The Hogarth Conspiracy (22 page)

Oliver fixed his gaze on the famous painting
Hogarth's Servants
, but the pain was ripping into him and he felt sweat dampen the back of his shirt. His hands shaking, his body trembling at the effort to remain upright in his chair, he stared at the young boy in the painting—the secret image of the Prince of Wales's bastard son.

Hal … Only Oliver and a handful of others knew the true identity of the youth. Hogarth, obviously fond of the child and guilty at being unable to prevent the terrible death of Polly Gunnell, had secretly incorporated the boy's image in the painting of his staff. Of course, Hal had never really worked in Hogarth's home—that would have been too much of a risk—but the artist had kept a constant eye on the boy and had wanted, notoriously sentimental as he was, to have a keepsake for himself. So the tender image of his staff and their precious cuckoo had remained with Hogarth for many years until finally taking its place on a wall in the Tate Gallery, where it was enjoyed by hundreds of unsuspecting visitors every day.

Many commented on the kindness of Hogarth's depiction of his staff in an era in which people seldom gave thought to the lower orders. But no one knew that the boy in the painting was the bastard heir to the English throne. Not even the few members of the royal circle who knew of Hal's existence realized that
this
was his portrait. The secret of
Hogarth's Servants
had remained just that—a secret—privy only to the royal family and Sir Nathaniel Overton and his descendants.

Maintaining the long silence, Oliver had made many pilgrimages with his grandfather, his father, and then alone. Now dying, he knew that before long he would have to pass on the secret to his own son, but not yet. When he had regained the painting, then, and only then, he would confide in Simeon about the painting and the ring. The covert inheritance would be passed down whole, not in part.

He gave a jagged sigh. The medication was taking longer to have an effect. At first he had been out of pain within fifteen minutes; now he knew he had at least twenty-five minutes of agony to live through. And during that agony, as his innards burned and contracted with the cancer, he wondered if he could give up, give in—if, morally, there was a way to let go and keep his honor. And then he would think of his wife and three children and know that however bad it became, he would never kill himself. Never leave his family the legacy of the stigma. A body could be removed, cleaned up, but dishonor was indelible.

Pushing a clenched fist into his stomach and gulping another breath, he continued to stare at the painting. It had never occurred to him that having a young family later in life could turn out to be such a gamble. He had been in excellent health, his parents still alive; who would have predicted a terminal illness coming so quickly and cruelly? He thought of his home, his garden, summer sun in the trees, the house in the distance. Closing his eyes, Oliver then thought of the stone wall with the little memorial tablets to the dead family pets. Perhaps he should leave something in his will to say that he would like to have a stone put next to the dogs. The thought amused him despite the searing pain.

If anyone had told him he could endure such agony, he would not have believed him. He would have argued that no one could live with such suffering. But the days, weeks, and months had passed, and his tolerance for pain had increased, much as an alcoholic can tolerate more and more drink before getting drunk. Pain that once would have felled him became normal, and he'd learned to time his medication to cheat the worst of the onslaughts.

But now the attacks were getting beyond control and erratic, catching him unaware and rendering him all but useless until they passed. Breathing out, Oliver forced himself to think of something else, but the matter that came to mind didn't relax him at all: Lim Chang.
Why
, he wondered,
hadn't the Chinese dealer been in contact for two days?

Had he found out something about the Hogarth? The thought alarmed Oliver. Perhaps he never should have joined forces with Lim Chang, after all, never have trusted him. But then again, he had had no choice. Chang had come to him with what he knew and offered his help. Oliver had been in no position to refuse. But what if his rival had learned something to his own advantage and decided to ignore their arrangement? After many years as a dealer, Oliver well knew how the business worked; someone who uncovered something important was hardly likely to share that discovery with a competitor no matter what he previously might have agreed to.

At last the pills were beginning to work, and with the lessening of the pain, Oliver felt his strength and his clarity of thought returning. He
had
to get hold of the Hogarth,
had
to secure the secret
and
his family's future. And he had to do it before his death. If he had to fight for it, he would. He would deal with anybody and undertake anything to acquire it. All that mattered was that when Sir Oliver Peters let go of this world, he would leave his family provided for and his secret intact.

Twenty-Eight

Mrs. Fleet was trying to call Victor Ballam's cell phone, but it was turned off. Irritated, she tossed her phone onto the couch in her office and went downstairs to a smaller office where a glossy woman was talking on another phone. She looked up as Mrs. Fleet entered, gesturing to an appointment book beside her. Picking it up, Mrs. Fleet looked down the list of bookings, her expression unreadable, her jubilation concealed. In among the usual clients, she saw the name of a Marylebone magistrate and made a mental note that he might well be of use if her premises were ever investigated.

Business was as organized and profitable as ever; her decision to specialize was paying off, with her art-dealer clients recommending an increasing number of their colleagues and connections. Before long she would have her girls fucking someone in virtually every London gallery, Mrs. Fleet thought with pleasure, putting the book on the desk and returning to her rooms at the top of the building.

As a self-educated woman who had come up the hard way, Mrs. Fleet might have been a sympathetic mentor, but she had no pretensions to maternal feelings. She had no truck with idleness either and expected her girls to be hardworking, reliable, and dedicated. Shortcomings were met with glacial disapproval. Relieved that her own brief whoring days were over, Mrs. Fleet chose to forget the drawbacks of the profession and had no compassion for its victims.

She
was
, however, worried that she might be looking at a victim now: Liza Frith, sitting in front of the television watching a rerun of a talent show. Amused, Mrs. Fleet watched the judges walk onto the stage to the accompaniment of fireworks and triumphant music. How long, she wondered, before they had a show to pick the new Messiah? Not
American Idol
but
God Idol
? And why not start with the judges?

“Did you want me?” Liza asked, getting to her feet.

“I think you should be working again.”

“Working?”

“I can't let you hang around indefinitely, Liza. You need to get your mind off things.”

“Have you heard from Annette?”

“I'm sure she's fine,” Mrs. Fleet lied.

“But you haven't heard from her?”

“No.”

“What about Mr. Ballam?”

“No,” she said crisply. “I've been thinking very carefully about the whole matter. Perhaps we overreacted.”

“Marian was killed!”

“Which was very unfortunate, but why are we assuming that her death was connected with the Hogarth painting?”

“The painting
must
be important. Bernie Freeland wouldn't have been interested unless it was valuable.”

Mrs. Fleet paused, surprised by the girl's challenging tone.

“I've known Mr. Freeland for a long time. He's very good at his work, a very competent dealer, but he isn't always right.” She tried a smile, watching Liza carefully. “Thinking back, I remember how he was once duped by a dealer in Africa. He bought some works by a supposedly important painter. He was fed information and background, but it didn't check out. They call it seeding, laying down a false history of a painter who never even existed. Many museums and galleries have been caught out this way.”

Curious, Liza wondered why her employer was doing such a sudden and unexpected about-face.

“Mr. Freeland was also tricked into purchasing a Matisse which turned out to be a fake. You girls are knowledgeable but hardly dealers. I think perhaps the whole matter has been blown out of all proportion.”

Liza wasn't convinced. “Maybe. But when you talk to Annette—”

“I may not ever talk to Miss Dvorski again,” Mrs. Fleet countered. “Any girl that makes arrangements behind my back is usually fired. You work for me exclusively or you're out.”

In a baggy sweater and leggings, Liza looked vulnerable, even cowed. But she was suspicious of her employer's motives and anxious enough about her friend to challenge her.

“You don't care what's happened to Annette?”

“She's probably living the high life with Mr. Freeland,” she lied, knowing that Liza was unaware of the Australian's death and wanting to keep it that way. A plan had come into Charlene Fleet's mind, and she was inching her way toward its inception. “Incidentally, Bernie Freeland is no longer a client of mine. I can't have people going behind my back. I can't have passengers either, Liza. So if you want to stay on at Park Street, I think it's time you went back to work.”

Her expression was composed, her logic convincing. To all intents and purposes she was bothering an employee, no more. But she was really sending Liza Frith out as bait.

“Something's not right about all of this,” Liza said nervously. “You weren't on that plane.”

“No, I wasn't, but you've got too much imagination, and I've encouraged it,” Mrs. Fleet said dismissively. “You're not a child; you shouldn't act like one.”

“But I don't want to leave here, not just yet!” she pleaded. “Can't I just wait until we hear from Annette? Or Mr. Ballam? Just until we know everything's okay?”

“Poor Liza,” Mrs. Fleet said, her tone honeyed. “You're one of my best girls; you know that, don't you? And as one of my best you have a responsibility. Clients have been asking for you. I can't keep on making excuses for your absence, can I?”

“But—”

“No, Liza, you have to work.” She turned off the television and walked to the door. “If it makes you feel better, stay in London; I can always find girls for the trips abroad. Grateful girls who want to do well.” Her tone flatlined. “Toughen up, Liza. Or get out of the business.”

Twenty-Nine

O
NCE AT
K
ENNEDY
A
IRPORT,
V
ICTOR
B
ALLAM WAS ABLE TO CLEAR HIS
thoughts. In the men's room before checking in, he emptied Annette Dvorski's suitcase, junking everything that identified her. Realizing that leaving only a baseball bat rolling around in a suitcase would seem suspicious, he packed it in some of her clothes, locked the case, bought a couple of luggage straps, and affixed a label with his name and London address to the handle of the case. At first, he had been tempted to carry the painting in his hand luggage, but he was afraid of being robbed or attacked again. And, Victor reasoned, no one would suspect him of entrusting the picture to the hold.

Holding his breath, he checked his luggage in for the 4 p.m. flight to Heathrow. The beige bag passed through unchallenged. His mouth was dry and he could hardly speak as his passport was checked, but no one was after him, Victor reassured himself. Why would they be? No one could connect him to Annette Dvorski. He hadn't told anyone where he was going, and only Charlene Fleet knew the address of Bernie Freeland's apartment.

Victor watched as the ground stewardess stared at his passport before finally handing it back to him with his boarding pass. He was sweating even though it was cold, his shirt moist against his skin, his collar tight. In the men's room, he'd changed his bloodied shirt and jacket, pushing the soiled garments to the bottom of a wastebasket, and washed up. Of course he was leaving behind DNA and fingerprints, but what choice did he have? He could hardly keep the evidence on him, and he didn't have time to dispose of it in any other way.