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“Miles agreed that I could keep all of the paintings at Limpton Hall?” asked Christina, not sounding convinced.
“Without exception. They’ve even sent an inventory so you can check they’re all accounted for,” he said, handing her a two-page document.
Christina studied the list carefully, and long before she’d reached the Vermeer, she said, “They have to be copies.”
“I thought you might say that,” said Sir Julian, “so as you instructed, I warned Booth Watson that a specialist from Christie’s would have to authenticate every one of the works before we’d agree to sign a binding document.”
“What did he say?”
“No more than my client expected.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Christina. “Miles never rolls over that easily.” It was some time before she added, “He’s up to something.”
* * *
An hour passed, and Adrian hadn’t called. But then, he always felt the need to make a point. William continued to check his watch every few minutes, but the phone remained resolutely silent. He was trying to decide if he should skip the Sistine Chapel, and face Beth’s wrath, or go and join her and live happily ever after. He was just putting on his jacket when the phone rang. He picked it up before the second ring. “William Warwick.”
“You wanted to know what would be on the menu for Saturday’s dinner party at Limpton Hall.” William didn’t interrupt. “For starters, top-shelf cannabis, nothing but the best, followed by the finest wraps of ninety-six percent pure Colombian cocaine for the main course.” He paused. “I think you owe me another two hundred.”
“You’ll be paid in full,” said William, “but only after you’ve delivered the goods.”
“I’ll be traveling down to Limpton Hall at seven o’clock on Saturday. I could report back to you around eight and collect my money.”
Not from me, thought William, but satisfied himself with, “Would you be willing to testify in court that you’d sold the drugs to Faulkner?”
“Possibly. But we’ll need to discuss terms, because if I agree to do that, I’ll never be ab
le to work in England again. Everything comes at a price.” He didn’t bother to say good-bye.
After making a hurried phone call to brief Superintendent Lamont, William headed quickly for the door. He was confident he could still make it in time, even if he might find it hard to concentrate on The Creation of Adam, rather than the downfall of Miles.
* * *
“William’s just called from Rome,” said Lamont. “He briefed me on the conversation he had with his OSC, and I’m recommending we go ahead with a full-scale operation on Saturday night. Just a pity William will miss out on the raid.”
“I’d ask him to cut short his honeymoon,” said the Hawk, “if I didn’t think Beth would kill him first, and then come looking for me. Take me through your plan, Bruce, so I can brief the commissioner.”
“I’ve already obtained a search warrant for Limpton Hall…”
* * *
“Perhaps you should fly home a couple of days early?” suggested Beth as they walked back into the hotel.
“Certainly not,” said William. “I’m only going to have one honeymoon in my life, and I don’t intend to spend a single day of it with Miles Faulkner.”
“But you might not get another opportunity like this, and you’ve somehow managed to survive ten days with the phone only ringing once.” William didn’t respond. “Why do I get the distinct impression that you’d rather be spending Saturday night at Limpton Hall with Faulkner, than eating another spaghetti in the Campo de’ Fiori with me?”
“Certainly not,” repeated William, but not with quite the same ringing conviction.
“It may come as a shock to you, Detective Sergeant Warwick, that after Faulkner’s pathetic attempt to stop us getting married, I wouldn’t be unhappy to see him behind bars.”
“Despite the fact you’re still hoping to get some other pieces from his collection once the divorce has been settled.”
“Only one painting in particular,” admitted Beth. “I confess it would enhance the gallery’s collection, but I won’t believe it until I see it hanging on the museum’s wall.”
“What have you been up to behind my back?”
“My new best friend, Christina Faulkner, has promised the Fitzmolean first choice of any of the seventy-three paintings in Limpton Hall once her divorce has been settled. I’ve got my eye on a small but exquisite Vermeer, The White Lace Collar, which would grace the south entrance of the museum.”
