Helen left the attic room eager for her mother to return. A chill washed over her. She needed her father. But even more, although she had no right to wish it, she needed Peyton, his strength, his warmth, his reassuring smile.
Chapter Fourteen
Jason had no trouble locating Mr. Gillies. The small thin gentleman lived in a respectable part of town. He stood for a moment on the street wondering why he was pursuing the matter. Did he suspect Bianchi was guilty of fraud, or did he just wish him to be? He had to admit that his feelings for the Baron were decidedly antipathetic.
“I was left some money by a relative,” Mr. Gillies explained over a glass of wine and biscuits in his sitting room. “It is my long-held dream to fill my house with beautiful art. This is my first purchase.” He nodded toward the framed sketch of a pair of male hands pressed together in prayer on blue paper, purported to be by Dürer, where it hung in pride of place on the wall. If it was a copy, it was very well done.
“When did you purchase this from Baron Bianchi?” Jason asked.
“About two months ago here in London.”
Jason took a sip of wine, finding it a good vintage. “What made you suspect the work is a forgery?”
“A friend of mine who is a collector has seen what he believes to be the original in a gallery in Vienna.”
“Perhaps this is that drawing?”
Gillies shook his head. “My friend has only just returned.”
“Then is it possible, perhaps, that the one your friend saw is a forgery?”
Gillies jaw sagged. “Impossible to say.”
“So the expert has assured you the Dürer is authentic? Do you know much about Barrett?”
“Nothing. His card states he is connected to the esteemed establishment, The Royal Academy of Arts.”
“But you still seem unsure, Mr. Gillies?”
Gillies sat up straighter. “I remain unconvinced. Do you know of someone who might help?”
“I would advise consulting Mr. John Smith in New Bond Street. He is undoubtedly the best in the business. I have written to a friend in Florence who knows Bianchi and has viewed his collection. I’m not sure what might result from it if anything.”
“I am most grateful. I shall certainly consult Mr. Smith.” He hesitated. “There is something else.”
“Yes?”
“Might be nothing. Barrett purports to be English, in conversation he mentioned he hails from York. He’s no Yorkshireman. He’s no Englishman, in fact.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“A swarthy fellow, but that’s by the by. I served in the army on the Continent in a clerical capacity. I expect my ear is now tuned to languages, for I detected a foreign inflection beneath Barrett’s precise English.”
“Interesting.” Jason finished his wine and stood. “I’ll advise you of anything I discover.”
Gillies shook his hand. “I am most grateful to you, my lord.”
At the Lamb and Flag,the taproom,which smelled of beer and onions, was surprisingly empty of customers. The publican wiping down the oily tables hailed Jason as he walked through the door. “Good day to you, sir. Can I get you an ale?”
“No, thank you. Have you any information for me?”
“I asked around. As I said, most were watching the fight. It’s not every day you see a one-armed man handle himself so well.”
“True.” Jason tried to hide his impatience. “Nothing then?”
“I’m told the fellow who picked a fight with Bart had jeered at him, called him a cripple.”
“Deliberately provoked him?”
