Nothing Ventured(52)
When he left Beth that morning, he’d promised to be back in time for supper.
“With all six Syndics safely in the back of the van,” she teased.
Conscious of the painting in the back, William never exceeded the speed limit. He’d been warned by Lamont that if it wasn’t returned in perfect condition, Mr. Booth Watson QC would be demanding compensation for his client before the end of the week.
When he reached the picturesque village of Limpton in Hampshire, it wasn’t difficult to work out where the Faulkners lived. Limpton Hall stood proudly on a hill that dominated the landscape. William followed a sign that took him along a winding country lane for another couple of miles, before he came to a halt outside a pair of iron gates, stone pillars surmounted by crouching lions on either side.
He got out of the car and walked up to the gates to find two buzzers nestled in the wall. One had a brass plaque reading LIMPTON HALL, and another below, TRADESMEN. He pressed the top button and immediately regretted his decision, as he might have had a better chance of getting inside the house if he’d pressed Tradesmen. A voice on the intercom demanded, “Who is it?”
“I have a special delivery for Mr. Faulkner.”
William held his breath, and to his surprise the gates swung open.
He drove slowly, admiring the centuries-old oaks that lined the long drive as he considered the next part of his plan. Eventually he pulled up in front of a house that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Country Life.
The front door was opened by a tall slim man dressed in a black tailcoat and pinstriped trousers. He looked at William as if he’d come to the wrong entrance. Two younger men came scurrying down the steps and quickly made their way to the back of the van. Time to consider Plan B.
William opened the back door of the van, and picked up a clipboard, while the two young men lifted the crate carefully out, carried the painting up the steps, and propped it against a wall in the hall. The butler was closing the door, when William said in an authoritative voice that he hoped sounded like his father’s, “I need a signature before I can release the package.”
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the door had been slammed in his face. But the butler reluctantly took a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket. Time for plan C.
“I’m sorry, but the release form has to be signed by Mr. Faulkner,” said William, placing a foot inside the door like a door-to-door salesman. If the butler had said take it or leave it, he would have had to take it and leave without another word.
“Will Mrs. Faulkner do?” asked a voice in the background.
An elegant, middle-aged woman appeared in the hallway. She was wearing a red silk dressing gown that emphasized her graceful figure. Did the rich, as Fred Yates had often suggested, not get up before ten in the morning? However, it was her raven-black hair, tanned skin, and air of quiet authority that left him in no doubt she was the mistress of the house.
She signed the form, and William was about to leave when she said, “Thank you, Mr.—”
“Warwick, William Warwick,” he replied, breaking his rule of trying not to sound like a public schoolboy.
“I’m Christina Faulkner. Do you have time to join me for a coffee, Mr. Warwick?”
William didn’t hesitate, although it wasn’t part A, B, or C of his plan. “Thank you,” he said.
“Coffee in the drawing room, Makins,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “And when the painting has been unpacked, I’d like it rehung.”
“Yes, of course, madam.”
“Miles will be so pleased to see the picture back in place when he eventually returns,” said Mrs. Faulkner, emphasizing the word “eventually,” as she led William into the drawing room.
William couldn’t take his eyes off the magnificent paintings that adorned every wall. Miles Faulkner may have been a crook, but he was without question a crook with taste. The Sisley, Sickert, Matisse, and Pissarro would have graced any collection, but William’s gaze settled on a small still life of oranges in a bowl, by an artist he hadn’t come across before.
“Fernando Botero,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “A fellow countryman, who, like myself, escaped from Colombia at a young age,” she added as the butler appeared carrying a tray of coffee and a selection of biscuits.
William sat down and looked at a large empty space above the mantelpiece where the copy of the Rembrandt must have hung. The butler placed the tray on an antique coffee table William thought he recognized, but was distracted when the two young men entered the room carrying the painting.
The butler took charge of the hanging, and once the picture was back in place, he gave Mrs. Faulkner a slight bow before discreetly leaving.
“Am I right in thinking,” said Mrs. Faulkner as she poured her guest a coffee, “that you are a detective, Mr. Warwick?”
“Yes, I am,” William replied, without adding, but not a very experienced one.
“Then I wonder if I might seek your advice on a personal matter?” she said, crossing her legs.
William stopped staring at The Syndics and turned to face his hostess. “Yes, of course,” he managed.
“But before I do, I need to be sure I can rely on your discretion.”
“Of course,” he repeated.
“I need the services of a private detective. Someone who’s discreet, professional, and more important, can be trusted.”