A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(107)
“Open those drapes,” I directed, moving toward the paneled wall I had admired during our last visit. Then I had been distracted by the craftsmanship and artistry, but this time I was entirely focused on the construction.
Late-afternoon sunlight flooded the room as Anderley threw open the drapes across the massive southern-facing window. With the stage now set, I gestured toward the panels with a theatrical flourish. “Hidden in plain sight.” I arched my eyebrows as Gage continued to stand immobile and then turned to examine the wood, trusting he would soon apprehend. Lightly, I ran my fingers over the grooves in the panels, searching for a mechanism like the one that had opened the closet in Mr. MacCowan’s bedchamber.
“Of course,” Gage exclaimed behind me and then hurried forward to assist me.
I grinned at his evident excitement.
Soon all four of us were studying the grooves and joints, kneeling and rising on our tiptoes to inspect every inch, but it was Henry who found first one mechanism and then another just above it, opening both with loud snicks. We slowly backed away as the panels swung outward like two massive doors. It was a false wall. One concealing two feet of extra space. And on the real wall behind it hung about a dozen paintings.
I gasped, pressing my hands to my mouth as goose bumps rose across my entire body. I couldn’t help it, for before me hung a stunning array of masterpieces. There was the Titian, and there the Van Dyck. The Gainsborough, van Ruisdael, Zoffanys, and all the others, plus two more I had missed.
“Well done, my clever darling,” Gage declared, draping his arm around me to pull me to his side and dropping a kiss to my hair. “I take it these are the originals.”
Barely able to tear my gaze away from the display before me, I peered sideways at him long enough to note the amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Yes!” I gestured toward the brilliance before us. “Can’t you tell?”
“Only through your eyes. And Anderley’s.”
I darted a glance at the valet, finding him similarly transfixed. At least I wasn’t the only one.
“So, Alisdair didn’t sell them,” Henry summarized needlessly. “He kept them.”
“Yes, his own private collection.” A furrow formed in my brow. “Which means his motivation wasn’t greed.”
“Envy, then?” Gage suggested. “Or revenge?”
I frowned, puzzling over what I knew of the youngest brother of the marquess. “Or maybe it was greed. But not of money.”
“Of beauty,” Anderley finished for me.
I turned to meet his gaze, seeing that he understood the same thing I did. “He wanted these works of art for his own, but Barbreck held the title and the money. The only way he could possess them was through trickery.”
I looked up at the wall, my eyes seeking out the Titian. And from what we knew, it had all started with this work by the renowned Venetian artist, which was supposed to go to Sir James Campbell of Poltalloch.
I ruminated on that first forgery, wondering at his audacity. When it had been discovered, what had he thought? Had he been surprised his brother had defended him so stringently, or had he expected it? Had he felt guilty Barbreck had broken his engagement because of him? Or had that been his intention? Or if not his intention, then a pleasing consequence.
As for Signor Pellegrini, I supposed we might never know what his motivations were. Perhaps Alisdair had paid him—in money or in kind. Or perhaps as a frustrated artist who had been forced to resort to painting mediocre murals to make his living, the reward had been seeing his works hung in such a grand place as Barbreck Manor’s long gallery alongside other masterpieces. He may have seen this as a sort of vindication and proof of his genius, as well as the unfairness of the powers that be who may have judged his other work unworthy. Maybe it was both.
Turning my back on the paintings, I crossed to the window, peering out at the rugged Argyll scenery and ruminating further on what Anderley and I had concluded about Lord Alisdair. He had coveted beauty. In art, yes. But what about also in women?
I thought of the lady Miss Ferguson had remembered visiting Lord Alisdair. How she’d seemed anxious to hide her identity by wearing cloaks, of all things. If she’d visited him often, then she must have lived nearby, and there were a small number of ladies residing in this part of Argyll.
Could Alisdair have coveted his brother’s fiancée? And what of Miss Campbell? Would she have willingly taken up with the man who had attempted to swindle her father and wrecked her engagement?
Maybe if Alisdair had admitted the truth. If he’d apologized and expressed remorse. After all, Barbreck was ultimately responsible for his decision to end the engagement. I was certain Miss Campbell would have seen it that way. But I wasn’t as certain that the lady I had come to know would have accepted such a relationship, whether as his lover or business associate. Yes, love and hate could be powerful motivators, but Miss Campbell, in her own way, was just as prideful as Barbreck, and I struggled to see her in either role.
Gage joined me at the window. “You’ve thought of something,” he stated, his eyes sharp with concern. He knew me too well. “What is it?”
The words to theorize a bitter betrayal formed on my tongue, but I swallowed them back, shaking my head. I wasn’t ready to share such a nasty suspicion. Not without further contemplation, without further proof. But for the moment I focused my thoughts on the next step.