Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

When Anna entered the drawing room, she saw Victoria, head bowed, dressed in mourning black, seated on the sofa, a chocolate Labrador half asleep at her feet. She couldn’t remember Victoria having a dog and was surprised when she didn’t jump up and greet her in her usual warm manner. Victoria raised her head, and Anna gasped, as Arabella Wentworth stared coldly up at her. In that split second, she realized why the family’s crest had been flying at half mast. Anna remained silent as she tried to take in the fact that she would never see Victoria again and would now need to convince her sister, whom she had never met before. Anna couldn’t even remember her name. The mirror image did not rise from her place or offer to shake her hand.

“Would you care for some tea, Dr. Petrescu?” Arabella asked in a distant voice that suggested she hoped to hear her reply, No, thank you .

“No, thank you,” said Anna, who remained standing. “May I ask how Victoria died?” she said quietly.

“I assumed you already knew,” replied Arabella dryly.

“I have no idea what you mean,” said Anna.

“Then why are you here,” asked Arabella, “if it’s not to collect the rest of the family silver?”

“I came to warn Victoria not to let them take away the Van Gogh before I had a chance to—”

“They took the painting away on Tuesday,” said Arabella, pausing. “They didn’t even have the good manners to wait until after the funeral.”

“I tried to call, but they wouldn’t give me her number. If only I’d got through,” Anna mumbled incoherently, and then added, “And now it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” asked Arabella.

“I sent Victoria a copy of my report recommending that—”

“Yes, I’ve read your report,” said Arabella, “but you’re right, it’s too late for that now. My new lawyer has already warned me that it could be years before the estate can be settled, by which time we’ll have lost everything.”

“That must have been the reason he didn’t want me to travel to England and see Victoria personally,” Anna said without explanation.

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Arabella, looking more closely at her.

“I was fired by Fenston on Tuesday,” said Anna, “for sending a copy of my report to Victoria.”

“Victoria read your report,” said Arabella quietly. “I have a letter confirming that she was going to take your advice, but that was before her cruel death.”

“How did she die?” asked Anna gently.

“She was murdered in a vile and cowardly fashion,” said Arabella. She paused and, looking directly at Anna, added, “And I have no doubt that Mr. Fenston will be able to fill in the details for you.” Anna bowed her head, unable to think of anything to say, her six-point plan in tatters. Fenston had beaten both of them. “Dear Victoria was so trusting, and, I fear, so naïve,” continued Arabella, “but no human being deserved to be treated in that way, let alone someone as good-natured as my sweet sister.”

“I am so sorry,” said Anna, “I didn’t know. You have to believe me. I had no idea.”

Arabella looked out of the window across the lawn and didn’t speak for some time. She turned back to see Anna, trembling.

“I believe you,” Arabella eventually said. “I originally assumed that it was you who was responsible for this evil charade.” She paused again. “I see now that I was wrong. But, sadly, it’s all too late. There’s nothing we can do now.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Anna, looking at Arabella with a fierce determination in her eyes. “But if I’m to do anything, I’ll have to ask you to trust me, as much as Victoria did.”

“What do you mean, trust you?” said Arabella.

“Give me a chance,” said Anna, “to prove that I wasn’t responsible for your sister’s death.”

“But how can you hope to do that?” asked Arabella.

“By retrieving your Van Gogh.”

“But as I told you, they’ve already taken the painting away.”

“I know,” said Anna, “but it still has to be in England, because Fenston has sent a Mr. Leapman to pick up the picture.” Anna checked her watch. “He’ll be landing at Heathrow in a few hours’ time.”

“But even if you managed to get your hands on the painting, how would that solve the problem?”

Anna outlined the details of her plan and was pleased to find Arabella nodding from time to time. Anna ended by saying, “I’ll need your backing, otherwise what I have in mind could get me arrested.”

Arabella remained silent for some time, before she said, “You’re a brave young woman, and I wonder if you even realize just how brave. But if you’re willing to take such a risk, so am I, and I’ll back you to the hilt,” she added.

Anna smiled at the quaint English expression, and said, “Can you confirm who collected the Van Gogh?”

Arabella rose from the sofa and crossed the room to the writing desk, with the dog following in her wake. She picked up a business card. “A Ms. Ruth Parish,” she read, “of Art Locations.”

“Just as I thought,” said Anna. “Then I’ll have to leave immediately, as I only have a few hours before Leapman arrives.”

Anna stepped forward and thrust out her hand, but Arabella didn’t respond. She simply took her in her arms and said, “If I can do anything to help you avenge my sister’s death...”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” repeated Arabella.

“When the North Tower collapsed, all the documentation concerning Victoria’s loan was destroyed,” said Anna, “including the original contract. The only copy is in your possession. If—”

“You don’t have to spell it out,” said Arabella.

Anna smiled. She wasn’t dealing with Victoria any longer.

She turned to leave and had reached the hall long before the butler had time to open the front door.

Arabella watched from the drawing-room window as Anna’s car disappeared down the drive and out of sight. She wondered if she would ever see her again.

“Petrescu,” said a voice, “is just leaving Wentworth Hall. She’s heading back in the direction of central London. I’m following her and will keep you briefed.”

Anna drove out of Wentworth Hall and headed back toward the M25, looking for a sign to Heathrow. She checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost 2 P.M., so she had missed any chance of calling Tina, who would now be at her desk on Wall Street. But she did need to make another call if there was to be the slightest chance of her coup succeeding.

As she drove through the village of Wentworth, Anna tried to recall the pub where Victoria had taken her to dinner. Then she saw the familiar crest flapping in the wind, also at half-mast.

Anna swung into the forecourt of the Wentworth Arms and parked her car near the entrance. She walked through the reception and into the bar.

“Can you change five dollars?” she asked the barmaid. “I need to make a phone call.”

“Of course, love,” came back the immediate reply. The barmaid opened the cash register and handed Anna two pound coins. Daylight robbery, Anna wanted to tell her, but she didn’t have time to argue.

“The phone’s just beyond the restaurant, to your right.”

Anna dialed a number that she could never forget. The phone rang only twice before a voice announced, “Good afternoon, Sotheby’s.”

Anna fed a coin into the slot, and said, “Mark Poltimore, please.”

“I’ll put you through.”

“Mark Poltimore.”

“Mark, it’s Anna, Anna Petrescu.”

“Anna, what a pleasant surprise. We’ve all been anxious about you. Where were you on Tuesday?”

“Amsterdam,” she replied.