Рита Браун: Out Of Hounds

“There was another theory, which couldn’t really happen today. Some people thought this was a theft masterminded by Eduardo de Valfiermo, a crook. He was a well-known thief who had hired an art forger, Yves Chaudron, to make copies so he could sell them as the missing original,” Sister told them. “Today our media is relatively insistent, so if anyone wanted to see pictures of the stolen Munnings’s paintings, they would have that and if approached to buy the stolen painting, unless they, too, were a crook on some level, they’d know.”

“But how would they know what they were buying was a fake?” Tootie shrewdly asked.

“They wouldn’t. The longer the originals are not found, the easier it would be to sell a fake. But again, the nonstop media makes these things more difficult than in 1911. Still, it could be done.”

“But the originals would need to be stored somewhere.” Weevil then said, “It would really be crazy to destroy them, because in time they either could be discovered and the discoverer considered a hero or they could be sold back to the people who owned them.”

“Have to be pretty slick. To deliver the painting and get the money without being caught.” Betty thought it a clever plan.

“If whoever did this is smart enough to walk out of people’s houses with fabulous art, I’m sure he or she, but I think it’s a he, would have that figured out.”

“The drivers were killed,” Betty interjected. “Those were the original thieves.”

“Yes, I think so, too. And now they are safely out of the way. Although there is one not yet caught or found.”

“Sister, maybe two men have been killed…possibly Sabatini’s man, too, I mean, there is the forefinger and middle finger thing…I doubt our mastermind would take that chance.” Sister opened the door for the boys.

“Well, whoever this is will make a lot of money.” Weevil counted hounds even though all were there; it was a huntsman habit. “All on.” He smiled.

“How about we walk out tomorrow, ride Saturday, then take Sunday off. It’s good for them. Good for us,” Sister said.

“Sure. Nine? Seven?” Weevil gave her an impish look.

“Okay.” All agreed. “Nine.”

After hound walk, Sister returned to the library to research art thefts. Thefts differ not just in time but in countries. What they had in common that she could discern was some were only about money. Others seemed to be the work of unbalanced people.

She wasn’t sure which camp the Munnings and Pater fell into.

As Golly peeped around Gray’s big computer, Gray let Sister take over while he studied the pictures of Munnings’s paintings. It didn’t occur to Sister that finding out which camp these thefts fell into could be dangerous.

CHAPTER 34

March 13, 2020 Friday

Sister rubbed her watering eyes. “Blurred. Well, pollen is starting.”

“It’s all that reading.” Gray sat at the kitchen table, where she had moved her books and her inexpensive computer, which she rarely used. Her research project took over the room.

Golly, at that moment, jumped up on the table, pushing newspaper articles onto the floor. “Whee.”

“Golly, you’re insufferable.” Sister got up to fetch the papers before the dogs walked over them or before Golly, in a moment of wickedness, jumped off and tore the paper to shreds. She lived to tear paper. Good thing she didn’t live with the Franklins.

“There.” Sister placed the cut-out newspaper articles in a pile.

“With all this material you must have reached some conclusion.” Gray had helped her find some items.

“I have.” She looked at him. “Last night I realized art thefts fall into two categories. One is pure profit, well thought out. Impulse thefts, on the other hand, seem to be by people who are unbalanced or think they are righting a wrong, like the theft of the Mona Lisa. ”

“And?”

“These thefts fall between both camps.” She held up her hand. “Sounds odd but here’s what I think. Of course, money is the primary motive. Shadowing that is the suicide of Florence Carter-Wood, Munnings’s first beautiful wife. The second was beautiful, too, but made of sterner stuff. All of the thefts involve sidesaddle. There’s a luscious painting, The Morning Ride, painted in 1913, showing Florence sidesaddle on Merrilegs, an elegant bay. She’s elegant, too, in a white jacket and a straw broad-brimmed hat. The marriage was not a success. Munnings was not a particularly sensitive man and she may have suffered from a bit of depression. Hard to say, given the times and the fact that these things were not medically considered. Anyway, she tried to kill herself on her wedding night.”

“Good Lord. What happened next?”

“He continued to paint her, seems to have bumped along, but he said the marriage was never consummated. Anyway, one of Munnings’s best friends, a tall, handsome gentlemanly fellow, Captain Gilbert Evans, liked her, fell for her and loved her. She in turn loved him. Evans left the country in 1914 for Nigeria, the colonial service, feeling this could not go on. He later joined the army, saw action in World War I in West Africa. Retired as a major, returned to Nigeria. She killed herself a few months after Gilbert left. So here’s the thing. The paintings of his second wife are easy to identify. The paintings commissioned for the main subject, usually a wife, are easy to identify. Men love to show off their wives. But other paintings where there are a few women or someone in the background, even racing crowds, it appears to me they resemble Florence.”

“Her image was burned in his brain.” Gray touched his military moustache.

“I think so. As he never mentioned her again the wound cut to the bone. I expect he felt some guilt. For all we know he may have smacked her around, but I truly believe he felt guilt.”

“Did Gilbert and Munnings meet again?”

“Years later Gilbert returned to England with his wife, Joan, twenty-two years his junior, whom he had met in Nigeria. Some event, I forget which. I’m trying to cram all this in. It was pleasant enough. And Munnings did see that Gilbert was given a painting of Florence. But the friendship wasn’t rekindled. The painting gift, that’s a deep gesture. Munnings had to have known that Gilbert was the better man.”

Gray took a deep breath, thought about that. “Two men of different temperaments. Gilbert seems to be the more giving man, able to respond to emotions. I don’t know. The ideas of how men and women behave were different then.” He paused. “But not as different as we would like.”

“True,” Sister agreed.

“Yes. What a sad story. What became of Gilbert’s wife?”

“She outlived him by many years. He died in 1966. She seemed not to have been troubled by Florence. That was long before her time. A wise woman, I think, and a respected and loved one. They had three children. In the end he returned to Cornwall, retired there, and the family was happy. It’s quite a story. There are even descendants, none of whom capitalized on the past.” Sister changed subjects. “There will be only four of us. If you want to ride out tomorrow, do.”

“Think I will,” he replied. “If you’ve been researching art thefts—”

She interrupted. “With your help.”

“A little. I became fascinated by the Isabella Stewart Gardner theft. Saw the museum long before the theft. In my youth. Mrs. Gardner must have been quite a girl. I discovered that on her birthday, April 14, soon to be here, a requiem is still conducted for the repose of her soul. Kind of like royals in Europe.”

“I consider a requiem mass an insurance policy.” Sister laughed. “In college I visited the museum. Loved it. She must have known everybody.”