False Picture (10 page)

‘When was this?'

Crispin shrugged. ‘Last week sometime. Or maybe the end of the previous week? Time does pass, does it not?'

Bea produced Philip's photograph. ‘Do you recognize this man?'

Crispin took the photo in one hand, and the lines of his face hardened. He looked at Bea, then looked back at the photo. ‘Yes. That's him.'

A gnarled hand came over Crispin's shoulder and removed the photograph.

‘My son,' said a wizened gnome, ‘judges people by the cars they drive, and paintings by their frames.' Crispin's father was a foot shorter than his son, and a hundred years wiser. He held out his hand to Bea. ‘Frank Goldstone, at your service.' He'd probably been born with a German name, but long since anglicized it. Bea liked him straight away.

He said, ‘I retired from active business some years ago, but this story of a tramp trying to sell a fake Millais intrigued me. Even so, I was about to dismiss it from my mind when my old friend Piers rang to ask about the same thing.'

Crispin pushed out his lower lip. ‘I told you, it was a copy in a good frame.'

Mr Goldstone ignored his son. ‘Even when pre-Raphaelite pictures pass into private collections, everyone in the trade knows where they are. Regrettably, Crispin remembered more about the frame than about the picture, but he did recall that the subject was a young, fair-haired girl in a dark blue dress.'

Crispin shuddered. ‘Her eyes went right through me.'

‘Even her remarkable eyes failed to impress my son. However, his report interested me. I have time on my hands nowadays so I went back through my library of sales catalogues until I found a portrait by Millais matching Crispin's description. It was sold to a private collector through Sotheby's some fifteen years ago. You say that a family picture of yours has gone astray?'

Bea asked, ‘Who was it sold to?'

The old man's face cracked into a grin. ‘Softly, softly. You haven't mentioned the name of the people who have mislaid a portrait. It would, theoretically – and we are only talking theoretically, aren't we? – be interesting to compare details.'

Bea added two and two to make five. Mr Goldstone was prepared to tell them what he knew, but in return he would want … what? The right to sell the picture through his gallery? ‘Your son,' said Bea, ‘recognized this photograph, and identified it as the man who brought the picture into your gallery.'

Mr Goldstone waved the photo away. ‘I never laid eyes on the lad. I wouldn't know him from Adam.'

Crispin's colour had risen. ‘It was a copy!'

‘My son, we are having a theoretical discussion here, so why bring up your ill-considered opinion? Mrs Abbot here says that a family picture has gone missing, but the name of the family who bought this particular Millais is not Abbot.'

Piers materialized behind Mr Goldstone's shoulder. ‘Try Farne, or we'll be here all evening.'

‘Farne,' repeated Mr Goldstone, sliding a bony hand up and down his chin. ‘Now where have I heard that name before?'

Piers laughed. ‘Sorry, Frank. The doddery old gent act doesn't work on me, nor on Mrs Abbot. You've made all the right connections. I'd go bail you've got a reproduction of the picture out of one of your old catalogues, and have been on the phone ever since I rang, sounding out various colleagues to see if anyone else has been offered the picture. What have you been telling them, mm? That you're interested in a copy of a rather dull Victorian picture which is a fake, a copy of a work by Millais? You'll say it's in a good frame, but that if they are offered it, you'd wouldn't mind taking it off their hands for the sake of the frame, since you've got a mid-nineteenth-century oil that it would set off very nicely?'

‘Hah!' said the old man, small eyes glittering. ‘There's been no takers as yet.'

‘But,' said Piers, ‘you are hoping you've cast enough suspicion on the authenticity of the picture so that if it does turn up somewhere, your contacts will treat it with suspicion and pass the word on to you for the sake of the frame?'

‘Or,' said Bea, ‘they might just ring the police.'

The carpet was a rich, deep pile, but the word ‘police' seemed to thud into it and echo off the walls.

Mr Goldstone's eyes practically disappeared behind tortoise-like lids. ‘You are telling me the picture was stolen?'

‘Not at all,' said Bea. ‘I'm laying another false trail.'

Piers gave a short laugh and Mr Goldstone almost smiled. ‘I can see you're no amateur at this game, Mrs Abbot. May I ask, what is your connection to the family who have … ah …
mislaid
a picture?'

Would it be wrong to divulge some information? She searched Mr Goldstone's deeply-seamed face and thought she could trust him, within carefully defined limits. Piers had brought her to see him, and Mr Goldstone certainly knew the art world in a way she could never do. ‘In confidence?' she asked.

Mr Goldstone inclined his head, his eyes very bright.

‘Crispin?' she said.

Crispin shrugged. ‘Oh, very well. What a fuss about a fake.'

Bea chose her words with care. ‘I have been asked to find Lady Farne's godson by a very old friend. Her husband – the boy's father – is seriously ill in hospital and asking for the lad, who appears to be in some financial difficulty. When last seen, he had in his possession a genuine Millais, a recent gift from his godmother, Lady Farne. Crispin has identified the lad who brought in the Millais from this photograph, and I confirm that this is a photograph of my friend's stepson. His name is Philip Weston.'

Crispin squawked, ‘It's a genuine Millais?'

‘Of course,' muttered his father. ‘Crispin, I should turn you out to sweep the streets! To miss a Millais! My father would turn in his grave.' His eyes sharpened again. ‘The provenance is secure? He has the right to sell?'

Bea met that one head on. ‘We're not sure.'

‘You mentioned the police?'

‘We would prefer at the moment not to involve the police.'

‘But the boy's gone missing?'

Bea nodded. Missing! Another unpleasant thought hit the carpet and echoed around the room.

‘Pshah!' said the old man. He took hold of Crispin's arm and raised him from his seat without apparent effort and took his place next to Bea. ‘A picture we could have sold, a man we should have detained. What other bad news do you have to give me?'

‘He may or may not have been responsible for Lady Farne's death,' said Bea. ‘And he may or may not have legal title to the picture. He's certainly lied about it. Also, he's in debt.'

‘Who would he take it to, I ask myself?' said the old man, half closing his eyes. ‘I tried everyone I know around here … zilch.'

‘Sotheby's?' Crispin offered. ‘Of course it would be some months before they could advertise and place it in the right sale.'

‘Idiot boy! None of the big auction houses would take it without provenance and you say he hasn't got any. They'd look it up in their catalogues as soon as they saw it, and discover who used to own it. They'd know that Lady Farne has recently died, add two and two, and ring the police.' He stroked his chin. ‘There's been no word from the police alerting us to look out for a stolen Millais, and if anyone's been offered it, they're keeping very quiet. I think we can assume that he didn't take it to any of the big art salerooms. So where is he hiding and perhaps even more important, what is he going to do for money?'

‘As Crispin suggested,' said Piers, ‘he'll sell the frame for whatever he can get.'

‘Vandal!' scowled Mr Goldstone. ‘To separate original frame from picture.' He shot a glance of dislike at his son. ‘And this cretin here was responsible for putting that idea into his head!'

Piers wondered, ‘Where would he take the frame? Portobello Road? No, he couldn't expect to get more than a few hundred there, if that. I think he might take it to one of the smaller antique shops in Kensington Church Street.' He stopped and looked at Bea, waiting for her to follow his lead. So what did he expect her to say?

Piers said, ‘Would you be prepared to help us by making some enquiries in that direction?'

‘Me? Oh, no!' A saintly shake of his head by way of reproof. ‘I wouldn't dream of getting mixed up in anything shady. You should go to the police.'

Impasse. They couldn't go to the police. Or not yet, anyway.

Bea said, ‘If you could help us to trace the lad, I'm sure the family would be grateful.'

It was the olive branch the old man had been waiting for. He smiled. ‘Of course. Anything to oblige. If I did by any chance happen to hear something, I would be delighted to pass the news on to you. Meanwhile, I've made a copy for you of the relevant page in the catalogue which features the picture. Poor quality, I'm afraid, but it may help.'

The picture was that of a young girl with bold eyes and long fair hair in a dark dress. As Crispin had said, it needed cleaning. The frame was indeed elaborate.

Mr Goldstone ushered them to the door, jabbing numbers at a concealed panel to deactivate the alarm. ‘The question is; who really has title to the picture? If we have to deal with whoever has inherited the Farne collection, I assume the family's gratitude would be, um, muted?'

Bea gave him a thoughtful look. She didn't know who would inherit the Farne collection, but she knew a man who did. In fact, she would very much like to pin him to an upright chair, shine a bright light in his eyes and give him the third degree at this very moment. Given that he was on the point of death, this did not seem likely to happen. But perhaps Velma knew more than she was saying? Now there was a thought.

Bea pressed one of her business cards on Mr Goldstone. ‘Keep in touch?'

‘Rest assured, dear lady. And here is one of my cards. Ring me at any time, day or night.'

As Piers and Bea went out on to the pavement, the door shut and was locked behind them. The grille slid across.

‘Taxi!' Piers had the useful gift of being able to find a taxi at any time, anywhere. ‘Do you fancy something to eat, Bea?' He turned his wrist over to look at his watch as he spoke.

‘You're supposed to be somewhere else this evening?'

He gave an almost convincing impression of a man with time to spare. ‘Oh, perhaps later on.'

‘That's all right, Piers. You've done enough and I've eaten already. Drop me off at the hospital, and I'll see how Velma's getting on.'

Bea thought he'd probably got a date with a woman. Tomcats don't change their stripes. Whatever.

It took time to run Velma to earth at the hospital, but Bea did eventually do so. No visitors, except family. The glimpse Bea had of Sandy through the window into a small room showed him looking much the same, but a monitor above his bed was angled so that the nursing staff could check on him all the time.

Velma came out to speak to Bea, shifting from one foot to the other, her attention still on her husband. There were shadows under her eyes.

‘Before you start,' said Velma, ‘I'm not leaving him. Every now and then he opens his eyes and looks up at me, and I need to be there. He's frightened, poor lamb. Well, so am I, but I can act as if I'm not, right?'

Bea thought that Velma was a pretty good actress, but this was not the time to say so. ‘I understand. You'll need some things from home?'

Velma handed over her keys, pointing out which were needed to get into her home, adding a list on a page torn from her diary. ‘This is the code for the burglar alarm, and a list of the things I could do with. Oh, and if you've time, could you check on stuff in the fridge? I've a feeling there was some cream and milk in there that might be going off, and I expect the milkman's left some more in the porch. If it hasn't been nicked, could you take it in?' She glanced back at Sandy, who seemed to be trying to raise one hand.

‘I must go.'

‘Velma, before you …'

It was no good. Velma was already bending over her husband, soothing him. Bea shrugged. How could you question a client who was so ill?

She took another taxi, this time to The Boltons. Billionaires' row. The Boltons was rather special, the white or cream stuccoed residences curving round a graceful Victorian church situated on an island in the middle of the road.

Although there was a self-contained flat for live-in help over the converted coach house at the side, Velma had managed without servants since her first husband died. Instead, she made do with the services of a cleaner twice a week. And yes, there was milk and cream on the doorstep and a bundle of mail sticking out of the letterbox.

Before Bea could select the right keys to unlock the massive front door, she fished the piece of paper with the alarm code on it out of her handbag. She didn't want to dither inside with bells ringing out over the neighbourhood. Got it. First the mortise lock, and then the Yale. Buzz went the alarm. Bother, where was the alarm box?

Velma hadn't said, so it must be obvious. Obvious to Velma was not obvious to Bea. She told herself she must have observed Velma cutting off the alarm on one of Bea's visits to the house, but for the moment … ah, behind a small picture, yes? She set her teeth. Any minute now the alarm would go off and … got it, the third small picture frame opened to reveal the keypad inside. Bea keyed in the number and the buzzing ceased. She relaxed, and bent down to pick up the flurry of mail that had landed on the floor.

‘Mrs Weston?'

A large man in a not very good suit stood in the doorway, with a woman behind him on the top step. Bea's mind suggested that they might be police, and her heartbeat accelerated. She dumped the pile of mail and said, ‘No, I'm not Mrs Weston, I'm …'

They held up identification for her to see. ‘DI Hignett. Mrs Weston, we'd like a word with your husband.'