The Dorich House Mystery (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 3) Page 7

  Sarah and Ralph had both been in academia long enough to know that answering those sorts of rhetorical questions only made one hostage to fortune and the best option was to get out of the office as fast as possible.

  “Thank you Dean Granger. For my part I have enough to get on with without getting involved with something that doesn’t concern me or my work for the University,” said Sarah. With that she jumped up and swept out of the office. Ralph remained seated.

  “Look Rupert, we’ve known each other a long time and I want to let you know that I think that you were completely out of order speaking to me like that, particularly in front of another member of staff.” He paused as Granger slumped in his chair.

  “I might have been a bit heavy on you, but I had a point to make. But as you yourself pointed out, we’ve known each other a long time and by now you should know it is just my way. If I was rude, then I apologise. It’s just that I’ve had a lot on my plate this week. It’s not been announced yet, and I would like you to treat this in confidence, Ralph, but I have not been short-listed for the Pro Vice Chancellor position that the VC had virtually promised me.”

  Ralph noticed for the first time how tired Granger looked.

  “No, I hadn’t heard. But I can see how that must have been a bit of a blow.”

  “Well it’s not final yet and I’m seeing the VC tomorrow. What I need, Ralph, is something that I can put on the table to show that I am bringing in some big wins for the University; enrollments on Post Graduate programs are down which doesn’t help. Some of the other Deans are getting a lot of successes while I seem to be dropping out of favour.” For an awful moment the thought crossed Ralph’s mind that Granger might burst into tears. He had witnessed similar things at sea when a crew member lost his nerve in a storm and it was the skipper’s job to get him through it.

  “Things are not always as bad as they seem, Rupert. There may be a way we can get things back on the rails. I know I’ve only been at this art thing for a short while, but the number of wealthy investors that this art business seems to attract could be our winner. I’ll need a bit more time, say a couple of months, but I have a feeling that we are on to something big.”

  Granger looked at Ralph.

  “Sorry about that business earlier, Ralph. I’ll put your strategy for getting benefactors together with a few other things that I have up my sleeve and I might be able to get the VC to hold off making his decision for a few months. Let’s just keep all of this between ourselves if you don’t mind. Oh, and Ralph, thanks for your support.”

  Ralph could see that Granger was regaining his composure. They shook hands and Ralph left him to his thoughts. Walking down the oak paneled corridor he felt that maybe a new chapter in his relationship with Granger had opened. But he also realised that he was now under even more pressure to make a success of his sabbatical.

  ***

  Back at the police station Sergeant Wilson had looked up Dorich House on the internet. He saw that a web-site run by a leading travel agency showed top London hotels offering guided tours of Dorich House and gardens followed by ‘English High Tea’ at Warren House, an upmarket hotel near to Kingston Hill. He wondered how big a tourist attraction the University wanted to make out of their museum. Were they trying to diversify into the entertainment and tourist trade? Would they soon be renting student dormitory space to tourists who wanted to visit Hampton Court Palace and go riding at the nearby Ham Polo Club with its links to the Royal Family? So perhaps it all made financial sense. But where would it all end, he wondered?

  “When you’ve finished playing with that computer, see if you can we track down Grant Richardson, the other name on that note in Rabinsky’s office. And while you’re at it, see what you can find out about Boris Sarovsky and John Weston; we need to keep an eye on those two. I also want to go over with you what Professor Chalmers said. I know he’s a bit imaginative but that’s what makes a good detective. Perhaps you could take a leaf out of his book,” Linham chided.

  Wilson smiled to himself. He knew that his boss was a bit stressed about all the loose ends that seemed to be lying around. The Inspector liked to tie things up quickly, and he was as keen on helping to track down Ivan Rabinsky’s killer as everyone else.

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  Chapter 5

  Emerging from the womb-like comfort of the London Underground onto the concourse at Kings Cross Station was always a bit of a shock. Stepping off the escalator into the daylight, seeing hordes of people with their anxious expressions rushing to catch their trains, while the public address system broadcasted unintelligible information about delays, was almost surreal. Ralph thought that in the days of the steam trains this must have been the closest you could get to a rehearsal for Dante’s Inferno. But it was 10.30 on a blustery morning in February and he and Katie were booked on the 10:55 to Cambridge. They had received a call earlier that week from Grant Richardson inviting them up for lunch and to meet his wife, Elizabeth. As they settled back into their seats and watched as the grubby buildings that surround any city rail terminus passed by the window, Katie handed Ralph his favourite Costa coffee.

  “No matter how much I travel, I always find catching a train stressful,” said Ralph as he wrestled with the lid of his coffee.”

  “You find everything stressful. After all the scrapes that you’ve got yourself into I’m surprised that you haven’t had a heart attack by now.”

  Ralph grinned. He knew that Katie was on form, and by now he had learned that unless he lightened up a bit she would hassle him until he did. In any event, it boded well for an interesting day in the country.

  The high speed train took just over an hour to travel the 100 miles north, and even for such a short distance from London they could expect to see the fields still in the grip of winter. Stations shot by as the train swept towards their destination. Ralph recounted what had happened at Rabinsky’s apartment and the interviews with Linham and Granger. Katie brought Ralph up to speed on some of the items that Ralph had asked her to look into.

  “It seems that our John Weston has quite a background. He lives most of the year in a big old villa in an exclusive district in of Cairo. He’s had a few run-ins with Interpol over the past few years. So far nothing has been proven, but he’s been investigated in connection with art theft and also bid rigging at art auctions world-wide. One of the big art auction houses in Paris is under investigation right now and his name has cropped up on more than one occasion, although personally I found him charming.”

  “You just stick to the job, Miss. You’re meant to be doing a job, not trying to fill your dance card,” Ralph said good naturedly.

  “Right. Well, speaking of dance cards, when I was looking into the movers and shakers in Cairo, I came across your old flame, Jane Ryman Jones. It seems as though she and her husband Raymond are now heading up the Egyptian government’s antiquities committee. So if we ever want to find out just what John Weston is really like, then it might be worth touching bases with her.”

  Of course Ralph was aware that Jane and her husband were working in Egypt, but the mention of her name brought back the memory of how he and Jane had tried, but failed to rekindle their University days’ romance when they reconnected at Kingston when she was leading an archaeological dig at the University site a couple of years earlier. Fortunately they had parted friends and he had even given Jane and Raymond his blessing when he learned that they were to be married before moving to Egypt to continue their research into Egyptian antiquities. It really was a small world, he mused. Katie broke his reverie.

  “Boris Sarovsky reminds me of Omar Sheriff when he was in Doctor Zhivago. I always picture him driving through the snow when I think about that film. But Boris has a shady side as well. When I was digging around I found out that he seems to have some strong links to the Chechen mafia, or at least some of the individuals who are thought to be part of it. When I spoke to my friend Tatiana, you know, the Ukrainian girl I knew at Holloway
, well she told me that we really don’t want to get mixed up with him and his pals. She said she learned that the hard way when she was involved in her money laundering business. And what really surprised me was that Paul Scott’s Secure Shipping, you know the firm that the driver who was shot on the M25 outside Dover the other week worked for, well, it’s part of a holding company owned by none other than Thomas Winton.”

  “Sarah Winton’s husband?” exclaimed Ralph. “Well I’ll be damned. She certainly never mentioned that little tidbit when we were talking to Inspector Linham the other day. So if Scott’s firm is not altogether on the up and up it could well be that someone really was trying to scare them off. He did the shipping between Dorich House and Rabinsky’s workshop, remember, so if he is dodgy, then anything could have happened. No wonder Sarah told Granger that she was only too pleased to distance herself from any involvement with the Rabinsky case.”

  “And now I think about it,” Katie said, “when we were at that lunch at the Strand, Boris talked about how shippers were often involved in swapping or even stealing paintings.”

  Just then the train guard announced over the PA system that they were now approaching Cambridge and that passengers should check that they had all their personal belongings with them.

  “That probably wouldn’t take Peter Scott long to do since most of his stuff is probably nicked. Perhaps they should say check that you have everyone else’s personal belongings,” Katie quipped.

  Ralph could see that given half a chance Katie’s more raucous side surfaced. He hoped she might temper those inclinations over luncheon with Grant and Elizabeth Richardson, but he suspected if he voiced his views on her tendency to be outspoken it would be like a red rag to a bull, so he decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

  Walking out of the station concourse at Cambridge, visitors are always struck by the thousands of bicycles that are parked in an apparently random fashion, typical in any college town. It had been decades since Ralph’s University days there but he still felt right at home. Grant Richardson’s voice boomed above the melee of students and construction works that always seemed to be part and parcel of the railway station experience.

  “Hi you guys. Welcome to sunny Cambridge. I ordered this wonderful weather especially for you.” An enthusiastic Grant ushered them to his waiting SUV.

  “Elizabeth volunteered to be our dedicated driver today so that I could get a chance to sample the bubbly for a change.” He laughed as he introduced them to Elizabeth, who was dressed as though she were preparing to join a fashionable country shooting party. Tweed skirt and jacket, green silk blouse, a scarf tied in a nonchalant fashion around her throat, and the mandatory sensible country brogues. Grant was dressed as though he had stepped out of Country Living magazine. Ralph experienced his usual feelings of insecurity that even his time at Cambridge and a Professorship at a leading University had not helped to conquer. Having to climb up into the SUV added to the sense of superiority that the Richardsons projected onto the world.

  They were soon driving up a tree lined avenue that ended at the steps of a magnificent Georgian country home. If two white afghan hounds had leapt up to greet them it wouldn’t have surprised Ralph. But there was no sign of such beasts, just acres of sweeping parkland in every direction. They were soon seated for lunch and being waited on by two obsequious servants. Ralph comforted himself by imagining that the Richardson’s only rented the place and that the catering had been outsourced; but he knew that was only the green eyed monster raising its ugly head. He had done his homework and was aware that the Richardsons really were major league players. He admitted to himself that he was a bit overwhelmed and only hoped it didn’t show. Being an art dealer was obviously a profitable occupation, but Ralph doubted it provided the income to support such a magnificent lifestyle and wondered if there was some family money as well. When he glanced over at Katie she appeared relaxed as she and Elizabeth chatted away. For that matter she seemed rather nonplussed by the opulent surroundings. Over coffee the conversation turned to art.

  “Awful business about poor Mr. Rabinsky. We hardly knew the chap, but if his reputation was anything to go by, he knew his stuff alright,” said Elizabeth as she waived the two servants away. “The police have asked if they can come and talk to us about it later in the week, although I can’t think why or about what.”

  “Well, Rabinsky was looking at three of our paintings, my dear, so there’s some connection there I suppose,” replied Grant. Katie leaned forward.

  “Do you think that it’s possible that Mr. Rabinsky discovered something about some of your paintings and the other paintings from the museum? Ralph tells me that there was an unfinished note found in his waste basket addressed to you and Professor Winton.”

  “Well it’s possible of course, but I’m sure that our paintings were pretty straight forward to evaluate. Good copies, I’ll admit. Mid to late 18th century ones with full provenance. It would be marvelous of course if he had found that they were by someone famous, as that would rocket the jolly old price up by yards,” Grant replied.

  “What do you mean by famous? I thought that your provenance would show a trail back to who had owned them originally and the date?” Asked Ralph.

  “Well the Russians are a funny lot of buggers; if you’ll excuse my French, Katie. Since the reign of Peter the Great, Russian artists have wanted to copy what they viewed as Western art. They even set up a school of drawing in St. Petersburg. Katherine the Great later turned it into the Academy of Fine Arts.”

  “Grant, dear, I do hope that this is not going to turn into one of your lectures. Once he gets onto his passion we all have to grip the sides of our chairs or we will simply keel over and fall on the floor,” she confided to Katie. “It’s not that I don’t adore you Grant, but do please cut to the chase.”

  “Right. Well the Russians perfected the style of the Western masters and they did that, of course, by copying. Brush strokes, use of colour, expressions, perspective, shadow and that sort of thing. By the late 18th century they had produced a number of talented portraitists in the Gainsborough style. One of the best was Dimitri Leviski. I’m told that he was at his best around 1770. That painting you saw me sell for a friend at Christie’s could well have been painted by him. It was unsigned but I think that old Boris had an inkling that it might be worth a fortune if he could prove that it was by Leviski. So if poor old Rabinsky had discovered a connection to any of those early Russian masters then the Russian oligarchs, let alone the big museums, would be after me with their fat cheque books. An auction of Russian paintings at Christie’s fetched over 15 million pounds recently. So you can see it’s big business.”

  “You’re a romantic, Grant dear. That’s why I married you. But surely our paintings are just old copies and worth what we can get for them, assuming that we ever decided to sell any of them.”

  “Well someone wanted the information about your paintings badly enough to kill Rabinsky,” interjected Ralph. Grant appeared to gloss over Ralph’s comment as he continued.

  “Or it could have been totally unrelated. What do you think? I hear that among your other talents, you are a bit of a sleuth. Rumour has it that you solved that case about those near murders at Gypsy Hill and caught that bugger who killed your old Vice Chancellor. Like most of us, I’m afraid your reputation precedes you.”

  Ralph explained the theories he had expounded to Inspector Linham. When he had finished he could see that one or two of his ideas had registered with his hosts.

  “Look Ralph, Katie, there’s something that you should know. We are all friends here, and Elizabeth and I would like to share it with you.” Grant looked across at his wife and she nodded her approval.

  “The thing of it is that we’ve decided to sell those three paintings that we loaned to Dorich House. It’s no secret that we were pretty upset when we heard what had happened to poor Rabinsky. If for some reason those paintings are attracting the attention of some of the big gangs or t
he people that wield a lot of power in the art world, we want nothing more to do with them.” He paused. Elizabeth was looking down at her coffee cup.

  “I know that Boris and John and a few others are interested in purchasing them, so we’ve decided to put them up for auction. We don’t want to go through the process of having them revalued for insurance purposes since we only agreed to do that in the first place to placate a lot of nervous people at Kingston and of course at Dorich House. That Cynthia Harper, with all respect, Ralph, is a bit of a neurotic when it comes to insuring the collection at her museum. And furthermore, we think that Ivan deserves some respect. Rooting around in his records to find out if he had discovered that they were worth more than we thought is frankly distasteful to Elizabeth and me. We appreciate that the police have to investigate his murder, but we would rather stay out of the whole ghastly business.”

  “I can see your position Grant, and I admire your motives. But how do you know that it is the right time to sell?” Asked Ralph.

  “There’s never a right time. I have already had some enquiries from Boris and a definite offer from John Weston, and they are both talking about substantial sums. And as you can imagine, this place is costly to upkeep. Also, there’s a big collection coming up for auction soon and I will need cash if I am to have a ghost of a chance when the bidding starts,” Grant explained.