The Hogarth Conspiracy (52 page)

Of course the professionals tried to stem her hopes. But Elizabeth was adamant, and when Eli Fountain died suddenly and unexpectedly of a heart attack, her initial fear that Kit's care would be threatened gave way to another feeling entirely. It took precisely one week, three days, and four hours for the last dose to leave Kit Wilkes's system, for the final injection Dr. Fountain had given him to vacate his limbs. Then something incredible happened. Freed from his drug straitjacket,
Kit Wilkes moved.
Elizabeth was there and screamed as her son tossed on the bed. At once a doctor arrived and, mistakenly thinking he was having a fit, gave the restless patient a sedative to calm him down.

Back into the dusk fell Kit Wilkes, back into twilight and the memory of something half recalled. A plane journey, a painting, a plan made hurriedly over a cell phone … Back, back, back into the dark went Kit Wilkes, mute again. Silenced again, his little flicker of life snuffed out. It had been his last attempt to escape. From that moment on, the man who had been sedated into a
faux
death assumed the role he had indirectly created for himself. With the last injection of sedative went Kit Wilkes's last resistance. Worn thin with drugs, his brain smothered, and half mad, he slid like a turtle under the mud of memory. And never came home again.

All this Victor remembered as he walked down Piccadilly toward Bond Street. He had been in New York and Lisbon but had returned for the coronation, some little tug of instinct drawing him home. His apartment was as it had always been, and was now let to tenants. Victor hadn't even bothered to get it signed over to him again. It was to all intents and purposes still Christian's. If he had wanted, Victor could easily have afforded to buy another apartment anywhere in the world, but his spell in prison had severed any longing for property. Having once been shorn as bald as a spring lamb, Victor had no need for possessions.

But the last thing he expected on returning to London was a call from Sonia Peters, wife of the late and sorely missed Sir Oliver Peters. She had left a message at his hotel for him and was direct, almost abrupt, when he returned the call.

“Forgive my contacting you. The last time we met was at my husband's funeral.”

“I think of him often.”

He could hear her take in a breath. “As do I, Mr. Ballam.”

“Is there something I can do for you, Lady Peters?”

“Come and see me this afternoon, please. We can talk then.”

Victor was ushered into the plush drawing room of her apartment in Regent's Park. She was wearing a dark slub silk suit; her dark hair was now stippled with white and her bearing regal, but she was clearly bordering on agitation. Behind her on a sofa table were a number of framed family photographs, several of which Victor took to be of her children, but the largest was that of Sir Oliver, taken in his prime before cancer made a specter of him. His presence, smiling at the camera un-self-consciously, jolted Victor, reminding him of a great man. And a greater loss.

Taking care that they were alone, Sonia Peters sat down on the sofa opposite Victor. Between them was a low table weighted with art books; a small spaniel was curled in the shadow underneath. Heavy curtains muffled their conversation, and the intermittent humming of a vacuum cleaner came from the rooms overhead.

“My husband always said that I could trust you, Mr. Ballam.”

Victor nodded, remembering the promise he had made years earlier.

“You can, indeed.”

“Good. Well, then … I have a great problem.” She paused, putting her hand to her cheek, her wedding ring loose on her finger. It was obvious that she was in some distress and, although eager for help, was uneasy about seeking it. Her black eyes rested searchingly on Victor; then she nodded to herself as though a decision had finally and irrevocably been made. “You know all about the Hogarth painting?”

The mention of it six years after he had last seen it shook Victor to the core. It seemed as though the very name of Hogarth was unlucky, destined to bring misfortune. He wanted to stop Sonia Peters, to silence her, prevent her from bringing the painter and the painting into that room. But he couldn't. He had always suspected that the story of the Hogarth was unfinished, had often mused about when he would hear of it again. His interest had been twofold: curiosity, and an old atavistic desire to tempt fate.

“Yes; I know all about the Hogarth painting.”

“I'm speaking of the original,” she continued. “Not the forgery.”

“I understand.” He saw her touch her throat in the same defensive, vulnerable gesture her husband had once used.

“Oliver left it to me. Before he died, he had arranged for it to be hidden in a place no one could ever find it. Even I wasn't told where. All I was told was that it was safe and that it had to remain hidden. There was to be no exposure of the work, ever.”

“But?”

“Then suddenly, a few days ago, I received a letter from our solicitor. My son, Simeon, is now twenty-one years old, and apparently his father had decided that he should take over the care of the Hogarth.”

Victor frowned.

“You look surprised, Mr. Ballam; so was I. For six years I've been a willing caretaker of the work, but my late husband believed his son should inherit not only some privileges but some responsibility on his coming of age.” She paused and smiled to herself. “Oliver had excellent qualities, but in this he was wrong.”

“But if you don't know where the painting is, then your son is merely taking over a titular responsibility.”

She straightened up in her seat, her head tilted to one side.

“Ah, but I
do
know, Mr. Ballam.”

“You do? How?”

“Solicitors are a strange breed. They guard a person's property and family; they keep confidences and offer good advice. Those are their advantages. Their disadvantages are the same as the rest of mankind. They are human.” She gazed at the back of her right hand as though the action steadied her. “Our personal solicitor, the head of the firm, died recently. His accounts were, quite naturally, passed over to his successor. I was privy to this and agreed to it. What I
didn't
agree to was that the successor should handle our confidential matters without first consulting me.”

Victor was already one jump ahead. “And he found out about the Hogarth?”

“He did. Then, without realizing that I was in ignorance of its whereabouts, Mr. Graham Rundles came to see me about other matters and mentioned the Hogarth—and where it was.” She caught her breath, slowing down her speech to calm herself. “Suddenly I was in possession of information I didn't want. But worse was to follow. It transpired that the reckless Mr. Rundles had already passed this information onto my son.” Victor sighed as she continued. “Naturally I spoke to Simeon about it, but he shrugged off the whole matter and thought it was a joke.”

“No,” Victor said coldly. “It was never a joke.”

“I know. But he's young—and stupid in some ways,” Sonia replied, leaning forward slightly. “Simeon won't tell anyone. He won't deliberately break the confidence, but as I say, he's young, and people slip up. A man who's had too much to drink or a young man in love for the first time could brag about something to impress others. Simeon hasn't lived long enough to know how tough the world can be. This is knowledge my son should not have, Mr. Ballam. I believe from what little Oliver told me that the painting could be dangerous.”

“It's deadly.”

She flinched, surprised yet relieved by his bluntness.

“You did the right thing contacting me,” Victor went on. “I don't want to frighten you, but your son—in fact, anyone who knows the whereabouts of this painting—is in danger. I know this from personal experience. As did your husband.”

She held his gaze steadily.

“I lost my husband, Mr. Ballam. I can't lose my son. And certainly not because of a painting. If it's as influential as you say, why wasn't the Hogarth destroyed?”

“It's proof,” Victor explained. “It can never be revealed. And never made public. By the same token, it can never be destroyed. One day we might need it.”

“Why?”

“I would rather you didn't know that,” he answered. “Your son's only in danger because he knows where the painting is. So we must move it.”

“We must move it,” she repeated, nodding to herself. “Yes, but to where?”

“I'm not going tell you that.”

“So I—
we
—have to trust you?”

“Only with your lives. Now, what about Mr. Rundles? He hasn't mentioned any of this to anyone else, has he?”

“No. I was very angry and ordered him to keep it quiet. That no one—no one—must know anything about the Hogarth. I asked him if he'd spoken to anyone else in the firm, even his secretary. He said no, and I believe him. To be frank, I think I scared him into silence. Mr. Rundles doesn't want to lose this family's business; he can't afford to annoy me again. Or refuse to follow my instructions to the letter.”

Impressed, Victor nodded. “All you have to do is to tell me where the painting is now and I'll move it. After that, you—and your son—can forget all about the Hogarth. You can't tell anybody anything anyway, because you won't know anything. And you certainly won't know where it is.”

Frowning, Sonia studied the man sitting opposite her.

“But that puts you in danger, Mr. Ballam.
You
would then be the only person who knows where the painting is.” She sighed and said in a low voice, “You can refuse, you know. I'd understand. Until you just explained it to me, I didn't know how serious the matter was. Now I'm wondering if it's fair to put this burden on you.”

“A long time ago your husband stood up for me.”

“But he didn't risk his life for you. Or for your family,” she replied calmly, “So why should I expect that of you?”

“Because the Hogarth is my responsibility,” Victor replied. “I always knew it would come back to me. I'll be honest; when I first got involved, I wanted the painting for myself. It was to be my ticket back to the limelight.” He gave a wry smile. “I found it, then lost it, and in the end I passed off its fake, knowing that the real Hogarth was in your husband's hands and safe because of it.” Victor paused. “But in my gut I knew it wasn't over. That painting has a life, an energy, of its own. It's as if when Hogarth painted it, its message was so important that no one could keep it hidden forever.”

“But you're going to hide it?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And if someone finds it again?”

“They won't,” Victor said firmly. “Where it's going this time, no one will ever find it.”

She nodded, then reached into her bag and passed Victor a small padded envelope addressed to Simeon Peters.

“I was to pass this on to my son, but I decided not to. In light of our conversation, I believe I made the right decision, Mr. Ballam. I don't know what the package contains. I don't want to know. And, more particularly, I don't want my son to know.” Her gaze held Victor's defiantly. “My husband believed in honor, in serving his king and country, and he believed in duty. He was a fine man.” She paused before continuing. “But that was the difference between us—he was a
man
. I am a woman and a mother. My duty is to my children. They come first. Before country, before royalty, even before personal honor.”

Victor nodded. “I understand.”

“Thank you. I don't expect you to approve of my decision, Mr. Ballam, only to honor it.”

Sixty-Nine

T
HE HIDING PLACE WAS DECIDED BY
V
ICTOR AND
V
ICTOR ALONE.
H
E
had wondered if he should offer the Hogarth to the royal family, considering the dynastic questions its emergence would be sure to incite. Especially on the eve of the new king's coronation. But his initial requests to discuss the matter were met with rejection. Naturally Victor was not prepared to expose the story of the painting to any minion in the royal household, and his attempts to contact members of the senior royal staff were met with a rebuttal. His history went against him. Who, after all, would believe anything a proven fraudster said? Victor Ballam had a record. Wasn't he a known dealer in fakes?

He realized quickly that his intention to do right was going to be thwarted. He neither wanted nor dared to talk about the painting and its implications, knowing that even in discussing it he would be exposing it. Worse, if he had to go through courtiers, how many others would then hear about the painting's existence? What other nasty upsurge of interest might follow? What frenzied search for the living descendant? Because he
would
be searched for—and found eventually. And how inopportune with the coronation imminent. At such a time, the exposure of a royal bastard would be a social, political, and even economic disaster.