That afternoon, after having lunch with Olivia, who was going to get more studying done, I went to the local art gallery that was run by the Westerham Art Society to see if I could find any clues as to Mrs Valentine’s whereabouts. I’d okayed it with Ma’am, who was reluctant, but since we now knew my attacker’s magic signature, Ma’am had put a detection spell on me. If he came within one hundred metres of me, an alarm would sound in my head and Ma’am’s. It would likely be annoying for her, but if she was happy to do it that way, I was happy. If the alarm went off, I was to get myself to a private space and travel home straight away.
Millicent was desk-bound for the afternoon, and Beren and William were busy, so I had two other agents tailing me from a distance. Johnson was a well-built, six-foot-four black-skinned man, and Smith was a petite, wiry olive-skinned woman who was shorter than me, but her stance said not to mess with her. And I wasn’t going to. I did feel safe with them watching out for me, and I gave them a small wave just before I went into the gallery, which was a ten-minute walk from home.
A white converted two-storey brick cottage held the Westerham Art Society and Gallery. It was a few minutes’ walk north of the high street, near the Westerham Hall. As usual, there was no street parking, which didn’t bother me, because, of course, I didn’t have a car. I hoped the agents didn’t mind walking in the rain. I’d gotten a snazzy yellow raincoat and purple gumboots, and I wore them now, wanting to look as normal as possible. I was undercover. Angelica had never said I was, but that’s how I was playing this. It was exciting being sneaky, and believing I was undercover made me feel more important, even if it was only in my head. I think Angelica was just humouring me in letting me come here, but who knew? I might find information because people didn’t have their guards up around me, and since I wasn’t an actual PIB employee, I could get away with it, technically.
When I entered, a bell tinkled above the door. Cute. I’d brought my knapsack, which held my wallet, phone, camera, and a bottle of water. I wasn’t sure if I’d be allowed to use the camera to shoot the paintings, but I wanted to be prepared.
The room’s dark blue carpet and stark white walls were a dramatic backdrop for the myriad of varying-sized paintings hanging in there. “Can I help you?” A man in jeans, blue plaid shirt, and camel-coloured jacket approached from behind the counter on the far side of the room. His English accent was super cultured—he sounded how I imagined all rich English people sounded. There was something familiar about him.
Oh, crap. It was the young guy I’d snapped going through Mrs Valentine’s drawers, the one with the chocolate-brown eyes. He had the longest lashes and a few freckles scattered across his nose, which hadn’t been apparent in the photos. Unfortunately, he was even better looking in real life. I didn’t know why, but it was always disappointing to find out someone attractive was a criminal—not that I knew he had done anything wrong, but he might have.
“Um, just looking. I’ve recently moved here from Australia, and I was wanting something for my bedroom.” Would he think I was coming onto him by mentioning my bedroom? Should I have said living room? Crap.
“Are you after a watercolour, pastel, or oil painting? And do you have a subject in mind?”
“I’m not quite sure.” I glanced around at the paintings. “Hmm, I think a typical English landscape would be nice, or architecture, like a village scene. Something with colour.”
He looked at my raincoat, then down to my galoshes and grinned. “I see.” He looked up at me again, mirth shining from his eyes. “Why don’t you have a wander around, and if you see anything you like, just let me know. There’s this room and two more through that doorway.” He pointed to the right of his reception desk.
“Great, thanks.” I gave him a smile, then ambled around the room, taking in each painting as if I were serious. So, who was he, and why had he been in Mrs Valentine’s drawers? I couldn’t believe someone so respectable was a criminal. But then, Knight hadn’t liked him, so there must be something to it. That was probably how attractive people got away with crime: no one wanted to believe they’d do something unforgivable, so they looked the other way.
I finished perusing all the paintings in the first room and made my way into the second. Whilst the first room had been landscapes, this room was a combination of portraits and nudes. One particularly striking pastel painting was of a young man sitting on a bed, from the front, a sheet covering his lower half, head bowed, eyes closed. Morning sun shone through a window to highlight his face and nicely muscled arms from the side. There was such atmosphere and calm about the picture. He looked as if he was relishing the peace before the chaos of the day snatched the quiet moments.
The signature at the bottom said “Ida Valentine.” Oh, wow, Mrs Valentine had done this. She was really talented.
I felt a presence behind me. “Do you like it?”
I jumped, then turned. “Oh, hi. Yes. It’s gorgeous.”
It was the brown-eyed guy. “Did I scare you?” I nodded. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Do you have a lot of Ida Valentine’s work in here?”
“A few, but they always sell quickly. She’s been one of our bestsellers for the past couple of years. Her work will be worth a lot in the future—it’s already in a handful of stately homes and galleries around Europe. This one’s actually a bargain, but she believes in being fair to as many people as possible. We’ve tried to tell her people are happy to pay a premium for her work, but she won’t hear of charging more.”
I turned to look at the picture. The price was seven hundred pounds. It wasn’t a bargain in my world, but whatever—it was still a lovely picture that would look good hanging above my bed—and how much was someone’s talent and years of honing it worth? I bit my lip. Was I really considering dropping that much money on a piece of art? And it wasn’t even that big, maybe fifty centimetres by ninety. I wouldn’t normally, but something about it called to me, insisting I buy it. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. But seven hundred was a lot of money, and in pounds, no less. That was like a gazillion Australian dollars.
I surprised us both when I said over my shoulder, “I’ll take it.” His eyes widened. Maybe he’d thought I was a tyre kicker, and usually in art galleries and antique shops I was because I couldn’t really afford to spend money on wants rather than needs.
He grinned. “I’ll get it wrapped up for you.”
Thunder cracked outside, making me wince. “Um, I walked. Can I pay now and collect it when it’s not raining?”
“Why don’t I have it delivered?”
“How much will that be? Sorry, but I’m stretching things buying it as it is.” My smile was a touch embarrassed. I was sure rich people came in here all the time and dropped thousands without a second’s worry. What was I doing buying this thing?
“It’s on the house, as long as you live nearby. Which I’m assuming you do since you walked.” He smiled. “I’ll go wrap this. If you’d like to keep looking around, go for it. You can pay when you leave.”
“Okay, thanks.” He went to the first room, and I continued to the third, which was a mixture of abstract and black and white photography. Not my thing. I mean, some of the pictures were interesting, even pretty, but I enjoyed gazing at things I recognised, and I wasn’t in the mood for photographs—more irony, but you could have too much of a good thing. Besides, I could take my own awesome photos and get them framed if I really wanted. I had a couple of my own shots up at home, in Sydney.
As I approached the reception desk, I realised I was going to have to give him my proper name and my real address. That wasn’t very undercover. It was kind of stupid, actually. But then again, if he were a criminal, he would probably be wary of everyone. I wouldn’t put it past him to research me. If I gave him false information, I’d look untrustworthy. So, I made a decision: I was going to try and get his trust after all. But how would I find out more about him if I just left with my picture?
He looked up from packaging the painting. “I didn’t get your name. I’m Patrick.”
“Hi, Patrick. I’m Lily.”
“That’s a pretty name.” He blushed, then cleared his throat. “Will that be cash or card?”
“Card, thanks. I don’t normally carry seven hundred pounds around.” I laughed. “I usually only need enough for a cappuccino.”
“Oh, yeah? Which café do you go to?”
Hmm, was he leading up to asking me out? I hoped so because I needed info, and he was kind of cute. There was nothing that said I couldn’t enjoy doing my undercover work.
Maybe I should name a café I didn’t go to, just in case he stalked me later. Plus, if anything weird went down between us, there would be no bad memories attached to Costa. “Deli De Luca.”
“That’s a nice café. They have a great selection of soups.”
I blinked. Soup? Who cared about soup? I mean, soup was yummy and had its place, but cafes were supposed to be about coffee and sweet things, and maybe toasted sandwiches. I was rethinking wanting him to ask me out. Maybe Angelica could solve this case without my assistance.
“Lily?”
“Ah, sorry. I have a habit of drifting off into the ether.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.” He leaned the securely wrapped picture against the side of the desk. “Done. I’ll just put your card through the reader and get you to write your address here.” He handed me a large hardcover notebook and pen. I gave him my credit card and then wrote down my details. I hoped Angelica wouldn’t be mad at me for doing this. Was I putting her and Olivia at risk by drawing him to our place? But maybe he wasn’t a witch, just a run-of-the-mill criminal. Or maybe he wasn’t a criminal at all, and he’d had a good reason for rooting around in Mrs Valentine’s stuff. I had hope, although it was probably misplaced.
“Great. All done. And congratulations on your new artwork. I’ll see if we can get it delivered tomorrow. Will someone be home?”
“Um, there should be. If I’m not there, I’m sure my housemate could be.” Olivia was studying, so it was likely she was going to be home, but if she wasn’t, I’d be able to be there. If Angelica had any PIB work for me, she’d understand my need to stay home and wait for the painting.
“Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow then. Good luck in the rain.”
“Ah, yeah, thanks.” I laughed. “And thanks for all your help, Patrick.”
“It was my pleasure, Lily.” He held eye contact for way too long, and I blushed. It did feel good that someone was showing some kind of interest after the William debacle. A girl had her ego to maintain, after all.
“Bye.” I turned and walked out into a downpour. Hooray for big yellow raincoats, umbrellas, and purple galoshes. For once in my life, I was prepared.
With a bit of luck, I’d be ready for whatever tomorrow threw at me too. Unfortunately, we Bianchis had never been known for our good luck.