The next morning, Kenyon arose bright and early from a restful sleep and went down to Lydia’s kitchen. He plugged in the kettle and made a cup of instant coffee, then sat down at the kitchen nook.
Normally, having to drink a cup of instant coffee would have put Kenyon in a foul mood, but he felt happy, almost buoyant: he had a plan of action.
Taking a business card out of his wallet, he picked up the phone and dialed a local number. After three rings, voice mail kicked in. “This is Hadrian deWolfe,” a male voice said. “Please leave a number and I will ring back presently.”
“This is Jack Kenyon calling on Tuesday morning around ten. Please give me a call when you get in.” Kenyon hung up.
The agent was just finishing his coffee when the doorbell rang. He went to the foyer and found Raymond Legrand standing on the front step.
“What do you want?” asked Kenyon.
Legrand looked down at his shoes. “I came to apologize.”
“For what?” replied Kenyon. “Tailing me, or screwing around with my aunt?” The agent stared hard at the man, waiting for an argument, but Legrand hung his head contritely and said nothing.
In fact, the man had such a whipped dog look that Kenyon couldn’t hold his anger long. He sighed, and stood back from the door. “You want a coffee?” he asked.
The Frenchman looked up. “Yes, please.”
They walked down the hall to the kitchen. The water in the electric kettle was still warm. “All I have is instant black,” he said.
“That will do fine,” said Legrand.
Kenyon poured the coffee and handed it to the Frenchman. Legrand took one sip, and his eyes went wide. “Perhaps I shall forego the coffee,” he said. He went to the sink and poured it down the drain, careful to lift a large bar of soap out of the way first.
Legrand then joined Kenyon at the breakfast nook. “My gardener Bernard told me you came out to Ingoldsby Manor,” he said.
“Yeah. I spoke to your wife.”
Legrand looked Kenyon in the eye as he spoke. “It was wrong for me not to come to the reading of the will the other morning. But now that you have met Ilsa, I think you can understand my reluctance to face her.”
Kenyon didn’t disagree; he remembered the way she had plugged those grouse with her shotgun. “That doesn’t excuse you from following me.”
Legrand stared at his black coffee. “I was not completely truthful with you about the briefcase.” His gaze returned to Kenyon. “If it were to go through Lydia’s solicitor, then Ilsa’s lawyers might learn about it.”
“So?”
Legrand coughed. “In the event of a divorce, I would prefer if the contents remained confidential.”
“Well, it’s a moot point right now,” Kenyon replied. “I can’t find it.”
Legrand idly fingered Lydia’s keys on the breakfast table. “That does not surprise me. Lydia had a special hiding spot.”
“Where?” asked Kenyon.
Legrand pointed over the agent’s shoulder. “There is a false ceiling in the wine refrigerator.”
Kenyon opened the glass door. The ceiling did appear to be about two feet lower than the rest of the room. “How do you open it?” he asked.
Legrand fetched a stepping stool from under the kitchen counter. “There is a latch on the side.”
Kenyon stood on the stool and felt along the edge where the wine shelf met the ceiling; he quickly found the latch that held a hinged panel shut. The agent eased the panel down, exposing a dark cavity above. He could discern a bulky mass looming in the shadows.
Standing on his tiptoes, he was just tall enough to ease his head through the opening. It took a second for his eyes to adjust, but the bulky object turned out to be the compressor for the wine cooler. “I don’t see any briefcase,” he said.
“Have a careful look,” replied Legrand, from below.
Kenyon turned, scanning the dark recess. The light didn’t penetrate far; he had to stretch one arm and search blindly through the space. He checked a second time, but all he found was thick dust. He eased out of the recess and closed the latch. “Nothing up there,” he said.
Legrand shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try. Lydia liked to hide things—I fear she may have hidden this one too well.” He turned to leave.
The agent followed him down the hall. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep looking,” he said. “I’ll give you call when I find it.”
Legrand turned and clasped his hand warmly. “Thank you. You’re a good boy.” He opened the front door and quickly left.
Kenyon watched the Frenchman climb into his beat-up Range Rover and drive off, then returned to the kitchen. His hands were filthy with dust. He went over to the sink and ran some water over his hands, but to his chagrin, he couldn’t find the bar of soap.
Just then, the phone rang. Wiping his wet, dirty hands on the tea towel, he grabbed the kitchen unit.
“Hello, it’s deWolfe calling,” said the evaluator. “You left a message?”
“Yes. I’d like to get together with you. Is lunch okay?”
“Lunch would be splendid.”
“Great,” said Kenyon. “My treat. Where would you like to meet?”
“Have you ever been to the Ritz?” asked deWolfe.
Kenyon recalled the name on Lydia’s credit card bill. “No, but I’d like to go. Where is it?”
“It is near Lydia’s gallery,” said the evaluator. “You can simply hail a cab and tell them the Ritz, and they will know.”
“Fine,” said Kenyon, glancing at his watch. It was almost eleven. “I’ll meet you there at noon.”
“Splendid. Oh, and wear a suit jacket. It’s rather tony,” said deWolfe.
When Happy Harry picked Kenyon up at half past eleven, the street was busy with traffic. Kenyon was getting used to the route now, and recognized the Wellington Arch as they passed Hyde Park Corner.
The taxi pulled up in front of the Ritz Hotel. It was a large, impressive stone structure on the south side of Piccadilly. Kenyon glanced at his watch as he paid the cabby his fare. “Come back for me in an hour, okay?”
“Right, guv.” The cabby beeped the horn as he drove off into traffic.
DeWolfe was standing in the lobby when Kenyon entered. “I was very pleased when you called,” he said as he shook Kenyon’s hand. “What do you think of the Ritz?”
Kenyon stared at his surroundings. “It’s wild,” he admitted. The foyer opened onto a long indoor promenade decorated in gold leaf and marble. Halfway down the promenade was a piano bar with large palm trees reaching toward a thirty-foot ceiling.
The dining room was located at the end of the promenade. A maitre d’ in a tuxedo stood guard. A silver pin on his lapel announced that this was Artur.
“Table for two,” said deWolfe.
The maitre d’ glanced down his nose at Kenyon’s jacket and Levi jeans. “Have you a reservation?” he asked in a French accent.
Kenyon shook his head. “No.”
Artur checked his book and shook his head. “I am sorry, but we are full for lunch.”
Kenyon looked over the maitre d’s shoulder into the empty restaurant. “Are you kidding me? You could hold bazooka practice in there.”
Artur’s lip curled slightly. “I repeat, there is no room.”
Kenyon was ready to walk away when deWolfe intervened. “Artur, this is Mr. Jack Kenyon, the nephew of Lydia Kenyon.”
The expression on Artur’s face suddenly transformed. “I am so sorry to hear about your aunt’s demise,” he said. “She was an absolutely lovely woman.” He extended his hand and shook Kenyon’s warmly. “Please accept my condolences on behalf of all the staff.”
“Thank you,” Kenyon replied, astonished at the sudden reversal.
“Do you have anything in the garden?” asked deWolfe.
“But of course, Monsieur,” he replied. Artur turned on his heel and led them through the restaurant.
The restaurant’s decor matched the opulence of the rest of the hotel. The floor was covered in a carpet of burgundy and robin’s egg blue, and marble columns capped in gold leaf rose to a ceiling covered in a trompe l’oeil fresco of fluffy clouds.
They passed through glass doors onto a patio overlooking Green Park, and Artur sat Kenyon and deWolfe down at an ornate, wrought-iron table.
A waiter soon appeared. He wore a gold cluster of grapes on his lapel, and reverently carried a bottle of Bordeaux wine in the crook of his arm. “On behalf of the Ritz, we would like to offer you a complimentary bottle of wine in the memory of Miss Lydia Kenyon.”
DeWolfe leaned forward to read the label. It was an Haut Medoc Superior, vintage 1966. “An excellent selection, Sommelier,” replied deWolfe. “We shall be more than delighted to accept.”
Kenyon watched the waiter depart to open the bottle. “They sure seem to have thought a lot of Lydia around here.”
“This was Lydia’s favorite entertaining spot. Whenever one of her celebrity clients came to town, she always brought them to dine at the Ritz.”
“And that’s why they’re springing a nice bottle of wine on us?”
“They hope Lydia’s nephew will carry on the tradition.”
Another waiter brought menus, and the two men perused the contents. Kenyon stared at the entrees; half of them were listed in French. He noted, with alarm, that there were no prices listed.
The wine steward returned and poured a glass for sampling. Kenyon swirled a sip in his mouth. The wine was strong yet smooth, and tasted of wild berries. He nodded; the sommelier filled the glasses, then departed.
DeWolfe placed his glass back on the table. “I am flattered, of course, that you have asked me to dine, but might I inquire the reason for the invite?”
“I had hoped to learn a little about the art business from you,” Kenyon replied.
“Are you thinking about running the gallery yourself?”
“I’d like to explore my options. I was hoping you could fill me in on how things work in this town when it comes to art.”
“Why don’t we order first?” said deWolfe. “Shall I pick something for both of us?”
Kenyon nodded gratefully. “Go right ahead.”
DeWolfe called the waiter over and ordered several courses, then sat back in his chair and pondered where to start. “Art in Britain is big business,” he began. “Several billions’ worth of paintings and other artwork are sold annually, and London is the center for most of the action.”
“Several billion?” Kenyon whistled. “I had no idea it was that large.”
DeWolfe nodded. “The recent recession took a big bite, but Christie’s and Sotheby’s auction houses alone still have annual worldwide sales in excess of a billion. And there are a handful of UK-based houses that turn over 100 to 250 million pounds annually.”
“And the Kenyon Art Gallery?”
“There are about one hundred galleries in London that do ten to one hundred million pounds. Lydia’s gallery would fall into that range.”
The waiter returned with an oval baking dish. “What’s this?” Kenyon asked.
“Terrine of foie gras,” replied deWolfe. “It is made from the liver of a goose. Try some with the fig chutney.”
Kenyon spread some paté onto a cracker and topped it with the chutney. The meat was spicy and sweet, with a rich, gamey flavor. Kenyon chased it with a sip of the Bordeaux.
“Tell me,” Kenyon asked. “Is art profitable?”
“It is one of the most profitable businesses around,” said deWolfe. “If Lydia was grossing 21 million pounds a year, she would have a pre-tax profit of around 33 per cent, or 7 million pounds, and a post tax profit of 3.5 million pounds.”
“Whoa. That’s like winning the lottery every year.”
“That it is, only a lot easier.”
“Tell me, who can afford to buy this art?” asked Kenyon. “I mean, there’s stuff hanging in Lydia’s gallery worth over a million bucks.”
DeWolfe spread some paté onto a cracker. “There are several thousand people worldwide who can pay 100 million pounds for a painting by Van Gogh or Monet without a moment’s hesitation.”
The two men finished the appetizer, and a busboy whisked it away. The waiter then returned with their soup, a rich, rose-colored lobster bisque. Kenyon spooned up some; it was filled with succulent meat. “I know I’m going to sound like a hick, but why do they pay that much for a scrap of canvas with paint on it?”
DeWolfe savored his soup for a few moments before replying. “That is actually a very good question, one that the art industry devotes a lot of time and energy pondering.”
He put down his spoon. “There are three main categories of buyer. The first is the aesthete, who buys art for the pleasure. Art for him is a hobby, a passion.”
“What’s the second category?”
“The investor, who buys for value. The art market has outperformed all stock exchanges in the last twenty years.”
“And the third?”
“The nouveau riche.”
“Who?”
“The new money; the recent arrivals who wish to buy credibility by owning something famous and valuable.”
“How does a gallery connect up with all these people?” Kenyon asked.
“Through a mix of socializing and networking. Ascot and opera for old money, night clubs, film openings, and rock concerts for new.”
“What did Lydia do?”
“Lydia cultivated the new crowd: software billionaires, rock musicians, and movie stars. They all trusted her.”
The waiter returned, wheeling a silver carving trolley. With a flourish, he opened the lid to reveal a roast rack of lamb. He carved the roast into separate chops, serving them with rosemary potatoes and buttered carrots.
Kenyon ate hungrily; deWolfe with more restraint. After the main course, they paused for a few moments, in silence.
“Is trust important?” Kenyon finally asked.
“Extremely important. Most people don’t know how to recognize whether a painting is genuine or not. That’s why they go to a gallery, because they are paying for the expertise and reputation.”
“Did Lydia have a good reputation?”
“Ja. All of her catalogue is first-rate quality.”
Kenyon felt relieved to hear it. He hadn’t wanted to believe that Lydia would knowingly sell a forgery.
The waiter returned to remove the plates. They both declined dessert, and ordered coffees.
“Have there been many scandals recently?” Kenyon asked.
DeWolfe thought for a moment. “A forgery ring infiltrated the Tate gallery’s files a few years ago and authenticated false paintings.”
“Did they catch the guys?”
“No, it was only discovered accidentally, several months later. They were long gone by then.”
“Have there been any scandals involving modern stuff?”
“Oh, yes. A gallery in Hawaii was caught selling counterfeit Dali prints.”
“I heard about that. What about modern originals?”
“That is very uncommon.”
“Why?”
“Modern originals are very difficult to pass off. Any potential buyer with suspicions can simply contact the artist to authenticate it.” DeWolfe eyed Kenyon. “What are you getting at?”
Kenyon tried to look innocent. “What do you mean?”
“There is something you are not telling me. I insist that you explain.”
“I can’t right now.”
DeWolfe gazed shrewdly at Kenyon. “Then, let me guess; Lydia’s gallery has a forgery.”
The agent couldn’t conceal his surprise. “How did you know?”
DeWolfe lowered his voice. “Lydia called me last year. It was all very hush-hush. She was concerned about the provenance of a modern painting.”
“What did you find?”
“It was a fake.”
“Did you catch the crook?”
DeWolfe shook his head. “It had passed through too many owners to know who had made the switch. We couldn’t prove who was the culprit.”
“Well,” replied Kenyon, “whoever it is, I think they’re back. A fake showed up at Lydia’s gallery, and I need to know if there’s any more. I need your help.”
DeWolfe nodded solemnly. “I will do anything for Lydia. And you can count on my utmost discretion.”
“What should we do?” asked Kenyon.
“We should go to Lydia’s gallery and look at the rest of the paintings, immediately.”