‘A chap goes into his club and a chap is laughed at. Openly, don’t you see, dear old bean.’
The term of endearment was like a dagger in the sun.
‘And you blame incompetence,’ said Slade.
‘Should I not?’
‘This was sabotage,’ said Slade and offered five sheets of paper. The duke was slightly taken aback but he fished spectacles from a top pocket and read them quickly.
One was the phoney letter from Charlie Dawson. The sec
ond was a sworn affidavit that he had never sent it, and the third a statement from the best computer expert available to the effect that a near-genius in computer technology could have created it and inserted it into Slade’s private e-mail system.
The fourth and fifth papers were from two girls in the saleroom that day, one detailing how the supposed Kentuckian had introduced himself and the other describing how he had vanished.
‘Have you any idea who this rogue could be?’ asked the duke.
‘Not yet, but I intend to find out.’
‘Oh, you do that, Perry. Do it without delay. And when you have him, ensure he spends a long time behind bars. Failing that, ensure he is spoken to in such a manner that he will never come within a mile of us again. In the meantime, I shall try to pacify the board – again.’
Slade was about to go when His Grace added an afterthought.
‘After the Sassetta affair, and now this, we need something pretty spectacular to restore our image. Keep eyes and ears open for such an opportunity. Failing that, and a resolution of this impersonation business, the board may have to consider a little . . . restructuring. That is all, my dear Perry.’
When he left the room the nervous tic near Slade’s left eye, that always flared when he was under extreme stress or in the grip of powerful emotions, was flicking like a panicky Aldis lamp.
JUNE
Slade was not as lost for thoughts as he had pretended. Someone had wreaked immense damage on the House of Darcy. He looked for motive. Gain? But there had been none, except that the Coorte was now going to another auctioneer. But would a rival do this?
If not gain, then revenge. Who would have such a rage against him, and enough knowledge to guess that an agent acting for Van Den Bosch would be present in the hall with a big enough cheque to hike the Coorte to such ludicrous levels?
His thoughts had already settled on Benny Evans, who would have had both. But the ‘Martin Getty’ he had stared at was not Benny Evans. Yet he had been briefed. He had sat silent until that single picture came under the hammer. So . . . a fellow conspirator. A mere hireling, or another with a grudge?
On 2 June he sat in the chambers in Lincoln’s Inn of one of the most eminent lawyers in England. Sir Sidney Avery laid down the brief and pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘Your query is: did this man commit an offence in criminal law?’
‘Precisely.’
‘He masqueraded as someone who does not even exist?’
‘He did.’
‘That, alas, is not an offence in law, unless it was done for the purpose of fraudulent gain.’
‘The masquerade was supported by a clearly forged letter of introduction.’
‘Actually, a tip-off, but admittedly forged.’
Privately, Sir Sidney thought the scam hilarious. It was the sort of thing that always went down hugely well at the Benchers’ dinners in hall. But his expression indicated he was contemplating mass murder.
‘Did he at any time claim he was a member of the famously wealthy Getty family?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘You presumed he was?’