Enter Pale Death (7 page)

He yearned to hear replayed the badinage that had just passed between them. What had he said, the painter, to leave those periwinkle eyes glinting with mischievous challenge, the red lips straining to hold back laughter? In contrast, the second subject’s features were lacking in emotion, dour and watchful, his attention directed away to his right. For him, the painter hardly existed; he was a necessary means to an end, a time-consuming interruption in his active life. The kind of restless subject who, in a later age, would have appreciated the swift clunk of a camera shutter.

Joe became aware that he was sharing the viewing space in front of the items with one other interested party: a quiet man, and, like himself, totally absorbed. This suited Joe very well. He would be able to start up a perfectly natural conversation with the stranger, a conversation which might well be overheard by the room in general if he spoke in a cleverly pitched police voice. Joe exchanged a smile with the second miniature fancier, liking what he saw. The man was Joe’s own age—perhaps a year or two older—dressed in a grey city suit with the tie of a Cambridge college. Clean-cut,
handsome features were framed by abundant light-brown hair, which sprang out in all directions in defiance of recent attempts by a barber to exercise some control. The healthiest moustache Joe had ever seen adorned his upper lip. The sharpness of his eyes was accentuated by the honest wrinkles of a man who liked to spend his days outdoors. Large gnarled hands clutched his catalogue; large feet, comfortably rather than elegantly shod, were fixed in the military at-ease position. Difficult to place. Joe decided to hear the man’s voice.

“Do you suppose they had a happy life?” Joe hazarded the first comment.

“Assuming he survived the plagues of India and the Napoleonic Wars and that she survived childbirth and boredom, I see no reason why not.” English upper-class. Deep, smooth and confident, was Joe’s first impression.

“Unattributed, I see.” Joe changed tack.

“There’s nothing on the front, but so often there isn’t. It takes a complete egotist or an exceptional talent to clutter up the tiny space available with his own name, I’ve always thought. Would you scrawl your name across that glorious bosom? I wouldn’t!” He shook his head and sighed his admiration. “In any case, I think I know the artist responsible for these. Beauties, aren’t they? Wish I could afford them.” The man held out his hand. “Adam Hunnyton, impecunious art-lover. How do you do?”

“Joseph Sandilands, similarly handicapped. Are you thinking of at least making a starting bid for them tomorrow?”

“It’s not done to ask, Commissioner, and you know it. But I’ll tell you anyway. Sadly—no. They will go for vastly more than I can afford. Though I did take the precaution of leaving a modest reserve bid with the auctioneer, in case by some chance they were to escape the notice of the public. Late in the day and unattributed—it was worth a punt. But I see from the presence of various luminaries of the art world, to say nothing of the presence of the
Law, all poking their noses in, my plans have come to nothing. I just wanted to take one last look. I can only hope they will go to someone who will truly appreciate them and not be stuck away in a bank vault for years waiting to increase in value.”

“Ah, yes. I understand there may well be a certain international dealer of repute ready to scoop them up.”

Adam Hunnyton’s face flushed with a dark emotion but his voice was level as he spoke: “This young couple lived but sixty miles from here. They’ve been away in Italy for a quarter of a century. Time to come home. I don’t like to think of them crossing the Atlantic but I fear that will be their fate. Unless … unless you’re prepared to take steps, Commissioner? Does the Yard have any information on them? Anything that might scare off the bidders?”

He fell silent abruptly at the approach of the director on duty.

Joe smiled to see they were wheeling out their biggest gun. Clarence Audley came shimmering towards them in a pale grey morning suit and old-fashioned stiff collar, arm outstretched in greeting, a beaming smile lighting his way.

“Commissioner Sandilands! Welcome! My goodness, you’re looking quite splendid today! We all risk being dazzled by the sun glinting off your frogging! We catch you between parades, I hear? Not come to arrest me, I hope!” he said archly. “It must be three years since we sold you the Italian primitive. I thought we’d got away with it! Is she still giving satisfaction, your Madonna? Glad to hear it! You got her for a snip!” He lowered his voice to justaudible and added, “Now we all know the painting to be Quattrocento … a Filippo Lippi? Can I have that right?”

“A lucky find,” Joe said modestly. “The Madonna and Four Children all showed happy, smiling faces when I scrubbed them up.”

Professional concern won out over the director’s social preoccupations. He actually clutched his heart to convey sudden distress. “My dear fellow! I do hope you employed the very best—”

“Oh, a bit of spit on a hanky usually does the trick, I find.” Joe relished the crumpling of Audley’s puffy features before putting him swiftly out of his misery by adding, “Though in this case I took advice and used Malleson to undo the dirty work.”

Audley began to breathe again and recovered sufficiently to grit out a playful, “No better spit and polish merchant in the business, we’d say. A good choice of restorer. Now, Commissioner, if you should care to offer up your Madonna again, I think you would be surprised to find how much she would realise in today’s market. Fra Filippo Lippi? A native of Florence, I believe. I’m sure the Ufizzi would be interested. Do give it your consideration.” Mr. Audley’s voice was a loud, warm purr. It announced to the room that all was well. Joe was a valued and knowledgeable client—on teasing terms—and perfectly at home here. No threat to anyone, least of all the auction house.

First round to Audley, Joe thought, admiring the man’s skill and regretting what he was about to do. Time for a bit of by-play. He took Audley by his lustrous sleeve and urged him closer to the portraits. He looked over his shoulder, checking that no one was within earshot then lowered his voice. The audience shuffled closer, straining even harder to follow the action. The policeman could just be made out asking police-style questions regarding the authentication process by which these lots had come into the gallery. Joe listened carefully to Audley’s earnest and—from his previous enquiries at the Yard, he knew—honest answers. Audley opened the catalogue, pointed to the description of the pictures, and held out his hands clearly in protest of some sort of accusation. His replies were growing more concerned, more flustered by the minute. At one of Joe’s comments he stamped his foot in rage.

Glancing around the room again, Joe saw that two young men, by appearance brothers in their early twenties, had crossed the room to join each other and were whispering together.

At this point, Adam Hunnyton decided he’d heard enough
of the embarrassing exchange, which had interrupted his quiet contemplation of the art. With a harrumph of disgust, he turned on his heel, tore his catalogue dramatically in two and dropped the pieces on the floor. He levelled an accusing finger at the director and announced, “In the circumstances, I must ask you, Audley, to withdraw my reserve bid on those items, if you please!”

He stalked majestically from the room, followed by the admiration of the crowd.

Joe noted that the two men he took to be the “brattish” Despond brothers Truelove had referred to were sneaking out quietly by a side entrance. Joe reckoned that his job was done. Bidding Audley a friendly farewell and promising to return, he made his way to the door.

The moment he stepped out into the midday sun on King Street, a heavy hand of authority fell on his shoulder from behind.

“ ’Arf a mo! If you wouldn’t mind, sir? I’m taking you in charge for impersonating a police officer, attempted fraud, confidence trickery and bloody bad acting.”

At Joe’s start of surprise, Adam Hunnyton released his grip, smiled broadly and growled in his ear, “Fancy a pint, sir? There’s the Fleeing Footman round the corner, or, if you prefer it—the Grenadiers?”

“I think the Footman had the right idea. Let’s flee with him, shall we? I expect they’ve got a nice little snug round the back where we won’t run into any art lovers. And you can tell me, over a pale ale, how an honest country copper like you got caught up in this shaming display.”

CHAPTER 4

The interior of the Fleeing Footman was dark, cool and welcoming. The style of the gentleman behind the bar was similar. His glance flicked for the briefest moment over Joe’s uniform, making the discreet assessment of a good butler, before settling back on Adam Hunnyton, whom he seemed to know.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Hunnyton. Your usual, would that be?”

“Yes please. Make that two pints of India Pale Ale, Mr. Pocock. We’ll take them through to the back parlour if that’s convenient.”

“I was about to make the suggestion. You’ll find you have the room to yourselves and I will divert any further comers, unless you are expecting …?”

“No, no. It’s just me and the gentleman. We won’t be infesting your belfry for long. We’ll be gone before your first steak pie rolls up.”

At the mention of steak pie, Joe realised it had been a very long time since breakfast and was about to extend the order but here was Hunnyton waggling his eyebrows in disapproval and muttering, “Put your money away, Commissioner. My round. Here, you are my guest.”

They simultaneously drank a hole in their tankards of
cellar-cold foaming beer and carried them through to the snug parlour. They settled down on a red velvet-covered bench at an oak table and Joe looked about him, admiring the ancient space which had clung on in the Jacobean building, miraculously avoiding being swept away by three hundred years of constant redevelopment and a dozen changing architectural styles. The landlord had, gratifyingly, failed to fall for the temptation of cleaning off the years of brown tobacco smoke from the ceiling and decorating the walls with horse brasses and sporting prints. Though he seemed not to have availed himself of any of the goods from the local auction house to raise the tone either. A homely, moralising print of a drunkard, reeling around in sorry state in the style of Hogarth, was nailed up on a beam next to a more modern caricature of Harry Lauder, the Music Hall singer, offering the room “Just a wee deoch an doris.” A last whisky for the road. The entertainer had left the pub his own “one for the road,” Joe reckoned, a calculating stare convincing him that the drawing (on the back of a menu) was the work of Lauder himself. He’d signed it and smudged the brown whisky ring with his sleeve.

On the wall over the fireplace, in pride of place, was a framed maxim executed in superb calligraphy in gold letters.

Fit in dominatu servitus

in servitute dominatus. Cicero
.

Joe translated freely for himself: “In every master there is a servant; in every servant, a master.” Some sort of nod to the name of this pub, he supposed, and wondered from what or from whom the eponymous Footman was, by tradition, fleeing. Content with his surroundings, he sighed with satisfaction and raised his glass to his companion. “Your good health!” he said. “We’ve earned this!”

Both men sank half their beer in contemplative silence. Joe
judged the moment to say, “Thank you for your support back there in the sale-room, Hunnyton. That unscripted display of disgust was very convincing—and unexpected. But you were going to tell me how—”

“No. You have the advantage. I’ll humour you. I’ll let you tell me how you guessed. Was it the size twelves? Flattened by a year of pounding the streets?”

“That, yes … But you recognised my uniform and addressed me correctly by rank. I don’t think anyone outside the force could do that with conviction. It was your name, though, that told me who you were. Not surprisingly. It’s unusual. It’s the name of an officer of a County Constabulary who has recently made enquiries of the art crimes section at the Yard. They keep extensive and meticulous records down there in the basement. And I do my homework! Your name came up an hour ago. I love what some call ‘coincidences,’ don’t you?”

“I share your scepticism, Commissioner. I’m Superintendent Hunnyton, Cambridgeshire CID, and I’m very pleased to meet you. And entertained! I must say, I thought I’d blow a gasket when you winkled Audley out of his sleek shell. I’ve never encountered anyone actually stamping a foot outside of a romantic novel, but he did it! Well, it was more like a petulant tap of his little patent-leather-shod toe, if I’m being honest. It’ll be all round the coffee-houses by now.”

“Oh, dear. Yes, I regret upsetting the man. A manipulative, plausible rogue as all will tell you but he’s very good at his job and I admire him. He’s always dealt straight with me.” Joe sighed. “Fences to mend there, I’m afraid. I feel especially guilty since my interest in the affair of the portraits, I’ll confess, is peripheral. It’s certainly not professional and it’s not even personal to me. I’m just acting as agent on behalf of a …” Joe paused. What the hell was the minister to him? “An acquaintance,” he finished lamely.

Hunnyton grinned. “Truelove ensnares everyone unless they’re
fast on their feet. Will he care if he’s curdled your relationship with Audley? Not in the slightest! Get your long spoon out if you’re supping with
him
, sir.” Correctly reading Joe’s astonished expression, he went on: “He’s using you to get hold of them for him on the quiet, isn’t he? Having scared the opposition off first.” He began to laugh. “Clever bastard,” he added genially. “How high are you instructed to go?”

“A hundred was suggested. Though he did say I could use my experience and judgement to exceed that if I scented victory.”

“He certainly trusts you, then? I can’t think of anyone
I’d
send into a saleroom for me with an open chequebook. What hold has he got on you?” And, to soften the boldness, a hurried and embarrassed: “Look here, Sandilands—sir—if there’s anything I can do … Forgive me—you don’t seem entirely at ease with all this. I’m a useful pair of hands and perhaps we coppers should stick together in the face of exploitation. Just say the word.”