False Impression

“And is there any reason for the police to become suspicious about our involvement?”

“No,” replied Leapman. “You’ve never met Victoria Wentworth, you didn’t sign the original contract, and you haven’t even seen the painting.”

“No one has outside the Wentworth family and Petrescu,” Fenston reminded him. “But what I still need to know is how much time before I can safely—”

“Hard to say, but it could be years before the police are willing to admit they don’t even have a suspect, especially in such a high-profile case.”

“A couple of years will be quite enough,” said Fenston. “By then, the interest on the loan will be more than enough to ensure that I can hold on to the Van Gogh and sell off the rest of the collection without losing any of my original investment.”

“Then it’s a good thing that I read Petrescu’s report when I did,” said Leapman, “because if she’d gone along with Petrescu’s recommendation, there would have been nothing we could do about it.”

“Agreed,” said Fenston, “but now we have to find some way of losing Petrescu.”

A thin smile appeared on Leapman’s lips. “That’s easy enough,” he said, “we play on her one weakness.”

“And that is?” asked Fenston.

“Her honesty.”

Arabella sat alone in the drawing room, unable to take in what was happening all around her. A cup of Earl Grey tea on the table beside her had gone cold, but she hadn’t noticed. The loudest noise in the room was the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. Time had stopped for Arabella.

Several police cars and an ambulance were parked on the gravel outside. People going about their business dressed in uniforms, white coats, dark suits, and even face masks came and went without bothering her.

There was a gentle tap on the door. Arabella looked up to see an old friend standing in the doorway. The chief superintendent removed a peaked cap covered in silver braid as he entered the room. Arabella rose from the sofa, her face ashen, her eyes red from crying. The tall man bent down and kissed her gently on both cheeks and then waited for her to sit back down before he took his place in the leather wing chair opposite her. Stephen Renton offered his condolences, which were genuine; he’d known Victoria for many years.

Arabella thanked him, sat up straight, and asked quietly, “Who could have done such a terrible thing, especially to someone as innocent as Victoria?”

“There doesn’t seem to be a simple or logical answer to that question,” the chief superintendent replied. “And it doesn’t help that it was several hours before her body was discovered, allowing the assailant more than enough time to get clean away.” He paused. “Do you feel up to answering some questions, my dear?”

Arabella gave a nod. “I’ll do anything I can to help you track down the assailant.” She repeated the word with venom.

“Normally, the first question I would ask in any murder inquiry is do you know if your sister had any enemies, but I confess that knowing her as I did that doesn’t seem possible. However, I must ask if you were aware of any problems Victoria might have been facing, because—” he hesitated “—there have been rumors in the village for some time that following your father’s death, your sister was left with considerable debts.”

“I don’t know, is the truth,” Arabella admitted. “After I married Angus, we only came down from Scotland for a couple of weeks in the summer and every other Christmas. It wasn’t until my husband died that I returned to live in Surrey”—the chief superintendent nodded but didn’t interrupt—“and heard the same rumors. Local gossips were even letting it be known that some of the furniture in my shop had come from the estate in order that Victoria could still pay the staff.”

“And was there any truth in those rumors?” asked Stephen.

“None at all,” replied Arabella. “When Angus died and I sold our farm in Perthshire, there was more than enough to allow me to return to Wentworth, open my little shop, and turn a lifelong hobby into a worthwhile enterprise. But I did ask my sister on several occasions if the rumors of Father’s financial position were true. Victoria denied there was any problem, always claiming that everything was under control. But then she adored Father, and in her eyes he could do no wrong.”

“Can you think of anything that might give some clue as to why . . .”

Arabella rose from the sofa and, without explanation, walked across to a writing desk on the far side of the room. She picked up the blood-spattered letter that she had found on her sister’s table, walked back, and handed it across to him.

Stephen read the unfinished missive twice before asking, “Do you have any idea what Victoria could have meant by ‘a solution has been found’?”

“No,” admitted Arabella, “but it’s possible that I’ll

be able to answer that question once I’ve had a word with Arnold Simpson.”

“That doesn’t fill me with confidence,” said Stephen.

Arabella noted his comment but didn’t respond. She knew that the chief superintendent’s natural instinct was to mistrust all solicitors who appeared unable to disguise a belief that they were superior to any police officer.

The chief superintendent rose from his place, walked across and sat next to Arabella. He took her hand. “Call me whenever you want to,” he said gently, “and try not to keep too many secrets from me, Arabella, because I’ll need to know everything, and I mean everything, if we’re to find who murdered your sister.”

Arabella didn’t reply.

“Damn,” muttered Anna to herself when an athletic, dark-haired man jogged casually past her, just as he’d done several times during the last few weeks. He didn’t glance back—serious runners never did. Anna knew that it would be pointless to try and keep up with him, as she would be “legless” within a hundred yards. She had once caught a sideways glimpse of the mystery man, but he then strode away and all she had seen was the back of his emerald green T-shirt as he continued toward Strawberry Fields. Anna tried to put him out of her mind and focus once again on her meeting with Fenston.