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“There’s a Mr. Drummond from Christie’s downstairs,” said his secretary. “Says you’re expecting him.”
Knox glanced at his watch. “He’s early, but then so would I be if I was collecting a masterpiece worth several million. Tell him I’m on my way, and please ask Beth to join us.”
The director reluctantly left his office and made his way slowly down the wide marble staircase to the ground floor, where he saw a smartly dressed man carrying a large blue Christie’s bag.
“Good morning, Dr. Knox,” the man said as they shook hands. “Alex Drummond. Mr. Davage asked me to stand in for him as he’s in New York for the autumn sales, but said he’ll phone as soon as he wakes up,” he added, handing the director his business card. “You probably won’t remember, but we met at the Christie’s summer party last year. You asked me what price I thought Teniers’s Night and Day might fetch.”
“And remind me,” said Tim, “what was the hammer price?”
“Just over a million.”
“Well beyond our resources, as I feared. Where did it end up?”
“The Getty Museum in California.”
“Petty cash for them,” said Tim ruefully, as Beth joined them, wearing a pair of white cotton gloves. “This is Beth, the gallery’s assistant keeper of paintings.”
“An unfortunate title, given the circumstances,” said Beth.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Warwick,” said Drummond.
“Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?” said Tim. “I’d like to get this over with before we open the gallery to the public.”
Beth carefully lifted the painting off its hook before handing it to the director. At the same time, Drummond removed a small wooden box from his canvas bag, and opened it so Beth could place the picture inside.
“A perfect fit,” she said.
Drummond closed the lid, snapped the clasps shut, and slipped the box back into his bag.
“How much do you expect it to fetch?” asked Tim, after he’d signed the release form.
“The low estimate is one million, but Mr. Davage thinks it could make as much as two.”
“More than enough to solve Christina’s problems,” muttered Beth.
“Divorce, death, and debt,” said Drummond. “The auctioneer’s three best friends. With the added irony on this occasion that it will probably be our client’s ex-husband who ends up buying it. Mr. Faulkner has made it clear that he wants it back at any price.”
“Then I hope he has to pay way over the top for it,” said Beth with feeling. “Although I can’t see the prison authorities allowing him to hang it in his cell.”
Drummond smiled after he signed the release form. “If either of you would like me to reserve a seat for you at the auction, just let me know.”
“I couldn’t face it,” said Beth.
“Nor me,” said Tim. “Not least because I know only too well that we can’t afford to join in the bidding.”
“And on that note, I’ll leave you,” said Drummond, shaking hands with them both before taking his leave.
“A sad day for the gallery,” said Tim, as he and Beth walked back up the stairs together.
“It was inevitable, I suppose,” said Beth, “after Faulkner stole all Christina’s other paintings. But at least she got the better of him this time.”
* * *
After William had left his father’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he walked up the Strand and hesitated for a moment before dropping into King’s College.
He handed in his application form to join the law faculty in September to the senior porter in the lodge. The porter’s expression suggested that he thought William looked a bit old to be an undergraduate.
William checked his watch. He didn’t need to be late for the commander’s meeting, when he intended to expose Lamont.
