The front door was opened by a tall slim man dressed in a black tail coat and pinstriped trousers. He looked at William as if he’d come to the wrong entrance. Two younger men came scurrying down the steps and quickly made their way to the back of the van. Time to consider Plan B.
William opened the back door of the van, and picked up a clipboard, while the two young men lifted the crate carefully out, carried the painting up the steps and propped it against a wall in the hall. The butler was closing the door, when William said in an authoritative voice that he hoped sounded like his father’s, ‘I need a signature before I can release the package.’
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the door had been slammed in his face. But the butler reluctantly took a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket. Time for plan C.
‘I’m sorry, but the release form has to be signed by Mr Faulkner,’ said William, placing a foot inside the door like a door-to-door salesman. If the butler had said take it or leave it, he would have had to take it and leave without another word.
‘Will Mrs Faulkner do?’ asked a voice in the background.
An elegant, middle-aged woman appeared in the hallway. She was wearing a red silk dressing gown that emphasized her graceful figure. Did the rich, as Fred Yates had often suggested, not get up before ten in the morning? However, it was her raven-black hair, tanned skin and air of quiet authority that left him in no doubt she was the mistress of the house.
She signed the form, and William was about to leave when she said, ‘Thank you, Mr—’
‘Warwick, William Warwick,’ he replied, breaking his rule of trying not to sound like a public schoolboy.
‘I’m Christina Faulkner. Do you have time to join me for a coffee, Mr Warwick?’
William didn’t hesitate, although it wasn’t part A, B or C of his plan. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Coffee in the drawing room, Makins,’ said Mrs Faulkner. ‘And when the painting has been unpacked, I’d like it re-hung.’
‘Yes, of course, madam.’
‘Miles will be so pleased to see the picture back in place when he eventually returns,’ said Mrs Faulkner, emphasizing the word ‘eventually’, as she led William into the drawing room.
William couldn’t take his eyes off the magnificent paintings that adorned every wall. Miles Faulkner may have been a crook, but he was without question a crook with taste. The Sisley, Sickert, Matisse and Pissarro would have graced any collection, but William’s gaze settled on a small still life of oranges in a bowl, by an artist he hadn’t come across before.
‘Fernando Botero,’ said Mrs Faulkner. ‘A fellow countryman, who, like myself, escaped from Colombia at a young age,’ she added as the butler appeared carrying a tray of coffee and a selection of biscuits.
William sat down and looked at a large empty space above the mantelpiece where the copy of the Rembrandt must have hung. The butler placed the tray on an antique coffee table William thought he recognized, but was distracted when the two young men entered the room carrying the painting.
The butler took charge of the hanging, and once the picture was back in place, he gave Mrs Faulkner a slight bow before discreetly leaving.
‘Am I right in thinking,’ said Mrs Faulkner as she poured her guest a coffee, ‘that you are a detective, Mr Warwick?’
‘Yes, I am,’ William replied, without adding, but not a very experienced one.
‘Then I wonder if I might seek your advice on a personal matter?’ she said, crossing her legs.
William stopped staring at The Syndics and turned to face his hostess. ‘Yes, of course,’ he managed.
‘But before I do, I need to be sure I can rely on your discretion.’
‘Of course,’ he repeated.
‘I need the services of a private detective. Someone who’s discreet, professional, and more important, can be trusted.’
‘A number of retired Met officers act as private detectives,’ said William, ‘and I’m sure my boss would be happy to recommend one of them. Unofficially,’ he added.
‘That’s good to know, Mr Warwick. However, I can’t stress how important it is that my husband doesn’t find out. He’s away at the moment and won’t be back for at least a month.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find the right person for you, Mrs Faulkner, long before your husband returns.’ He stole a final glance at a picture he doubted he would ever see again.
‘You really like that painting, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ admitted William without guile.
‘It’s also one of Miles’ favourites, which may be the reason we have one just like it in our drawing room in Monte Carlo. In fact I can never tell the difference between the two.’