The Hogarth Conspiracy (4 page)

“I was talking to the girls.”

“I only spoke to one girl,” Lim Chang offered, as though that minimized the offense. “What were they saying to you?”

“They were just talking about their work. Well, about who they worked for…. I didn't know they'd be like that. Well read, intelligent. It's not what you expect.” Uncomfortable, he slid off the subject. “We've still got hours to go before we get to London. Are you going to work until then?”

In answer, Lim Chang looked at the BlackBerry and then glanced back at his fellow passenger. He seemed to be toying with his answer.

“I think,” he said finally, “that perhaps I've worked long enough.”

Two more awkward hours passed, Oliver in an agony of physical pain and mental unease and Lim Chang reserved, difficult company. Sleeping most of the time, Kit Wilkes barely stirred; the stewards attended to the passengers' needs with quiet efficiency. Back in the private cabin, the girls were back to amusing Bernie, only occasionally tripping through to fetch drinks or go to the bathroom. Their lack of both clothing and any kind of inhibition was unnerving, and when the pilot announced that the plane would be landing in ten minutes, Lim Chang and Oliver Peters breathed a genuine sigh of relief.

Then, just when the passengers were getting ready to prepare for landing, a befuddled Bernie Freeland, his eyes bloodshot, suddenly staggered and stumbled into the main cabin. Although a known teetotaler, to all appearances he was very drunk.

Lurching toward Oliver, he leaned forward.

“Jesus, I feel ill,” he said, wrenching open the top of his shirt. “Listen to me,” he whispered between short, rasping breaths, and leaned closer to Oliver. “If anything happens to me. If anything happens—”

“What are you saying?”

“Just listen,” he urged, his voice hoarse, his breath foul, “I can trust you. I know that…. I've got the Hogarth, the painting the art world's always talked about. Guy Manners stole it; then he panicked and offered it to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The missing Hogarth—I've got it.”

Three

O
LIVER WAS HAVING TROUBLE HEARING OVER THE NOISE OF THE
engines, but it was obvious to him that Bernie Freeland was close to panic, and the other passengers were turning around and straining to listen.

“Bernie, sit down.”

“
NO! Listen to me!
” His voice was almost a hiss. “It's the famous Hogarth … the picture with the Prince of Wales in it.”

Startled, Oliver gripped the arm of his seat; the plane was lurching, and the older steward came and hurried Bernie to his seat and put on his safety belt. His eyes wide, Bernie stared imploringly at Oliver across the aisle, then slid off into a drugged torpor.

“What's wrong with him?” Oliver asked Malcolm Jenner, the steward, who was bending down toward his employer.

“I think someone's spiked his drink,” Jenner replied, his voice low. “One of the girls probably, for a laugh. They know Mr. Freeland can't handle it. Any alcohol has a really bad effect on him.” He nodded toward Oliver, all brisk competence. “Don't worry; it'll wear off. Mr. Freeland won't remember a thing later.”

Mr. Freeland won't remember a thing….
Oliver hoped not. Leaning back in his seat, he was suddenly aware that both Kit Wilkes and Lim Chang were staring at him. He closed his eyes, Bernie's Freeland's words echoing in his head:

I've got the Hogarth painting. The one the art world's always talked about…. It's the Hogarth with the Prince of Wales in it….

Oh, Jesus, why?
Oliver thought.
Why now?
He felt a queasy terror, his blood running faster, his brain pumping. Was it true that Bernie Freeland had the painting of the Prince of Wales with his whore, Polly Gunnell?

Oliver tried to keep calm. How
could
the Australian have the Hogarth? And what had he said about Guy Manners selling it to him? Manners, a notorious gambler who hung around the art world like a ghoul. Adopted by a wealthy banker, he had been a troubled child, expelled from Eton for theft and later disowned by his family. Oliver thought about the Hogarth, the third picture in the lost series of
The Harlot's Progress
, which was the artist's damning criticism of his society—of prostitution, of the whorehouses, the pimps, the lechers of his time. The world had believed it long destroyed, and it was imperative that everyone continue to believe that.

Because only he, Oliver Peters, knew the painting still existed—
because he had it.

Or did he?

Four

T
HE CAR PARK WAS QUIET.
O
LIVER LEANED BACK IN HIS SEAT,
remembering the last minutes of that fateful plane journey. He knew that soon he would begin his drive home, but not until he had composed himself. Closing his eyes, he could picture the events as though they were taking place again. The jet had been circling, coming in to land at Heathrow, while Oliver stared at Bernie Freeland in open shock as the Australian's words reverberated in his head. Guy Manners had stolen the Hogarth, then sold it? If that was true, it would matter more to his confidant than Freeland realized.

Because they had stolen the painting from him.

Oliver knew that it hadn't been taken from his gallery—the Hogarth had never been housed there—but from the bank where he had a safety deposit box. The same bank where the Hogarth had been placed over fifteen years ago when his elderly father had passed it on to him.

“Guard it with your life,” his father had urged. “The painting has incredible power. Men would kill to own it.” His father had paused and then told him, “There is also an inscribed ring with a message from the Prince of Wales. Together, they prove the existence of a royal bastard. For safety's sake, the ring must
never
be hidden with the painting. It
must
be kept separate.” He had clutched Oliver's arm tightly. “If this evidence fell into the wrong hands, it could bring down the monarchy. But of the two, the painting is the more important because no one knows of the existence of the ring.”

Oliver had looked at his father in astonishment and disbelief. “Why hasn't the picture been destroyed?” he'd asked.

“Because it's proof. Like the ring. Without them there's no evidence; with them there's confirmation that there's an alternative successor to the English throne. One day it might be useful. If the House of Windsor faltered after the queen's death, there would be an alternative.” He had paused again, an old man passing on an inheritance he revered and feared at the same time. “No one must ever know about Polly Gunnell's child. And no one must
ever
find out that there's a living descendant.”

Oliver's mind went back to the flight. He had sat in his seat, rigid, thanking God that they were coming down to land before people could use their BlackBerries or cell phones. No one, he had reassured himself, could have made contact with his or her cohorts on the ground. No one could have passed on the damning news about the Hogarth. Or maybe, he had thought hopefully, none of them had overheard Bernie Freeland's garbled, panicked confession.

Then again, maybe they had….

He relived those minutes, sitting in the plane, his mind churning. Had Freeland
really
got the Hogarth, or had he been duped? Perhaps the work was a fake … perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Maybe the Hogarth
hadn't
gotten into Bernie Freeland's hands. It was intolerable to imagine how the painting's secret might have been exposed, touted around by the likes of the Australian: the scandal fanned for the sake of publicity, the royal family humiliated, and, worse, the line of succession threatened. Freeland wasn't the type to act nobly, not when there was money in ignominy.
At least the ring hadn't been stolen
, Oliver thought with relief.
That
damning piece of evidence had been hidden elsewhere and remained safe.

Thinking back, Oliver remembered how he had turned to look at Kit Wilkes, thinking,
Please, God, don't let him be in on it
. If Wilkes knew the secret, it would be exposed as soon as they arrived at Heathrow. Realizing that he was being watched, Wilkes had looked up and caught Oliver's gaze. A knowing smile had flickered around the fleshy lips before he had turned his attention back to his magazine.
What had that been about?
Oliver had wondered.
Had he been intimating that he had heard what Bernie Freeland said? Or had it just been that ambiguous smile of his, which only just managed to be this side of a sneer?
Unsettled, Oliver had leaned back in his seat, staring out of the window as the airport came into view. If it was the real Hogarth, he had to get it back.
He had to.
He had breathed in, trying to steady himself.

Just as he was breathing in now in the confines of the airport car park, locked into his Daimler, unable to move, to go home, to think of the repercussions of one explosive remark. If the news came out, everyone would be after the picture. To own it—or to destroy it. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Lim Chang, recalling the man's placid expression as they had landed. God, had
he
heard what Bernie Freeland had said?

He knew the extent of the task that faced him. He would be up against interested parties who would vie ruthlessly for the masterpiece for their own reasons. Some would want to expose and profit from the royal scandal, a scandal that could have changed the course of history and that might still undermine the House of Windsor. And then there were others who would want to make sure the painting was
never
seen, the truth of the alternative succession forever suppressed.

One thing was for certain: the picture would be worth a fortune on the open market. Every country on earth would scrabble to own it. And its secret. But to what lengths would some interested parties go to make sure the secret was kept? Oliver shuddered, remembering his maternal ancestor, the sly courtier Sir Nathaniel Overton. The man who had used the painting like the sword of Damocles, suspending it over the heads of the unsuspecting royals. But gradually, over the generations, the weapon had changed its use, finally becoming a treasured and protected secret. Oliver sighed. If the real Hogarth
was
waiting to be sprung, it could turn out to be the most pernicious jack-in-the-box in history. Worth stealing.

And well worth killing for.

The secret discovered by Overton so long ago
had
to be kept at all costs. But the only man who knew the whole truth was he, Oliver Peters. He and he alone. From choice he had cultivated no confidants. There were no advisers, no other relatives privy to the truth, and his son was still a boy, too young to inherit the secret. There was only he to succeed or fail. To protect or neglect.

And he was tired to the bone, mortally afraid, and riddled with cancer. He, Oliver Peters, had only weeks left to live.

Five

W
HEN HE FINALLY RETURNED HOME,
O
LIVER PARKED THE CAR IN THE
garage and walked out into the garden. The lights were on in an upstairs bedroom, but otherwise the house was in darkness. As he had hoped, his wife was preparing for bed. He could imagine her taking off her clothes and hanging them in the walk-in closet, dropping whatever needed cleaning into the white laundry hamper for the housekeeper to deal with. She would step out of her shoes and pad into the bathroom, her narrow feet making imprints on the carpet. Whatever the fashion, Sonia liked carpet under her feet, liked the feel of the wool, the give of the luxurious pile.