“To see what he could see,” said Lord Henry slowly.
Sloan turned. “Yes, my lord. Somebody watched me from there this morning, but when I got up to the room they’d gone.”
“Not William surely?”
“No,” said Sloan. “That was somebody else watching me.” Now he knew who that had been, too. There had been two people in the vicinity to choose from.
“William saw something on Friday,” concluded Lady Eleanor shakily.
“Something nasty,” put in Cousin Gertrude, winding twine round her finger.
“Something very nasty,” agreed Sloan. “I think he saw someone carrying the body of Osborne Meredith across the Great Hall to the armoury staircase.”
“How very clever,” observed the Countess inconsequentially.
Her husband turned. “Clever, m’dear?”
“To choose the only time when we would none of us be about.” She smiled sweetly. “That means it must be someone who knows us really well, doesn’t it?”
Perhaps, thought Sloan, one could re-define an aristocrat as a man or woman to whom a fact held no terror.
“I think,” murmured the Earl, “we are already agreed on that.”
“It stands to reason anyway,” said Cousin Gertrude, that firmly entrenched spinster, who, having long ago abandoned feeling, was left only with logic.
Over on the chiffonier Laura Cremond stirred. “I don’t know how you can all just sit here without knowing.”
“Difficult, what?” agreed Miles.
“Perhaps,” said Lord Henry acutely, “the Inspector wants a little suspense.”
What, in fact, Sloan was waiting for was a message from the County Archivist, Mr. Robert Hamilton.
He got it quite soon.
P.C. Bloggs knocked on the door and handed him a note.
It was all he needed now.
18
« ^
Whether Sloan wanted any extra suspense or not he got it with the arrival at the door of the Private Apartments a moment or two later of Charles Purvis and a large genial man who introduced himself as Fortescue.
“Cromwell T. Fortescue of the Young Masters Art Society,” he said, “visiting your House by courtesy of Earl Ornum to see your beautiful pictures.”
The Countess seized another cup and began to pour wildly.
Charles Purvis followed him in and, noticed Sloan, manoeuvred himself into a position exactly opposite Lady Eleanor. It was obvious that he had long ago learned the lesson of the lovelorn, that you can sit opposite someone without seeming to stare whereas if you sit beside them you have to keep turning your head.
Which is noticeable.
The Earl grunted, “You’ve told him about Meredith, have you, Purvis?”
“Indeed, he has, milord,” responded Mr. Fortescue before Purvis could speak. “I am deeply sorry. The whole of our Society would wish to be associated with these sentiments, I know.”
“A message has arrived from Miss Meredith, too,” said Charles Purvis. “She’s seen an early edition of an evening paper and she’s coming back straightaway.”
“Poor dear,” said the Countess. “Charles, will you meet her at the station and see that she doesn’t need anything? She might like to come up here for the night.”
Sloan doubted it, but did not say so. In Miss Meredith’s position he’d have opted for his own little house, where you could at least count the rooms.
“We’ll have to see about the vault, too,” said the Earl.
Death might be the great leveller, noted Sloan silently, but William Murton was wholly family now.
Cromwell T. Fortescue wasn’t used to being overlooked. He said loudly and clearly, “We’re sorry to have arrived at a time like this, my lord…”
The Earl inclined his head.
“And also to be the bearers of such sad news, but Cyrus Phillimore is quite sure of his facts.”
“More bad news?” said Laura Cremond faintly. “I don’t believe it. There can’t be any more.”
“It may not be news, of course,” said Fortescue more tentatively, “but I hardly think the Earl here would subscribe to a deception.”
“Certainly not,” said Adrian Cossington, the solicitor upon the instant, “and should you be inferring this…”
“What,” asked the Earl of Ornum mildly, “is Mr. Fortescue trying to tell us?”
“Among your paintings, Earl,” said Mr. Fortescue, “you have a painting said to be by Hans Holbein the Younger.”
“We have.”
“It’s one of the lesser-known ones because it’s been here since he painted it. One owner, you might say.”
“That is so. My ancestor, the Judge, had it painted in 1532, the year before… before the family tragedy. Holbein was in London then… just beginning to make his name.”
“Cyrus Phillimore agrees with all that,” said Fortescue. “The only thing he doesn’t agree with is that Holbein painted this particular picture. He says it’s a fake.” Dillow pressed a cup and saucer into his hand and the courtly Mr. Fortescue bowed in the direction of the Countess. “I guess it’s not the sort of news that any of you wanted to hear…”
The Countess hadn’t yet remembered to put the teapot back on the tray, but it didn’t stop her talking.
“Tell me, Mr. Fortescue, how long hasn’t it been a Holbein?”
“I couldn’t begin to tell you that, Countess. Only that Cyrus Phillimore says…”
Lord Henry said quietly, “Not very long, Mother.” He turned slightly. “That right, Inspector?”
“Yes, my lord. Not very long.”
“Friday?” suggested Lord Henry.
“Very possibly, my lord.”
“Friday afternoon perhaps…”
“Perhaps, my lord.”
“Ossy’s discovery!” cried Lady Eleanor. “That must have been what Ossy discovered! That the Holbein was a fake.”
“We think so, your Ladyship.”
The Countess of Ornum lowered the teapot onto the large silver tray with a clatter. “You mean the picture was actually changed over on Friday afternoon?”
“Yes, your Ladyship.”
“And that little Mr. Meredith knew about the change?”
“We think he spotted it by accident.”
Cromwell T. Fortescue began, “Cyrus Phillimore says it’s a very good fake…”
Nobody took any notice of him.
“And having spotted it,” said Lord Henry, “he dashed to the telephone to ring up his pal the Vicar to ask him to pop along and confirm his worst suspicions.”
“That’s what we think, my lord,” agreed Sloan. “It would be the natural thing to do before he told your father. After all, it is a pretty serious allegation.”
“I’ll say,” said his young Lordship inelegantly. “He’s worth a pretty packet is the old Judge.”
“And where is he now?” demanded Cousin Gertrude.
