Bluebell Castle

Lucie winced. It was true she’d faced an uphill battle to trace an unbroken line of ownership of the Meileau. Piers was no doubt just trying to make polite conversation, but she wished he would be a little more discreet. Someone might overhear him and assume there was some question mark over her research, which could be ruinous. Provenance was everything in the art community, and any doubt in its veracity might put off potential bidders. Trying not to let her nerves ratchet up to panic, she gave the pair a wide berth as she made her way towards the circular dais along with the rest of the converging crowd.

‘Lucinda, where are…oh, there you are. Come on up.’ Carl gestured to a spot beside him facing the gathered staff and guests.

Feeling heat prickle in her cheeks, Lucie edged towards the front to slip through a gap and join him. Never comfortable in the spotlight, she would’ve preferred to remain within the group. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter who had discovered the painting, only that someone had brought it back into the light for the world to enjoy once more. Credit where credit is due. The old adage drifted up from her memory, the words spoken by her grandfather when she demurred over him giving her a special present after she’d received an award at her school’s speech night. When she’d pointed out her award had been for participating in a group project, he’d chucked her cheek with his finger. ‘You’re allowed to shine a little bit, sometimes. People will be quick enough to steal your glory, don’t give it away so easily.’

With the spirit of her grandfather boosting her courage, Lucie forced her shoulders to relax and lifted her head to meet Carl’s encouraging smile. He’d been instrumental in ensuring she received her due. He’d monitored her progress as she’d worked to pin together the bits and pieces of lost provenance caused in the main by the desperate flight from Paris a few steps ahead of the unrelenting press of the Third Reich sweeping over France’s borders by the grandparents of Mrs Richardson, the now-owner, in the spring of 1940. Along with many other French Jews, their assets had been seized, the belongings they’d left behind ransacked by neighbours and former friends caught up in the anti-Semitic frenzy of those darkest of days.

It had taken many hours of delicate negotiation and correspondence with the great-granddaughter of a neighbour, before she’d allowed Lucie to search through the contents of their attic. In amongst boxes and suitcases stuffed with personal items and correspondence belonging not only to Mrs Richardson’s grandparents but a host of other families who’d fled—or worse—Lucie had eventually found the original bill of sale for the Meileau. What other secrets might still be hidden in amongst the other boxes she’d left for others to uncover.

Lost in the memory of that dark, dusty attic filled with ghosts, Lucie didn’t realise that Carl had launched into his speech until he mentioned her name again. With a little jump, she resolved to pay more attention, though it was hard to concentrate with so many eyes trained upon her. Mrs Richardson should’ve been there to celebrate the moment, but she and her husband had decided to avoid the limelight and inevitable press intrusion that would follow if the painting came close to achieving the sort of sales figure the valuation team were expecting, and had gone away on holiday. The auction house’s legendary spring fine arts sale had been a calendar fixture for many years, and the Meileau was the star of the show. Lucie couldn’t blame the Richardsons for wanting to stay anonymous.

Carl’s tone increased in volume and enthusiasm as he built up to the finale of his speech. ‘…And without further ado…’ Lucie took the agreed upon cue and moved to the other side of the painting to grip the velvet covering as Carl did the same on his side. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Witherby’s is proud to share with you the first official unveiling of François Meileau’s Summer’s Eve.’

To a round of applause they lifted the cover, Lucie already turning eagerly to drink in the beauty of the painting. Secured safely in the vaults beneath the auction house, it had been several weeks since she’d last set eyes on it, and the myriad photographs she’d taken couldn’t do it justice. Like a woman relearning the face of a long-lost lover, she let her greedy gaze rove over the entire surface of the work, waiting for the flutter of excitement she got every time she was up close to a masterpiece. And waited.

Whether it was too much excitement, or just plain nerves she wasn’t sure, but the gut-punch of pure emotion she’d come to expect didn’t come. The brushstrokes that had once seemed to dance across the canvas lay dull and flat, the delicacy of the colours she’d so admired missing somehow. Feeling strangely hollow, she edged back from the stand allowing the guests to crowd closer. Heat swept through her, churning her stomach and dampening the base of her spine until the silk of her blouse clung unpleasantly to her skin beneath her jacket. As she backed away from the stand, she watched Carl accept congratulations from one of the guests with a clink of their champagne flutes before they turned to face the painting. Arms waving like a windmill, he rabbited a mile a minute, oblivious to the dread creeping through Lucie. She waited for him to react, to notice what she had within seconds, but he continued to chatter to one person after another.

When a reporter clutching a notepad moved up beside him, Lucie found herself swallowing back a mouthful of bitter bile. Unable to watch anymore, she turned away and locked gazes with Piers. A deep furrow arrowing down between his brows, he worked his way across the room before her. Feeling hunted, Lucie backed up until her shoulders bumped against the dark wood panelling of the far wall.

Stopping barely inches from her, Piers cast a horrified glance towards the painting before fixing his confused stare back on Lucie. ‘What,’ he muttered low enough no one else could hear, ‘the fuck is that?’

His unusual use of the expletive as much as the churning inside told her the worst of all possible truths. She hadn’t been wrong, it hadn’t been a case of first night nerves or over-anticipation. ‘I don’t know.’

Piers’ eyebrows all but disappeared beneath the floppy strands of his fringe. ‘You don’t know?’ There was a disbelieving edge to his tone, as though he was shouting at her even though his voice barely carried across the few inches separating them.

Feeling tears prickling behind her eyes, Lucie blinked hard. ‘It’s not the painting I found. It looks like it, but that’s not the Meileau. I don’t know how this has happened.’ Her last words came out as a low wail and Lucie clamped her hand over her lips to stifle it.

Piers opened his mouth, and she flinched back against the wall expecting a tirade of abuse. Not that he was one to rage and shout, but the enormity of the disaster they were facing surely deserved it. It would be ruinous, not just for her career, but for the auction house as a whole. They’d made a huge song and dance about her discovery, had set the Meileau up as the star of the season and instead unveiled what to Lucie’s eyes looked like a poor man’s facsimile of the original. As though his knees were as weak as hers, Piers slumped against the wall beside her, stunned eyes fixed on hers.

‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back.

‘We should tell someone.’

He shook his head. ‘Not now. We can’t. Not in front of this lot. It’s not the way.’

The Witherby’s way. God. Making a scene in public might almost be frowned upon more than the scandal of displaying what Lucie was almost entirely convinced was a fake painting. Almost. She wanted to cry. No, she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She wanted her mum. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, and no one was coming to rescue her. ‘Okay, okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to grit our teeth, smile and blag our way through the next hour that’s what we’re going to do.’

Piers stared at her for a long moment before throwing the remaining contents of his champagne glass down his throat. ‘Okay, I’ll get us another a drink.’ With a wave, he summoned a server and swapped his empty glass for a new one. When he spotted the glass of water Lucie still clutched between numb fingers, he swiped it from her and thrust a second glass of champagne towards her. ‘Here.’

‘I wasn’t going to drink tonight.’

He bit off the beginnings of a hysterical laugh. ‘You’re going to need it. And you might as well get something from the company whilst you can.’

Whilst she could? What on earth was that supposed to mean? Oh. ‘They’re going to sack me.’

Piers gave her a sad smile. ‘Well, I don’t think they’re going to invite you to join the board of directors, that’s for sure. Right, drink up and put a smile on your face. This is supposed to be your moment of triumph. If anyone catches you looking like a wet weekend, the game will be up. If one or other of us catches Carl alone, we’ll have to try and warn him.’ Following his own advice, Piers took a long swig from his glass then turned away from her. ‘Ah, Charles, there you are! What do you think of our little masterpiece then?’

*

The hour that followed was one of the longest of Lucie’s life. Fascinated by the backstory as much as the painting itself, one guest after another demanded her version of events from first discovery to finding the bill of sale. Jaw aching from the rictus grin she’d plastered on, Lucie drank and chatted like the life and soul of the party, her eyes never straying far from Piers as he worked the opposite side of the room. Carl maintained his position beside the painting, acting as master of ceremonies and still seemingly oblivious to the impending disaster.

When Piers moved towards him, Lucie feared the champagne churning in her belly would end up spewed all over the antique rug beneath her feet. Like witnessing a slow-motion car crash she watched the colour drain from Carl’s face as Piers muttered into his ear. When Carl’s disbelieving gaze met hers, there was nothing Lucie could do other than nod miserably to confirm the terrible news.

*

‘What the hell happened?’ Carl asked for the dozenth time in the ten minutes since they’d entered his office after ushering out the last guest. Lucie had stopped trying to explain after the first five times he’d asked it. At least he’d stopped yelling. Her eyes strayed to the pile of shattered glass in one corner, the remnants of a Lalique paperweight he’d snatched from his desk and flung against the bookcase in his rage. She’d never seen him out of control and had Piers not stepped in front of her at the first signs of Carl’s temper, she might have been more scared. As though he’d finally blown out the last of his fury, Carl dropped like a stone into the leather chair behind his desk and buried his face in his hands for a few seconds before lifting it to stare at them. ‘We’ll have to cancel the sale. Spin some story about the owner having second thoughts about parting with it. I’ll speak to the publicity department first thing tomorrow.’

Feeling like it was safe to come out from behind Piers now Carl sounded so much calmer, Lucie edged to her right. ‘I’ll see if I can contact Mrs Richardson.’

‘No.’ Carl’s sharp response ricocheted around the room like the bang of a gun. ‘You will gather your things and leave this building immediately. Consider yourself on suspension until further notice. You won’t speak a word to anyone about this other than the internal security team when they contact you.’

Feeling sick, Lucie swayed for a moment before forcing some steel into her spine. She hadn’t done anything wrong. There had to be a logical explanation for this, if she could just stop the panicked swirl of her brain for two minutes, she knew she could fathom it out. ‘I’m happy to cooperate, of course, but I’m sure it’s just some kind of mistake.’

‘Mistake? How can you stand there and tell me the most important artwork of the season has been replaced by a fake whilst it was under your care, and call it nothing more than a mistake? The word you are looking for is fraud.’

The word struck her like a blow, spinning her back almost fifteen years as she watched a team of policemen root through the contents of her bedroom as her mother sobbed in a heap on the landing. ‘You…you can’t…’ Swallowing, she tried again. ‘You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this?’ She turned from Carl to Piers, hands held out in appeal. ‘Why would I tell you it wasn’t the right painting if I was trying to pull off some kind of scam?’

Piers glanced down at the carpet, clearly uncomfortable. ‘But you didn’t tell me, not until it was obvious I’d spotted there was something wrong with it.’

‘What? No! That’s not how it happened at all! As soon as Carl pulled off the cover I knew it wasn’t right, I told you.’ Frantic, she ran through the events in her head. As soon as she’d realised something was wrong, she’d…oh. She hadn’t said anything, had she? She’d backed away instead of immediately making Carl aware of it. And it had been Piers who’d approached her, not the other way around. ‘I swear to you both, I don’t know anything about this. I swear.’

Piers flushed. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, not at all, but none of this makes sense.’

‘I trusted you, Lucie.’ The accusation in Carl’s tone cut her to the quick. ‘I should have listened to my instincts when I found out about your background, about the kind of family you come from. Instead, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and this is how you repay me!’

A wave of nausea swept through her and she pressed a hand to her lips as though to hold it back. He couldn’t be implying… ‘You had my background investigated? Is that even legal?’ Even as she said it, the fight left her. It didn’t matter what she did, how diligently she worked to prove herself, she was never going to escape her name. Her past.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Carl shot her a look of such contempt she knew it was true. ‘We are the premier auction house in the country for a reason, and protecting our reputation is tantamount!’ There was no denial in any of that, he really had looked into her background.

‘It was fifteen years ago! I was a child, I had nothing to do with anything my father did.’ She could hear the pitch in her voice climbing and forced herself back into silence. Like father, like daughter.The apple never falls far from the tree. All those sayings existed for a reason—because people actually believed them.

Raising his hands to his face, Carl scrubbed at his eyes, tone quieter now, as though he was talking to himself. ‘Employing the daughter of a convicted fraudster? What was I thinking! It won’t be just you losing your bloody job over this.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘Get out of my sight!’

Only the neat crescents of her nails digging deep into the palms of her clenched fists stopped the tears of frustration from spilling over. Crying wouldn’t do any good, it might even serve to demonstrate a guilty conscience. Lucie followed Piers with her eyes as he crossed the room to pull open the door. He muttered something to whoever was outside, then stepped back. To her horror, Mr Hazeltine, Witherby’s head of security stood in the corridor. God, this was some kind of terrible joke. She looked from Carl to Piers and back again. Grim-faced, neither of them spoke.

‘If you’ll come with me, Miss Kennington, I’ll take you to gather your belongings.’ The security chief held out his hand indicating he wanted her to go with him.

With no fight left in her, Lucie did as he bade. To his credit, Mr Hazeltine took a slightly circuitous route to the restroom area which also contained staff lockers in an anteroom between the two sets of bathrooms and they only passed a couple of people she knew on the way. Neither spoke when it would be normal practice for both to say at least hello, and Lucie felt her insides cringe. The gossip mill was already churning, which was hardly surprising giving the volume of Carl’s earlier yelling.

Mr Hazeltine checked the anteroom then nodded for her to enter. Lucie’s low heels sunk into the plush carpet as she crossed to her locker, then paused key in hand. ‘Did you want to search this?’

‘I’ll also require the keys to your office, and your access pass.’ His voice was so bland, like they were discussing something as neutral as whether he took his tea with milk, rather than whether she’d got a load of stolen contraband stuffed under her spare pair of tights. ‘Of course.’ Lucie unhooked the lanyard dangling around her neck then sank onto the velvet banquette lining the wall before catching her slumped posture and forcing herself into an upright position. Body language and appearance were everything. It was the Witherby’s way, after all.

It took about ten minutes to go through the meagre contents of her locker, and though he hadn’t suggested it, Lucie took the opportunity to empty out the contents of the small rucksack she used to ferry her belongings back and forth to work. Laying out her trainers, a selection of old receipts, a spare pair of tights, two books—both of which were recent bestsellers—and a small cosmetic bag containing a few bits of make-up and a handful of tampons, she tried not to think about what it said about her life. It could be the contents of any woman’s bag. There was nothing amongst the items that said anything about her, who she was, what she thought, what she felt. She’d tried so hard to present the perfect front, and yet it seemed there was no escaping the past.

‘Right, I think I’ve got everything I need for the time being.’ Mr Hazeltine closed the door to her locker with a decisive click then pocketed the keys. ‘Now, before you go home, I should remind you about the non-disclosure clause in your employment contract.’