The Hogarth Conspiracy (9 page)

She leaned back in her chair, the dog immobile at her feet. “I don't care about the painting; I decided long ago not to enter the art market directly. I work the dealers another way, so the Hogarth means nothing to me. Neither do the other dealers on that plane, and I don't care about the money. If you get hold of the picture, keep it and good luck.” She raised her glass in a mock salute, her tone confusingly gentle. “I just want you to find out if my employees are really in danger, and if they are, I want you to get them out of danger.”

“That's a lot to ask.”

“I'm offering a big fee.”

Victor paused, caught between two emotions: fascination and caution.

“Well,” he said finally. “You're clever, Mrs. Fleet; I'll give you that. You knew that I'd be interested because the art world's what I know, and you knew that I needed work because there's no queue to hire me. I also think you relied on the fact that I'd probably want to get revenge, but what is
really
clever—and I take my hat off to you for this—is that you knew that the moment you told me about the Hogarth and made me complicit, I was screwed.”

She smiled slowly.

“Like I said, Mr. Ballam, welcome to my postal code.”

Twelve

L
OOSENING THE COLLAR OF HIS ELEGANT SHIRT,
O
LIVER
P
ETERS
stared at his oncologist, his expression momentarily blank. On the wall was the x-ray viewing machine showing the images of his stomach, lit from behind and looming like Halloween ghouls. But they looked fine to him. No gaps, no huge black crosses, no signs saying “diseased.”

He blinked, looked away, and, sounding confused, said, “But I haven't been having as much pain lately.”

His doctor nodded as though that was almost expected. “That can happen.”

“That
has
happened,” Oliver insisted, his features slackening with shock, his good manners faltering. “You're wrong, Doctor Chadwick; you've buggered it up. You've got it wrong!” He banged his fists on the side of his chair. “YOU ARE WRONG!” Recovering his composure, he sobbed once, the sound catching in his throat. “I … I'm not getting as much pain.”

Without looking at his patient, the doctor wrote something in his notes.

“That's good.”

“Yes, that's good,” Oliver echoed, but without conviction. A wife, an apartment in Hampstead and a house in Surrey, three children at private school, and a disease that was killing him. “What about chemotherapy?”

“The cancer is too advanced, Sir Oliver. It wouldn't help you, and it's a punishing treatment.”

“It's a punishing disease,” Oliver replied drily, trying to sound in control but panicking inside. His profits had been falling; he had struggled to cover the school fees for the last term. What now? Sell the business? Who would buy a gallery in a market grown nervous and wary?

“Alternative medicine … D'you think that might help? I mean, it might—er—might it?” He stopped, forced composure, and got to his feet. “How long have I got left?”

“About three months.”

“But you do hear about remissions….”

“Yes, they happen sometimes.”

“So I could go into remission?” Oliver said desperately.

“No; I'm afraid your disease is too far advanced,” Chadwick replied, his tone gentle. “You have to tell your wife. She really should know.”

“Know that I'm dying? Perhaps I should also tell her that when I'm gone, she might have to take the children out of school. Perhaps I should share my last few months unloading every burden onto her shoulders. Sonia can watch me die, but in case that isn't difficult enough, why don't I let her know that after I've gone she might have to sell the country house? Even the gallery—if she can find a buyer.” He was overflowing with bitterness and despair. “How
exactly
is that supposed to help my wife?”

Embarrassed, the doctor was hesitant.

“I'm sorry. I didn't know you had financial worries.”

Oliver buttoned his jacket, smoothing down his hair as though to smooth down his emotions at the same time.

“No, I'm not going to tell Sonia anything, Doctor. Not until I've made her and the children secure,” he said, and turned toward the door.

“Can you manage that? You don't have very much time, and the pain will get worse. You won't be able to work or function as well as you could before.”

Pausing at the doorway, Oliver looked at the oncologist.

“I have your word that you will say nothing to my wife, Chadwick? Even if she asks you?”

Reluctantly, the doctor nodded. “I have to respect my patients' wishes, but if you won't confide in her, you should try to get some other form of support. Some help.”

“I don't need help,” Oliver replied, his tone ironic. “I need a miracle.”

It was raining when Oliver Peters walked out onto Harley Street. Pausing a moment, he straightened his tie again and began walking toward Marylebone High Street. His mind went back to the flight in Bernie Freeland's jet. Not for the first time, he wished he hadn't gotten on the bloody plane in the first place. He had hated lying to Sonia, her dark eyes curious as she asked about his journey. He could have told her the truth, but he knew it would mean an argument. What was he doing accepting a lift with three call girls? Was he insane? What if someone had seen him? He was a respected man who moved in the highest circles, a confidant of some of the most important personages in the land. Sir Oliver Peters had always led an exemplary life. Why risk his reputation—and that of his family—on a shortcut home?

He knew why. Because he had been desperate to get home. Hong Kong was no place for a dying man, and Oliver had been more than glad to leave. But he couldn't have told Sonia that, because then he would have had to explain everything else. Instead, he had taken the proffered lift and grown more wretched by the minute in that unfamiliar, overheated atmosphere until, unexpectedly, fate had tossed him the Hogarth grenade.

Yes, his bank had said that morning, there
had
been a robbery. Several of the safe deposit boxes had been broken into, along with his. They were incredibly apologetic but explained that there had been no way of getting in touch with him. For his own security and wary of any revealing documentation being available, Oliver had given them only his cell number and had forgotten to update them when he had changed it.

Their relief had been obvious when he had contacted them.

“We're very sorry—”

“But I saw nothing about it in the news.”

“We're managing to keep the matter secret, sir.”

“I had only two objects in my safety deposit box. You remember?”

“Yes, Sir Oliver. A diamond necklace and a painting, as I remember.”

“Have both been taken?”

There had been a lift of hope in the man's voice. “Only the painting, sir.”

Of course
, Oliver thought;
the painting had been the only thing the thief had wanted. And then, when he understood the danger of possessing it, he had sold it. To Bernie Freeland.
Oliver swallowed, relieved that the inscribed ring had never been stored with the painting, relieved that the other evidence of the royal bastard had not been found. Nor would it be because no one knew where the ring was. Except him.

“You said that other safety deposit boxes were broken into. Were other customers robbed?”

“No, sir,” the manager had replied, hoarse with embarrassment. “Only you.”

Only you
. Of course it was only him. The thief had been after the painting, nothing else. And Oliver had a good idea who the thief had been—Guy Manners, the adopted son of one of the wealthiest banking families in Europe. Oliver held his panic in check. Obviously he couldn't go to the court. No one spoke directly of royal bastards. Such matters were passed over to courtiers to deal with. Like Nathaniel Overton, who had managed the secret and then passed it down to his descendants, who had in turn passed it on to Oliver. Any direct plea for aid from the royals would have been unthinkable. Oliver's family had served them and managed their secret for generations, as they were expected to. With complete discretion. Even if the royal family
did
come to hear of the theft, there would be no direct contact; instead, they would expect the matter to be solved without being involved in any way. It was tradition. Rigid, unbroken tradition.

Sir Oliver Peters was on his own.

Walking quickly down Marylebone High Street, he tried to shake off a portentous feeling of doom. But the conversation with the bank manager continued to come back to him, crystal sharp.

“Do the police have any leads?” he had asked. “Any idea who took the painting?”

“No, sir. We're truly very sorry about this.”

“Did you ever look at the painting?”

“No, sir!” The manager was genuinely offended. “The safety deposit box was never opened by anyone but yourself. As you know, the picture was always kept in a sealed cylinder. Neither I nor any of my staff have even seen the painting. You always expressly insisted that no one should ever look at the work or handle it.”

“Well, someone managed to
handle
it out of your bank. How do you explain that?”

He couldn't, of course. And the police couldn't. They told Oliver that the surveillance cameras had been short-circuited and for twenty minutes—the duration of the robbery—there had been no visual record of who had entered the bank or the vault. Forensic evidence had little more to add. Obviously, someone had posed as a customer, entered the vault, and broken into Sir Oliver Peters's safety deposit. When the manager and staff were questioned further, all anyone could remember was a small, apparently Middle Eastern man who had come with two bodyguards. The fact that he had arrived so ostentatiously had meant that the staff wasn't suspicious. After a part-time assistant had checked his credentials, the little man had been shown into the vault. When he had left, everything had seemed in order. In fact, the robbery might have remained unnoticed for a long time if it had not been for the break in surveillance that made a security guard suspicious.

Clever, audacious, and well plotted,
Oliver thought bitterly. Yet the thief had soon rid himself of his booty—Guy Manners heaving off the Hogarth to Bernie Freeland. And the last time Oliver had seen Bernie, he had been in fear for his life, babbling in front of some of the most cunning dealers on earth about his incredible find.

Thirteen

W
ITHOUT REALIZING IT,
O
LIVER HAD WALKED ALL THE WAY TO
O
LD
Bond Street. He turned into the Burlington Arcade, strode to his gallery, and buzzed to be let in. To his surprise, a familiar face greeted him: Lim Chang. He stood up as Oliver entered, his expression a
mélange
of courtesy and anxiety. Oliver, picking up on the atmosphere, invited him into his office at the back of the building. Observing Lim Chang take a seat, he noticed the familiar, precise parting and a waxiness around his eyes.

“Good to see you again,” Oliver began with practiced courtesy. “I thought you were going straight onto Paris for the Courbet auction.”

“Bernie Freeland is dead.”

Oliver was momentarily frozen in shock and then sat down behind his desk, trying to steady his thoughts. He wanted to ask questions but hesitated, knowing that he wouldn't like the answers. Wouldn't want to hear them, to consider what they meant.
Oh, Christ
, he thought,
why did I take that flight? Why in God's name did I take that flight?

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Bernie Freeland is dead.” His good manners covered his shock. “I'm so sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“He was run over. In New York. By a truck. Apparently his injuries were terrible.”

Taking a deep breath, Oliver calmed himself. Bernie Freeland was dead, killed in an accident. The same Bernie Freeland who had been so excited about the Hogarth painting. Bernie Freeland who had confided in him. Oliver stared at his visitor with suspicion. How much did he know? Another thought followed immediately.
Where was the Hogarth painting?
Now that Freeland was dead, it would be up for grabs. Oliver felt his heart palpitate; He was too tired—too sick—for this.