by Stephen Wade
‘I bought a painting from this rogue … and it’s a fake, George.’
‘Now how do you know the thing is a fake, my dear Simon? In all our time together as students, I knew you as a sensible, rational cove, not easily taken in…’
‘Hah! Well I have been. It was at the Matchdown auction rooms I met this crook. Thought all was well, then last night – as you may know I was giving a dinner in my rooms in the very heart of Marylebone for Sparrow Warburton’s new book of poems and all the aesthetic types came you know – and there I was, mine host, cheery, and trying my best to hold a conversation about Turner … I even had that chap Grossmith there to play the piano for us … such a droll type … anyway I was going on about painting and showing off my new acquisition when this little chap tugs at my sleeve and, pointing to my new watercolour, he says, “Sorry to say, Sir Simon, but this picture here … this is no F.W. Canlon I’m afraid.”
‘All heads turned to the picture. Then followed a lecture by this little man – some kind of lecturer I believe – as to why the pretty landscape with Lincoln Cathedral was the work of a very clever forger!’
Harry wiped his mouth clear of crumbs with a napkin, sipped the last of his tea, and said, ‘Canlon … very collectable. All his best work is Lincolnshire. Beyond my pocket though. Did he paint your place, George? George’s family seat is near Horncastle, you see,’ he added to Basson, in way of explanation.
‘Never painted our place,’ sighed Lord George. ‘Go on, Simon.’
‘Well I paid close on a thousand for it from this dealer … just six weeks ago!’ said Sir Simon, anger heating his every word. ‘He was paid at the end of last month of course, by a bill of exchange. I came here because you have friends in the police, I hear, even in the ranks of the detectives. Word gets around about you. Is there any way you could help me, George?’
Lord George stubbed out his cigarette and turned to face his friend. ‘Just a moment … did you say that we are known for work against crime?’
‘Why yes … in the clubs and coffee houses, I think. I myself heard about you in the Turkish Baths.’
Lord George looked surprised: usually he hid his emotions very well. He was partly shocked and partly impressed. ‘But we’re a secret society, Simon … at least I thought we were. We merely supply a need – specialist knowledge when required; if the police take no interest or meet with failure, then the Septimus Society is here. But good God, we never advertise!’ He gave Harry a searching look, and the professor of literature puffed out his rosy cheeks. ‘By Heaven, George, you don’t think that I …’
‘All I’m saying, Harry, is that you have a tendency to speak first and think afterwards.’
Harry Lacey smiled to himself, reflecting that he was enjoying doing something entirely different to studying old books. But he pretended to be offended and pulled a face, before exclaiming, ‘I’m the very soul of discretion, George … never speak of us. It was most probably Leo; he can’t keep a secret.’
Basson was growing impatient. He stood up, and for a moment George thought his friend was going to stamp his feet and have a childish tantrum, but instead he simply asked what was to be done.
George stood too, took another cigarette from his silver case, and said, ‘We must go to an art auction, Simon … but not the Matchdown. He won’t show his face there again. No, he’ll be at another. Then we also have the question of how he deluded you and who’s the scratcher. Probably the man you met is the talker, and his scratcher’s behind somewhere. What happened exactly?’
Basson told of meeting the man at the auction and then being taken in by his talk of having several paintings in his own establishment which were for sale. His argument was obvious – a private sale would avoid the auction house’s cut, of course. ‘He then invited me to his place, and we went to a studio where there was a man working, and pictures around the room …’
Lord George cut in: ‘Do you recall passing any significant places … or did anything stay in the mind?’
‘Yes … yes, the sale was in Poland Street and we walked …,’ Basson frowned in concentration, ‘… we went through Soho Square … then, well, it was very dark and I had, you know, taken a drink or two.’
George was putting the scene together in his mind. His friend had been talked into going with this man, then he was taken to a small room which was apparently a painter’s studio. There he sold Simon the painting.
‘Very well, to the art sale tomorrow! We’ll try to find this rogue.’ George declared.
‘There’s a rather grand affair at the Holborn house … at eleven.’
‘Meet me there … I’ll have Kate with me,’ said George.
‘No you won’t George,’ Harry said, confidently. ‘Kate, as of today, is no longer with us. I meant to tell you but all you could talk about was the problem of the London criminal and the epidemic of night assaults. We lost her to a lucrative marriage.’
‘Then we must recruit a woman immediately. Go home, Simon, gather your strength, and meet one of our Society there tomorrow.’
As Simon Basson left, George asked his friend, ‘Where may we find a suitable actress in time for tomorrow morning?’
‘Why, at The Savoy of course. I have one young lady in mind … an old friend. In fact I’ve had a word with her already about working with us.’ Harry absentmindedly picked up the last half scone on his plate and nibbled at it, lost in thought for a moment. ‘First, I’ll check my records for forgery in the art market, perhaps going back a year. I have the name Metlem in my head.’
‘No. He died. Drowned in the Thames,’ George said, with a triumphant smile.
‘Right, so once again your memory is superior to my index cards! I’m not impressed. It’s rather dismally tragic that one so young should have such petty childish victories of fact,’ Harry said, adding, ‘I’ll look at the cards and then I’m away to the theatre, George. This is a job for Eddie. We need the police involved from the start.’
Lord George sat down and, grasping the Daily Graphic and stretching out his legs, settled down once more in the comfortable leather armchair. ‘I’ll think about how to trap our little forger,’ he murmured to himself.
The door of Pentonville Prison opened, by the side of the massive entrance gates, and in the early sunshine a large, fleshy man stepped out, carrying a hessian sack in which were all the possessions he had in the world. He blinked, and screwed up his eyes, then lifted the sack over one shoulder as a warder called out behind him, ‘No coming back, Tosher. We’re sick of you ’ere.’
‘No more than I am of you … if you ever see me again, it’ll be in a coffin!’
He was tall, still quite young, in his late twenties, and had once been solid, muscled and athletic, but now he was ruined by the two years of hard labour he had endured. He had a pot belly, and the rest of him was full and fat. His face was pale and he walked slightly bent.
There was but one person waiting for him: a short, stocky, middle-aged man in expensive clothing. He wore a woollen jacket, fastened high, with a collarless check waistcoat beneath; a light green silk cravat and black striped trousers showed the world that he was well-off. A distinctive feature, standing out for anyone to see, was his glass eye and a ridge of scar tissue on the temple: evidence that he had seen some kind of accident or had been to war.
‘Tosher! Very fine to see you my young friend … out in God’s own light at last hey? Oh, it’s been such an age!’
The younger man did not smile. He grimaced and declined to shake hands with the other.
‘What’s the matter? What have I done? I thought we were friends … and I have work for you, how’s that? I trust they let you have drawing materials in that hell hole?’
The younger man nodded. ‘Yes … some of the warders were fine with that … and the chaplain allowed me time to paint. That was the only consolation in there. Fact is, Ned, they know how to break a man.’ He bent forward, a sob rising in him; he wept like a child and dropped the bag. ‘Ned … Ned, I�
��m never going back in there! I’m going right, decent, I am, I swears it.’
‘Well, Tosher, I can reassure you that the work I have for you is no more than painting! Yes … a studio and honest work with your brush. How does that sound?’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it Ned.’
‘Well, we’ll be rich, my young friend … rich. I have not been idle while you languished in that castle of pain! Though you have not been starved I perceive!’
‘I ate more than my share … you have to fight to stay on top in there.’
‘So you can take it my old mate … dog eat dog, eh?’
‘Never, Ned … never back in there. I’ll die else … I’ll leave this world of sorrow.’
Ned Byrne took all this in his stride and led the way to a beer shop to give his friend some courage, in the shape of a glass of porter. His mind was a grinding machine of plans and projections; he was finding a way to bring Tosher Killane back into the fold. Clients were waiting. There was no time for sentiment.
The Green Room at The Savoy was accustomed to visits from Professor Harry Lacey, as he knew Arthur Sullivan, the composer, very well. They had first met at the Beefsteak Club, where their mutual friend, the lawyer turned pianist, Corney Grain, had treated them to his favourite delicacies. On this night, the audience were eagerly anticipating a production of The Gondoliers, and Arthur had found time to walk with Lacey to the backstage areas, chatting all the while. Like Lacey, he relished a good meal and invited the professor to a feast the coming weekend.
‘How can I turn you down, Arthur? Though I’m supposed to be losing a few pounds. I promised my doctor, and, bless him, he’s always giving me lectures about surfeits of this and that. The man has no humanity … Now, I’m looking for Miss Cabrelli … I believe she’s playing Casilda?’
Arthur stroked his moustache and gave a sigh. ‘Ah, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Miss Cabrelli wasn’t chosen for that part. No, she had something of a contretemps with WSG. I’m afraid she’s helping with the costume and props.’
‘You mean she’s been virtually dismissed?’ Lacey was indignant.
‘No, no, simply in the shadows for a while, until WSG changes his mind. She argued with him over a song. Rather a prodigious error of judgement, Harry. Anyway, you’ll find her in here.’ He opened a door and waved his hand for Harry to enter. ‘I must get to the orchestra now. À bientôt mon ami.’
It was drawing close to curtain-up and most of the performers were on their feet, pacing around the place. The air in the room was blue with expletives and the skivvy sitting at the back, hurriedly stitching a few inches of seam on a very full skirt, jumped up, startled into a response by Harry’s approach as he spoke her name. ‘Dear Miss Cabrelli … lovely to meet you again!’ He looked far from bohemian, with his bushy moustache, tousled fair hair and sober black wool topcoat and narrow trousers. ‘You were wonderful at Miss Bellezza’s party last week! Now here you are working with my friend Arthur! Well done indeed.’
Cara, short and raven-haired, was not dressed for the stage. Trying to look every inch the administrator, she wore a blouse and skirt; the blouse, with puffed-up cuffs, encompassed her neck in a high collar and was making her very hot. She stood up and gave Harry a hug as the call came for the stars to move out into the limelight.
‘Oh Mr Lacey, lovely to see you, but as you see, I’m in a spot of bother. I offended Mr Gilbert, but Sullivan thinks he’s only sulking, as men do, and I’ll be back in his good books by next week. But for now I’m backstage … and I hate it.’
‘Well, my dear, it may be that I can offer you a part in a little play for us … for the Septimus Society … when I hinted at some work.’
Cara jumped up, uttering a girlish giggle, and clapped her hands. ‘Oh Harry! How exciting! Tell me more, do!’ Harry straightened his tie, unruffling himself. He was a stranger to the attentions of women and was positively flushed.
‘My dear, there is a whiff of danger about it. It’s not exactly a Savoy part. But I’ve seen you act, and I’ve had excellent reports about you from others … and basically, well, can you meet me at Holborn House auctions at eleven tomorrow? I’ve drawn a map here, and I’ve written an account of who you are – dearest Cara, you are to be an American millionaire’s daughter, so dress for the part. Arthur has told me that you may borrow anything from the wardrobe here.’
‘Anything! Oh, joy! Harry, you’re my Fairy Godfather! May I kiss you?’
The professor blushed and stepped back, but he could not avoid Cara’s lunge at him, and her kiss on his lips, in spite of his protest.
‘Oh, I’m quite dizzy with all this, dear Cara. But tomorrow you are not Cara – you are Miss Dora Delancey. Enjoy it! Read my notes carefully … oh, and the essential thing is that you are soft-hearted, but are to be guided by Detective Inspector Carney, who will be with you all day.’
Cara took a sharp intake of breath and said, ‘Detective Inspector Carney … a real detective?’
‘Indeed. Now, farewell my dear. We shall meet again at the next Oriental dinner.’ Harry walked briskly off, leaving Cara to recover from the shock.
‘Now we’re all set … if I get someone back here, I have to have some notes from them, some rag, some bees and honey, right Thomas?’
Tosher, who knew that when his real name was used Ned Byrne meant business, and that some danger was afoot, nodded so much that his belly wobbled. Twice the size of Byrne he may have been, but the smaller man had the knack of instilling a deep fear, a chill that reached the bones and the viscera. Byrne reached up and grasped Tosher’s jaw, pulling his face down lower so he could look him in the eye, close and threatening.
‘Right Guv,’ Tosher stammered out. ‘We’ll not come away empty, like.’
‘Not even if I have to call on your skills with the knife and fetchin’ someone a good whack, right?’ Ned growled.
Tosher managed to nod, his face still in Byrne’s grip.
‘So Ned and Thomas do not end today with no shekels in the pocket, right?’ Byrne smiled nastily. ‘Shake on it?’
They shook hands, and Byrne knew from the slight quavering of his big servant that the fight for power had been won.
In the Holborn auction room the main chamber was packed with people. It was a specialist art sale, comprising only works by British artists of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. There was a cluster of aristocratic looking men in one corner, enjoying cigars and brandy, and appearing to find the whole business highly amusing. In the main concourse, the men of business gathered, and most were anxiously consulting their descriptive catalogues, stroking their chins and looking around for familiar faces. Among this crowd a young woman was gently guided around the room by an older man, the couple indulging in small talk. It was Cara, a la Dora Delancey, and Detective Inspector Edward Carney looked every inch the distinguished man of culture – a part he found unfamiliar, but he had been tutored by Harry and in his long police career he had seen hundreds of expert swindlers who passed very well as professors, clerics or academic gentlemen.
Cara was dressed in distinctly more gaudy attire than was usual in these circles in the City, having selected an ornate and highly embellished outfit from the costume store at The Savoy. Her dress was, however, very much the current fashion of the nineties, with a scattering of little flowers embroidered across the skirt, and her bodice was tight and shaped. This had been carefully chosen with the prospect of much walking and movement ahead of her. She wore long white gloves and carried a parasol, which she considered to be useful if the need for defence arose.
Eddie’s greatest challenge was to speak as if he were a ‘posh type’ and drop his Cockney accent. But he was used to that, and he somehow managed to adapt his voice and manner to the clothes he was wearing. ‘Dress posh, talk posh,’ he murmured to himself, as they walked into the Holborn rooms.
Cara made sure that her American accent was heard, and her references to some of the art around them made her seem, superficially a
t least, most informed regarding modern art.
A hush descended as the auctioneer appeared on a dais, gavel in hand. He began to announce the pictures and the bidding went fast and furiously, as lot followed lot. Then he came to a pause and announced, ‘Now, we have a very remarkable landscape by Frederick William Canlon, one of his views of the River Thames, rather than his beloved home county where he lived, close to our dear former laureate, Lord Tennyson …’
As everyone fixed their gaze on the auctioneer, Cara heard the soft voice of a man whisper in her ear. ‘Miss, I see you are here to purchase some of our best British art … well, I have something that may be of interest to you, not here, but in my rooms … I’m talking about a Canlon watercolour. It’s better than this one in fact, and much cheaper.’
Eddie heard this, and tugged Cara away, but the bait was taken, and he looked closely at Ned Byrne, who introduced himself as the bidding stopped. Byrne was at his most dapper, but it was his gaudy necktie that people noticed, and, of course, Eddie made a note of the glass eye and scar, wondering if the man had a record.
Over a cup of tea in the sitting room, Cara nodded encouragingly as Byrne spoke.
‘Miss, the watercolour is for sale for seven hundred pounds … but if you could pay with notes, then five hundred for you, as I have a particular admiration for our American friends.’ His smile almost made Eddie sick, but he managed to look agreeable.
‘Come and see it for yourselves!’ Byrne said, spreading his arms wide and being the genial companion. He, too, could act.
Eddie and Cara were walking behind Byrne, who was setting a fast pace, and they had turned off Leadenhall Street and were heading towards Houndsditch when at last the pace slackened. The poor light and low cloud made it difficult to see ahead, but Byrne was anxious that they moved quickly. He repeatedly apologised that his friend’s studio was so far from the auction rooms, and Eddie became more and more suspicious, feeling certain now that this was their man. Finally, they arrived at a dull, rotten court off Middlesex Street and a rush of street urchins came at them. Cara wanted to give them a coin but Byrne shouted so threateningly that the children ran back into the shadows.