False Impression (2006) Read online

  He had served Fenston for a decade, and watched as the unsophisticated immigrant from Bucharest climbed up the ladder of wealth and status - a ladder he had held in place, while remaining nothing more than a sidekick. But that could change overnight. She only needed to make one mistake, and their roles would be reversed. Fenston would end up in prison, and he would have a fortune at his disposal that no one could ever trace.

  ‘Would you care for some more coffee, Mr Leapman?’ asked the stewardess.

  Anna didn’t need a map to find her way to Wentworth Hall, although she did have to remember not to go the wrong way round the numerous traffic islands en route.

  Forty minutes later, she drove through the gates of the Hall. Anna had no special knowledge of the Baroque architecture that dominated the late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century homes of aristocratic England before she stayed at Wentworth Hall. The pile - Victoria’s description of her home - had been built in 1697 by Sir John Vanbrugh. It was his first commission before he moved on to create Castle Howard and, later, Blenheim Palace, for another triumphant soldier - after which he became the most sought-after architect of the age.

  The long drive up to the house was shaded by fine oaks of the same vintage as the hall itself, although gaps were now visible where trees had succumbed to the violent storms of 1987. Anna drove by an ornate lake full of Magoi Koi carp - immigrants from Japan - and on past two tennis courts and a croquet lawn, sprinkled with the first leaves of autumn. As she rounded the bend, the great hall, surrounded by a thousand green English acres, loomed up to dominate the skyline.

  Victoria had once told Anna that the house had sixty-seven rooms, fourteen of them guest bedrooms. The bedroom she had stayed in on the first floor, the Van Gogh room, was about the same size as her apartment in New York.

  As she approached the hall, Anna noticed that the crested family flag on the east tower was fluttering at half mast. As she brought the car to a halt, she wondered which of Victoria’s many elderly relatives had died.

  The massive oak door was pulled open even before Anna reached the top step. She prayed that Victoria was at home, and that Fenston still had no idea she was in England.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ the butler intoned. ‘How may I help you?’

  It’s me, Andrews, Anna wanted to say, surprised by his formal tone. He had been so friendly when she stayed at the hall. She echoed his formal approach. ‘I need to speak to Lady Victoria, urgently.’

  ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ replied Andrews, ‘but I will find out if her ladyship is free. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait here while I enquire.’

  What did he mean, that will not be possible, but I will find out if her ladyship …

  As Anna waited in the hall, she glanced up at Gainsborough’s portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. She recalled every picture in the house, but her eye moved to her favourite at the top of the staircase, a Romney of Mrs Siddons as Portia. She turned to face the entrance to the morning room, to be greeted with a painting by Stubbs of Actaeon, Winner of the Derby, Sir Harry Wentworth’s favourite horse - still safely in his paddock. If Victoria took her advice, at least she could still save the rest of the collection.

  The butler returned at the same even pace.

  ‘Her ladyship will see you now,’ he said, ‘if you would care to join her in the drawing room.’ He gave a slight bow, before leading her across the hall.

  Anna tried to concentrate on her six-point plan, but first she would need to explain why she was forty-eight hours late for their appointment, although surely Victoria would have followed the horrors of Tuesday and might even be surprised to find that she had survived.

  When Anna entered the drawing room, she saw Victoria, head bowed, dressed in mourning black, seated on the sofa, a chocolate Labrador half asleep at her feet. She couldn’t remember Victoria having a dog, and was surprised when she didn’t jump up and greet her in her usual warm manner. Victoria raised her head, and Anna gasped, as Arabella Wentworth stared coldly up at her. In that split second, she realized why the family’s crest had been flying at half mast. Anna remained silent, as she tried to take in the fact that she would never see Victoria again, and would now need to convince her sister, whom she had never met before. Anna couldn’t even remember her name. The mirror image did not rise from her place, or offer to shake her hand.

  ‘Would you care for some tea, Dr Petrescu?’ Arabella asked in a distant voice that suggested she hoped to hear her reply, No, thank you.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Anna, who remained standing. ‘May I ask how Victoria died?’ she said quietly.

  ‘I assumed you already knew,’ replied Arabella drily.

  ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Anna.

  ‘Then why are you here,’ asked Arabella, ‘if it’s not to collect the rest of the family silver?’

  ‘I came to warn Victoria not to let them take away the Van Gogh, before I had a chance to—’

  ‘They took the painting away on Tuesday,’ said Arabella, pausing. ‘They didn’t even have the good manners to wait until after the funeral.’

  ‘I tried to call, but they wouldn’t give me her number. If only I’d got through,’ Anna mumbled incoherently, and then added, ‘And now it’s too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’ asked Arabella.

  ‘I sent Victoria a copy of my report recommending that—’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read your report,’ said Arabella, ‘but you’re right, it’s too late for that now. My new lawyer has already warned me that it could be years before the estate can be settled, by which time we’ll have lost everything.’

  ‘That must have been the reason he didn’t want me to travel to England and see Victoria personally,’ Anna said without explanation.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Arabella, looking more closely at her.

  ‘I was fired by Fenston on Tuesday,’ said Anna, ‘for sending a copy of my report to Victoria.’

  ‘Victoria read your report,’ said Arabella quietly. ‘I have a letter confirming that she was going to take your advice, but that was before her cruel death.’

  ‘How did she die?’ asked Anna gently.

  ‘She was murdered, in a vile and cowardly fashion,’ said Arabella. She paused and, looking directly at Anna, added, ‘And I have no doubt that Mr Fenston will be able to fill in the details for you.’ Anna bowed her head, unable to think of anything to say, her six-point plan in tatters. Fenston had beaten both of them. ‘Dear Victoria was so trusting, and, I fear, so naive,’ continued Arabella, ‘but no human being deserved to be treated in that way, let alone someone as good-natured as my sweet sister.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said Anna, ‘I didn’t know. You have to believe me. I had no idea.’

  Arabella looked out of the window across the lawn, and didn’t speak for some time. She turned back to see Anna, trembling.

  ‘I believe you,’ Arabella eventually said. ‘I originally assumed that it was you who was responsible for this evil charade.’ She paused again. ‘I see now that I was wrong. But, sadly, it’s all too late. There’s nothing we can do now.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Anna, looking at Arabella with a fierce determination in her eyes. ‘But if I’m to do anything, I’ll have to ask you to trust me, as much as Victoria did.’

  ‘What do you mean, trust you?’ said Arabella.

  ‘Give me a chance,’ said Anna, ‘to prove that I wasn’t responsible for your sister’s death.’

  ‘But how can you hope to do that?’ asked Arabella.

  ‘By retrieving your Van Gogh.’

  ‘But as I told you, they’ve already taken the painting away.’

  ‘I know,’ said Anna, ‘but it still has to be in England, because Fenston has sent a Mr Leapman to pick up the picture.’ Anna checked her watch. ‘He’ll be landing at Heathrow in a few hours’ time.’

  ‘But even if you managed to get your hands on the painting, how would that