Andrea Kane (48 page)

She’d never be his.

His fingers closed around the stones, squeezing until he felt the facets pierce his palm. Pain shot through his arm, and he opened his fist, watching rivulets of blood trickle to his wrist, stain the sleeve of his shirt.

Blood.

Oh no, Noelle, not mine. Yours. It’s the only way to silence the demons. The only way to make the pain subside.

She had to die.

Only then could he re-create the portrait, this time making it complete by adding the shimmering sapphire gems.

After which, she’d truly be his. Not only now. But forever.

Eight o’clock crept in, settling London under the blanket of night.

The Franco Gallery, like all its surrounding shops, was shut tight, its lights extinguished for the evening.

Except in the storage room.

There, a dimly lit gas lamp sat atop a pile of boxes, illuminating the broad, uncluttered section of floor directly below. Upon that area lay André’s latest abstract, its unwieldy size making it impossible to maneuver atop a desk. Instead, Baricci and Williams had shoved aside boxes and frames, and now crouched over the painting, concentrating on the task of removing the final nail that held its frame in place.

“That should do it,” Baricci muttered, inching away the block of wood.

“Good.” With a sigh of relief, Williams leaned forward, helping finish the task. “It’s already after eight. I want to deliver the Rembrandt, reframe that abstract, and get it back on the wall so I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

“I assure you, you’ll be snoring by ten o’clock.” Baricci stood, lifting André’s painting and revealing the classic lines of the Rembrandt. “I’ll take this treasure to my office, wrap it up for transporting. You reframe the abstract; framing is a skill you’re far more adept at than I. We’ll be on our way to the docks by half after eight.”

“Fine.” Williams was already reassembling the frame, pulling out a hammer and readying the nails.

Baricci crossed the room, the Rembrandt tucked beneath his arm. “I, myself, don’t intend to waste a moment sleeping,” he announced, pulling the door handle. “I’ll be too busy envisioning Tremlett’s face when he—”

His voice lodged in his throat as he opened the door and walked smack into the very man of whom he spoke.

“Why envision it, when you can see it firsthand?” Ashford drawled, lounging on the threshold. He stepped backwards, gesturing toward Detectives Conyers and Parles, who loomed behind him, pistols raised. “Oh, and while you’re studying my expression, would you mind handing that painting over to the detectives? I’m sure they’re eager to return it to Lord Mannering as soon as possible.”

Baricci sagged against the wall, his expression rife with disbelief. “You never intended to wait for morning. Your visit to the gallery this morning, your threats—it was all designed to force my hand.”

“Every last bit of it,” Ashford acknowledged. He peered into the storage room, beckoning Williams to rise from his collapsed position on the floor. “You needn’t finish, Williams,” he advised the white-faced curator. “Where Sardo is going, he won’t need the proceeds from the sale of that painting. In fact, maybe the two of you can be cell mates. I don’t think Baricci here will be joining you. He’ll be awaiting his hanging with the other murderers.”

“I didn’t kill Emily Mannering.” Baricci nearly shouted the words, abandoning his refined demeanor and grabbing the front of Ashford’s coat. “What I told you was the truth. She was alive when I left her.”

Ashford’s brows rose in ironic distaste, and he wrenched his coat free as Conyers sprang forward, seized Baricci’s arms behind him, and jabbed a pistol in his back. Simultaneously, Parles pushed by, grabbing Williams and shoving him forward at gunpoint.

“The truth?” Ashford mocked. “Baricci, you wouldn’t know the truth if—”

“You’re wrong, Tremlett,” the older man interrupted, struggling against being led away. “This time you’re wrong. With God as my witness, I didn’t kill Emily.” With that, he hesitated, long-standing antipathy for Tremlett vying with reason. The former urged him not to cooperate, to damn the earl and his whole investigation to hell. The latter shouted its comprehension of what his silence could mean.

Cooperation could lead to leniency. Silence would most certainly lead to death.

As a shrewd businessman, there was but one choice to make.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” he proclaimed. “But I won’t hang for a murder I didn’t commit.”

“Wait,” Ashford instructed Conyers, holding up a detaining palm. He scowled, studying Baricci’s fervent expression. The man was a thief, a fraud, the lowest form of scum. And yet, something about his tone, the urgency of his claim gave Ashford pause. Maybe he was losing his touch, maybe all his instincts were failing him, but he’d swear Baricci’s words had a ring of truth to them.

“If you didn’t kill her, then who did?” he demanded.

“I don’t know.” Baricci’s forehead was dotted with sweat. “I’ve wracked my brain since the day it happened. I was stunned, horrified, when I heard the news. Tremlett, I am who I am. I’m damned good at what I do. Well, this time I wasn’t good enough. You outmaneuvered me, and you won. For that I’ll pay. But, I repeat, I won’t hang for a murder I didn’t commit.”

Ashford swooped down on the initial part of Baricci’s statement, which smacked of a confession. “You admit to stealing the paintings—not only the Rembrandt but over a half dozen others?”

“If I do, what guarantees will you offer me?”

A humorless laugh. “Ever the negotiator, Baricci. Gentlemen?” Ashford arched a quizzical brow at the detectives. “What kind of deal can you offer our prisoner here?”

“That depends on whether or not he killed Lady Mannering,” Conyers replied.

“I told you I didn’t kill her,” Baricci ground out.

“If that’s the case
and
if you cooperate, Parles and I will see what we can do to minimize your sentence.”

Satisfaction glinted in Baricci’s eyes. “Very well then, yes, I admit to stealing the paintings Tremlett is referring to.”

“Who else worked with you, besides Williams here?” Ashford prodded.

“A couple of two-bit thieves who do my bidding—they break in and take the paintings, then meet Williams and hand them over to him in exchange for a fifty-pound note. But in the case of the Rembrandt, there was no need for forced entry—not when I was already inside the Mannering house. I merely left the rear door unlocked for them when I took Emily up to bed. They slipped in, took the Rembrandt, and made off with it. The job was done by the time I left, just before dawn.”

An adamant note crept into Baricci’s voice. “There was no violence. None was necessary. Emily was, as I told you, asleep in her bed the whole time the theft was taking place.” A glimmer of hesitation. “The only fact I omitted from my original accounting to you—simply to protect myself from further suspicion—is that Emily did awaken before I left, to bid me good-bye. It was then she noticed the empty space on the music-room wall and realized the Rembrandt had been stolen. She was distraught—as one would expect—and urged me to leave immediately so she could summon the police. I, of course, did as she asked. Obviously, she never did manage to reach the authorities. She must have been killed first.”

Ashford raked a hand through his hair, searching for answers. So far, every word of Baricci’s story rang true. They also coincided with the few tidbits Blackstreet had provided.

Dammit. There had to be another piece to this puzzle. But what?

That brought another unanswered question to mind.

“So other than these thieves, no one is involved in this illegal operation except you and Williams?” Ashford pressed, knowing full well what Baricci was about to reply.

The older man didn’t disappoint him, throwing his last remaining cohort to the wolves.

“And Sardo,” he supplied.

“Ah, yes. Sardo.” Ashford uttered the name offhandedly, continuing in this deliberately roundabout—and hopefully disarming—fashion, hoping to trap Baricci in a lie. “Tell me, how much do you pay Williams for the risks he takes?”

“Twenty percent of the profits.”

Beside his employer, Williams nodded a mute confirmation.

“Twenty percent. A generous sum,” Ashford conceded. It was time to go in for the ever-so-subtle kill. “What about Sardo? He must receive lavish payments, even more so than Williams, given that he’s the one who furnishes all those paintings. What does he get—twenty-five percent?”

To Ashford’s surprise, Baricci answered candidly and without pause. “No. He only gets money for food, lodgings, and art supplies—plus an occasional bonus.”

Another truth. And this time one that illuminated the reason why Williams was living comfortably while Sardo was dirt poor. What it didn’t shed light on was why Sardo would tolerate this discrepancy.

If nothing else, Ashford was about to get an explanation to the question that had nagged at him for days. “Then why the hell does he do it? Sardo is not the benevolent type. Do you pay him through other means? Or do you have some uglier way of keeping him in line?”

“The latter,” Baricci replied without a trace of guilt or remorse. “I have something substantial over Sardo.”

“Do you? I’m curious to know what that something is. Because I’ve investigated the man thoroughly and found no prison record or shady dealings of any kind—not here or in France.”

“I’m not surprised. He was never arrested, nor questioned by the police. In fact, to my knowledge, no one is aware of his guilt but me.”

Guilt. So there had been a crime—a crime over which Baricci was blackmailing Sardo. “This offense—you were involved with it, as well?”

“No. I was Sardo’s confidant of sorts.” Baricci pursed his lips, recounting the details. “Sardo and I became reacquainted six years ago when he came to England.”

“Reacquainted?” Ashford interrupted. “I thought that’s when you met.”

“No. We met a year earlier, in Le Havre. It was summer, and I was spending a few months in France. I met Sardo at an outdoor art show. He was a student at the time, intent on perfecting his craft. He was also a magnet for beautiful women; they were drawn to him like bees to honey. Several of them aided him by participating in portrait sittings so as to help him refine his skills. There was one girl in particular—her name was Catherine—with whom he became deeply involved. She was incredibly lovely, and he was thoroughly smitten with her—almost to the point of obsession: Unfortunately, her tastes were more diverse than his. He wanted only her; she wanted to sample many men. I should know; I was one of them.”

Ashford squelched his disgust. “Did Sardo know this?”

“No. He knew only that Catherine was unfaithful, several times over. But she was so young, far too young to commit herself to one lover. Anyway, I ran into Sardo one day when I was strolling by the Seine. He was staring into the distance, his eyes glazed, faraway. I asked him what was wrong, and he babbled something about Catherine betraying him, about how much he loved her, about how he never meant to hurt her, but that she’d forced his hand. There was something eerie about his words, his mood, something that struck me as more than just inane rambling. Sure enough, I read a snippet in the newspaper a few days later that Catherine had apparently thrown herself into the river and drowned.”

A hard knot had formed in Ashford’s throat. “You think Sardo killed her?”

Baricci shrugged. “Either he killed her or he just imagined he did. Sardo is a dreamer. Sometimes I think he confuses reality with truth. In any case, it was all I needed to keep him in line. Between that and the likeness of her that he painted—”

“What likeness?” Ashford demanded.

“I’ll show you.” Baricci took a step—and was halted by Conyers’s pistol in his back.

“It’s all right,” Ashford told the detective quietly. “We need to know the full extent of this artist’s involvement.”

Conyers and Parles exchanged glances.

“Fine,” Parles said. “I’ll hang onto Williams here. Conyers, you join Tremlett in the gallery. Keep your gun on Baricci. We don’t want to lose him.”

Conyers nodded tersely, shoving Baricci forward, letting him know that the pistol was close behind.

Slowly, Baricci made his way through the gallery, leading Ashford to the Yorkshire landscape that was Sardo’s first contribution to the gallery.

“That’s Catherine,” he said, pointing to the woman in the painting. “I recognized her the instant Sardo flourished this painting for me to see. Needless to say, I jumped at the chance to have it, given what I’d planned for Sardo’s part in my business operation. I bought the painting outright rather than taking it on consignment as I customarily would. My reasons were obvious: I wanted my ownership of the painting documented by receipts, lest Sardo suddenly decide to reclaim his work.

“Once the transaction was complete, I informed Sardo that I recognized Catherine’s likeness and reminded him what he’d confessed to having done. It was too late for denial; he was trapped. He agreed to my terms, partly out of fear and partly out of conceit; he relished the thought of being the sole artist displayed in my gallery. I then hung this painting right in the center of the gallery as a reminder to him that I could send the police in his direction at any time. It’s been most effective in ensuring his cooperation.”

Ashford stared at the painting, assessing the young woman standing atop the cliffs and looking sadly into the water. Her hair was windblown, revealing delicate features and dramatic coloring. He wished he didn’t notice it, but that coloring resembled Noelle’s: ebony hair, vibrant blue eyes. Obviously, Sardo had specific taste in women.

Something else about the woman bothered him—but what?

Abruptly, it struck him.

“The earrings.” Ashford peered closer, recognizing the intricate facets of the blue stones hanging at her lobes. “Those are identical to the ones Emily Mannering received from her lover.” He turned to Baricci, beginning to feel sick. “I’m asking you one last time, did you give Emily Mannering those earrings?”

Lord help him, he already knew the answer.

“Absolutely not,” Baricci confirmed.