The Hogarth Conspiracy (45 page)

Oliver's head shot up. “What's Liza Frith to me? Why should I save her if by saving her I penalize my own family?” He swallowed with effort, fighting the pain. “All my life I've been an honorable man. I've prided myself on that.” He thought of the Hogarth painting, his father and grandfather, and Sir Nathaniel Overton. “I've borne a burden no man should have to carry. I've kept secrets for others, kept my word above all, and for what?” He wasn't bitter; he was bemused. “You look at me differently now, Victor. You despise me.”

“No.”

“You do,” Oliver contradicted him. “And if the situations were reversed, I'd despise you. But this is my family we're talking about, the people I've loved and protected for many years and mean to
keep
protecting. How can you come here and ask this of me?” he snapped, losing control. “The triads took the money; they have half a million pounds. Why isn't that enough?”

“Because they want the Hogarth.”

“And if they don't get it, they'll kill the girl.” He stared at Victor, and then he saw it, the sliver of anguish. “Oh, no. You too?”

Victor nodded and bent his head, then heard Oliver sigh and the sound of a spoon being stirred in a cup. He raised his head and watched as Oliver pushed a cup of coffee across the desk to him, his hands shaking so much that some of the liquid slopped into the saucer. Victor took it and a moment later accepted a shortbread cookie. It felt like ash on his tongue.

Outside in the gallery, the phones started ringing. The working day had begun, and soon people would come to look at the paintings hanging on the gallery walls. If Sir Oliver Peters was lucky, someone would buy something. All the ordinary workings of life were just on the other side of a door, all the everyday noises and activities, while inside Sir Oliver Peters's office two men sat in silence, two lives hanging in the balance between them.

Victor was thinking that if he was going to die, he wasn't going to die ignorant. He had to know who had killed Annette Dvorski and Bernie Freeland. He knew that the Chinese had killed Lim Chang, but who had silenced Kit Wilkes? And before the Chinese got involved, who was responsible for the first killing? Who had destroyed Marian Miller and set the butchery in motion? To die was one thing. To die a fool was quite another.

“She was kind to me.”

Victor looked up as Oliver spoke. “Liza Frith; she was kind to me. Asked if I was all right.”

“She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“We all were.” Oliver rubbed his right temple. “I keep asking myself why I accepted the lift from Bernie Freeland. Why I didn't wait for the next commercial flight. I can't say I had a premonition, any intimation that something was going to happen. I was just glad that I'd be getting home sooner than I thought. When I saw the call girls on the jet, I was embarrassed, concerned that my wife would find out—that
anyone
would find out—who I was mixing with. When that poor girl was murdered, I was still worried that someone would discover I'd been on the jet.”

“It's understandable.”

“Is it?” Oliver countered. “Pride is a terrible vice. One takes one's status for granted, but when it's threatened, it's something one fights for tooth and nail.” He pressed his hands together to stop them from shaking. “I now see myself for what I am. I had hoped that by the time my death came I'd be proud of myself, but that's not to be.”

“You still refuse to give me the Hogarth?”

“How can I let my family down?” he said, the words almost wailed, his anguish terrifying.

“Believe me, Sir Oliver, I didn't want to come here, but I had to. I had to ask. And I'm
still
asking.”

Oliver touched his throat with his hand as though speech pained him. “You came here for help. You asked me to save a girl's life, and I hesitated. I had the power to save your life, and I hesitated. I
hesitated.
And then I refused. Men go to hell for less.”

Moved, Victor watched him as he stood up, gripping the side of the desk to steady himself.

“I'll get you the Hogarth, but I need a little time.”

“They've given me a week. I have to get the painting to them by then,” Victor replied, his eyes never leaving Oliver's face. “Are you up to this?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“No, don't be.” Oliver drew himself up to his full height, his elegance momentarily restored. “I should be the one to apologize, but I won't let you down. You can depend on that much, Victor. I won't let you down.”

Fifty-Eight

H
AVING TRAVELED AROUND
E
UROPE FOR A FORTNIGHT,
L
OUIS
Freeland was now home. The family doctor had suggested the vacation as a way to take Louis's mind off his father's death, but in that he was only partially successful. Mrs. Sheldon had accompanied the young man on his first trip to London, together with one of the family's lawyers, but later her place had been taken by Louis's girlfriend, Odette. Her demotion had delighted Mrs. Sheldon, hoping as she did that it was a sign of Louis's recovery. Perhaps his overwhelming love for his father might be replaced by love for a young woman.

At times Louis
did
show affection to Odette, but his capricious moods continued and, worse, accelerated as the little party traveled on to Italy and Switzerland. By the time Mrs. Sheldon was preparing to welcome her charge home, she had heard reports of Louis's withdrawal, and now she learned that he had banished Odette. All her hopes seemed to have stalled.

In an attempt to put a positive slant on events, Mrs. Sheldon told the doctor that they had been expecting too much too soon, that it would take time for Louis to settle down. But she didn't know. No one
really
knew how his mind worked. Only Louis did. Then, as the days passed, he seemed to slide backward, asking Mrs. Sheldon when his father was coming to visit. Her gentle reminders that Bernie was dead worked for a short time, but before long Louis would start asking the same question:

Where is my father?

And so it continued. The lad veered between utter indifference and desperate grief. At times he seemed to forget his beloved father completely, but that state lasted only for an hour, possibly two, and then there would be a massive reaction. He would talk, jabbering about Bernie, multiplying his virtues, making a faultless god of a flawed man. Then, oddly, Louis began to show an interest in the business, but that didn't last. His mental capacities were limited and erratic, and he certainly had not inherited the commitment and business acumen of his father.

Louis Freeland would live like a prince because he was well provided for, but the core of his life had disappeared and left him suspended where no one could reach him.

And so his progress faltered. His little jaunts to New York ceased, and he refused to take calls from Odette even though she tried repeatedly to contact him. The evening classes that had extended his world were abandoned. His life—always small—now shrank within the walls of the house in Connecticut, where the ghost of his dead father was ever present.

Many times at night Mrs. Sheldon would wake and go to Louis's room. She would stand outside and listen to her charge talking. There was no one there; there never was. But to Louis, his nighttime visitor was paying him the attention for which he had longed all his life. Finally Louis had all of Bernie Freeland's attention. The ghost might exist only in his mind, but to Louis his father was there, more real than he had ever been. Permanently fixed in Connecticut, listening to his son, watching what he did, a presence that would never leave him again.

It was a sweet madness.

Fifty-Nine

U
NBLINKING,
C
HARLENE
F
LEET WATCHED
V
ICTOR
B
ALLAM ENTER HER
office and sit down. She had to admit that he was a handsome man. The rigors of the last two weeks had toughened him, hardened his expression. He now seemed very different from the person she had first met. Then there had been a naïveté about him even after three years in prison. Now there was no element of innocence left. She knew as she looked at him that Victor Ballam wasn't going to back off and was now prepared to play dirty.

“I know who killed your dog.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Who?”

“The triads. They double-crossed Lim Chang and took the Hogarth.”

“Chang had the Hogarth?”

“For a little while, yes.”

“So the Chinese have it now?”

Victor ignored the question and carried on. “They killed Chang but lost the painting.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And?”

“I know who has the Hogarth, but then, that doesn't matter to you, does it? You were never interested in the painting, or so you said. But that made me wonder
why
Marian Miller would be so eager to tell you all about it.”

“The girls always tell me interesting pieces of gossip. Most of our clients are art dealers. Marian was just passing on information.”

“But you weren't interested in the painting?”

“My business is my only concern.”

He nodded briskly. “And that's why I'm here. You've lost two girls already, which must have cost you dear. And you certainly wanted Liza Frith back.”

“Get on with it! Don't play around with me.”

“The triads have Liza. They want to swap the painting for her. If they don't get the Hogarth, they'll kill her—and kill me too.”

“Oh, dear, Mr. Ballam,” she said with mock sympathy. “You
are
in a mess.”

She could see that she was getting to him, but this time he didn't react. He was getting clever, she realized, learning to bargain, to deal. She admired him for that, but what did he want? Pouring two glasses of wine, she passed one to Victor, noticing that he had changed his way of dressing; his jacket was dark, and his jeans were finished off with a pair of old brogues. Clothes than didn't get a man noticed. Clever, that.

“
You
put me in the mess,” Victor said smoothly. “And I want your help to get out of it. I want to buy Liza Frith back.”

“You know where the Hogarth is. Get it and buy her with that,” she said briskly. “That's your deal with the Chinese, isn't it?”

“I need more than that. I need half a million pounds.”

“Good luck,” she said coldly.

“Give me the half a million or I'll ruin you.”

Unused to threats, Mrs. Fleet blinked. If Victor had said it only a couple of days earlier, she would have laughed in his face. The death threat had obviously turned him, brought out his cruel streak. But was he as tough as she was?

“
You'll
ruin
me
?” she repeated, feigning amusement. “Are you serious?”

“I know about you.”

“Really? What do you know?”

“I've been talking to your sister.”

She felt her throat tighten, and a breath caught in her lungs. “I don't have a sister.”

“Yes, you do,” Victor replied. “Elizabeth Wilkes. Mother of Kit Wilkes. The same Kit Wilkes who's spent his life tormenting his father, James Holden, MP. Only he
isn't
his father, is he?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I have to admit, Mrs. Fleet, that I've been a bit of a bastard,” Victor said simply. “Having my life threatened brought out the worst in me. I wasn't expecting any of this when I started, but now? Now it's dog eat dog if you'll forgive the expression.”

“Like I said, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“It's quite simple. When I talked to your sister again—after she'd had time to consider the situation from all angles—she told me that she was now scared for her son's life. Elizabeth didn't know what had happened to Kit Wilkes—I'm still not sure myself—but she was very keen to make sure I had something on you. Bargaining power, she called it. You've built a business on that, haven't you?”