Page 85
“Not important,” he said. “Let’s go catch a thief.”
—
Cow Crossing Yard opened off Clerkenwell Road, a collection of tall, dilapidated houses squeezed around a narrow court, all blistered bricks and treacherous verandahs.
“Do you mind?” He threaded his arm through hers as they approached the emporium. “We’re a happy couple, with space on the walls for charming old pictures. Ask after every painting you see. Your indulgent husband will buy whatever you desire. If Reeve himself sells us a slapdash faux-eighteenth-century oil, well.” He shrugged. “Our work is done.”
Straight to Scotland Yard.
Nina had been quiet during the carriage ride. Now she seemed mute.
Before he could ask what was wrong, the door of the emporium burst open, framing a pair of pimply mashers in too-tight suits, one green, the other blue. They lingered in the doorway below an ancient barber’s pole, the faded paint of its red spiral flaked off in patches.
“Mind the bloody bird,” boomed a voice from within. Too late. A gray-and-red parrot flew between them. Instead of veering up into the blue sky, the bird arrowed toward Nina, tipped up its wings, and perched on her shoulder. He felt her body tense.
“Give me a kiss,” said the parrot.
“What cheek.” Alan laughed as a blond giant bounded down to the cobbles, shoving the unfortunate young men to either side. “Your bird, sir, is overly familiar with my wife.”
“Your wife.” The man’s suit matched the bird’s plumage, gray jacket and red trousers. He looked too long at Nina, fondling the rose in his buttonhole. “Polly’s just being sociable. Here, Polly.” He raised his arm, and the parrot flapped to it. He gave Alan a toothy smile.
“Lawrence Ladbrooke,” he introduced himself. “Curiosity dealer, furniture broker, antiquarian, barber. Tell him, Polly.”
“Penny for a shave,” said the parrot.
“Sixpence and you know it,” said Ladbrooke. He had to duck under the lintel of the door. Alan followed him inside, the pressure of Nina’s arm on his increasing slightly, a sign that her steps lagged.
The emporium’s antechamber was chockablock with the tackle of the barbering profession. There were chairs along the walls alternating with sinks and tall tables from which various pots, bottles, and tongs threatened to topple. Gilded fish and stuffed songbirds hung from the ceiling, and a taut web of wires anchored in the moldings, clipped with tufts of hair for false whiskers and toupees. Alan passed beneath this singular curtain, cologne burning in his nostrils. The scent was strong enough to mask even vapors of varnish and turpentine. If Reeve’s workshop was in the building, he wouldn’t know by smell.
He released Nina’s arm so he could maneuver into the back rooms. As in any curiosity shop, they presented a mishmash of rubbishy, mediocre, and marvelous objects, both decorative and natural. Piles of rugs made transit difficult, as did massive pieces of Gothic furniture and customers. Three of them blocked his access to the depths of the back parlor.
Alan changed course, weaving around cabinets that displayed collections of fossils, painted teacups, gems, fans, snuffboxes. He slowed.
Dip pens. Enameled, silver, tortoiseshell. Reed. That one. Identical to Nina’s. It meant nothing, taken by itself. Such pens weren’t rarities.
He lifted his gaze and searched for her. She stood beside a suit of armor, her proximity to its rigid plates emphasizing the vulnerability of her soft, rounded figure. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she seemed absorbed in her study of a pink Chinese vase on a walnut stand.
He heard a thud. A young woman balanced on a Glastonbury chair had just knocked an ormolu clock from a shelf. She was frozen, feather duster in hand.
She was staring at Nina.
Something tingled down Alan’s spine. He made his way to the parlor’s perimeter and leaned close to a murky, worm-eaten portrait. Innocent junk.
He slid his eyes to the next painting. Less innocent. An unsigned landscape, pointedly familiar to anyone acquainted with the subjects of John Constable. The average collector would pounce, thinking himself lucky. He’d pay far less for his “Constable” in Cow Crossing Yard than he would at Broughton’s.
Any amount was too much. The topographical inaccuracies alone proved that Constable’s hand had never touched the canvas. Reeve had known better than to send it to auction.
“Give it an ogle.” Ladbrooke appeared beside him. “I can’t tell what’s o’clock with pictures myself. Not my specialty.”
“No?” Alan raised a brow and lowered his voice. “I do believe it’s a Constable.”
Ladbrooke whistled. “You shouldn’t ever have said so. Constable? His daubs aren’t cheap.” He shook his head and heaved a mighty sigh. “But I’m on the square. I can’t swear it’s a Constable, and it’s not my way to palm off a picture as this or that. Pity an honest fool and pick your price.”
Alan laughed as he met Ladbrooke’s shrewd, twinkling eyes. The man was no fool, honest or otherwise. He didn’t take Alan for a husband on a lark with his wife, long in the purse, easily rooked. What had given him away?
Maybe his eccentricities of style were a hindrance, not only in Mayfair. He was too recognizable. Swindlers identified him on sight.
Or he was asking himself the wrong question?
