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18
Jermyn Street
Not since the outbreak of the pandemic, when the art world had slipped into something approaching cardiac arrest, had Sarah Bancroft endured such a dreadful week. It began with Julian’s calamitous visit to Bordeaux and concluded, late that afternoon, with the collapse of a potential sale—a case of cold feet on the buyer’s part and hard-nosed determination on Sarah’s not to sell the painting in question,Adoration of the Magiby Luca Cambiaso, at a loss. To make matters worse, her new husband had left London on a business trip. Because his trade was espionage, he could not say where he was going or when he might return. For all Sarah knew, it would be Midsummer Day before she laid eyes on him again.
Which explained why, after engaging the gallery’s security system and locking the front door, she made straight for Wiltons and settled into her usual corner table at the bar. A perfect three-olive Belvedere martini, Saharan dry, materialized a moment later, delivered by a handsome young waiter in a blue blazer and red necktie. Perhaps, she thought as she raised the glass to her lips, all was not quite as bad as it seemed.
At once there was a burst of uproarious laughter. It was Julian who had provoked it. He was explaining the hideous purple-red bruise on his cheek to Oliver Dimbleby and Jeremy Crabbe, the head of the Old Master department of Bonhams. According to Julian’s version of the story, the collision with the lamppost had taken place not in Bordeaux but in Kensington, and was the result of nothing more malicious than a misguided attempt to send a text message while walking.
Mobile phone in hand, Julian reenacted the fictitious incident, much to the delight of the other dealers, curators, and auctioneers lining the bar. For his reward, he was kissed by the crimson lips of the stunning former fashion model who now ran a thriving modern art gallery in King Street. Watching the performance from her corner table, Sarah sipped her martini and whispered, “Bitch.”
The kiss was little consolation; Sarah could see that. Julian was mortified by his appearance and distraught over the suspicious death of the woman who had asked him to come to France. So, too, was Sarah. Moreover, she was concerned about the painting she had sold to Phillip Somerset, a man whose acquaintance she had made while working at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Her old friend Gabriel Allon had agreed to look into the matter. As yet, he had delivered no update on the progress of his investigation.
Amelia March ofARTnewsdetached herself from the bar and approached Sarah’s table. She was a slender woman of erect carriage, with short dark hair and the unblinking, too-wide eyes of an Apple emoji. It was Amelia, with Sarah’s anonymous help, who had broken the news aboutPortrait of an Unknown Woman. Sarah now regretted having leaked the information. If she had kept her mouth shut, the rediscovery and sale of the painting would have remained shrouded in secrecy. And Madame Valerie Bérrangar, she thought, would still be alive.
“I heard a naughty rumor about you the other day,” Amelia announced.
“Only one?” asked Sarah. “I’m disappointed.”
She could only imagine the sort of gossip that occasionally reached Amelia’s ever-vigilant ears. After all, Sarah was a former covert CIA operative whose husband had worked as a professional assassin before joining the Secret Intelligence Service. She had also served briefly as the art adviser to the crown prince of Saudi Arabia. Indeed, it was Sarah who had convinced His Majesty to plunk down $450 million on Leonardo da Vinci’sSalvator Mundi, the highest price ever paid at auction for a work of art.
None of which Sarah wished to ever see in print. Therefore, she made no objection when Amelia sat down at her table uninvited. Sarah reckoned it was better to hear the reporter out and, if possible, use the opportunity to make a little mischief of her own. She was in that sort of mood.
“What is it this time?” she asked Amelia.
“I have been reliably told—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“Veryreliably told,” Amelia continued, “that you are planning to move Isherwood Fine Arts from its longtime home in Mason’s Yard to, how shall we say, a less secluded location.”
“Untrue,” declared Sarah.
“You looked at two potential sites in Cork Street last week.”
But not for the reason Amelia suspected. It was Sarah’s ambition to open a second gallery, one that specialized in contemporary art and would bear her name. She had yet to broach the topic with Julian and was keen that he not read about her plans inARTnews.
“I can’t possibly afford Cork Street,” she demurred.
“You just sold a newly discovered Van Dyck for six and a half million pounds.” Amelia lowered her voice. “Very hush-hush. Secret buyer. Mysterious source.”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “I think I read about that somewhere.”
“I’ve been very good to you and Julian over the years,” said Amelia. “And on numerous occasions, I have refrained from pursuing stories that might well have damaged the gallery’s reputation.”
“Such as?”
“Your exact role in the reemergence of that Artemisia, for a start.”
Sarah sipped her drink but said nothing.
“Well?” probed Amelia.
“Isherwood Fine Arts will never leave Mason’s Yard. Is now and ever shall be. World without end. Amen.”
“Then why are you looking for a long-term lease in Cork Street?”
Because she wanted to cast a long shadow over the gallery owned by the former fashion model, who at that moment was whispering something into the ear of Simon Mendenhall, the mannequin-like chief auctioneer from Christie’s.
