s only been since Arthur and I began our investigation that he’s attracted unwanted attention.
That’s when I have to admit the unthinkable: Arthur.
I Change Channel and run through a list of question and answers. They appear before me, as if they’ve been written on a whiteboard:
Question: Who knew I’d communicated with Mr Cohen over Sunflowers and The Marriage – plus The Yellow House and Lake George Reflection?
Answer: Arthur.
Question: Who asked for the art conservator’s name and immediately input it into his phone (or possibly even sent a text to a colleague)?
Answer: Arthur.
Question: Who gave me the cufflink and maintained Lord Rathbone was behind everything?
Answer: Arthur.
I stand up and pace the room. It isn’t possible – is it? I Change Channel and replay scenes in my head: Arthur, joking with me the first time we met; Arthur, thanking me for saving his life.
‘Are you all right?’