And Only to Deceive (25 page)

Further thought on the subject ceased when I heard a forceful tap on the door, which I opened with a flourish, wondering if Andrew had decided to see me earlier than planned. Instead I found Colin standing before me.

11 J
UNE
1888
E
N ROUTE TO
A
MSTERDAM

“G
OOD DAY,
M
R.
H
ARGREAVES.
I
DID NOT EXPECT TO SEE
you.”

“I would imagine not,” he replied curtly. “May I come in?”

“Only for a moment. I was just preparing to go out,” I lied. “Did you enjoy your visit to the Louvre? I’ve always found Mr. Murray an excellent guide, at least at the British Museum. Does he know the collection here as well?”

“I spent only a few minutes with him discussing a matter of business.”

“I had guessed as much,” I said, looking at him skeptically. “Have you come with a specific purpose, Mr. Hargreaves? I’m afraid that I am not at liberty to spend much time sitting with you.”

“I would like to know when you plan to leave for Africa.”

This surprised me. If he were working with Andrew, I would have expected him to know that I no longer planned to accompany his friend to the Dark Continent. Unless…could Andrew have sent him to determine if the suspicions that led me to cancel my trip went deeper than concern about the deception played on me with my wedding photograph? I considered my options briefly before answering.

“I have decided not to go,” I said, meeting his eyes. “My friends have convinced me that Philip would prefer to see me in Paris, so I’ve agreed to stay here and wait for news from the search party.”

“I’m glad to hear it and wish that
I
had been so persuasive. My efforts to alter your plans seemed only to make you more intent on your purpose.”

“You do prompt extreme reactions from me,” I said with a laugh. “But I suppose I shall forgive you for that.”

“I can ask for little more. Where are you off to this afternoon?”

“I have an appointment at six o’clock and thought I would go to Frascati for some pastry in the meantime.”

“May I walk with you?”

“I don’t see why not,” I agreed, nearly certain now that Andrew had sent him. Clearly Caravaggio was busy this afternoon and wanted to be confident that I would not stumble on anything that might disrupt his plans. “So long as you promise to make no mention of the topic on which we cannot agree.”

“Ashton?” he asked.

“Yes. I am not so naïve as to think that it is entirely likely he is alive. Until it can be proven otherwise, however, I would prefer to have hope rather than despair as my companion.”

While Colin and I strolled along the
grands boulevards
of the city, I made every effort to learn from him as much as I could about Andrew. My success was somewhat limited, although I could not say whether this was due to his unwillingness to be forthcoming or to my own lack of focus. A trip to Frascati, the best patisserie in the city, is never wasted, however, and we passed an agreeable hour there discussing Greek grammar over
tourte aux confitures
. Colin was quite sympathetic to my complaints regarding my tutor’s choice of texts, and he reassured me that after a bit more work on Xenophon, I would be able to start on Homer. Occasionally when our eyes met during a lull in conversation, he would look away abruptly, leaving me to wonder if he now regretted his actions on the Pont-Neuf, not that it really mattered.

The afternoon had grown cold. I rejected Colin’s suggestion that we take a cab back to the Meurice, a decision I regretted before we had walked two blocks. The occasional savory aroma drifted from cafés, bringing the temptation of a bit of comfort to passersby. I had taken Colin’s arm and was happy for the warmth of him next to me, but I must admit that I was not entirely comfortable with him. The more I thought about it, the more justified my suspicions of him seemed, a fact that
disappointed me greatly. I imagined that Colin, Philip, and I could have spent any number of pleasant evenings conversing in the library. Why had my husband had the misfortune to choose his friends so poorly? Or had he been no better than the men with whom he surrounded himself?

Being cold, we walked quickly and soon reached the hotel. I bade Colin farewell and rushed upstairs to prepare for my meeting with Andrew. While changing my dress, I shared my plan with Meg, who reacted with a mixture of alarm and excitement. That Mr. Palmer would acquiesce to my slightest whim, she did not doubt, but that her mistress was going to entangle herself with a criminal left her rather unnerved. By the time Andrew rapped on my door, Meg was so anxious that she squealed. I was more than a little apprehensive myself, but the effort of trying to calm my maid had a better effect on me than her; I was ready to begin.

Andrew looked very polished, dressed in evening kit, smiling wryly as he walked toward me. I could tell by his expression that he expected me to return to the topic of my wedding photograph. He kissed my hand quickly, meeting my eyes only for a moment, and waited for me to speak. I sat motionless, noticing for the first time that he truly did fill the role of master criminal well. The initial impression with which he left one was that of an impetuous gentleman who did not take his position in life very seriously. Observing him now, however, I saw beneath that to the calculating way he looked around the room, the studied manner in which he carried himself. I began to believe that everything he did had been meticulously planned and rehearsed. I wondered what he had practiced to say to me tonight, quite certain that whatever the script, he would find it inadequate.

“Are you quite well, Lady Ashton?” he asked, tired of waiting for me to speak. His voice had an edge to it I had not heard before.

“Yes, Andrew,” I said, deliberately addressing him informally as I looked in his eyes. I bit my lip and shook my head. “No. I have demanded honesty from you; I should offer you nothing less in return.”

“Have I done something else to offend you?” He was angrier than I had expected.

“You?” I said. “Oh, Andrew, what you have done to offend me now seems so trivial. I would, perhaps, apologize to you, were I not still the slightest bit annoyed at having been so readily deceived.” He looked at me more directly now, clearly surprised.

“What is it, then?”

“I am having such misgivings about the trip to Africa.”

“You have already told me you do not plan to go. While this is of course a source of great disappointment, I understand why you made the decision.”

“Please, Andrew, do not take such a formal tone with me. I—” I paused for effect. “I am afraid the entire trip must be canceled.”

“You do not trust me to find your husband?”

“I do not know that he is worth finding,” I said, burying my face in my hands. “I have learned the most dreadful things about Philip. I am afraid to tell them to anyone.”

This statement caused him to warm up immediately, and he sat next to me on the settee. “What, Emily? You must tell me. I know I have not always been truthful with you in the past, but you know that was only—”

“I know, Andrew. It was because you loved me. You do not have to say it.” I hoped I seemed forlorn. “What must you think of me now?”

“What has Philip done?” he asked, looking at me quizzically. I decided to answer his question directly, not wanting to waste any time.

“He is a thief. His collection of antiquities is full of objects stolen from the British Museum.”

“Are you sure of this?” He sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, his eyes fixed on me.

“Quite sure.” I had decided to tell the truth as much as possible, lest my fabrication become too elaborate to remember, and told Andrew how I had learned that the Praxiteles bust of Apollo was an original. “Imagine my surprise when I visited Ashton Hall and found it full of
more questionable artifacts that were all familiar to me from my own visits to the museum. I hoped they were merely excellent copies. I brought with me on this trip several notebooks Philip had left in the country. I thought they were volumes of his journal and wanted to read them because I missed him so keenly. Instead I found that one was filled with records of his illegal transactions.”

“Are you sure you did not misunderstand what he had written?”

“There can be no doubt. He wrote that he did not care about provenance, only that there were certain pieces he would do anything to acquire. All that is followed with details of how he came to get each artifact. Apparently the pieces from the museum were replaced with copies.”

“Let me look at the journal—perhaps it is not so bad as you fear. Where is it?”

“You will hate me,” I said, averting my eyes.

“Where is it, Emily?” His voice was strained, as if he were trying too hard to control it.

“I burned it. I shouldn’t have, and I am certain that you will judge me severely for doing so. I can’t bear the thought of facing such a scandal, Andrew. Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“My dear girl,” he said, moving closer to me. “I hardly know what to say.” He managed to keep his countenance fairly well composed, but I recognized in his eyes a glint of joy that was wholly inappropriate to the situation.

“I know I should try to return the stolen items to the museum, but how could I do so without drawing attention to my husband’s crimes? Perhaps I am not as principled as I once thought, but I am inclined to suspect that if the keepers at the British Museum cannot recognize a fake in their own galleries, I am hardly obligated to point it out.”

Andrew laughed. “You are very, very bad.” His voice grew serious. “I must make a confession of my own.”

My muscles stiffened. Was he going to tell me of his own role in the intrigue?

“I knew that Philip was involved in such a scheme. It had come to my attention before your wedding. I confronted him with my knowledge when we were in Africa—the morning before he fell ill. I begged him to stop. He was very upset, very angry at first, but then became melancholy. By the end of the day, he was horribly depressed, almost despondent. He knew I would never have turned him in to the authorities, but I had spoken rather harshly about the consequences his activities might bring for you were he ever to be exposed.”

“Now it is I who do not know what to say.”

“When Hargreaves told us Philip was dead, I was filled with guilt, wondering if he had done himself harm.”

“How awful for you! But, Andrew, it could not have been your fault, even if he had done such a thing.” I wondered if there was any truth in what Andrew was telling me. Had Philip been Andrew’s partner?

“Perhaps you understand now why it has been so important for me to go to Africa to find him. If I can find my friend alive, I will be relieved of this pressing feeling of guilt.”

I was astounded at the lengths to which this man would go, twisting facts to make himself appear nobler than he could ever hope to be.

“I have one more confession to make,” he said. “When we returned from Africa, I learned that when Philip died, he owed money to at least one of his unsavory associates. You and I weren’t acquainted, and I did not feel right imposing upon you while you were in mourning, so I hired a man to watch you, lest someone come after you. I apologize for infringing upon your privacy but could think of no other way to protect you without causing unnecessary alarm. I fully expect Philip to rebuke me upon his return for my having done it.”

I wondered what he had hoped to achieve by doing such a thing. I could only imagine that he feared I would somehow learn of his role in this intrigue, and shuddered to think what he might have done if he thought I was prepared to report him to the police. I had seen the man with the scar just once following my return to London—the night he
had met with Colin, whose role in this still confused me. After I had allowed Andrew to befriend me, he could easily have kept an eye on me himself, and I thought of the hours I spent in his company, all the time being watched. Despicable man! I forced my attention back to our conversation.

“I think, Andrew, that it is very unlikely Philip is alive. You and I have both fallen victim to putting too much faith in rumors and coincidences because they suggest something we wanted to believe. The best evidence came with the wedding picture, and we know it was not true.”

“I’m sorry, Emily.”

“Don’t bother to apologize. I know that your intentions were the best,” I said, glad to find I could speak such drivel without giving myself away. “Philip is the one who deserves my anger. Have you ever read Balzac?”

“No.”

“‘Behind every great fortune there is a crime.’ I do not think I would have agreed with such a statement before now.”

“You have suffered greatly, Emily.” I tried not to openly seethe watching his eyes dance as he spoke.

“I would find it easier to forgive Philip if he had not presented himself as a man of such high principle. I shall never forget on our wedding trip—Oh, but I shall make you late for dinner. I cannot impose on your goodwill, forcing you to listen to my lament.”

“I don’t mind at all. It is such a relief to know that I do not have to hide all this from you any longer. Tell me whatever you wish. It may help you feel better.”

“We were in an antiquities shop, and I saw the loveliest ring—gold, of course—with a picture of a horse on it. You know how I love to ride?”

“Better than most,” he said. I could see he wanted to take my hand.

“I begged Philip to buy it for me, but he refused. Because the horse in question was apparently the Trojan horse, he felt the ring too significant a piece to be relegated to the role of bauble to a society wife. He actually said that—can you imagine?”

“I’m afraid I can,” he said, shaking his head. How I would have loved to slap him.

“We argued for some time about it, even went back to the shop on more than one occasion, but he would not alter his position. In the end he said that he would consider buying the piece only to donate it to the British Museum. At the time I decided it was an inconsequential incident and actually admired the way he adhered to his principles.”

“And now?”

“Now? Now that I know he was a common thief? That he took whatever he wanted for his own private collection while denying me a petty ring? I’m furious.”

“You shall have to find the ring and buy it.”

“It’s in the private collection of a gentleman here in Paris. He’ll never sell it.”