I couldn’t help the snort that erupted from me. “I can barely draw a house, Mr. Henshaw. I am quite certain.”
“A pity,” he said as he gestured for me to take a seat in front of his desk. “Female artists are becoming rather popular with collectors these days. In fact, next month, I’m holding a show called The Hidden Genius of the Feminine, featuring only female artists.”
Hidden Genius.My goodness, what drivel. I had met a number of extremely intelligent women at Girton, both lecturers and students, and absolutely none of them were hiding anything. Rather, they were deliberately overlooked, their work outright stolen, or they were dismissed by men threatened by their obvious talents. But I could tell Mr. Henshaw thought himself very clever for coming up with that title, so I managed a smile. “A splendid idea,” I replied as he came around the desk and took his seat.
“I hope your sister will be able to participate,” he said. “The painting I sold inspired quite a fierce little bidding war, in fact.”
“Did it indeed? Well, I’m very pleased to hear that,” I said. “Who was the winner?”
“Ah, my apologies, Mrs. Harper,” he began with whatlooked like genuine remorse. “But the buyer was adamant they remain anonymous.”
I frowned. “Is that normal?”
“For works by popular artists, yes. Collectors don’t necessarily want the public to know which valuables are in their possession.”
“But my sister isn’t well known.”
“No, not yet. But I will say that the person who bought her painting has a keen eye for talent. No doubt they expect her work to become incredibly valuable someday.” I wondered if that day would come in her lifetime. It seemed that often the most talented among us were not recognized until decades after their death. I hoped the same would not prove true for Delia. “But I know you did not come here to discuss the variables of the art market with me,” he continued, giving me a knowing little smile as if we shared some secret.
I resisted the urge to shudder and stiffened my spine. “I did not. I came here to find out what you know about Charles Pearson’s antiques business.”
Mr. Henshaw stared at me for a moment, then let out a bark of laugher. “My goodness, you do get straight to the point, Mrs. Harper.”
“I apologize for my bluntness, but I am particularly interested in the circumstances surrounding his death. I’m sure you can understand why,” I added, with a knowing look of my own.
Mr. Henshaw leaned back in his chair and gave me an assessing look. “I heard that he was killed in a botched burglary attempt. Which would make sense, given the treasures he was fool enough to keep in his flat.” I made no attempt to confirm or deny this and instead let the silence stretch between us, which seemed to make Mr. Henshaw uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily in his chair. “I told him he should have locked some of his pieces up in a vault. That soon enoughsomeone would get word that he had valuables on hand and try to break in, especially the way he carried on.”
I cocked my head. “What do you mean, the way he carried on?”
Mr. Henshaw suddenly threw up his hands in exasperation. “The same way he went about everything! Charles was careless. He was careless with money, with people, and with things. He never took his business as seriously as he should have. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was crowing about acquiring some priceless artifact in the pub one night and was targeted by a rough fellow who happened to be within earshot.” He then narrowed his eyes. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”
It was time to show my hand. “Because as I understand it, Charles Pearson was not killed in a burglary attempt at all, and I am trying to deduce if he was murdered.”
Mr. Henshaw stared at me in shock. “You—you’re doingwhat?”
“I’m trying to find his murderer,” I said, unable to hide my growing frustration. “And I believe it may have had something to do with his antiques business. Possibly a disgruntled client or professional rival.”
However, my explanation didn’t appear to relieve Mr. Henshaw’s confusion. “But … but you’re not a detective. Why aren’t you leaving it to Scotland Yard?” He was as incredulous as Mrs. Braithwaite had been, and I found myself warming to him just a little for his naïvety.
“Because I don’t trust them,” I said plainly. “I lived on Corfu before this, and when a local maid was murdered, the police there came very close to pinning the crime on the wrong person simply because they didn’t approve of the victim’s reputation.”
He frowned at me. “Well, what can you expect? It’s Greece. They haven’t had a properly working government since the Age of Enlightenment.”
I pursed my lips. “Corfu was a British Protectorate until the 1860s, and the police there largely follow English procedures.”
“Even still,” he said mulishly, “you can’t compare the two.”
“I’m worried that Delia will be found guilty,” I began quietly. “She discovered the body, and if another potential suspect isn’t found soon, it is entirely possible that she will be charged. You may be able to trust that the authorities will find the culprit, but I will not gamble my sister’s entire future on a handful of officers at Scotland Yard.”
It wasn’t until Mr. Henshaw leaned away from me with a distressed look on his face that I realized my voice had risen. “Of course,” he murmured, his eyes still wide. “Entirely understandable. Then he slowly reached for a piece of paper and a pen, as if I were a jungle cat who might lunge at him any moment. “I don’t know much about who his clients were, but Charles did make sure to attend a private auction on the second Monday of every month. It is run by Sir Armstrong-Hughes and held at this address. He might be able to tell you more.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely as I took the paper. “That is very helpful, Mr. Henshaw.”
He gave me a short nod, but didn’t meet my eyes. I could tell he was extremely uncomfortable, but I resisted the urge to set him at ease. There was power to be had in frightening a man, just a little, and I will admit here that I rather liked it. I rose from my chair and bid him good day, to which he mumbled a reply. I could tell he was glad to see me go, and I felt his anxious gaze on my back all the way down the hall.
Chapter 15
Icouldn’t help smiling to myself as I left the gallery, certain that this Sir Armstrong-Hughes held the key to this case. But as I stepped out onto the pavement, my smile died.
