Page 24 of My Lord
“You won’t be mad at me, will you?” Mother asked as she returned with the hot tea.
“When have I ever been mad at you?” I asked, confused by her question. I made a second mental note to check her medicine cupboard since I hadn’t done it the first time.
Mother took a deep breath. “Duncan said that he thought I ought to get a couple of paintings revalued for insurance purposes.” I sighed; my fear had been confirmed. She continued, “I let him take the small Van Gogh—”
I closed my eyes in exasperation that she even had it on display. “That was meant to be in the safe,” I said rather sternly. I softened when I saw her eyes fill with tears.
Gabriella scowled at me. “Why have such exquisite art if you can’t look at it?” she said and then took my mother’s hand in hers. “Carry on, Henrietta.”
I wanted to correct Gabriella. The piece was one of Van Gogh’s pencil drawings of a blacksmith and rather dour and depressing. Hardly exquisite.
“I thought he was taking it to be valued but he hasn’t been seen since. I’ve knocked on his door and I’ve asked the estate manager to open it because I was worried something had happened to him. It appears he has cleared off.”
“Cleared off?” I asked.
“Yes, his closet is empty, no toiletries but… Oh, darling, you really are going to be cross with me.” Her cheeks flushed bright red. “His wig was still there.”
I stared at her for a moment. “His…?” Then I chuckled. “Oh, Mother. Okay, have you called the police?”
“No, I only saw his apartment just before I called you. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll call the police. Gabriella, would you pour Mother some tea?” Her hands were shaking, and I wasn’t sure the family crockery would survive; not that I wouldn’t be happy to see it broken, of course.
I walked into the sitting room and picked up the landline. I called the police who agreed to send someone over, although we had no idea when that would happen. I assured them that Mother was elderly and living on her own, but once the gated community address was given, I didn’t hold up much hope of them giving her priority. I got it. Not even a stolen Van Gogh commanded the same attention as a hit and run, or a knifing in London. The quicker they were notified of the suspect, however, the quicker they could get on to tracking him down, I’d told them. This was a half a million-pound theft I had to remind them. It was agreed an officer would come by within the hour.
“Now dry your eyes, Henrietta. I’m sure Alex will have it all sorted in no time. There aren’t many places a Van Gogh can be sold without raising some eyebrows, is there?” Gabriella said as I rejoined them.
I didn’t want to burst either of their bubbles and inform them that Duncan—if that was his real name—would have a long list of buyers lined up from all around the world. Art theft was commonplace among the wealthy. Once in a private collection, it was doubtful it would be found until the owner died.
I told the ladies I wanted to speak with the estate manager and left them to chat. Mother would be sure to grill Gabriella on how we met and what our future plans were. The estate manager lived on-site and since it hadn’t been that long ago Mother and he had entered Duncan’s apartment, I hoped he hadn’t retired to bed. I knocked on the door and was grateful it was answered.
“Lord Duchoveny, I was expecting a call from you. Please, come in,” he said.
“If you don’t mind, do you think we might look at Duncan’s apartment together? I won’t touch anything but if there’s a photograph handy that I can give to the police, that could be useful.”
The one thing with being a Lord—an inherited title rather than a bestowed one—was it did, literally on this occasion, open doors. I followed the manager to the apartment, and he shuffled keys to find the correct one. Once inside we walked from room to room. It was quite clear to me that it wasn’t a permanent residence, there didn’t seem to be any home comforts.
“Was he a chancer?” the manager asked.
“I’m guessing so. Do we know his real name? I highly doubt it’s the one he gave my mother.”
“I was a little confused when she called him Duncan Windsor. The paperwork has him as Duncan Winters.”
I raised my eyebrows not in the least surprised, though. I didn’t bother to ask if he was a Duke, or whatever it was my mother thought him to be. We were both loathed to touch drawer handles and there were no photographs to hand.
“I don’t suppose you’re able to take a screenshot from CCTV are you?” I asked.
“I am, but I think I’d need permission or a request from the police for that. You do understand, don’t you? I’m more than happy to give up whatever is needed, I don’t want to hinder any investigation.”
“I understand. The police are likely to be here in an hour. Please don’t think you need to stay up, I’m sure they’ll contact you at some point,” I said, noticing that he had stifled a yawn.
I left him and walked to the front door. A thought had occurred. Duncan’s apartment was on the ground floor, same at Mother’s, which meant he had a patio with furniture outside his French doors. He also had a small storage unit for bikes and whatnot. When I got close, I had to use my phone to light the lock of the unit, it was a simple key lock in a very flimsy door. Without wishing to leave any fingerprints I pulled my shirt over my head and wrapped it around my hand. I pulled at the door and it sprang open way too easily. It was empty save for a small holdall on a shelf. I lifted it out and placed it on the floor. When I looked inside I shook my head. It appeared Duncan was a regularPink Panther. Everything a burglar needed was there, short of a striped top, a black mask, and bag marked ‘swag.’ Clearly, Duncan had hit the big time and wasn’t in need of the tools of his regular trade. I placed them back on the shelf and closed the door. I would tell the police that the lock was already broken but I had opened the door to see what was inside. I replaced my shirt and walked back.
When I returned to the apartment, I was told that Mother had gone to lie down. I sat beside Gabriella and she took my hand in hers.
“What a day, or rather a night. We’ve watched some erotic pornography, had sex, and are now on the hunt for a missing Van Gogh. I’m not making light of things, but my momma would be thrilled with this evening if I told her.”
“You’d tell her about the club?” I asked, shock causing the pitch of my voice to rise.
