A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(27)
I turned toward the sunshine streaming through the narrow window, contemplating Barbreck’s deceased brother. Much of this mystery seemed to center on him, and yet I knew little about him. Was it possible he’d been duped by an unscrupulous dealer? Had he even used one, or had he obtained the artwork and antiquities he’d brought back to England by another method? A dozen questions sprang to mind about Lord Alisdair Mallery, most of which would have to be directed to Barbreck, but there was one or two I could put to Miss Campbell.
“Did Lord Alisdair acquire the painting in question specifically for your father?”
“Father had expressed his interest in procurin’ a Titian,” she said. “Told him that if he found one that could be had for a good price, he would pay him a handsome finder’s fee.”
That certainly made it sound like the painting had come directly to them, leaving no time for it to have been swapped or forged after its arrival in Argyll, and yet that fleck of paint bothered me.
I tilted my head, frowning at the ceiling. “Do you know how that chip of paint came off the portrait?”
Miss Campbell stiffened. “We didna damage it on purpose, if that’s what yer implying.”
“No, no. That’s not what I meant. It’s only . . .” I heaved a sigh, trying to find the right words to explain myself. “Paint shouldn’t flake off like that. Not unless the canvas has been improperly treated, but we can see from the underlayers of paint that’s not the case. Is it possible someone’s hand slipped, and it was jarred or dropped while it was being carried? I’m simply trying to ascertain the viscosity of the paint, which could tell me when that overlayer might have been painted.”
The angry glint in her eyes faded, but her demeanor did not relax. “I dinna recall the painting bein’ mishandled, even accidentally,” she answered crisply before glancing at her sister, who shook her head.
“I didna even see it until it was already hung.” There was an odd note in Miss Margaret’s voice I couldn’t quite identify. Wistfulness, perhaps. Given her skill with embroidery, perhaps the artist in her wished the Titian had been real.
Regardless, I was far from satisfied with their answers, and uncertain whether I believed them. If the painting had been unintentionally damaged while it was being examined, that would tell me one thing, but if the overpaint had flaked off without human assistance, that could indicate something else. Without a definitive answer, that line of inquiry was impossible to follow.
“What of Lord Alisdair himself?” Gage asked, relaxing a bit deeper into the settee cushions. “He must still have been a rather young man at that point. Yet Barbreck and your father trusted him to acquire expensive pieces of art. Was he so trustworthy?”
Miss Campbell’s gaze dipped to the arm of her chair, and from the pinched look about her mouth, I knew she was struggling with her temper. “I’ve no wish to speak ill o’ the dead.” She exhaled a fierce breath through her nostrils before continuing, biting off each word almost savagely. “But Lord Alisdair shouldna been given such a responsibility. He didna deserve it.”
“Noo, is that really fair?” Miss Margaret pronounced softly, her gaze on her sister’s profile. “Isna that blamin’ Alisdair for his brother’s failin’s?”
“Alisdair isna blameless?” Miss Campbell turned to snap.
“Nay, o’ course not,” she agreed. “But he also didna force Barbreck to make the choice he did. You ken as well as I do that no one forces Barbreck to do anythin’.”
Miss Campbell’s head bowed for a moment, as if the weight of it all was too much, but then she straightened, seeming to summon her composure with an iron grip. “My apologies. I’m afraid this has all been rather . . .” She seemed to search for the right word, settling on one that was more impersonal than I anticipated. “. . . unpleasant to have the incident brought up again, and then have these new accusations flung at us.” Her brow furrowed. “At me,” she corrected, brushing down her skirts as she pushed to her feet. “Noo, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve an estate to see to. The drainage in the south field needs to be examined, and one o’ our ewes fell ill overnight.” She glanced at her sister where she still sat with her embroidery. “And my sister shouldn’t be overexcited. She has a weak heart.”
If Miss Margaret was embarrassed by this pronouncement, she didn’t show it. But then I supposed she’d been hearing it all her life. It also helped to explain the fragile nature of her appearance, though the mind behind her eyes seemed as sharp as her sister’s even if she had less cause to use it.
“Of course,” Gage replied as the three of us rose to our feet. There was really nothing else we could do.
“Calder will show you out,” she declared, gesturing to the butler, who had appeared in the open doorway as if he’d been standing just on the other side waiting for her summons.
“Thank you for your time,” I told her before nodding to Miss Margaret.
“Oh, but you must come back,” the younger sister protested, shifting forward in her chair. “To see my embroidery. To talk. I have ever so many questions.”
Seeing the anxious look in her eyes, I wondered how lonely her existence must be. How much did her weak heart limit her? Did she ever travel beyond the borders of the estate, beyond the walls of the castle? Somehow I doubted the Campbell sisters received many visitors.