“Mama?”
“Charlotte!” Adelia said again as she reached her daughter. She seized her upper arms and shook her. “Who is that? What are you doing?”
“No one, mama. I came down to check the doors were locked, that is all.”
“You are lying. Maybe I was doubting what I saw earlier but I cannot doubt this. You were talking to someone. Who was it?”
“No one...”
“Do not take me for a fool! You insult me with every foul lie that drops from your lips! Charlotte, was that a man? Are you engaged in criminal conversation? Do you bring shame on you yourself, your husband, your family? Was that a lover? Is this why you have not yet started a family?”
“Oh heavens, mama, no, a thousand times no! It is just ... more complicated than that. Than you could possibly imagine.”
Adelia shook her as infuriation and rage coursed through her body. “Charlotte, you unnatural creature, now you listen to me...”
But Charlotte sagged in Adelia’s arms, becoming a dead weight and Adelia had to stop speaking as she struggled to hold her daughter up. Charlotte slumped forward against Adelia and Adelia staggered back with Charlotte in her arms. She tried to wake her up, half-dragging her, half-lowering her to the floor as she could no longer support her weight. Charlotte moaned quietly and lay still.
Adelia squatted down awkwardly. “Charlotte!”
There was no response. Adelia had to stand up and she rushed to the door to call for help. Robert was the first down the stairs, closely followed by Theodore and a few servants in their nightclothes.
“She fainted,” said Adelia but she did not speak with panic or concern, just flat anger. She stood back as Theodore and Robert lifted her up and carried her upstairs.
This was not the first time that Charlotte had faked an attack of something just to get out of answering difficult questions. Charlotte had observed Mary, her older sister, who was genuinely often ill, and noticed even as a girl that many difficult situations could be avoided if one feigned a fainting fit.
Adelia was furious beyond belief. She went up to bed and she lay almost rigidly awake for half the night, thrumming with anger, vowing to herself over and over again that she would get to the bottom of things at the party the next day.
Fourteen
Adelia was completely unable to corner Charlotte alone at any point the next day and she knew that she was engaged in an unspoken game of cat and mouse with her own treacherous daughter. She was appalled, saddened and angry to varying degrees, the emotions fluctuating every time she caught a glimpse of Charlotte. Charlotte spent the morning in her rooms with a maid ever-present. Adelia gave up trying to speak with her. As she angrily stormed back to her room, she bumped into Theodore who was dressed for going out.
He saw her face and said, “You look like you want to scream.”
“I do. How did I raise such an obstinate and ungrateful daughter? Such a scheming, secretive, stubborn piece of work.”
“I have no idea,” he said, rather too mildly, and she glared hard at him.
“What?” he asked, innocently. “Anyway, what has she done now? Is she feeling better?”
“Of course she is. There was nothing wrong with her last night. Where are you going?”
“I intend to get to Dulwich Picture Gallery.”
“Why? The last attempt was abortive and what exactly do you hope to learn anyway?”
“Robert has told me of his friend who is the main curator there, and I want to ask him about Digby Nettles.”
“We must be careful not to incriminate Robert any further with our questioning,” she said.
“We?”
She glared at him a little longer. He sighed. “Very well. You must come too. I will wait here while you dress for a journey.”
“FRAUD?” THE CURATOR said, and he went very stiff and pale almost immediately.
Mr Schmidt had received them in his office and was happy to make their acquaintance as they sent Robert’s regards and best wishes of the season to him. But as soon as Theodore had mentioned their interest in Digby Nettles, Mr Schmidt’s whole demeanour changed. Adelia took careful note.
“Of course, absolutely no suggestion of any connection or blame has been mentioned in regards to yourself,” Theodore assured him. “We merely wish to draw upon your own vast experience and knowledge in the art world as a larger whole. We already know that not all paintings are what they seem to be, and that can surely not be a surprise to you.”
“It is not. Though I would like to think that every single artwork we have here at Dulwich is legitimate, perhaps a few have slipped through the gaps. If you discover that to be the case, please, I beg of you, let me know immediately and privately.”
“Naturally. We should not wish to cause a public scene.”
“Thank you.” Mr Schmidt chewed his lip for a moment. “Look, I really don’t know what information I can give you. If I had anything certain, I would have already gone to the police.”
“We deal more in suggestions and rumours, following them until we have enough certainty,” Theodore said.
“Even so, I can tell you nothing of Mr Nettles.” Mr Schmidt drummed his fingers on the desk. “Perhaps he had a certain influence, but so have many others.”
Adelia cocked her head at that. “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps you could tell us who else has significant influence? After all, Mr Nettles’ demise leaves a void in the art dealing world.”
“That has been filled already by a dozen smaller fish, though they will fight it out amongst themselves. Mr Wiseman seems to be withdrawing from it all, but he has been ill too. If you are looking into Mr Nettles’ activities, you might ask Mr Wiseman, though they were not friends and I cannot imagine why they were dining together that night.”
They had not mentioned any suspicion
