“Oh, please, like we never toed the line.”
“Back in my day…” Rob said in a craggy voice, mimicking an old timer starting off on his war story. As he’d hoped, he made El laugh.
“Okay.” She gasped to catch her breath again.
He noticed she’d lessened the pressure on the accelerator too. “That made me feel good. So tell me again about Chambers.”
“Sally said when Vicky was dying, she identified him as the man who hired to her touch up the painting,” Rob said. He forced himself to not relive those scary minutes, remembered that Sal was fine, and safe, and probably charming everyone in her vicinity right about now.
“And this bloke is a recluse,” El continued with a frown. “Does that really mean he can’t be the one behind all this? I hate to sound like a wimp, but do you think we should arrive with back up?”
Rob patted his pocket, comforted by the weight of his .25 against his thigh.
“This was as handy as a brick around my neck at Vicky’s,” he pointed out. “But I’m not completely ignorant. I’ve been thinking about the different approaches to all these attacks too, and it doesn’t make sense them coming from the same source. Take the initial heist, the one Chelsea and David worked undercover on. That was professional. They were a proper team full of experience and knowledge. And they were successful in stealing the painting. Then there was the bomb on the safe you and James cracked, again, professional, but more rudimentary than the smuggling ring. And lastly we have these wannabe gangsters driving by and shooting the hell out of a house to kill one of the links connecting everything together.”
“Put like that, there’s definitely a decreasing level of skill at work here,” El agreed. “When you compare the initial attack on the Gallery to the method of taking out Vicky Parker, there’s a world of difference.”
“Which leads me back to thinking maybe there’s more than one group of people in play here.”
“Wasn’t there going to be a silent auction of the painting?” El frowned.
“That would mean more than one party would definitely have knowledge about the painting. But that doesn’t immediately mean they know about the code.”
El slanted him a mild glare.
“Rob, if you were trying to sell something, particularly if you wanted to milk every penny and raise the price as high as possible, wouldn’t
you
send rumors flying around? The more people talking about the piece, the more the gossips hear and the more interest you pique. That related directly to the price people are willing to pay.”
“True,” Rob conceded with a nod. “Okay, that fits. None of it helps us yet, but it fits together.”
“I think if we can find out what this damn code is and neutralize it, we can put this baby to bed.” El indicated and turned into the driveway of the estate.
Almost immediately, enormous, ornate gates blocked their path. An intercom was lit by a modern-looking digital display panel. A light shined over it, glowing brightly in the darkness of the early evening. Rob noticed at least half a dozen monitors and cameras facing in every direction.
This was a man who took his privacy and security very seriously.
El wound down her window. She reached out and pressed the button. Static sounded, then a dignified voice spoke.
“Chambers’ residence, you’re speaking with Mr Burnt.”
El cast him an incredulous look, clearly torn somewhere between laughter and amazement. Rob leaned closer and spoke loudly, projecting his voice out of the window.
“Good evening, Mr Burnt,” he replied, putting on his most pompous Eton accent. “Mr Stevens and Ms Williams here to speak with Mr Chambers, please. We’re with an Agency that is working in conjunction with the Department of Special Research. We’re here to inquire about the London Gallery and a particular painting.”
“Nice,” El mouthed to him.
Rob shrugged. He’d hopefully given Chambers’ man enough information to whet his master’s interest but not enough to scare him away. There was a pause where Rob presumed Mr Burnt relayed the information to Chambers. Almost a minute later there was an audible click and the wrought iron gates began to slowly swing open.
“Please park near the trees at the end of the drive,” Mr Burnt said. “You will be met.”
There was static for a second then silence. El and Rob waited for the gates to finish swinging open.
“I’m glad one of us is articulate,” she mumbled.
“I spent a fair bit of time with my grandparents,” Rob explained. “Good articulation and enunciation was often the difference between a second piece of shortbread with my tea or having to wait for dinner.”
El chuckled and put the car into gear as the gates rumbled to a stop.
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”
Rob grinned but didn’t feel anything further needed to be said.
At the end of the drive was a large circle where cars could turn around. Trees shaded the area and, as instructed, El parked there. French doors on the side of the house were open and a butler stood waiting for them. The house reeked of money but managed to not be ostentatious.
Rob climbed from the car. He walked around the bonnet to meet El. He fell into step beside her and they walked in tandem toward the butler, presenting a united front. Despite the age of the man, his wrinkled face and thinning hair, his back was ramrod straight, his posture perfect. He tilted his head courteously and greeted them with all the dignity his voice had promised over the intercom.
“Mr Stevens. Ms Williams. Mr Chambers is in the sitting room awaiting you. I feel it pertinent to add he is not in perfect health and usually retires early. You indicated a wish to ask some questions, I hope it won’t take long?”
“Hopefully not very,” Rob replied. He kept his tone somewhat formal but firm. Neither he nor El would be bullied or manipulated, but they could be perfectly polite about their investigation unless Chambers or anyone else gave them cause to be rougher.
Chambers’ man seemed appeased by this. He led them inside, through what looked to be a library, down a long corridor and into a smaller, more warmly heated room. The house was stately, with enormous ceilings, plenty of dark mahogany paneling and the feel of age. Rob would have bet a week’s wage it was a family home. The paintings gracing the walls, the sculpture and art, just the overall sense was of a home that had seen much love and usage, and would only temporarily be quiet as it was now.
Mr Burnt opened the door, announced them then stepped back to grant them admittance. Rob almost felt as if he had fallen fifty or a hundred years back into the past. This was reiterated as he entered the den.
A large but still cozy area had a fire crackling merrily along one wall. An enormous desk took up a good portion of the back, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out across the back lawn. Some hunting and landscape paintings filled the walls and except for the very modern computer, telephone and office set-up, he doubted the room had changed much over the course of a generation or two. Rob followed El inside. Both of them made a beeline for the fireplace where there were three wing-back chairs forming a semi-circle around the grate. Mr Burnt entered last, closing the door behind them. Mr Burnt walked to a side table where a silver tray held two brandy decanters and another tray of crystal cut glasses.
Only as Rob got closer did he see the elderly man in one of the chairs, a woolen rug wrapped around his legs. His arms were spindly, his face even more weathered than Burnt’s. He sat comfortably back in the chair, but it was only in the faint wheeze of his breath that it was clear this man was not particularly hearty.
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t stand,” he said with slow, careful precision and a low tone. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Would either of you care for a drink? I have some excellent scotch, or a snifter of brandy, if the lady prefers?”
El declined and took a seat. Rob paused for just a moment to take a quick gauge of Chambers before moving to the final chair and sitting.
“None for me, thank you, I’m still on the job,” he explained.
Chambers nodded, lifted a hand and accepted the balloon glass Burnt handed him with a few inches of what Rob guessed would be the scotch in it.
Chambers held the glass in almost steady hands. Despite his evident frailty, his mind appeared sharp, his words didn’t slur and the dark brown eyes were clear. Rob guessed this man would have been a force to be reckoned with ten years ago. He decided their questioning wouldn’t harm Chambers, and indeed might even give the man a bit of a spark to his week.
Rob was glad he hadn’t come up against him in the height of his power. This was a canny, strong-willed man. Rob didn’t think he was a criminal, though, and that had his posture relaxing and some of his guard lowering. Sitting forward on his chair, Rob clasped his hands around his knee to convey subconsciously they were just having an easy, friendly conversation.
“Please understand while my partner and I will need to make note of this conversation, only the details pertinent to our investigation will be expounded upon,” Rob started. “Our aim here is not to pry into your charity work, nor sully your reputation. But it has come to our attention that a particular piece of artwork—a Cezanne—has been encoded. We believe this occurred in recent years and it’s caused quite a stir and resulted in a number of deaths. Have you been following the news?”
“I heard about the Gallery being attacked, if that’s what you’re inferring, yes. I didn’t know anything had occurred to that painting though, no,” Chambers replied bluntly. His tone showed no aggression and only mild curiosity.
“Were you aware the painting had a series of numbers and letters painted into it? We’ve been reliably informed that you purchased it, arranged to have it restored over those specific areas and then donated it to the Gallery,” El said with equal force but no heat.
“Of course I know that junk was written into it, that’s why I had Miss Parker paint over it. Thought she did a damn fine job of it too. Certainly did the trick. Almost five years that painting has been in the Gallery’s possession and only this week has there been any trouble over it. Tell me, how did you find the code?”
“Some of our experts discovered it during a routine analysis after we received it,” Rob replied, following quickly with another of his questions. “Do you know the decryption key for the code? Or what the text actually is?” He had the feeling Chambers knew well the dance of interrogation—how to answer a question by parrying it with another. The give and take was well known.
“That I don’t,” Chambers replied with evident regret. “I bought the piece quietly from a man in China who wanted to finance his defection. It wasn’t quite a black market purchase but neither was it strictly legitimate either. I spent a lovely few years enjoying the piece privately. When I felt it would be better suited for many people to appreciate, I did a very thorough analysis. I was still my own expert back in those days. I wanted to be absolutely positive it was a Cezanne, and legitimate before I risked my reputation in selling it.”
At the mention of China, Rob glanced at El in what he hoped would be a casual gesture. She met his eyes silently and he knew she’d caught the potential significance of that tidbit too.
“Why didn’t you examine it when you bought it?” El asked when Chambers paused in his reminiscence.
Chambers’ eyes rose and he nodded respectfully at El, seeming pleased by her insight.
“I was pretty certain it was legitimate,” he said after a moment’s sip of the scotch. “More than enough to enjoy the piece in the privacy of my own home. My reputation, however, is one of the few things I have left and when I’m gone it will be the only lasting impression I can leave. I have no children, no family, so my works, deeds and reputation are all I have. I needed to be absolutely positive the piece was genuine before I sold it as such.”
El murmured her thanks, seeming satisfied.
Chambers picked up the thread and continued again. “I had Burnt make a few discreet enquiries when I discovered the code. Without finer details, he managed to find a friend of a friend who was good with decryption. It took him a few days, and he was very excited initially. To a casual observation, the data is a formula to amass alternative energy. The impressionable lad tapped a friend of
his
and started looking into it before he got back to me. I could have told him it was bunk, but the damage was done.”
“And so the stories started to circulate,” Rob added in a soft tone.
Chambers shook his head. “Not quite. I’m not one for idle gossip and as I’d gone to great pains to make certain Burnt gave no particulars of where the code was sourced from, there was no connection to be made.”
Rob frowned, trying to understand how the Cezanne could have been linked with the code if this was the case.
“Word has reached me that a code could be found in the painting,” Chambers offered. “I’m uncertain whether anyone has actually managed to decode it as I have, but until this week, I was not worried. As the writings can be proven false, they are useless.”
“But no one knows this except for yourself,” El pointed out dryly. “Human nature being what it is, once the painting was identified, everyone wanted to have it and this secret. People died, are still dying over it. Why didn’t you come forward with this when you discovered it?”
“What is life without some mystery? If everything is known there can be no wonder, no magic. Please”—he held up a hand as El opened her mouth to speak—“I understand what you’re saying, and I agree. But you’re talking with the virtue of hindsight. Had I been told, or somehow psychically known my keeping quiet would result in unfortunate murders, I would, of course, have sent out word. Though honestly, without proof and visibility, who would have believed? Men fight over treasures and secrets such as these. Look at all the deaths over the alchemy of changing lead into gold. Anyone can understand it’s blatantly false, but that doesn’t stop people believing and hoping, does it? Treasure and mysteries have been like this for aeons.”
Rob noticed El had her lips pressed together tightly. Clearly she was still unhappy, but like him, she appeared to see Chambers was speaking the truth.