CHAPTER 21 #2
She stepped back. “You knew what he was considering about me, didn’t you? You joked about a man trying to buy me with a carriage and servants and jewels, but it was not really a joke.”
She felt tears brimming. For all the compliments, she felt insulted—but by Gareth, not Whitmere. “Did the two of you sit and plot it? Did you tell him about us, so he knew I was no innocent? Were you acting as his procurer?”
The anger that flared in his eyes made her cringe. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
His expression fell. He reached for her. She veered out of reach and stumbled away, blinded by tears. “Do not touch me. Do not.”
She ran up the staircase. At the top of the third set, she composed herself and wiped her eyes. Then she entered Sarah’s sitting room.
Sarah dozed in a chair. Rebecca had fallen asleep over a book in another one. With her entry, they both woke up.
“Was it wonderful?” Rebecca asked. “Did you hold your own? Did you meet other dukes? Was the Crown Prince there?”
Sarah moved to a divan and patted the cushion beside her. “You must share every detail, every moment, and every word.”
Eva sat and removed her headdress. Then she told them all about it. She shared her night with them, but not every detail, every moment, and every word.
* * *
“Hell of a thing,” Ives said while he and Gareth tied their horses to posts on The Strand. “Someone got careless. Or impatient.”
“Let us see if we can charm the information out of him.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then you can threaten him in your best lawyerly ways, while I do the same in illegal ways.”
Ives grinned. “I am shocked that you would insinuate violence to obtain information.”
“Fine words coming from you. At least I only insinuate.”
“Or so you say.”
Today of all days he only said. If this man gave them the least trouble, he would probably thrash the fool gladly. He wanted to thrash someone for any reason at the moment. The argument with Eva, and her hurt and accusations, still rang in his head.
He thought he had been damned noble. He had tried not to stand in her way, and for his sacrifice she turned on him and accused him of all but selling her to Whitmere.
They entered the small picture gallery of Mr. Longinus Parala.
A miniature version of an auction house or estate gallery, it bulged with art.
Pictures crammed its walls, and bins held prints and watercolors.
Gareth pretended to study the former, but actually his gaze quickly hopped from one picture to the next.
Ives sidled up to his side. “I do not see any of the others here. Do you?”
“Hard to say. This could be a copy of a Constable here. There was one on the list. When an inventory says only a landscape, however, it is hard to know which one.”
A gentleman sitting at a fine inlaid-wood writing desk in the corner ignored them for a long while.
Then, as if he suddenly realized he had company, he turned and lifted spectacles off his hawkish nose and set them atop his head on his dark hair.
After he critically scanned their persons and garments, a smile broke on his thin, long face.
“My dear sirs. Can I be of service?” He stood and approached them. Dressed in gray from shoulders to hose, he broke the habit at his feet, where scarlet pumps formed startling bright spots.
“Are you the proprietor? Mr. Parala?” Ives asked.
“I am.”
“Is that Italian? Parala? Your accent suggests as much, as does your name.”
“It is. I was born in Genoa.”
Ives smiled. Gareth could read his thoughts.
This particular Parala might have ancestors from Genoa, but beneath the exaggerated accent one heard the unmistakable lilt of Scotland.
Perhaps the picture seller believed the Demmiwoods would assume an Italian dealer knew his art, rather like French ladies’ maids were assumed to dress hair better than English ones.
Ives walked to the door, and locked it. “I hope you do not mind. We would like a private conversation with you.” For good measure he drew the curtains over the window. He came back and handed Parala his card.
Parala peered at the card in the sudden twilight of the gallery. He glanced sharply at Ives. Then at Gareth.
“He’s the Duke of Aylesbury’s full brother, and a barrister sworn to uphold the law,” Gareth said, pointing to Ives. “I’m the bastard brother, born outside the law. He’s the gentleman. I’m not. He’s going to ask polite questions. If we do not like your answers, I will then ask them my way.”
“Subtle,” Ives murmured.
Longinus Parala’s eyes bulged with alarm. “I’m sure I don’t know—that is, I find this most irregular.”
“Most irregular,” Ives soothed. “My brother can be too impatient and rough. Well, what can you expect? Why don’t you sit down. This will not take long.”
Parala made the mistake of sitting in his chair again. That left him looking up while Gareth and Ives hovered above.
Ives asked him about the Gainsborough offered to Demmiwood.
“A fine piece,” Parala said. “I thought of him at once. I find Gainsborough too sentimental, but there are those who still favor his style.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
Ives looked at Gareth. “He is not at liberty to say.”
“Damned inconvenient.”
Ives menaced his size over the picture seller. “Liberty. An interesting word. If you do not tell us where you procured that painting, your own liberty will cease for many years. You may even swing. Demmiwood is prepared to swear information against you that you offered him a forgery.”
“Forgery! How dare he accuse me of that?”
“Because it is a forgery,” Gareth said.
Parala’s mad gaze shifted from him to Ives and back again. “You sound very sure.”
“We are completely sure.”
“The paint isn’t even totally dry,” Gareth said.
“Oh, dear. Oh, my.” Parala crossed his arms, tucked his scarlet shoes under the chair, and huddled in on himself. “I had no idea. You must believe me. There was no signature, but that is common. The style spoke for itself.”
“Where did you get it?” Ives asked again.
Parala’s face twisted with fury. He turned to his desk. He picked up his pen and jotted. “The blackguard. The rogue. To put me at such risk—I hope he hangs. Here is his name and place of business. Horace Zwilliger is his name. Tell him his old friend Longinus sent you.”
* * *
“We must go at once,” Ives said as soon as they left Parala’s gallery. “We cannot risk this Zwilliger fellow bolting.”
Gareth did not want to go at once. He wanted to return to Langley House, find Eva, and say all the things he would have said last night.
Ives rode off. Gareth grudgingly followed. They rode quickly to the address provided by Parala. It turned out to be a small house tucked next to a brothel in the St. Giles stews.
“It does not appear he has profited much from his crime,” Gareth said.
“Do not let this fool you. I have prosecuted crime lords worth hundreds of thousands who hid amid this squalor. It makes an excellent camouflage. Do you have a pistol?” He reached down to his saddle and lifted a small one from a pouch there.
“Unlike you, I do not ride about town armed. But then I do not attract the attention you do, either.” Gareth looked around pointedly. Several men had stopped on the street and now stared at Ives. “They know you.”
Ives swung off his horse and tied it, making no effort to hide the pistol. “Have no fear. The fellow across the lane was spared the noose due to my efforts. When the cause is just, I do not always prosecute. Since he owes me his life, I think he will make sure these horses do not walk off.”
Gareth led the way to the door of the house. Ives still carried the pistol. When the door opened, Ives handed his card with one hand, while he pointed the weapon with the other. It went without saying that they gained entrance.
Mr. Zwilliger looked to be late in his middle years. With his narrow eyes, big hearty build, and dark-haired head, he would make a good tavern owner. He listened to their introductions calmly enough, but he watched that pistol out of the corner of his eye.
Finally, he pointed to it. “Is this necessary, gentlemen? I am a peace-loving man. I know the neighborhood is not the best, but—”
“There is evidence you have committed a capital crime,” Ives said. “I am always careful when meeting such men.”
“I have committed no crime.”
Gareth told him about the forged Gainsborough. “We assume there are others.”
Zwilliger responded with shock. “This is terrible. I am undone. It is true that I handle art at times. I am no great expert, but my judgment is sound. Like most I depend on the honesty of those who sell to me. To learn I have been deceived and defrauded, and implicated in such a way—” He flushed and flustered and almost cried.
“Keep him here.” Gareth pushed past him and strode into a dim sitting room. No art there, not even on the walls. He checked the whole first level, then went above. Stacks of paintings lined the wall of one of the chambers.
He called for Ives.
By the time Ives and Zwilliger arrived, Gareth had set out some of the paintings. Ives took one look and leveled his pistol again. “Are those—?”
“No. Forgeries. All of them. But like the Gainsborough, I think these are copies of what we seek.” He glared at Zwilliger. “Where are the originals?”
“I swear I do not know what you are talking about. I bought those, and the Gainsborough, and several other fine works, from a well-respected man of business. If they are forgeries, I was robbed.”
“How many?”
“Twenty in all were sold to me,” Zwilliger said.
Not enough. Damnation. “These and the Gainsborough come to twelve. Where are the others?” He began flipping through another stack.
“Not here. Five were sold to a picture seller in Greenwich. Two to a gentleman. The last I placed at auction.”
Ives gestured with the pistol. “You are not to sell or move these. I will send men for them in a few hours, and all had better be here. You had better be here too. It will be for the magistrate to decide if you are as innocent as you claim.”
“I swear—”
“You will have time enough to swear. For now, tell us who sold you these pictures.”
“A stationer in Birmingham. I was up there visiting my sister, and chanced upon his shop with all these pictures. Others, too, but not so fine or by such illustrious names. I bought them all, of course. London is a better marketplace for such things.”
“Birmingham. How convenient,” Ives said. “You will not even have to stay at an inn to finish this, Gareth.”
Their missions for the day completed, Ives insisted on buying drinks and a dinner. Gareth ate quickly and spoke little. If Ives noticed, he did not mention it. They parted at nine o’clock, with Ives insisting that they meet early to track down the forgeries-at-large.
Gareth returned to Langley House. His intention of speaking with Eva was thwarted. When he asked after her, he learned the ladies had retired early in order to pack for their journey in the morning.
He consoled himself with some whiskey in the library. It was for the best, he supposed. Most of what he had intended to say to her should not be said. What little was left would be better heard in Langdon’s End.