The Hogarth Conspiracy (8 page)

S
UNDAY.
C
ITY BELLS WERE RINGING IN CHURCHES ALL OVER
L
ONDON.
Opulent bells on the Brompton Oratory, middle-class bells in middle-class postal codes, cheaper bells in the East End. Bells cracked by centuries, bells replaced, bells with clangers that had sounded every Sunday through outbreaks of war and coronations, Royal births and—every weekend—vicars' romps reported in the
People
newspaper. Rocking echoes of the call to worship clipped past the closed bars and clubs, the parked cars, and the Landseer lions in Trafalgar Square. Worn irritable by the asses of countless tourists, the lions remained fixed as ever, staring at the entrance doors of the National Gallery and the shuttlecock flippancy of the Sainsbury Wing.

Having spent the early morning walking around the center of London, Victor finally returned to his car and drove to the address he had been given in Mayfair. After coming within a hair's breadth of a nervous breakdown, Victor had slowly climbed back, and two weeks later he was unexpectedly approached by an old colleague, Arnold Fletcher. A historian and dealer with a paranoid desire for privacy, Fletcher was regarded as an oddity; his overweight and shambolic appearance disguised an impressive intellect, but no one really knew Arnold Fletcher or where and how he had accrued his erudition and contacts. He had simply appeared twenty years earlier, apparently having been living abroad, sliding into the art world like a plump gray eel.

And it was this unlikely savior who, having heard that Victor was out of prison and needing work, pointed him toward 96 Park Street.

“It's a job that might be up your alley.”

“Thanks. I need to make some money.”

“Look, Ballam, it's a whorehouse,” Arnold had said, obviously on edge, “so you have to be very discreet. The madam wants someone to do some asking around for her.”

“I can do that.”

“Yes, well, I wish you luck—and not a word about me, hey?”

“Not a word, Arnold.”

“It could be difficult.”

Victor had hurried to reassure him, grateful for the work. “I won't say a word. Trust me.”

Ninety-six Park Street was an unobtrusive white-painted townhouse on four floors, its walls morose with ivy and creeper, its windows shuttered. Ringing the anonymous doorbell, he waited, surprised when he was buzzed in without having to identify himself.

“Third floor,” said a woman's voice, and the intercom clicked off.

In the silence, Victor climbed the stairs. A shadow fell from above as the figure of a woman moved out onto the landing to greet him.

“You're very punctual,” she said, putting out her hand and shaking his. “I'm Charlene Fleet.”

If Victor had seen her at a traffic light, he would have imagined her to be an attractive mother in her midthirties, driving her offspring to school. Well groomed but not flashy or obvious. A doctor's wife, maybe, or herself a lawyer in her well-cut pantsuit. Her hair was blond but not highlighted, her makeup faultless, her lipstick muted. A professional woman certainly. But a professional madam?

Mrs. Fleet showed him into her office, where a bull mastiff lay asleep beside her desk. She sat down and crossed her legs, and, seeing her face in the light from the window, Victor now judged her nearer forty than thirty. But nothing about her or her surroundings betrayed her profession.

“You were recommended to me,” she said easily, her voice soft and accentless. “I have a problem that concerns my girls, and I believe you can help me. As you know, it was Arnold Fletcher who recommended you.”

Victor nodded.

“Of course,” Mrs. Fleet went on, “everything said between us is in strictest confidence.”

“Of course.”

“Mr. Fletcher is a client of mine, and when I confided a little of my problem, he said you'd be the person to talk to.”

Victor was surprised but didn't show it. “Did he tell you anything about me?”

“He told me that you've served a prison term for fraud and your reputation's all but gone. He said no one would give you the time of day now, not in the respectable world, anyway.”

“Did he say anything bad?”

She smiled, apparently amused.

“I'm afraid you're now in my moral postal code, Mr. Ballam. Life can be very comfortable here—if you make the most of it. Mr. Fletcher said that having been an art dealer, you—”

“I'm
still
an art dealer.”

“But not trading.”

“Not at the moment.”

“I apologize if I've hit a nerve, Mr. Ballam. I understand that a change in circumstances takes some getting used to for anyone.”

Her manner was sympathetic. Everything was there—the tone of voice, the right expression, the implied shared experience—but instinctively he was on his guard with her and responded cautiously.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Fleet?”

“Bernie Freeland hired three of my best girls. They went to Hong Kong with him for a conference and returned to London with him in his private plane. One of the girls—Marian Miller—was murdered later that evening in her hotel room at Heathrow.” Her voice never wavered. “I'm giving you just the bare bones of the story, Mr. Ballam; I can fill in any details later. Because of a canceled flight, Mr. Freeland had kindly given a lift to three other art dealers: Lim Chang, Kit Wilkes, and Sir Oliver Peters.”

“Mixed bunch.”

“You know them?”

“I know
of
them, and I've done business with Sir Oliver Peters in the past. He's an honorable man.”

She nodded, then continued. “I want to know who killed Marian Miller. Murder is bad for my business. For the clients, for the girls, and of course for me. I need to know who killed my employee.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “What do the police think?”

“That it was probably a client.”

“Did she have a client that evening?”

“Yes, Sergei Ivanovitch.”

“Do you know him?”

“No. He was a new client.”

“He just rang you out of the blue?”

“He was recommended to me,” Mrs. Fleet said evenly. “By another dealer.”

“So this Ivanovitch was a dealer?”

“So he said.”

“Where?”

“Russia. In Moscow. He said he deals in nineteenth-century European art.”

“Who recommended him?”

“I can't tell you that,” she said, almost amused. “Client confidentiality is everything in this business.”

“Even if someone recommends a murderer?”

“The person who recommended Mr. Ivanovitch is a respectable—”

“But you didn't meet Mr. Ivanovitch yourself?” Victor persisted, cutting in.

“No; it was arranged over the phone. As is most of our business. That's why my employees are referred to as
call
girls.”

Victor ignored the barb and pressed on. “Even if you won't tell me, the police will want to know who he is.”

“Oh, they knew Marian Miller was one of my girls, but I haven't told the police that Mr. Ivanovitch was recommended by anyone.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it. The police rang the telephone number Mr. Ivanovitch gave me and had his address checked out, but they were false.” She paused, her tone confident. “I know how to handle the police, Mr. Ballam. We get along nicely, have for years.”

Victor smiled wryly. “So Mr. Ivanovitch is the chief suspect?”

“At the moment. But personally I don't think he's involved. Most new clients give us false contact numbers and addresses until they trust us, but to begin with they don't. Why should they? They have a lot to lose.”

“It seems your girls have more to lose.”

She let the comment pass.

“There's a good deal more to all of this, Mr. Ballam. The flight on Bernie Freeland's jet was uneventful until just before landing. Bernie apparently had his drink spiked—”

“Bernie Freeland was drinking? That's out of character.”

“He was only drinking tonic water until someone put something in it, and then he reacted very oddly, panicking and mumbling to Oliver Peters about some Hogarth painting. The one with the Prince of Wales depicted.”

Victor kept his face expressionless as she continued.

“It's valuable, obviously, and scandalous. Dangerous even.” She paused. “Marian Miller overheard the exchange between Bernie and Sir Oliver Peters.”

“She told you that?”

“Naturally.”

“What about the other dealers on the plane? Did they hear?”

She shrugged. “That's something Marian didn't know.”

“Did the other girls overhear what was said?”

“Only Marian admitted to it,” Mrs. Fleet replied. “As to the others, I don't know, but since Marian's death they've both been jumpy.”

“How was she killed?”

“Bludgeoned. The police found thirty pieces of silver with her body. Russian rubles.”

“Russian rubles—bit obvious, but it points the finger at Ivanovitch.”

“Too obvious,” Mrs. Fleet said smoothly. “Of course the police didn't tell me about the coins; the chambermaid did. I later found out from other sources that Marian Miller was pregnant.”

“So what's the relevance of the thirty pieces of silver?”

Mrs. Fleet smiled chillingly. “Do you think there's a point to the coins?”

“Thirty pieces of silver was what they paid Judas for betraying Christ,” Victor replied. “Did Marian Miller betray someone?”

“That's what I want you to discover, Mr. Ballam: why Marian Miller was murdered, why she
needed
to be killed. Someone reacted very quickly and very brutally within hours of her returning to London. Why?”

“Because of what she overheard on the plane journey, perhaps.”

“I think so.”

It was now eleven-thirty on a cold Sunday morning, but Mrs. Fleet rose and poured them each a glass of white wine from her office fridge. The sleeping mastiff suddenly raised his head from his paws, glanced over to Victor, and snarled softly. Mrs. Fleet's reaction was immediate. Clicking her fingers at the dog, she watched as the animal dropped its head again, showing the whites of its eyes. It was patently afraid of her, and her own expression was fleetingly triumphant.

Unsettled, Victor pressed on. “You think Marian Miller was killed because she knew about the Hogarth?”

“I'm not sure; that's why I needed to talk to you. You're the art expert. What's your opinion?”

Victor paused as though he were thinking, but in reality he was wondering how much to tell the implacable Mrs. Fleet. He suspected that she already realized the tremendous impact the work would have on the art market. His dealer's instinct heightened, he stared into his wine. He had grabbed at the chance of work, knowing he would have taken on anything to occupy his mind and shoehorn himself back into normal life. But he hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected to be told about a painting that had such a huge cult reputation. For one scintillating moment he imagined possessing the Hogarth himself.

And then he realized just how dangerous the Hogarth might prove to be if it really
was
authentic.

“The Hogarth would be worth a fortune,” Victor said finally. “It would also be a great triumph for its owner.”

“Worth killing for?”

“People kill for loose change.”

“Neither of us deals in loose change, Mr. Ballam,” she said, her tone suspiciously soft. “I had three girls working that flight. Marian's been butchered. Liza Frith and Annette Dvorski believe they might be next.”

“I don't suppose you've talked to the police about the painting.”

She looked at him and then ran her finger down the condensation on her glass. “Let them continue to think Marian was killed by some john.”

“The mysterious Sergei Ivanovitch.”

She nodded. “I run an exclusive whorehouse. I can't risk my clients being investigated and exposed. You don't use call girls, do you, Mr. Ballam? You wouldn't have to. You're attractive; you don't have to pay for it. But some men do. And some men want things only a working girl will do for them. Some hate their wives or don't have time for relationships. Others can't get a woman because they're ugly, or shy, or they can't get it up. There are men who want to be humiliated and degraded in every way physically possible, and everything they want, we give them. For a fee.”

He held her gaze as she talked on.

“There's a recession on. In Germany the brothels are offering discounts for clients who arrive on their bikes. Yes, seriously.” Her laugh was short on mirth. “But I don't have any problem keeping my girls busy. The art world provides my best customers. Some dealers use us as a bribe, an extra to sweeten a deal, and who can blame them? If a buyer is reluctant, a weekend with one of my girls could be the deciding factor. In the art world, the flesh and the Devil are close runners.”

“Annette Dvorski is a foreign name.”

She blinked, wrong-footed.

“Are you asking me if I'm using illegal immigrants?”

“Are you?”

“No, Mr. Ballam. Annette came to London to study, then decided that she preferred to make money horizontally. My girls are never forced into prostitution; they are all at the top of their game, hired for their looks
and
their brains. They aren't—or ever will be—King's Cross whores.”

“Do they work for you exclusively?”

“Absolutely. If I catch a girl working for anyone else, she's fired.”

“Without references?”

“I'm sorry you don't approve of me, Mr. Ballam, but you're hardly one to sit in judgment.”

The barb found its mark.

“So if you won't confide in the police,” Victor said evenly, “what d'you expect me to do?”

“Let me make myself clear. I am very rich, and I have power because of my influential connections. My client list relies on my discretion to protect them.”