Chapter Eleven
Tuesday brought rain and set the tone for the week ahead. The board meeting had gone well. Paddy in her role as head of marketing and publicity agreed to change the narrative regarding Clem’s collection, which would now take a break as the business was branching out into a ready-to-wear line that anyone could afford. Plus each outfit had a corresponding pattern for those who enjoyed making their own outfits.
Aster had enjoyed watching Clem and Paddy get really energised by that idea and after that, the rest of the meeting went smoothly. The Hiverton Estate was looking forward to another successful year with Ari at the wheel. Now, pleased that her sisters were okay, she moved on to her own projects.
Aster adjusted her pale blue burqa as she stepped out of the cab, ensuring her face and body were completely covered. The anonymity it provided was essential; she needed to remain unnoticed and unrecorded. She didn’t know what she was going to do about the nuns’ painting, but she didn’t want to leave any trace of her involvement until she was decided. At the moment, she hadn’t ruled out stealing the painting, selling it on the black-market and giving the money to the nuns. It was monstrous that they should be denied its true worth. However, that was an extreme option and felt clumsy. She was certain she could think of something else.
The imposing facade of the auction house loomed before her. The air was thick with the scent of spring blooms from nearby flower beds. The fragrance reminded her of Hiverton. She took a moment to ground herself and then strode into the auction house, entering the bustling interior.
Moving through the crowd with a fluid grace, her presence drew minimal attention. Her attire was quite normal amongst the more exclusive shops and auction houses of London. She knew she wasn’t the only westerner to take advantage of this opportunity. Hell, she knew some men who also took the chance to move unobserved, but she found her shorter height helped to reduce attention. For good measure she was wearing jewel-encrusted rings and several gold bangles. She would not be challenged and whilst a few heads may turn her way, there was nothing with which they could later identify her.
The hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses surrounded her, a blend of excitement and business as usual. Aster scanned the room, her eyes landing on the reception desk where a poised woman in her mid-forties was efficiently handling inquiries. Approaching with a confident stride, Aster put on her most charming smile beneath the veil. Even if they couldn’t see it, people heard a smile.
‘Good afternoon,’ she began, her voice slightly muffled, ‘I’m interested in viewing the latest collection. Is there a catalogue?’
The woman’s eyes flickered with professional interest, though her curiosity was clear. ‘Of course, ma’am. The preview room is just down the corridor on your left. If you need any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask.’
She handed Aster a catalogue, quickly calculated the worth on Aster’s fingers and smiled more fulsomely. Aster nodded her thanks and followed the indicated path. As she entered the preview room, the atmosphere shifted. The space was quieter, more reverent, with art enthusiasts and potential buyers studying the pieces on display. She moved slowly, her gaze sweeping over the various artworks, until she spotted the painting from the convent and swore.
The painting, whilst still dirty and hard to assess, had now been properly lit. Hanging in a room of other fine works of art from the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries, it not only held its own but invited closer inspection.
It hung prominently on the far wall, and as Aster approached it, her brain started racing. Even in its poor condition, she could see that this painting would sell at well beyond its asking price.
A voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Aster turned to see a man standing beside her. She froze, her heart skipping a beat. It was him — the man who had rescued her in the nightclub. His tall, broad figure and sharp eyes were unmistakable. He was studying the painting with the same intensity he had shown her that night.
For a moment she was speechless, staring up at him. She had a thousand questions to ask. He held the answers to one of the worst nights in her life, and yet she was here incognito.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, mistaking the reason for her silence. His voice rumbled gently and he was about to move away when she spoke quickly.
‘Yes, it is,’ she replied, masking her agitation with a composed tone. ‘Do you know much about its history?’
For a moment he stared down at her and tilted his head, studying her carefully. Despite her head covering, she felt he was looking straight through the fabric. There was no way he could recognise her and yet something about his appraisal of her suggested he was trying to place her. She coughed and looked down, trying to break the moment.
Apologising, he nodded and stared at the painting instead. ‘Not really, but I think it could be something very special. Quite the find.’
‘Remarkable,’ Aster said, her mind racing. She was torn between the urge to speak to him and the need to maintain her disguise. ‘I’m fascinated by the stories behind such pieces. Do you know who brought it here?’
The man gave her a curious look. ‘Are you looking to buy?’
‘An admirer, mostly,’ she responded smoothly. ‘And a bit of a history buff.’
He smiled. ‘Aren’t we all? The painting was delivered by a private collector. I’m afraid I can’t divulge more than that.’
Aster nodded, maintaining her composed exterior. ‘Of course, I understand. Thank you for the information.’
As she turned to leave, he looked down at her again.
‘Forgive my rudeness, but have we met? You seem familiar.’
Falling into character, Aster kept quiet. With a shake of the head, she moved quickly away. From the other side of the room, she began to control her breathing and focused on the other people in the room. She was here to study the painting, not the man, but her eyes kept being drawn to him. Currently he was talking to someone she had recently looked up. Anthony Jones, Minister for Foreign Affairs. Since Nick’s dig she had made a quick study of him and at least now recognised him. The two men seemed to be well acquainted and were clearly discussing the painting. Well, they could look all they like, thought Aster. Neither of them would be going home with it. From time to time, her stranger would look over in her direction. Thankfully in her robes he couldn’t see that she was also studying him.
As he returned his attention to the MP, Aster felt a stir in the room. A moment later, a small woman entered the room followed by two large men. The woman was dressed in a figure hugging red bodycon dress and a fur bomber jacket. The two men behind her towered over her tiny frame and both had visible earpieces. The law of averages suggested that both men, despite UK law, were carrying concealed weapons. Aster had no idea who the woman was, but clearly the rest of the room did. Anthony Jones walked over to greet the woman. Were politicians ever off duty? Her stranger was about to walk away, but stopped as Jones turned back and invited him to join them.
This was Aster’s moment to escape. She had no wish to stay in a room where people were carrying guns, especially if she wasn’t. The odds weren’t in her favour. She had learnt all she was going to. Her painting was attracting too much attention; she would have to come up with something spectacular to ensure the nuns got their painting back. Relieved that her stranger hadn’t noticed her withdrawal, she rushed over to the reception desk. It was alarming that he recognised her from only her voice and she felt exposed.
Her thoughts kept returning to the nightclub. He held the key to what had happened that night. Her heart was pounding and she was struggling to keep her breath steady. She needed to talk to him, but revealing herself now could ruin later plans for the painting.
Spotting a young assistant arranging brochures, she approached with purposeful strides. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’m interested in that painting. Is there anyone here who might know a bit more about its provenance?’
The assistant looked up, slightly startled, but quickly recovering. Aster knew she was pushing her luck, women in burqas normally travelled in groups and weren’t quite so forthright. If only she hadn’t bumped into her rescuer, he was throwing her off her game. Now the assistant spoke quickly, avoiding eye contact.
‘You might want to speak with Mr Adams. He’s one of our senior appraisers and knows the ins and outs of most of the pieces here.’
Aster smiled beneath her veil. ‘Perfect. Where can I find him?’
‘His office is on the second floor. I can take you there.’
Deciding that would be a step too far for her character, she shook her head.
‘Could you give me his e-mail?’
She was feeling panicky. Her plan was disintegrating and she wanted to retreat to the safety of her home. This sense of anxiety was unknown to her and she was a heartbeat from bolting. Memories of waking up in a strange sitting room and having no access to her memories were overwhelming her and she knew if she stayed any longer, she could make a mistake.
As the assistant handed her a card with the appraiser’s contact details on it, she watched as her stranger walked into the corridor, and her heart pounded again. He looked her way, nodded and ascended a grand staircase. Maybe he worked here? Maybe he was Mr Adams? She almost panicked, thinking the assistant might call him over. In a state of total alarm, she grabbed the card and fled outdoors.
Stepping out of the auction house and into the bustling street, Aster took a deep breath and tried to regain a sense of balance. She needed to find a way to talk to the man from the nightclub without blowing her cover. He held the key to what happened that night, and she couldn’t afford to let him slip away again. Her first move was to kill two birds with one stone. She would phone Mr Adams now. She would recognise her rescuer instantly from his voice. If it was him, she had a lead. If it wasn’t him, she could ask Mr Adams about the painting.
Pulling her phone out of a pocket, she slipped it under her head covering and tried to dial. Her shaking fingers barely hit the right keys and she shook her hands before trying again. A moment later, an affected older voice answered the phone.
‘Mr Adams?’
‘Speaking.’
Aster immediately discounted him as the man she had just spoken to.
‘Good afternoon,’ she began, her voice shaking. ‘I’m very interested in Lot Eighty-Seven, currently on display. I was hoping you could tell me more about its provenance.’
She heard a creak and assumed the man was leaning back in his chair. ‘Yes, that piece has garnered quite a bit of interest. It was brought in by a private collector, someone who wishes to remain anonymous. The painting itself is certainly promising.’
As he spoke, Aster felt herself calm down as she took a few deep breaths and focused on the matter at hand.
‘Do you know where the collector acquired it?’ Aster pressed gently.
‘It was previously in the care of a religious establishment for many decades. Unfortunately, they had no details as to how it came to be in their possession.’
‘Which religious settlement?’
‘I’m afraid that information is not publicly available.’ Mr Adams replied. ‘The collector is quite private and only provided the necessary details for consignment. He did say that he would be happy to share the details with the purchaser.’
Aster nodded, her mind working through the information. ‘And the collector, do they often consign pieces here?’
Mr Adams hesitated for a moment before responding. ‘They’ve worked with us before, but they value their privacy. I’m afraid I can’t share more than that.’
‘Of course,’ Aster said, masking her frustration. ‘I appreciate your time and information. May I ask, given the poor provenance and lack of attribution, don’t you think the guide price is rather high?’
There was an indulgent chuckle at the other end of the line.
‘Not at all. If anything, it could be argued that the price is too low, given the clear artistry at work.’
‘How long has it been in his possession?’ Aster didn’t want to get the appraiser’s back up, but she was trying to see how far the auction house would go to protect their reputation and that of their client.
‘That is private information.’
‘Do you understand my concern? Has it been checked on the Art Loss Register?’
The chair creaked again and Aster sensed the call was about to end.
‘Of course it has. Whilst we value the probity of our client, we nevertheless check all our items through the ALR. In twenty years we have never had a single sale lot withdrawn or repudiated. Now, I’m afraid I do need to get on. Good day.’
Aster muttered a quick reply and closed the call. She had no further leads on the man who bought the painting from the nuns, but following on from something Mr Adams had just said, she had an idea of how to get the painting back. Unwittingly, he had just revealed a weakness and Aster was prepared to exploit it.
Walking on, she spotted a small alley and ducked down it. Checking no one had followed her, she whipped off her burqa and shoved it into the bag she was carrying underneath. Removing her rings and bangles, she also carefully stowed them in the bag and then walked out of the alley at the other end. Just another Londoner, converse trainers, jeans and a hoodie, her hair swinging loosely underneath a baseball cap that she had pulled out of the bag and firmly pulled down over her forehead. She was about to turn back and walk towards the auction house in the hope of bumping into her rescuer when her phone pinged and she saw she had a text from Nick. Smiling, she tapped it open, then scowled as she read the message.
‘What progress on the Dhaka fabric?’
She tapped a quick response telling Nick she was still gathering intel and then started work. In truth, she had done some preliminary research into the current stockists of the cheaper fabric, but in her obsession with the painting and her stranger, she had become momentarily sidetracked. Deciding that she needed to put her own desires on the back bench for a little longer, she headed home.
As she reached Foix Place, she bounded up the steps whistling to herself. She had a bunch of riddles to solve and couldn’t be happier. It was time to put her tall, dark and silly-handsome stranger from her mind and get down to important matters. And now she knew how to find him, she could relax and possibly sleep well again.