3 Wickham House
Wickham House
The London art world and its mistress had descended on Edward Knight’s grand terrace. Gabriel plucked two glasses from a passing
tray, champagne for Chiara, sparkling water for himself, and searched the crowd for a familiar face. After a moment he spotted
Julian Isherwood tilted precariously against the balustrade, chatting with Niles Dunham. He took Chiara by the hand and started
toward them, but Amelia March appeared seemingly out of nowhere and blocked their path. Gabriel was surprised to see her.
He had been assured the event would be closed to the press.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“Tonight’s hostess.”
“Where is she?” asked Chiara. “I’d love to meet her.”
“So would I, but Alice has yet to make an appearance. Neither has her husband, for that matter.” Amelia drew a reporter’s
notebook from her handbag. “Might I trouble you for a quote, Mr. Allon?”
“On what particular subject?”
“Your presence here this evening.”
“My remarks are entirely off the record. And if you so much as print a single word of them in your magazine, you will lose a very valuable source.”
Amelia went in search of other prey, and an enormous man with snow-white hair and a crimson nose took her place. “You’re him,”
he blared, pumping Gabriel’s hand. “I’m Montagu, by the way.”
“What do you do, Mr. Montagu?”
“It’s Lord Montagu, if you must know. And I don’t do much at all.” He turned to Chiara. “Is this lovely creature your wife?”
“My bodyguard, actually.”
“Dangerous business, art restoration?”
“It can be.”
His lordship beckoned her ladyship, who brought along two other couples, and soon Gabriel was surrounded and under siege.
At last he felt the soft touch of a female hand and, turning, found himself gazing into the flawless face of Sarah Bancroft.
She looked ravishing in her black cocktail dress.
Gabriel kissed the proffered cheek. “Did your husband let you out of the house dressed like that?”
“He’s out of town.”
“Not again.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Sarah’s husband worked for a clandestine department of the Secret Intelligence Service that carried out politically sensitive
black operations. Service regulations forbade him from discussing any aspect of his work with his American wife. She never
knew where he was, when he was coming home, or when he might be leaving again.
She escorted Gabriel and Chiara across the terrace and into the warm embrace of Julian Isherwood. He looked at the glass in
Gabriel’s hand with an expression of mock horror.
“Sparkling water?”
“I have to keep my wits about me for the interview.”
“Nonsense, petal. Have a glass of the Bollinger instead. I think you’ll find it’s a performance-enhancing drug.”
Niles Dunham hailed a waiter and exchanged Gabriel’s mineral water for a glass of champagne. “I can’t thank you enough for
agreeing to do this,” he said. “Needless to say, I am forever in your debt.”
“Other way around, Niles.”
“I have something for you, if you’re interested.”
“If you could afford my services, we wouldn’t have to hold this fundraiser. Besides, I’m booked for at least a year.”
“Who’s first?”
“I am,” said Sarah. “A lovely Grand Canal scene by Bellotto.”
Niles rolled his eyes.
“You disapprove of Bellotto?”
“Chocolate box.”
“Nonsense.”
A murmur went through the crowd, and heads began to turn.
“Is that Alice?” asked Chiara.
“No such luck,” replied Gabriel.
It was only Olivia Watson, the former fashion model who now ran a wildly successful contemporary art gallery in King Street.
Gabriel knew Olivia’s dirty secrets too.
“Bitch,” whispered Sarah over her drink.
“Now, now,” said Gabriel.
“Did I miss something?” asked Niles.
“Long story,” replied Julian, his tone cautionary.
A chime sounded, summoning the guests to dinner.
“Saved by the bell,” said Gabriel.
Sarah frowned. “Unless the lovely Ms. Watson and I happen to be seated at the same table.”
Niles leaned close to Gabriel. “Do tell.”
“Sarah’s husband once had a brief but passionate affair with the lovely Miss Watson.”
“You’ll pay for that,” breathed Sarah.
“Is there anything else I should know?” asked Niles.
It was Chiara who answered. “Sarah was once madly in love with my husband.”
“Well, well,” said Niles. “The plot thickens.”
They joined the procession from the terrace into the cavernous great hall. A dozen large paintings adorned its walls, mainly
French baroque and neoclassical. The place cards were arranged in alphabetical order along a lengthy rectangular table. Gabriel
and Chiara were seated at table one, Sarah at table two. Olivia Watson, after locating her place card, headed for the nether
regions of the vast chamber.
“Crisis averted,” said Chiara.
“For now,” replied Gabriel.
Table one had nine place settings instead of ten. Gabriel was seated between the heiress of a brewing dynasty and a well-preserved
countess from Kent. The countess, while grasping Gabriel’s hand, appraised him with no small amount of surprise.
“I thought you would be taller,” she announced.
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“I’m sure you’re the one who’s disappointed, Mr. Allon. After all, you have to sit next to a septuagenarian noblewoman instead
of the marvelous Alice Winter.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Not yet. Apparently she’s running late for her own party.”
Gabriel glanced across the candlelit table toward the empty chair next to Chiara. “So is her husband, it seems.”
“Know him?” asked the countess.
“Can’t say I do.”
“He’s terribly rich.” She lowered her voice. “Much richer than the heiress to your left.”
“What does he do, exactly?”
“I believe he buys and sells property.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“Evidently he owns most of Sussex.”
“I never realized Sussex was for sale.”
“Everything is for sale in Britain these days, Mr. Allon.”
The waitstaff appeared with the first course, and a plate was laid in front of Edward Knight’s empty chair. He appeared a
moment later, a tall, lean figure of perhaps sixty with a handsome sun-bronzed face and a shock of gray hair that hung over
the collar of his costly but carelessly worn suit. Unlike every other man in the room he was tieless, neckwear being optional
for those of limitless resources. With apologies for his lateness, he sat down and introduced himself to Chiara. They exchanged
a few words, then Edward Knight met Gabriel’s gaze across the table and nodded once in greeting.
“Good of him to finally grace us with his presence,” said the countess beneath her breath. “But he seems to have misplaced
his wife.”
“I wonder where she could be.”
The countess tucked into her smoked salmon. “Don’t worry, Mr. Allon. I’m sure Alice will turn up sooner or later.”
Not five minutes after taking his seat, Edward Knight drew a mobile phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and raised
the device to his ear, eliciting a quiet tut-tut of rebuke from the countess.
The conversation was brief and, in Gabriel’s opinion, unpleasant, for it cast a shadow that lingered on Knight’s face for some time after.
As the waitstaff were clearing away the first course, an underling appeared at his elbow, a sleek and slender creature, late thirties, perhaps, with fashion-model features and a head of coiffed and gelled blond hair.
He whispered something into Knight’s ear, and the wealthy businessman was suddenly on his feet.
“Forgive me,” he said to no one in particular, “but I’m afraid my wife has taken ill. ” And with that he was gone again.
“Poor Alice,” said the countess. “I do hope it’s nothing serious.”
Edward Knight did not return for the main course—it was rack of lamb served with a gorgeous Pomerol—or for the remarks by
Sir Avery Ramsay, the National Gallery’s director. The event, he announced, had raised nearly ten million pounds, more than
sufficient to fund the most important Botticelli exhibition in a generation. Niles Dunham delivered a mercifully brief lecture
about the artist and his work before introducing Gabriel and Sarah. For forty-five minutes they held the audience in their
thrall. Sarah never once strayed from her prepared questions, but Gabriel went much further than he had intended. Chiara watched
his performance as though wondering which carefully hidden secret he would reveal next. Three tables away, Amelia March scribbled
in her notebook without cease.
The interview concluded with a time-lapse video of Gabriel’s restoration of Portrait of a Young Woman by Leonardo da Vinci, made from the still photographs he had taken at the conclusion of each day’s work. The first image
showed the painting in a fully stripped state, the last in its current condition. The audience rose to its feet and roared
its approval. Gabriel, as he stepped from the stage, felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.
It was, he thought, long overdue.
Amelia March accosted him first. “You were brilliant,” she declared.
“How accurate are your notes?”
“Verbatim in places.”
“In that case, print whatever you like,” said Gabriel, and started across the crowded room toward Chiara. Reaching her proved
a challenge, for at every turn there was another hand to shake, another compliment to accept. She waited until they were back
in the Range Rover and bound for Cornwall to deliver her review.
“It was definitely a night to remember.”
“The real Gabriel Allon?”
“And then some.”
“A shame about Alice, though.”
“Yes,” said Chiara. “She really did throw a lovely party.”