False Impression

“Fenston’s lawyers delivered a letter by hand this morning, reminding me that should I fail to repay their client’s loan in full by midday tomorrow, I must be prepared to pension off all the family retainers.”

“He plans to dispose of the entire collection?” said Anna.

“That would appear to be his purpose,” said Arabella.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” said Anna. “If Fenston were to place the entire collection on the market at the same time he wouldn’t even clear his original loan.”

“He would, if he then put the hall up for sale,” said Arabella.

“He wouldn’t—,” began Anna.

“He would,” said Arabella. “So we can only hope that Mr. Nakamura remains infatuated with Van Gogh, because frankly he’s my last hope.”

“Where is the masterpiece?” asked Anna, as Arabella led her through to the drawing room.

“Back in the Van Gogh bedroom, where he’s resided for the past hundred years–” Arabella paused– “except for a day’s excursion to Heathrow.”

While Arabella settled herself in her favorite chair by the fire, a dog on each side of her, Anna strolled around the room, reminding herself of the Italian collection, assembled by the fourth earl.

“Should my dear Italians also be forced to make an unexpected journey to New York,” said Arabella, “they shouldn’t grumble. After all, that appears to be no more than an American tradition.”

Anna laughed as she moved from Titian to Veronese and to Caravaggio. “I’d forgotten just how magnificent the Caravaggio was,” she said, standing back to admire The Marriage at Cana.

“I do believe that you are more interested in dead Italians than living Irishmen,” said Arabella.

“If Caravaggio was alive today,” said Anna, “Jack would be following him, not me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Arabella.

“He murdered a man in a drunken brawl. Spent his last few years on the run, but whenever he arrived in a new city, the local burghers turned a blind eye as long as he went on producing magnificent portraits of the Vi

rgin Mother and the Christ child.”

“Anna, you’re an impossible guest, now come and sit down,” said Arabella as a maid entered the drawing room carrying a silver tray. She began to set up for tea by the fire.

“Now, my dear, will you have Indian or China?”

“I’ve always been puzzled,” said Anna taking the seat opposite Arabella, “why it isn’t “Indian or Chinese,” or “India or China”?”

For a moment, Arabella was silenced, saved only by the entry of the butler.

“M’lady,” said Andrews, “there’s a gentleman at the door with a package for you. I told him to take it around to the tradesman’s entrance, but he said he couldn’t release it without your signature.”

“A sort of modern-day Viola,” suggested Arabella. “I shall have to go and see what this peevish messenger brings,” she added. “Perhaps I will even throw him a ring for his troubles.”

“I feel sure the fair Olivia will know just how to handle him,” rejoined Anna.

Arabella gave a little bow and followed Andrews out of the room.

Anna was admiring Tintoretto’s Perseus and Andromeda when Arabella returned, the cheerful smile of only moments before replaced by a grim expression.

“Is there a problem?” asked Anna, as she turned around to face her host.

“The peevish fellow has sent back my ring,” replied Arabella. “Come and see for yourself.”

Anna followed her into the hall, where she found Andrews and the underbutler removing the casing of a red crate that Anna had hoped she had seen for the last time.

“It must have been sent from New York,” said Arabella, studying a label attached to the box, “probably on the same flight as you.”