Mr. Herbert's entry hall rivalled the London Museum of Art's in beauty. Every available space upon the ornate wood paneling was covered in beautiful renaissance paintings or sculpted busts of ancient philosophers. I had reigned in my wonder and curiosity at the museum when the old curator was leading us through the decorated halls but I saw no reason to show such restraint here in the foyer with no one present but a distracted Mr. Langley. I was admiring a particularly detailed sculpture of Socrates when the tall oaken doors at the end of the hall creaked open to reveal a balding middle aged man in the finest suit I had ever seen, black at the jacket and a deep plum purple at the lapel, a material that would have cost far more than a month's profits at my father's shop. He spared me the barest passing glance before his gaze settled onto my employer. Mr. Langley had not occupied himself with enjoying the displayed artwork around us as I had, choosing instead to focus on the massive clock hanging above us, a protruding bulb in the style of a London train station timepiece.
"Good morning, Mister..."
"Langley," Mr. Langley interjected in introduction, shaking the wealthy gentleman's hand as he did.
"Mr. Langley," Mr. Herbert repeated. "What can I do for you?"
"The curator at the museum sent me," Mr. Langley said. I glanced at him from my place near the wall. That was not entirely the truth. "I regret to inform you that your prized Guillard painting which you loaned the museum has been stolen."
Mr. Herbert's reaction was very strange. He seemed more disappointed than shocked. I was not the only one who noticed.
"You are not surprised?" my employer questioned.
"Unfortunately, no," Mr. Herbert said. "I had hoped the painting would be safer at the museum but it seems I was wrong."
"Safer," Mr. Langley repeated. "so you had reason to believe that someone might be trying to steal it?"
Mr. Herbert looked up at him then, his sorrow changing at once to suspicion as he narrowed his gaze.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Langley, I did not catch what you said your occupation was."
"No need to apologize," my employer answered jovially. "I did not disclose. I am an investigator with Scotland Yard, you see. I have been assigned the case of the stolen painting. You seem to know something of the theft?"
"I have another Guillard here in my house. I've added extra security since I heard of the others going missing."
"Others?"
Mr. Herbert looked rather uncomfortable all of a sudden. He cleared his throat and glanced around as if looking for an escape from Mr. Langley's poignant questions.
"How... how official of a capacity are you involved in Scotland Yard, Mr. Langley?" he asked.
"Fairly unofficial," my employer confessed. "In truth, I am more of a consulting private investigator whose services they have acquired to help find this art thief."
"I see. Well, you should know. Quite a few of these paintings have been stolen but many of the owners have not reported them missing due to the... not entirely legal way in which they were acquired."
Mr. Langley raised a brow at the confession.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, I was not aware of it at the time but it seems that... the auction that I bought these paintings at had not exactly verified the seller's authenticity."
"What do you mean?"
"The paintings were not being sold by the artist himself, you see. I mean, they couldn't be. Given what happened. But none of us knew at the time about that so we cannot be held responsible for purchasing something at auction that-"
"What do you mean 'given what happened'? Why couldn't the artist sell the paintings himself?"
Mr. Herbert glanced my way for the first time then. I had made my way over to them and stood only a few feet away from him next to Mr. Langley.
"It isn't... quite for a lady to hear."
I felt a faint hint of amusement at the wealthy Mr. Herbert referring to me as a lady but kept my comments to myself as Mr. Langley encouraged him.
"Miss Porter is my investigative partner," Mr. Langley told him. "I assure you. She can handle whatever it is that you have to say."
I fought the urge to look at my employer. Was he so certain I could? Did he not consider me a lady? Of course he didn't, I scolded myself. He knew better.
"Well, Mr. Guillard was quite unable to sell his own works after his... well, after his suicide, you see."
I felt my hands fly up to cover my open mouth. How dreadful.
"Suicide?" Mr. Langley asked curiously. "When was this?"
"A couple of weeks ago," Mr. Herbert answered, looking apologetically my way. But I had recovered quickly enough and my mind had moved on to another conundrum. Mr. Langley had not known about Mr. Guillard's suicide which meant that it likely was not in the police file he had been given which meant that we were wasting our time unless there was something specifically tying Mr. Guillard to this string of stolen paintings and if that were the case than this was, perhaps, an entirely different investigation and we should be approaching it in another way.
"Mr. Herbert," I began and he smiled kindly at me. "You said that you heightened your security once you learned that many of your friends had their paintings stolen?"
"Yes, dear," he answered. I tried to ignore the condescension.
"Were those paintings Guillards?"
"Yes."
"All of them?" Mr. Langley interjected, his curiosity getting the best of him when he realized what I had intended with my line of questioning. Mr. Herbert paused for a moment to think but then nodded.
"Yes, all of them."
"Mr. Herbert, do you recall who it was that put those paintings up for auction?"
"I do indeed. A fellow by the name of Louis Dubois. He was a friend of Vincent Guillard's, claimed to have had his permission to sell his works. Though we found out afterwards that was not the case."
"How did you find that out?"
"One of the men who had been at the auction read about Mr. Guillard's suicide in the paper and put it together that the paintings had to have been sold after the death of the artist which seemed quite odd. We went to the treasurer of the auction who confronted Mr. Dubois and he confessed that Mr. Guillard had never given him express permission to sell his work. It was too late by then, though, you see. Because the paintings had been sold and the money collected."
Mr. Langley nodded and bit his lip, brow creased in concentration. Mr. Herbert seemed to be waiting for him to continue the conversation, fidgeting nervously after his admission that he had purchased stolen art, but my employer seemed lost in thought. I could tell that Mr. Herbert felt guilty about his role in the illegal sale though I quite agreed with him that it was no fault of his own if he truly hadn't the slightest idea that the work had not been sold with the permission of the artist. Mr. Langley did not seem eager to assuage our host's guilt, however, choosing to remain in thoughtful silence and stare up at that strange clock once more. After a few moments of awkward silence, I decided to break the tension with a request of my own. "You said you still had one of the paintings here?"
"Yes," Mr. Herbert answered with another condescending smile though this time paired with a gratitude for my intervention. He was conversing with me as though I were no more than a school aged child and, though it irked me, it did not surprise me. Given Mr. Herbert's superior dress and exquisite choice in décor, he was well aware of what wealth looked like and, though I was wearing one of my sister's finest dresses, he knew that I was no higher than the merchant class and must have guessed me to be uneducated as well. I was long past bristling at such assumptions seeing as they were made by every passing member of the gentry I had ever met. I had resigned myself to a fate of condescension and pretentiousness.
"Could we see it?"
Mr. Langley looked up at that and Mr. Herbert glanced between us as if surmising whether or not we could be a threat to his precious painting. After a minute, he relented. "Very well. Follow me."
We did. He led us up to the second floor landing and into an office. The painting hung on proud display behind a large mahogany desk not unlike the one in Mr. Langley's own office. The painting itself was exquisite. It was of a scene at a busy park. Mothers whispered to one another and children played. Men laughed and someone had brought a dog. It was a very happy scene indeed and one wrought in the brightest paints available. It was a marvel that someone who had painted such a jubilant scene could be found dead at his own hands. I approached it carefully, letting my eyes rove over the exquisite detail, taking in the gradient shading and the small embellishments. It seemed that the longer one looked at the painting, more of the scene revealed itself.
I was not sure why I had asked to see it, only that I felt that I should. If someone was so intent on stealing this particular artist's paintings then it did not feel as though we could ever truly understand such motivation having never seen one of the works ourselves. It seemed necessary that we had viewed one with our own eyes and, now that I had, I could see how this art could inspire envy. It was incredible. I could see why this artist's works had found success at auction and I could see why someone would want to sell them. As for why someone would want to steal them, I felt that that particular motivation was not held within the colors themselves.
"It's my wife's favorite," Mr. Herbert said suddenly, pleased with my admiration of the art.
"I can see why," I told him. "It's beautiful."
"You are an appreciator of the arts, are you Miss Porter?"
"I do enjoy a skilled artist's work," I answered. "I appreciate those who have the gift to create beauty from nothing."
He beamed at my answer. "An enlightened response. I quite agree myself. What is the use in having all of this money if I cannot spend it on that which I enjoy? My wife is of quite the same opinion as you. That artists create beauty."
I caught Mr. Langley's eye from behind Mr. Herbert. He gestured for me to keep the man talking as I had seemed to have gained his trust. The condescension was gone from his tone and replaced instead by that fervent friendly eagerness which drove the tone of a man who had discovered a kindred spirit, someone with whom he shared a particular interest. I could admit that I knew very little of the world of art itself but had always admired the beauty of such creations and knew enough to, at the very least, praise an excellent painting when I saw one. Besides, what I was truly saying was no more than common flattery and all men, wealthy or not, always responded to flattery.
"Your wife seems quite the tasteful woman," I told him and he beamed once more.
"Indeed," he agreed. "Much like yourself, I imagine. I suppose that is why you are assisting Mr. Langley on this case?"
"Someone must remind him of his manners."
Mr. Herbert let out a booming laugh at that. I risked a smile and noticed that Mr. Langley was smiling back at me, eyebrow raised at the barb.
"Mr. Herbert," I said then, touching the man's arm gently as he calmed himself. "Would it be too much trouble to request a list of those acquaintances of yours who purchased Guillard paintings at the same auction? If they are encountering theft by the same thief, their experiences could be quite useful in establishing a pattern and ultimately solving this case."
"Of course, dear," Mr. Herbert exclaimed happily and then, crossing behind his desk, he retrieved a pen and paper and began writing down the names and addresses of all those acquaintances whom he could remember had purchased a Guillard painting, circling those whom had had theirs stolen. In the end, it seemed that many more paintings had been stolen than the police had record of. Mr. Herbert claimed it was likely that many of the men had not reported their paintings stolen so as not to draw attention to the "less than legal" way in which they had been acquired. In the end, we thanked Mr. Herbert profusely and headed out of his house and into the carriage with a tangible list of potential leads. I found myself feeling much more accomplished as I settled in for the ride back to Mr. Langley's residence for lunch. Gripping the list in my hands, I looked up to see Mr. Langley smiling at me.
"What?" I asked.
"I had no idea you were so accomplished in flattery," he told me. "Perhaps I was right to choose a woman as my investigative partner. Men respond far better to the flirtation of a beautiful young woman than they do to the questioning of an authoritative man. Is that how you beguiled your way into my employment, Miss Porter? Flirtation?"
Trying to ignore the teasing tone of his voice and the fact that he had just called me a beautiful young woman, I answered simply. "When I am flirting with you, Mr. Langley, I assure you, you will know."
Mr. Langley chuckled at that and busied himself with watching the hectic London streets fade away outside the window as we drove on. I gazed down at the list in my hands and wondered where we should begin. Most likely with the ones who had a painting stolen as well. There would be a crime scene of sorts to investigate there. Perhaps even some physical evidence if we were lucky. Maybe even some indication of why these paintings were being targeted in such a way. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I didn't realize we had arrived back at Mr. Langley's house until he was helping me out of the carriage. I tucked the list away in my bag and followed him into the house, handing my hat and gloves to Bernard as he greeted us.
"Lunch has been prepared, Sir," Bernard informed us. "It is waiting for you in the dining room. Miss Langley is there now."
"Excellent, Bernard, thank you. Miss Porter, would you care to join us for lunch?"
I smiled. "I would be honored."
I followed Mr. Langley across the hall and into the dining room. Miss Langley beamed at me as I entered, positively bouncing on her toes with giddiness at the sight of me.
"Charlotte!" she squealed. "Do sit next to me. I can't wait to hear about your morning."
I smiled, unable to stop myself. Her bubbly happiness was contagious. I took a seat next to Miss Langley and across the table from her brother as a kindly young woman placed our meals in front of us. I smiled up at her and nodded a thanks. She smiled back and patted me briefly on the shoulder as she returned to the kitchen. I made a note to learn her name at my earliest convenience.
"Tell me all about the investigation," Miss Langley gushed.
"You want to hear about the investigation?" Mr. Langley asked, surprised. "You never ask me about my investigations."
"And I'm not asking you now," she snapped and I could not keep the smirk from my lips. Mr. Langley noticed it and shook his head, a playful smile of his own distorting his handsome features.
"It's been going rather well so far," I answered her question. "We've made significant progress already in my opinion. And Mr. Herbert gave us a list of potential leads and witnesses to speak to which was very—"
"Mr. Herbert?" Miss Langley inquireds in Mr. Clyde Herbert?"
"You know him?" I asked with interest.
"Hardly. I know his daughter. Elizabeth Herbert. You know her, Alexander."
"Do I?" he asked, clearly more interested in his soup than the mention of his sister's friend.
"Don't be such a dolt, Alexander. You've met her on more than one occasion."
"Forgive me," he said, a hint of exhaustion in his voice. "There are simply so many Elizabeths in London."
I smiled at that and told him. "My sister's name is Elizabeth. Though we all call her Liza."
He smiled up at me. "You have a sister?"
"Two. Though I imagine if commonality is a hot button issue for you, you won't care for my elder sister's name either."
"What is it?"
"Victoria."
He smirked at that.
"Anyway," Miss Langley interrupted, clearly impatient with our conversation. "I suppose I cannot fault you for not remembering Elizabeth Herbert, Alexander. She is rather unremarkable and quite dull if I'm being honest."
"Elena," Mr. Langley warned though it was halfhearted at best and did nothing to change Miss Langley's speech. I doubted he could keep his sister from expressing her opinion even if he sincerely wished to. She seemed a headstrong one, this Miss Langley.
"Why did you go to visit Mr. Herbert?" Miss Langley asked me.
"Oh, well we were investigating a stolen painting at the London Museum of Art and it turned out to be on loan from his private collection," I answered.
"Oh yes. Mr. Herbert's private collection," she repeated with a roll of her eyes. "Every time I see Elizabeth, she's on about one of his newest pieces. The man has an obsession. Do you enjoy art, Charlotte?"
"Indeed she does," Mr. Langley answered before I could. I glanced up to see him smirking at me. He was incorrigible, wasn't he?
"Really?" Miss Langley gasped. "All sorts? Not just paintings and sculptures?"
"I'm not sure what you-" but I didn't get to finish.
"Do you like the theater, Charlotte?"
I stared at Miss Langley for a moment.
"I- well, I'm not certain," I told her. "I've never been."
She gasped. "You have to go! You would absolutely adore it. Oh, I'll take you! This Friday! We will take in a show together. Doesn't that sound fun?"
I glanced at Mr. Langley who seemed rather preoccupied with his soup all of a sudden. I would be getting no help from him, it seemed.
"Yes," I said then because there was nothing else I could say and Miss Langley squealed with delight.
"Wonderful! I'm thrilled. Alexander, do pick up two tickets to the theater for Miss Porter and I while you're out and about."
He nodded without looking up and Miss Langley fell into an in depth history of every show she had ever attended along with the aspects that she felt I would enjoy and those that I would not. Luckily, her rambling allowed me to finish eating my meal without having to add much more to the conversation than the occasional hum of agreement. Though it gave me time to think, I could not help but wonder what a girl like me should wear to the theater. I had no ornate dresses like Miss Langley's to boast of. I supposed one of my old church dresses would have to do. Though they hadn't seen the light of day since my mother's passing.
"If you'll excuse us, Elena," Mr. Langley said, interrupting one of Miss Langley's rants about a particular play she had seen the previous spring and tossing down his napkin and standing. "Miss Porter and I have some more business to attend to this afternoon. Miss Porter?"
I nodded and stood as Mr. Langley left the room. When he was gone, I turned to his sister.
"Thank you for your kindness," I told her with a smile. "I am eager to attend the theater with you and I appreciate the invitation."
She smiled back at me as I took my leave. I met Mr. Langley in the foyer and took my hat and gloves from Bernard at the door, donning them as we stepped back out into the warm London day.
"I want to apologize for Elena," he said as we strode toward the carriage. "She can be rather... pushy."
"Well, as all I perceive her to be pushing me toward is friendship, I have no qualms with it," I answered and he nodded at that but his expression betrayed a different emotion altogether, a strange emotion. Perhaps my eyes deceived me but it almost appeared to be relief.
After a short ride to the London police station and a quick conversation with a detective on duty there, Mr. Langley and I found ourselves in a very large records room surrounded by filing cabinets and flickering lights. We were sitting at a long wooden table, each of us bent over a stack of police reports, file folders and loose papers filling the space of the desk between us. Mr. Langley had requested any record of incident involving a stolen painting whose artist had been one Vincent Guillard brought to us and there were at least half a dozen to review. The number was far lower than that which Mr. Herbert had given us but I knew that a lot of the thefts would not have been reported and we would only have the collector's memory to rely upon for those.
We spent hours poring over the case files, comparing each report for similarities and examining them individually for oddities. When we had completed our review of the thefts and my notes on the subject had been exhausted, Mr. Langley requested the report of Mr. Guillard's suicide and we reviewed that as well. I had worried, before hand, if I had the stomach for investigating such a matter but it proved relatively easy for me to view the case objectively. Though that could have been because these descriptions and details were in print and not in front of me. The coroner's report was what I had been dreading the most but found myself surprised at my composure as Mr. Langley read it aloud, feet kicked up on the desk in front of him, one hand lifted behind his head, rubbing his sore neck. I paced on the opposite side of the table, walking to and fro, allowing my tired eyes to glance about my surroundings without taking much of them in as my listening focused in on the words Mr. Langley was saying. After the coroner's report came the report of the scene itself.
We had been in the process of deciphering the notes of the first officer who had arrived at the scene when I felt myself beginning to yawn. I did my best to suppress it but to no avail. Mr. Langley noticed easily enough seeing as I was leaning over him at the time to view the file over his shoulder. He seemed to snap out of a trance. He blinked a few times and turned to look at the clock behind me. Then he gasped and began to gather the folders back into a neat pile.
"Goodness it's nearly midnight," he exclaimed and I turned, in disbelief, to view the clock myself. I was surprised to find that he had been correct. It was nearly midnight. I stared at him as he packed everything away, amazed that time had slipped away from us so quickly, astonished at how entranced I had been by the gruesome work. The work that I had been so sure I would not have a penchant for.
I helped Mr. Langley finish packing up the case files and return them to the desk clerk and then the two of us walked, arm in arm, from the police station and onto the street. It was far emptier at this hour than it had been when we had entered and we found the carriage driver asleep at his post. Mr. Langley gently roused him and then turned to me.
"What is your address?" he asked.
"What?" I responded.
"There is no way I am going to let you walk home at this hour, Miss Porter. Please, allow my driver to take you home."
I gave him my address and climbed in the back of the carriage with Mr. Langley. It was a quiet drive as we each fell into silence driven by either exhaustion or contemplation. For me, it was exhaustion but I suspected, due to the new light in his bright blue eyes, that it was the opposite for him. It was not long at all before the carriage was coming to a stop and Mr. Langley emerged to assist me down. As my hand grasped his, I saw movement in the window above and glanced up to see Liza gazing down at us, a look of utter shock on her face. I hadn't had the time or the forethought to consider what sort of response such a scene would illicit and now I found myself nearly regretting accepting his offer to see me home. I would, undoubtedly, have many questions to answer for this in the morning.
"Liza?" Mr. Langley guessed and I turned to see him looking up at my sister, a smile on his face. He offered a wave as I stepped onto the pavement and my sister, wide eyed, dropped the curtain and jumped away. He chuckled.
"She isn't used to such an escort," I told him. "Nor am I."
"It's the least I could do. I sincerely apologize for the late hour, Miss Porter."
I waved him off.
"Occupational hazard," I answered, stifling another yawn as I made my way to the door. "Goodnight Mr. Langley."
"Goodnight Miss Porter."
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