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Although, why she hadn’t told Tasha about taking the money, she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t said anything at the time, because she’d genuinely believed the money was from the sale of her paintings. But now it looked like the money was from the insurance payout, what was her justification for continuing to keep quiet? Perhaps it was because she didn’t want to fuel her sister’s hatred of her ex-husband. Or, more likely, she didn’t want to risk Tasha’s disappointment in her. Because however she tried to justify it, she’d broken the law. She was a thief. No better than Marcus … Well, marginally better than Marcus, but equally guilty. Would her sister forgive her if she came clean? Based on her reaction to Harriette’s betrayal, she wasn’t sure.
‘Tasha, calm down. I told Marcus to take a hike and I explained to the investigator that I had no knowledge of the insurance policy. I’m sure once he looks into it he’ll realise I’m telling the truth, and they’ll go after Marcus and not me.’
‘They bloody better had. If I ever get my hands on Marcus—’
‘Tash, let it go.’
‘But—’
‘Seriously, I’ve had enough. What with dealing with money problems, being investigated and then seeing Marcus again, I’m shattered. And I still haven’t sorted through the shipment from the Wentworth estate. I know you mean well, but can we please discuss this another time?’
Tasha sighed. ‘Fine.’ She didn’t look happy. ‘What do you need?’
‘Help me sort through the shipment, and then we’ll be free to eat cake, drink liqueur and make voodoo dolls of Marcus to stick pins into. Okay?’
‘My kind of evening. Lead the way.’
It was still light outside. The May sunshine was reluctant to call it a night, but Lexi flicked on the lights as they descended the stairs leading to the thermostatically controlled storage basement below the gallery. The chill tickled her skin. It was welcome after baking in a hot kitchen.
She caught the eye of the Woman at the Window propped on an easel and smiled. She’d relocated the painting after Marcus had visited. It was a shame not to display such a beautiful piece of art, but Lexi wasn’t taking any chances. The Italian temptress was staying out of harm’s way.
‘Remind me again whose paintings these are?’ Tasha tore off the protective wrapping from the crates.
‘Eleanor Wentworth.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘You wouldn’t have. She never sold anything during her lifetime. But she’s dead now and her daughter has asked me to evaluate her work. She’s also asked me to catalogue and value the art collection at Rubha Castle in Scotland.’
Tasha binned the discarded sheeting. ‘Are you going to accept?’
‘I wish I could. The castle is centuries old. I can only imagine the art they must’ve collected over the years. But how can I with everything that’s going on at the gallery? The business won’t repair itself. Especially not now Marcus is back on the scene.’
‘Even more reason to accept.’ Tasha used a Stanley knife to cut through the plastic safety strips. ‘Marcus is only back to cause trouble. My advice? Get as far away from his sorry arse as possible.’
‘What about the gallery?’
‘You have an assistant, don’t you? Ask Mel to cover while you’re away. She’s more than capable.’
It was true – Mel was proving to be a good investment. She was studying for an art degree and working part-time around her lectures. The university year had concluded, so maybe she’d be available to cover for a few weeks.
Tasha binned the plastic strapping. ‘The break’ll do you good. Whereabouts in Scotland is it?’
‘Somewhere deep in the Highlands.’
Tasha looked incredulous. ‘You’ve been offered an art gig in a castle in the Highlands and you’re not sure you want to go? Are you batshit crazy?’
Lexi laughed. ‘Maybe.’
‘There’s a fee involved, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the possibility of further commission if they decide to sell any of the collection?’
‘I guess.’
‘Then it’s a no-brainer. Take the job and go up to Scotland. Mel and I can run the gallery. And you can focus on forgetting about Scumbag and the investigators hounding you for money.’
‘You’d do that for me?’
Tasha jimmied off a crate lid. ‘Like you even have to ask.’
Could she accept? It certainly sounded like the dream commission. And she’d never been to Scotland. Marcus had insisted they holiday at the villa in Spain.
‘So you think I should go?’
‘As long as you promise not to run off with a Gerard Butler lookalike because you’ve been enticed by what’s under his kilt.’
Lexi laughed. ‘That I can promise. I’m off men for good.’
Tasha grimaced. ‘God, me too.’
‘Idiot.’ She kissed her sister’s cheek. ‘I’ll give it some serious consideration.’
‘Good.’ Tasha removed the bubble wrap from the crate. ‘Right, what have we got?’
Lexi lifted a canvas and held it up.
It was a portrait of a middle-aged man leaning against a large ornate desk. He looked relaxed, his pale eyes smiling over the top of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with such tenderness it spoke volumes about the relationship between artist and subject. All the paintings were reputedly of similar style, portraits of the Earl of Horsley’s family at various stages of their lives. The paintings had struck a chord with Lexi, which is why she’d agreed to exhibit the work when she’d seen the photos.
As well as specialising in replicas, she occasionally freelanced for a few museums and private collectors helping to value and catalogue their work. She’d also started mentoring new up-and-coming artists, wanting to diversify her collection. The combination of collecting copies of the masters along with discovering new talent was proving an exciting development.
She angled the painting so her sister could see it. ‘What do you think?’
Tasha tilted her head. ‘Fine, if you like family portraits. Too elitist for my liking.’
‘Maybe, but I like the contrast between conventionality and intimacy.’
Tasha shrugged. ‘Still looks like some posh git with too much money to me.’
Lexi replaced the painting. ‘Philistine.’
‘Excuse me? I have a degree in fine art.’
‘I know, I was there, remember?’
‘Just because I choose skin as my canvas, doesn’t mean it’s not art.’
‘I agree.’
Tasha was by far the more talented sister. With a shared love of art and an unwillingness to be separated, they’d both won places at Oxford Brookes to study fine art. But whereas Lexi had gone on to study for an MA at The Courtauld Institute in London so she could focus on evaluating and selling art, Tasha had attended the Tattoo Training Academy in Essex. The result was two slightly unconventional outcomes but two highly successful businesses … Well, one successful business and Lexi desperately trying to hang on to the other, thanks to her cheating ex-husband.
Tasha frowned. ‘Hang on. There are twenty paintings here, but only nineteen listed.’
Lexi checked the list. ‘That’s strange. If I go through them, can you check for the corresponding listing on the inventory?’
‘Sure.’ Tasha picked up a pen. ‘Fire away.’
‘Okay. So we know the first painting is the middle-aged man.’ Lexi placed it to one side. ‘The second painting is a child’s portrait.’ She viewed the reverse of the canvas. ‘Thomas Elliott-Wentworth, aged nine, garden scene, fifteen-inch dark wood frame.’
Tasha made a note.
Lexi systematically went through each painting, casting her eye over the quality of the work. The more she saw, the more she warmed to the artist. The intimacy of the poses, the awkwardness of the human form had been captured perfectly.
Tasha ticked off each painting as she went through the collection. ‘That’s everything on the list.’
Only one remained.
Lexi picked up the last painting. ‘This must be our stowaway.’
After removing the protective sheet, she placed the nineteen-inch frame on an easel and stood back to look.
When Tasha swore, she knew she wasn’t the only one startled by what had been uncovered. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Finally, Tasha came over. ‘Is that Renaissance?’
‘Looks like it.’
Tasha let out a slow whistle. ‘It has to be a fake, right?’
Logically, Lexi would have to agree. The chances of it being genuine were almost non-existent and yet every artistic instinct she possessed screamed that it wasn’t.
‘Can you tell if it’s real?’
‘Perhaps, but I’d have to carry out a series of tests. I’d need the owner’s permission.’
‘What’s your gut telling you?’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to make a quick assessment.’ Lexi tried to switch off the art fanatic in her and view the painting through critical eyes. ‘The frame clearly isn’t as old as the canvas, so it’s been replaced,’ she said, pointing to the main body of the painting. ‘In contrast, the canvas has evidence of multiple repairs and restoration, which is hard to fake.’
She searched out her magnifying glass and ultraviolet fluorescent wand. After switching off the lights, she waved the purple light over the painting, her skin prickling with nervous excitement. ‘There’s an intricate pattern of spiderweb cracks covering the surface.’
‘So we know it’s old.’
Lexi’s pulse quickened. ‘Really old. Look at the long, confident brushstrokes. Most fakes are revealed by a sense of hesitation, an effort to replicate rather than create.’ She studied the canvas through the magnifying glass.
Tasha peered closer. ‘What do you see?’
‘Shiny pigments, indicating the use of lead whites, and possible traces of azurite and smalt infused in the paint during the 1600s.’ She pointed to the detailing on the cloth around the old man’s neck. ‘Can you see the way the minerals dance on the surface, like the sun sparkling off the ocean?’
‘Very poetic.’
Lexi switched the lights back on. ‘Judging by the thickness of paint and swirling brushstrokes, the paint has been applied with a palette knife instead of a brush.’ She handed Tasha the magnifying glass. ‘The style is very distinctive.’
Tasha studied the canvas through the magnifying glass. ‘So if this is a fake, then whoever painted it really knew their stuff.’
‘A master in his or her own right. Without further lab tests on the paint I couldn’t be sure, but they don’t appear to have made a single obvious mistake.’
They both descended into silence. It was Tasha who broke it.
‘So, this is either a really good forgery …’
‘Or it’s an original Albrico Spinelli.’
Tasha let out a low whistle. ‘Fuck me!’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_2cca0cae-a90c-53e6-b601-aef2ac1de0d2)
Wednesday 30th May
Less than two hours after receiving the news that the forged Spinelli had already been packed up and sent to a gallery in Windsor, Olly had boarded the overnight sleeper and was now heading out of London, bound for Berkshire. If he’d had more time he could have formulated a better plan, one that didn’t involve him running out on his injured sister. But he’d been forced into a knee-jerk response.
Having grabbed an overnight bag, he’d given Louisa the lame excuse of ‘needing to see Sophie urgently’ as explanation for leaving her and bolted from the castle. Her tearful concerns that he wouldn’t return had nearly been his undoing. Thankfully, Harry had arrived back from his business trip and the distraction of being reunited with her husband had diverted Louisa’s attentions, allowing Olly to escape.
Although how he planned to deal with the problem in hand, he didn’t know. But he had bigger things to worry about. Like where he was going to sleep tonight.
He hadn’t realised Sophie was staying with friends in Central London. So not only was his lie already unravelling, but he also had no place to stay. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a key?
He could have called Sophie and begged her to return. But then he’d have to explain why he was in Windsor, and Sophie was a lot more astute than Louisa and harder to fob off. It was better she didn’t know.
Besides, she wouldn’t thank him for ruining her social life. She was probably partying at some swanky venue with one of the numerous men she dated but that no one ever met. Sophie kept her family and friends separate. Having done the same, he could hardly complain.
It was late afternoon by the time he walked up the hill to where Windsor Castle sat proudly overlooking the town centre. It was a far cry from the rustic and remote Rubha Castle – the epitome of a royal residence, with its manicured lawns and troops of guards wearing impressive red coats and busby hats, proudly protecting the crown. Hordes of tourists mingled outside, snapping photos and trying to get the unresponsive guards to smile.
He checked his directions and walked past the statue of Queen Victoria. He found himself in the old medieval area of the town, the lanes narrow and cobbled. The crooked houses either side dated back to the 1600s, but they’d all been converted into souvenir shops, cafés and taverns. But it was the dwellings ahead that drew his attention.
Tainted Love Tattoos looked classy and discerning, with a neon sign that glowed in the window advertising ‘Room to Let’. Handy.
Of course, the place of real interest was next door: Ryan Fine Arts.
Now he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. If it were any other painting he’d simply walk in there, introduce himself, explain that there’d been a mix-up and ask for the painting to be returned. But it wasn’t any old painting.
According to the website, the owner of Ryan Fine Arts had a degree in the history of art. There was no way she wouldn’t recognise a Spinelli. The Cursed Man had been missing for nearly three hundred years, so if it suddenly turned up now it would be a huge deal. News that the family who’d sold The Sacrificial Woman were found to be in possession of its sister painting would hit the headlines. Especially if that painting turned out to be fake. The French buyer of the first painting would probably sue, the Wentworth family would lose both properties, his parents would be labelled crooks, his siblings shamed and four hundred years of family history would be wiped out.
The secret he’d spent the last decade running away from would be exposed.
