This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

A green-coated doorman opened the door and touched the peak of his cap as Virginia stepped out onto the Brompton Road.

“Taxi, madam?”

She was about to say yes when her gaze settled on an art gallery on the other side of the road. Crane Kalman. Why did she know that name? And then she remembered.

“No, thank you.” She raised a gloved hand to stop the traffic as she made her way across the Brompton Road, wondering if she could pick up another two or three hundred pounds for Mrs. Mellor’s old pictures. As she entered the gallery a bell rang and a short man with thick, wiry hair bustled up to her.

“Can I help you, madam?” he asked, unable to hide his mid-European accent.

“I was recently in Salford, and—”

“Ah, yes, you must be Lady Virginia Fenwick. Mr. Wilks rang to say you might come in if you were interested in selling the late Mrs. Mellor’s art collection.”

“How much are you willing to offer?” asked Virginia, who didn’t have a moment to waste.

“Over the years,” said Mr. Kalman, who didn’t appear to be in any hurry, “Mrs. Mellor acquired eleven oils, and twenty-three drawings from the local rent collector. Perhaps you were unaware that she was a close friend of the artist? And I have reason to believe—”

“How much?” Virginia repeated, aware of how little time she had before she needed to leave for Heathrow.

“I consider one eighty would be a fair price.”

“Two hundred, and you have a deal.”

Kalman hesitated for a moment before saying, “I would agree to that, my lady, and even go to two thirty, if you were abl

e to tell me where the missing painting was.”

“The missing painting?”

“I’m in possession of an inventory of all the works the artist sold or gave to Mrs. Mellor, but I haven’t been able to locate the Mill Lane Industrial Estate, which she gave to her son, and wondered if you had any idea where it is.”

Virginia knew exactly where it was but she didn’t have the time to travel down to Bristol and pick it up from Mellor’s office. However, one phone call to his secretary and it could be dispatched to the gallery immediately.

“I accept your offer of two hundred and thirty, and will make sure that the painting is delivered to you in the next few days.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Kalman, who returned to his desk, wrote out a check, and handed it over.

Virginia folded it, dropped it in her handbag, and gave the gallery owner an ingratiating smile, before turning and walking back out onto the Brompton Road and hailing a taxi.

“Coutts in the Strand,” she instructed the driver.

She was considering how she would spend her last night in London—Bofie had suggested Annabel’s—when the taxi drew up outside the bank.

“Wait here,” she said, “this shouldn’t take long.”

She entered the banking hall, hurried across to one of the tellers, took out the check, and passed it across the counter.

“I’d like to cash this.”

“Certainly, madam,” said the cashier before catching his breath. “I presume you mean you’d like to deposit the full amount in your account?”

“No, I’ll take it in cash,” said Virginia, “preferably fives.”

“I’m not sure that will be possible,” stammered the cashier.

“Why not?” demanded Virginia.

“I don’t have £230,000 in cash, my lady.”