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  “Probably, though I’m crossing my fingers that won’t be necessary. Not that I’ve seen anything here to rave about.”

  “That’s probably because you haven’t seen the best stuff. There are a few expensive, if ordinary, paintings in the formal dining room over there. But for the real show, you need to see the bedrooms.”

  “And how, may I ask, are you familiar with Vivien’s bedrooms?”

  “I came here for a drinks reception once and I was talking to Walker Hampton, Vivien’s husband, who offered to give me a tour of the collection. I should say that we had had a few drinks by this point. I was so busy chatting away, I didn’t notice that he’d led me into his bedroom and was showing me his Gauguin!”

  They both screamed with laugher. Claudia adjusted a strap of her black dress and plonked her empty glass on a waiter’s tray.

  “A Gauguin, wow, that’s quite something,” said Alice. “What else was he hiding up there, or were you too distracted to notice the paintings?”

  “I don’t remember much about them. All I can say is that they were much better than the works down here.”

  “I’d love to see them.” Alice looked up the staircase. “Which one is Walker’s bedroom?”

  “Turn left at the top of the stairs. It’s one of the doors on the right, I’m not sure which one.” Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  “I’m just going to run up and take a quick look.” Alice threw a cursory glance behind her. No one was looking. “I won’t be long.”

  She darted up the stairs and turned into a long corridor. The first door was closed, but the next two revealed bedrooms, comfortably but sparsely furnished. More bedrooms followed.

  By the time she reached the end of the corridor, Alice had seen all the open rooms. It had to be the one with the closed door.

  She retraced her steps, prised the door open a fraction, and peered in. A man’s jacket lay casually across the bed. A double-check that she was still alone, then she slipped inside.

  The room was enormous, much bigger than the others. It looked as if two rooms had been knocked together. Despite its size, it too was sparsely furnished. But the walls! The walls were crammed with paintings, end to end. What a feast! Alice spun around, her eyes seesawing over the canvases. She picked out a John Nash, a Dali.

  Glorious artworks, each trying to out-sparkle the others. It was electrifying, hypnotic and a little mad.

  Above the bedside table, a Degas caught her eye. She moved closer and stretched out a hand; a gentle touch on the frame just to make sure it was real.

  If Walker was a collector too, he certainly had better taste than his wife.

  Just along from the Degas was a Frida Kahlo. Alice had studied this beautiful painting as part of her art degree, but had never expected to see it in real life. She moved in front of it to get a better look.

  “You little beauty.”

  “See anything you fancy?”

  Alice jerked back and turned around, to find a tall, rangy man leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

  “I’m so sorry, I was just …” she stuttered.

  “A beautiful woman making herself at home in my bedroom! I can keep a secret like that; but you know people talk.” He treated her to a Cheshire cat grin.

  Alice walked towards him. His dark hair was shot with grey and as she got closer, the grin dropped from his long, tanned face. Close-up, his baggy, faded blue jeans were grubbier than had first appeared, and the sleeves of his white t-shirt were frayed. She stretched out her hand, but he moved off the doorframe and got his introduction in first.

  “I’m Walker Hampton, and you are Alice.”

  She examined his face. Generously wrinkled but no less handsome for that. With unreasonably attractive chocolate eyes …

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I Googled you and found an old photo. I prefer your hair shorter.”

  “You’ve been stalking me? That’s a little creepy, if I may say.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I heard you were in charge of the centenary exhibition, so I thought I’d better check you out. Could I trust you with one of our paintings, I asked myself?”

  “And what did you decide?”

  “You have relevant experience and you’ve done some interesting research. But poking around other people’s bedrooms uninvited – you lose marks for that.”

  Alice smiled. “What else did you find out about me?”

  “That you’re very nosy and ask lots of boring questions. And you can fit thirty-nine Maltesers in your mouth at the same time.”

  Alice’s mouth gaped open and a hand flew up to cover it. “That’s not true.”

  “I’m joking.” He sniggered.

  She cast an arm around the room. “I was wondering how you managed to bag the best paintings for your bedroom.”

  “Just lucky I guess. We move the paintings around every now and again and at the last move, I landed this lot. Anyway, that’s enough dull questioning. I’ve got work to do and I think Vivien has already started speaking. You don’t want to miss the grand unveiling.”

  “No, I’m looking forward to it. And thank you.”

  As Alice ran along the corridor she could feel Walker’s eyes on her back, as Vivien’s voice rose up from downstairs.

  Chapter 8

  The conservatory was packed so Alice joined the back of the crowd, jockeying amongst the guests for a good position. Vivien was standing beside an easel, with a painting hidden by a paisley shawl. Finn was crouching off to the side, taking photos.

  Alice hoped the piece was one of Walker’s and she wondered how she could pretend to be delighted if it was not. Too late now. Vivien’s speech was heading for the big reveal.

  “You will have heard me beating the drum for Gregory’s House many times before,” she said. “The gallery has proved itself a valuable asset to Great Wheaton over the past century. Loved by local residents, it has also brought in visitors from outside the area and my council colleagues and I have been happy to support it.” Vivien stood erect.

  “But I’m particularly excited about the gallery’s next show, the centenary exhibition. As soon as Duncan told me about it, I was sure it would be a winner. It’s not every day that, as an amateur collector, you get the opportunity to contribute to a major exhibition. But in this show, local people will have the pleasure of seeing paintings from their own collections displayed in a public gallery. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s an exciting proposition.”

  She moved closer to the picture and took a teasing peak behind the shawl.

  “I couldn’t wait until opening day to show my own contribution, so I’ve invited you to see it today.”

  Alice wormed her way through the guests until she found a spot with a better view of the easel. Vivien reached for the shawl and whipped it away to reveal her picture. But it was not a painting.

  “It’s a drawing by Augustus John.” Vivien ran a soft finger along its side. “It’s one of my favourite pieces, so I hope you like it as much as I do.”

  The guests burst into applause and Vivien beamed, posing alongside the drawing as Finn stepped in to take photos. For a moment, Alice was rooted to the spot, then with mounting excitement she went to find Roddy. Together they studied the work.

  Drawn with exquisite economy using just a few dark pencil lines, a young girl, about six years old, stared back at her.

  In this setting, the girl looked different, but Alice knew her so well – she would recognise her anywhere. She had been six years old herself when she had first seen the drawing. The family was on holiday in Tenby, and her father had taken her to an art gallery to see an Augustus John exhibition. She was fascinated to find a picture of a girl the same age as herself. They looked at each other, and immediately Alice felt as if they had known each other for eve
r. Even when Alice backed away, the girl’s eyes stayed on hers. She imagined the girl was speaking to her; so, she answered. Before they left, her father bought a postcard of the drawing from the gallery’s shop, giving it to Alice as a memento.

  When her father walked out of the family home just a few weeks later, the postcard took on a deep and powerful meaning. Over the years, she often looked at it, remembering that last outing to the gallery. The postcard was her only link to her father.

  Augustus John became one of Alice’s favourite artists, and she had even pitched the idea of an exhibition of his work to Jenna Farling. And now here was one of his most beautiful pieces, right in front of her.

  “So, what do you think of my drawing?” Vivien’s voice held a mixture of pride and swagger.

  Alice decided to keep the connection to herself.

  “I love it,” she said. “It’s ethereal and bewitching, though also a little sad, I think. She looks lonely. But the drawing is exquisite, Vivien.”

  “And Augustus John is a big name, so it should draw a lot of people into the gallery.”

  “I have no doubt it will attract a great deal of interest.”

  It occurred to Alice that Vivien might be planning to use the exhibition to promote herself in next year’s council elections.

  “How long have you had the drawing?”

  “Not long. I bought it from a friend last year. He inherited it from an aunt, but he didn’t particularly like it. I saw it when I visited him, loved it and made him an offer. He was only too happy to see it go to an appreciative home.”

  “That’s a sweet story. Do you happen to know where your friend’s aunt got it from?”

  “I’ve no idea. One of those pieces that gets handed down, I expect.”

  “Trust Vivien to sniff out a bargain.” A mellow voice cut through the surrounding chatter. “And in the unlikeliest of places.”

  The voice belonged to a grey-haired, middle-aged man dressed in a grey suit, whom Alice had not noticed before. His alert grey eyes darted between the two women.

  Alice spoke first. “Vivien has picked up a fabulous artwork. And just finding it at a friend’s house – that was an incredible piece of luck.”

  “I’m Councillor Julian de Havilland, by the way.” He shook Alice’s hand. “Are you one of the Gregory’s House team?”

  “Yes, I’m Alice Haydon and I’m curating the centenary exhibition. This beautiful drawing will form a central part of the show.”

  “It makes a change from the still lifes you usually see in people’s homes. I suppose you’ve been offered plenty of those.”

  “We have indeed.” Including one from his own council’s collection, she thought.

  “So, Vivien has everything in hand, as always.” Julian rubbed his hands together. “I’m looking forward to seeing this exhibition, it should be popular. Ticks more boxes than some of your shows.”

  Alice scowled. What was it with funders and box-ticking? Couldn’t they just enjoy art for its own sake?

  “Though I brought my twin daughters to your Vanessa Bowman exhibition last year and they loved it. I rather enjoyed it myself.”

  “I plan to have some original and striking pieces in this exhibition. In fact, I’ve commissioned a painting specially for the show.”

  “How exciting,” said Vivien. “Who from?”

  “I’m not in a position to say. Not just yet anyway, the contract hasn’t been finalised.”

  “You can tell me, Alice. I am one of the gallery’s funders after all.” Steely blue eyes glared out of a fixed face.

  Alice regretted mentioning Roddy’s painting. He had barely started it and he might not even finish it.

  “There’s plenty of time before the opening,” said Julian. “I’m sure Alice will announce it at the appropriate time. Now, I think it’s time for a drink. Vivien, are you going to give me a glass of your excellent champagne?”

  Vivien softened, tore her eyes from Alice and steered Julian out to the patio.

  Alice turned back to the drawing.

  “That’s what I was thinking too.”

  Alice jumped, forgetting that Roddy was still there. “And what was I thinking?”

  “You were wondering whether this is a genuine Augustus John drawing.”

  Alice’s lips parted and her chin jutted forward. She surveyed the drawing again.

  “I’m doing no such thing. I’ve seen it before, in Tenby. I’m pretty sure it’s the same drawing.”

  “Oh, Tenby! They thought one of my paintings was a Rothko.” He laughed. “They wouldn’t be able to tell a Constable from a Tracey Emin.”

  “But that’s a recognisable Augustus John signature.”

  “It is a recognisable Augustus John signature. But is it a real Augustus John signature?”

  “What do you mean?” Alice shifted closer to him and whispered, “Are you suggesting that someone forged the signature on this drawing, Mr Rafferty?”

  “It has been known.” Roddy twiddled a strand of grey beard. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Even if that’s true and I’m not saying it is, it doesn’t mean the drawing itself is a fake.”

  “It does not, but it’s best to err on the side of caution, wouldn’t you agree? Things are not always what they appear to be. Now, I’m off to have a little chat with Vivien.”

  “Don’t go accusing her of anything, Roddy.” Alice grabbed his arm. “You don’t know whether it’s genuine or not.”

  “Dear girl, I’m only joking. I’m working, aren’t I? Get some interesting stories from lenders on how they acquired their artworks, isn’t that what you said? So, I’ll ask Vivien about her lovely drawing.” Roddy’s eyes twinkled. “Like, can I see the receipt please?”

  “I don’t think that’s funny.” Alice put her hands on her hips. “And by the way, how much champagne have you had? You promised you would show some restraint.”

  “I’ve only had two glasses. Or is it three? But worry not, dear girl, I won’t do anything to embarrass us. I don’t want to get thrown out until I’ve had my fill of the buffet!”

  Alice considered the drawing again, studying the lines, the shading, the composition. Was she allowing her treasured childhood memories to colour her judgement?

  She ambled outside, across the patio and onto the grass. She mulled over the doubt that had shot through her mind after Roddy’s comment. She tried to dismiss it as her usual perfectionist anxiety, but it persisted.

  What had induced Roddy’s doubt? The signature looked genuine enough, but could she be sure? Adding a perfect facsimile of an artist’s signature to a fake painting, passing it off as an authentic work, was a well-known forger’s trick. Perhaps Vivien had been caught out by a clever faker who pretended to be her friend. It was possible.

  But it could not happen to Alice. She could not afford to make such a big mistake. If she put a fake drawing in the exhibition she would never get a curating job again. Ever.

  She had to find out for sure.

  When she turned around, most of the guests had drifted away and the patio was almost empty. Roddy was sitting in a deckchair, soaking up the sun, an empty glass in his hand.

  She stomped across the courtyard, fishing her car keys out of her bag. “Fill up your doggy bag, Rafferty, we’re leaving.”

  Chapter 9

  Alice stood in Julia Marsh’s airy, modern dining room, basking in its serenity after the excitement of Vivien Taylor’s party.

  “I just can’t make up my mind.” Julia put a hand on top of her head and a smile on her attractive face. “Help me out Alice – which painting do you prefer?”

  “I like them both. Honestly.”

  When Alice first saw Julia’s name on the lenders’ list, with a blank space beside it, she was delighted. She thought she could persuade Julia to lend the swirly blue
abstract painting that Alice liked so much. However, despite her best efforts, she had not been able to coax Julia into parting with it.

  “Will there be other pieces hanging each side of the painting, when it’s up on the gallery wall?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alice. “I haven’t seen most of the other paintings yet, let alone worked out a hanging scheme.”

  “I’m inclined to give you the Rowland Fisher, as I haven’t seen any of his paintings displayed around here for ages. Though, in a way I would rather you had the Courtney Slow watercolour. He painted it locally, so it’s more appropriate for the exhibition, I feel.” Julia played with the blue seahorse dangling from her left ear. “The Courtney Slow it is. Are you happy with that?”

  “It’s a good choice.” She meant it, even though it was not the blue swirly number. “Now, I’ve got some paperwork for you to complete if you don’t mind.”

  “I expected you would have a form. Why don’t you sit outside and I’ll make some coffee.”

  Alice shuffled through a wodge of papers, selecting a blank loan agreement. Julia’s Jack Russell terriers rocketed around the tidy garden as Alice thought about JM’s no show the previous evening.

  She resolved to ring Poppy and find out if anyone saw JM when they dropped off the letter yesterday. Perhaps they left a phone number.

  Julia put coffee and a selection of cakes on a low glass-topped table. Alice plumped for a slab of lemon drizzle despite still feeling full from Vivien’s buffet table.

  “Here’s the form. Fill it in in your own time and drop it back to me next week. And thank you for the loan, Julia. Courtney is a fascinating artist and I’m pleased to have a young, emerging talent in the exhibition.”

  “I’m delighted the painting will be viewed by a bigger audience, as only me and Alistair see it here. I don’t know if you know, Alice” – she crossed, then uncrossed her legs – “but Courtney is a friend of my brother Mark’s, so I can find out if he would visit the exhibition. Perhaps he could give a talk or something. If that’s alright with you, of course?”