The Hogarth Conspiracy (42 page)

But he couldn't do it.

Instead he held Liza Frith until she stopped crying and the evening faded into darkness. Through the basement window came the light from the street lamp on the road overhead. It was dim, but it was enough. Still holding Liza, Victor fixed his eyes on the clock on the opposite wall. It was eight-thirty. At ten-thirty he would be meeting with Malcolm Jenner. He would hear what the steward had to say.

He didn't know what it would be. But at ten-thirty he would find out the truth. Or die for it.

Part Five

Fifty-Four

S
ITTING BY HER SON'S HOSPITAL BED,
E
LIZABETH
W
ILKES LOOKED UP
as Dr. Fountain entered. She had always disliked Fountain, remembered him from the days she had worked as a call girl and also remembered with embarrassment the monthly examinations. However she presented herself to the world, in Fountain's eyes she would always be a prostitute, a hooker, a working girl. Years might have passed, but something in his expression always reminded her of what he knew, and he made her flesh creep.

For a while Elizabeth had expected him to use her past against her, perhaps expose her. After all, it would have made a meaty piece for the tabloids if Kit Wilkes, always tormenting his illustrious father, turned out to have a whore for a mother. But time passed, and Fountain never played his trump card, settling for Kit as a patient instead. Perhaps, Elizabeth thought, it wouldn't be worth jeopardizing his working relationship with her sister. God knows, Charlene Fleet had been lining the doctor's wide white pockets for many years.

Bitterly, Elizabeth thought of her sister, of the time when they had been growing up. Charlene was not Mrs. Fleet then, just some backstreet scrubber who would give it to the lads free until she realized charging was the way to go. It had taken guts for her sister to come down to London alone, but then, she had always longed to leave Scotland Road behind.

So, with very little money and an old Mini, she had come to the capital. With a lack of morals and a bulletproof conscience, Charlene had started working for another madam, who never realized that within ten years she would be usurped, that Charlene—aka Mrs. Fleet—would take over Park Street. The woman died in a fall from the roof of the top-floor apartment. The coroner said it was an accidental death.

Elizabeth had never been sure of that verdict. The incident had made her wary around her sister, and like all the others who worked for Mrs. Fleet, she had been afraid of her. But Elizabeth hadn't been ready to move on. She was greedy and was making good money, and besides, she had told herself, her sister would never hurt her. Elizabeth sighed as she looked at her son. His eyelids were so fine that she could see the blood vessels under the skin. God, he couldn't die, she thought desperately. Kit was everything to her. She had lived for him, even challenged her sister on his behalf a long time ago. She had gone to Charlene and told her she was pregnant. Mrs. Fleet, unmoved, had insisted on an abortion, but Elizabeth had been adamant. She wanted the child.

“Jesus, what the hell for?”

“I want out of the business,” Elizabeth had replied. “I've had enough.”

“And how are you going to live?”

“I've saved some money.”

“That won't last long the way you spend it,” Mrs. Fleet had responded. “Get rid of the kid and get back to work.”

“I could talk to the father.”

Oh, how Mrs. Fleet had responded to
that
suggestion! Her eyes flint-cold, she had turned on her sister. “You know that none of my girls is supposed to get pregnant. If they do, they deal with it. They don't go and put pressure on the client.” She had walked up to Elizabeth and pointed at her belly. “Blackmail would ruin my business. The client would tell others, and it would all be over.”

“Not if he wanted to keep it quiet himself.”

Mrs. Fleet had put her hands on her hips, her head on one side. “So who is this client? This soft target?”

“Bernie Freeland.”

Laughing out loud, Mrs. Fleet had sat down at her desk, toying with the gold chain around her neck as she looked at her sister.

“Oh, you bloody fool. Only you would get knocked up by Bernie Freeland. Go on, expose him; it would only add to his reputation.” She stopped laughing abruptly. “I always was the brains in our family, wasn't I?” she said.

Stung, Elizabeth had retaliated without thinking.

“
Our family
? Perhaps people would like to know about our family. It would be interesting but very bad for your business, Charlene. Think of it; all your secrets that only I know laid out for the world to see. Even for a madam, you'd be ruined.” She had openly mocked her. “Mrs. Fleet, who was once Charlene O'Dywer, fucking the boys for a few bob, blow jobs a specialty on the top deck of the bus.”

Elizabeth had gone too far. She knew it, but she couldn't stop. Seeing that Charlene was shaken, knowing that she had dented her absolute confidence, had driven her on.

“And then there was the time you hurt that child.”

The words had slapped down between them, but Mrs. Fleet shrugged, feigning indifference.

“She was fourteen. Hardly a child.”

“She was a child! Oh, you got that hushed up, didn't you, Charlene? Who did you talk to? Oh, I remember; you were friendly with someone in the police, weren't you? Poor girl; she was sent away, wasn't she? And then it all blew over. Of course I
could
get someone to look into it again, what with my having insider information.”

And then it had happened, a silent shift in the atmosphere. Suddenly Elizabeth had the upper hand, and Charlene knew it. Her one mistake had been to keep her sister close to her. At first she had done it to protect herself, but now she realized that Elizabeth was the only person who could hold her to ransom. The only person who knew everything about her past.

“You said that Bernie Freeland's the father?”

“Yeah.”

“But you've been fucking others,” Mrs. Fleet had gone on, thinking quickly. “We need someone who's terrified of scandal. Someone who would do anything to keep his name out of the mire.” She stopped to think, then turned back to her sister. “James Holden's one of your regulars, isn't he?”

Nodding, Elizabeth had tried to follow her sister's reasoning. “What about him?”

“Tell him you're pregnant with his kid.”

“But you don't approve of blackmail.”

“It's the lesser of two evils, Elizabeth. It's him being blackmailed or it's me. There's no choice.” She had gone on, merciless. “James Holden wants to be prime minister one day. He's married to a country squire's daughter, and he's really desperate for advancement. He'd pay to keep you quiet, and if you're clever, you could make it last for years.”

“But what if he tells other people?”

“He won't. He wouldn't dare! He's one of the few clients who don't mix in the art world. Holden is all politics, so even if he did talk—which he won't—it wouldn't harm my business.”

Elizabeth absorbed this in silence for a minute or two, then slowly said, “All right, I'll have a word with him.”

Mrs. Fleet had sighed, then smiled her brittle smile. “Actually,
I'll
talk to James Holden and arrange everything, Elizabeth. You could bugger it up.”

Surprised, Elizabeth had nodded, trying to undo some of the damage. “Look, I didn't mean—”

“What?”

“About your past.”

“You lying bitch; you meant every word. Remember, we're family, and I know what you're capable of. But I want you to remember one thing: I'm only halfway up the ladder, but soon I'll be untouchable, and no one—not even you—will be able to harm me.” Her eyes had bored into her sister. “This is the last time you get one over on me, Elizabeth. Enjoy your moment of triumph, because it will be the last you'll ever have.”

Fifty-Five

W
ATCHING HER SON AS SHE REMEMBERED THE ALTERCATION
surrounding his birth, Elizabeth shuddered. If Kit died, it would be the end of the gravy train with James Holden. So if Kit died, not only would she be alone, she would be poor.

You're working late,” she said to Dr. Fountain, attempting to keep the hostility out of her voice.

“I have to see all my patients whatever the time.”

“No point missing out on a fee.”

“Well, honey,
you
never did,” he said, neatly reversing the insult.

“I want to ask you something,” Elizabeth said, swallowing the loathing she felt for him as much as she ever had. “Were you here when my son was brought in?”

His taut skin hardly moved with his almost imperceptible smile. “I was, Elizabeth.”

“And James Holden was here too?”

“He was. For a short time. When Kit was admitted, he left.”

“Was Kit already unconscious?”

Fountain held Kit's limp wrist and timed his pulse. “He'd taken an overdose.”

“Was he unconscious?”

“He was,” the doctor replied. “Poor boy. I was hoping he'd have pulled around by now. Sorry, my dear.”

“I'm not your
dear
.” She kept her voice low so no one would overhear them. “Sitting here, I've had a lot of time to think, and something's bothering me.”

“Yes? And what might that be?”

“I heard about a painting.” She noticed a flicker, a slight change in the doctor's expression. “Well, I didn't pay much attention at first,” she went on. “After all, Kit deals in pictures, but apparently someone found a rare Hogarth, and oddly enough—you'll like this, Doctor Fountain; I know you have a taste for the macabre—everyone who knew about it has been killed.” She paused. “I don't believe in coincidence, Doctor, and seeing as how Bernie Freeland is dead—along with three people who were on that flight where the painting was mentioned—and seeing as how my son was there too and lapsed into a coma soon afterward … Now, what would you say to that?”

“It sounds amazing, but I haven't read anything about it in the papers. It hasn't been in the news.”

“The police don't know about the painting.”

“Why not? If it was so suspicious, I feel sure it would have been investigated.”

Outmaneuvered, Elizabeth took a moment to gather her thoughts, but the run-in with her sister coupled with her imminent penury had sharpened her wits overnight.

“Perhaps people wanted to keep the deaths quiet.”

“Four violent deaths? Honey, it would have to be a war to keep that quiet,” he replied smoothly. “I think your imagination's running away with you.”

“D'you know anything about this painting?”

He shrugged and laid Kit's arm back on the bed. “I'm a doctor, not an art dealer.”

“But there
has
to be a connection if all the people on that flight are dying.”

“Kit took an accidental overdose.”

She shook her head. “He never injected himself. He's squeamish about needles.”

“Kit is squeamish about many things,” Fountain replied. He picked up his patient's chart and pretended to read it while trying to decide how much Elizabeth knew. Not much, he realized after another moment, or she wouldn't be pumping him for information.

“Who brought my son to the hospital?”

“I don't know who accompanied him, but when Kit was brought in, I was called. When I got here, his boyfriend and his father were here with him.”

Irritated that she had learned nothing of importance, Elizabeth slowly rose to her feet and wrapped her fur coat around her. “Why wasn't his stomach pumped?”

“It wouldn't have helped. Kit didn't swallow anything.”

“So that's it?” she said, her tone wavering. “He's just going to lie there and slip away?
He's in a coma!
Can't you do anything?”

“I'm doing what I can, but no one can work miracles, Elizabeth. Kit experimented. You should know that when the mood moves them, people will try
anything
once.”