speak to you about the painting,’ Grace Rose began, staring intently at her great-niece. ‘That’s what this is all about. And you know the painting I mean, I’m quite sure of that.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Yes, of course I do. The painting your father bought in about 1918 because it reminded him of Bess and you.’
‘Correct. And I want a promise from you, a promise that you will not sell it. Not unless you have to – in order to save Deravenels. That must be the only reason.’
‘I promise I won’t sell it, Grace Rose. You have my word.’
‘It might be a temptation to auction it off, you know. It must be worth a small fortune today.’
‘Oh, it is, I know that for a fact.’
‘So you had it appraised, did you?’ Grace Rose asked swiftly, giving her a keen look.
‘Not exactly.’ Elizabeth cleared her throat. ‘I need to explain something to you, some decisions I made about the painting a year ago. I did this just after my half-sister told me I was no longer welcome at Deravenels, that I couldn’t work there any more. Since I didn’t know what she had in store for me, what she might do, I went to live at Ravenscar. I was sort of hiding out, if you like.’
‘I remember. You spoke to me from there, wanted me to know where you were, in case I needed you. But please continue about the painting.’
‘The week Mary told me to get out, I drove down to Waverley Court, and had Toby take the painting down off the library wall. We wrapped it carefully in blankets and I brought it back to London. I told him I was having it cleaned and restored. This is what I did. It is now hanging in my dressing room in the Eaton Square flat, where it is absolutely safe.’
Looking suddenly confused, Grace Rose murmured, ‘But Briney Meadows saw the painting only a few weeks ago. Toby had asked him to go over to Waverley Court, to help him fix the security system. There had been some sort of problem with the electrical wiring.’
A wide smile spread across Elizabeth’s face. ‘Briney saw the copy I’d had made, after the painting was cleaned and restored. During the period it was being copied, by the artist I’d hired, I realized that Toby and Myrtle might notice the frame was new, once the painting was back at Waverley Court. Because the original frame was a bit chipped, the gilt worn off in places. I told the artist to put the copy in the old frame, and the original in the new one, so they wouldn’t notice the difference.’
Grace Rose chuckled. ‘Very smart of you, my dear. But, out of curiosity, why did you move it in the first place?’
‘I thought Mary might actually steal it. No one would deny her access to Waverley Court, and certainly I didn’t trust her. Whilst she loathed the painting, she nevertheless knew it was extremely valuable, and she could easily have taken it away. No one would have stopped her. So, very simply, I didn’t want to take any chances with it. She could have sold it, you know, and given the money to Philip Alvarez.’
‘Good thinking, Elizabeth. However –’ Grace Rose cut herself off, then said carefully, ‘It was hers by right, I suppose.’
‘I’m well aware of that. She inherited it from my father through our half-brother Edward. But that particular day I made a judgement call … I decided she didn’t deserve to have it.’
Grace Rose suppressed her mirth, and after a moment she remarked, ‘Elizabeth, I think I would have done exactly the same thing, if I’d been in your position.’
‘Thank you for saying that.’ Leaning closer, Elizabeth confided, ‘It’s worth an enormous amount. A dealer, who’s an old friend of mine, told me that any Renoir is priceless, and especially this one, Les deux soeurs, because of its marvellous quality, and also because Renoir painted it in 1889, when he was in great form. When I spoke to my friend, Julian Everson, last summer, and showed him the Renoir, he was extremely impressed. He put a price on it. He said it was worth six million pounds, at least. He even added that this was a rather low estimate on his part.’
‘That sounds about right. I estimated eight million pounds. Now, this folder is for you. Inside there’s a great deal of documentation about the paintings which belonged to Jane Shaw, my father’s great friend, his mistress, actually. Bess and I inherited her art collection after her death. It was valuable then, therefore it’s very valuable today. I know what’s hanging on my walls. In here –’ She paused, patted the manila folder, and went on, ‘– in here are photographs of the paintings your grandmother inherited. When you have a moment, I want you to look for them in the various homes you inherited. Will you do that, Elizabeth? It’s important you know where everything is.’
‘I certainly will. In fact, Kat can start on it straight away. She’s working for me at the moment, checking out similar things.’
‘I’m delighted to hear this. Kat is extremely efficient. I think some of the paintings will be at the Chelsea house, where your father lived after he sold the old house in Berkeley Square. And there’re probably others at Ravenscar and Waverley Court. Well, here’s the folder. Do go through it when you have a moment. You’ll probably recognize some of the paintings yourself.’
Elizabeth had taken the bulging folder over to the desk in the red sitting room, and was examining the documentation about the paintings. Grace Rose had disappeared over twenty minutes ago, to take a phone call from her great-nephew in Ireland, and she was still absent.
Entranced by the photographs of the paintings, Elizabeth knew the moment she started rifling through them that she was looking at some rare treasures. But she had never known they had been part of Jane Shaw’s collection. Some of them she recognized immediately and knew exactly where they were.
She stared at a photograph of a painting by Camille Pissarro, one she had loved for as long as she could remember. It depicted a group of old houses with red roofs situated in a stand of trees which were almost leafless. This hung in the dining room at Waverley Court, and so did an eye-catching snow scene by Armand Guillaumin. She had grown up with these two paintings, and liked how well they worked together in the same room. The red rooftops of Pissarro’s houses blended with the russet leaves of the trees on the snowy hillsides of Guillaumin.
A Claude Monet snow scene, a painting composed entirely of shades of black, white, cream and grey, had been one of her father’s favourites, and this still hung at Ravenscar in the room where he had worked.
There were several more photographs of other paintings, and she recognized the style of Matisse, Van Gogh, Sisley and Manet. These four paintings, which seemed familiar to her, were definitely not at Ravenscar or Waverley Court. Maybe they were hanging in the Chelsea house.
At this moment Grace Rose reappeared, and exclaimed, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear, Patrick doesn’t usually keep me on the phone for such a long time. But he wanted to tell me all about his girlfriend … he’s about to get engaged. He’s bringing her to London later this week to meet me.’
‘Oh, how nice,’ Elizabeth said, looking up, smiling.
‘It is, and he’s thoughtful, he always likes to include me in family affairs whenever he can. Now, about the paintings, you must be familiar with some of them. They should be in one or another of the houses, in fact.’
Putting the photographs back in the folder, Elizabeth got up from behind the desk, and went
