For Van Gogh addicts, Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear was the ultimate high. Although the maestro painted thirty-five self-portraits during his lifetime, he attempted only two after cutting off his left ear. What made this particular work so desirable for any serious collector was that the other one was on display at the Courtauld Institute in London. Anna was becoming more and more anxious about just how far Fenston would be willing to go in order to possess the only other example.
Anna spent a pleasant ten days at Wentworth Hall cataloguing and valuing the family’s collection. When she returned to New York, she advised the board — mainly made up of Fenston’s cronies or politicians who were only too happy to accept a handout — that should a sale ever prove necessary, the assets would more than cover the bank’s loan of thirty million dollars.
Although Anna had no interest in Victoria Wentworth’s reasons for needing such a large sum of money, she often heard Victoria speak of the sadness of “dear Papa’s” premature death, the retirement of their trusted estates manager, and the iniquity of 40 percent death duties during her stay at Wentworth Hall. “If only Arabella had been born a few moments earlier...” was one of Victoria’s favourite mantras.
Once she was back in New York, Anna could recall every painting and sculpture in Victoria’s collection without having to refer to any paperwork. The one gift that set her apart from her contemporaries at Penn, and her colleagues at Sotheby’s, was a photographic memory. Once Anna had seen a painting, she would never forget the image, its provenance, or its location. Every Sunday she would idly put her skill to the test by visiting a new gallery or a room at the Met, or simply by studying the latest catalogue raisonné. On returning to her apartment, she would write down the name of every painting she had seen before checking it against the different catalogues. Since leaving university, Anna had added the Louvre, the Prado, and the Uffizi, as well as the National Gallery in Washington, the Phillips Collection, and the Getty Museum, to her memory bank. Thirty-seven private collections and countless catalogues were also stored in the database of her brain, an asset Fenston had proved willing to pay over the odds for.
Anna’s responsibility did not go beyond valuing the collections of potential clients and then submitting written reports for the board’s consideration. She never became involved in the drawing up of any contract. That was exclusively in the hands of the bank’s in-house lawyer, Karl Leapman. However, Victoria did let slip on one occasion that the bank was charging her 16 percent compound interest. Anna had quickly become aware that a combination of debt, naïveté, and a lack of any financial, expertise were the ingredients on which Fenston Finance thrived. This was a bank that seemed to relish its customers’ inability to repay their debts.
Anna lengthened her stride as she passed by the carousel. She checked her watch — off twelve seconds. She frowned, but at least no one had overtaken her. Her thoughts returned to the Wentworth collection and the recommendation she would be making to Fenston that morning. Anna had decided she would have to resign if the chairman felt unable to accept her advice, despite the fact that she had worked for the company for less than a year and was painfully aware that she still couldn’t hope to get a job at Sotheby’s or Christie’s.
During the past year, she had learnt to live with Fenston’s vanity and even tolerate the occasional outburst when he didn’t get his own way, but she could not condone misleading a client, especially one as naïve as Victoria Wentworth. Leaving Fenston Finance after such a short time might not look good on her résumé, but an ongoing fraud investigation would look a lot worse.
5
“When will we find out if she’s dead?” asked Leapman, as he sipped his coffee.
“I’m expecting confirmation this morning,” Fenston replied.
“Good, because I’ll need to be in touch with her lawyer to remind him—” he paused “—that in the case of a suspicious death—” he paused a second time “—any settlement reverts to the jurisdiction of the New York State Bar.”
“Strange that none of them ever query that clause in the contract,” said Fenston, buttering another muffin.
“Why should they?” asked Leapman. “After all, they have no way of knowing that they’re about to die.”
“And is there any reason for the police to become suspicious about our involvement?”
“No,” replied Leapman. “You’ve never met Victoria Wentworth, you didn’t sign the original contract, and you haven’t even seen the painting.”
“No one has outside the Wentworth family and Petrescu,” Fenston reminded him. “But what I still need to know is how much time before I can safely—”
“Hard to say, but it could be years before the police are willing to admit they don’t even have a suspect, especially in such a high-profile case.”
“A couple of years will be quite enough,” said Fenston. “By then, the interest on the loan will be more than enough to ensure that I can hold on to the Van Gogh and sell off the rest of the collection without losing any of my original investment.”
“Then it’s a good thing that I read Petrescu’s report when I did,” said Leapman, “because if she’d gone along with Petrescu’s recommendation, there would have been nothing we could do about it.”
“Agreed,” said Fenston, “but now we have to find some way of losing Petrescu.”
A thin smile appeared on Leapman’s lips. “That’s easy enough,” he said, “we play on her one weakness.”
“And that is?” asked Fenston.
“Her honesty.”
Arabella sat alone in the drawing room, unable to take in what was happening all around her. A cup of Earl Grey tea on the table beside her had gone cold, but she hadn’t noticed. The loudest noise in the room was the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. Time had stopped for Arabella.
Several police cars and an ambulance were parked on the gravel outside. People going about their business dressed in uniforms, white coats, dark suits, and even face masks came and went without bothering her.
There was a gentle tap on the door. Arabella looked up to see an old friend standing in the doorway. The chief superintendent removed a peaked cap covered in silver braid as he entered the room. Arabella rose from the sofa, her face ashen, her eyes red from crying. The tall man bent down and kissed her gently on both cheeks and then waited for her to sit back down before he took his place in the leather wing chair opposite her. Stephen Renton offered his condolences, which were genuine; he’d known Victoria for many years.
Arabella thanked him, sat up straight, and asked quietly, “Who could have done such a terrible thing, especially to someone as innocent as Victoria?”
“There doesn’t seem to be a simple or logical answer to that question,” the chief superintendent replied. “And it doesn’t help that it was several hours before her body was discovered, allowing the assailant more than enough time to get clean away.” He paused. “Do you feel up to answering some questions, my dear?”
Arabella gave a nod. “I’ll do anything I can to help you track down the assailant.” She repeated the word with venom.
“Normally, the first question I would ask in any murder inquiry is do you know if your sister had any enemies, but I confess that knowing her as I did that doesn’t seem possible. However, I must ask if you were aware of any problems Victoria might have been facing, because—” he hesitated “—there have been rumors in the village for some time that following your father’s death, your sister was left with considerable debts.”