Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

The proprietor was about to protest, but thought better of it.

When Anna’s taxi drove through the gates of Wentworth Hall, she was surprised to see Arabella waiting on the top step, a shotgun under her right arm and Brunswick and Picton by her side. The butler opened the taxi door as his mistress and the two Labradors walked down the steps to greet her.

“How nice to see you,” said Arabella, kissing her on both cheeks. “You’ve arrived just in time for tea.”

Anna stroked the dogs as she accompanied Arabella up the steps and into the house, while an underbutler removed her suitcase from the front of the taxi. When Anna stepped into the hall, she paused to allow her eyes to move slowly around the room, from picture to picture.

“Yes, it is nice to still have one’s family around one,” said Arabella, “even if this might be their last weekend in the country.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna apprehensively.

“Fenston’s lawyers delivered a letter by hand this morning, reminding me that should I fail to repay their client’s loan in full by midday tomorrow, I must be prepared to pension off all the family retainers.”

“He plans to dispose of the entire collection?” said Anna.

“That would appear to be his purpose,” said Arabella.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” said Anna. “If Fenston were to place the entire collection on the market at the same time he wouldn’t even clear his original loan.”

“He would, if he then put the hall up for sale,” said Arabella.

“He wouldn’t—,” began Anna.

“He would,” said Arabella. “So we can only hope that Mr. Nakamura remains infatuated with Van Gogh, because frankly he’s my last hope.”

“Where is the masterpiece?” asked Anna, as Arabella led her through to the drawing room.

“Back in the Van Gogh bedroom, where he’s resided for the past hundred years—” Arabella paused — “except for a day’s excursion to Heathrow.”

While Arabella settled herself in her favorite chair by the fire, a dog on each side of her, Anna strolled around the room, reminding herself of the Italian collection, assembled by the fourth earl.

“Should my dear Italians also be forced to make an unexpected journey to New York,” said Arabella, “they shouldn’t grumble. After all, that appears to be no more than an American tradition.”

Anna laughed as she moved from Titian to Veronese and to Caravaggio. “I’d forgotten just how magnificent the Caravaggio was,” she said, standing back to admire The Marriage at Cana .

“I do believe that you are more interested in dead Italians than living Irishmen,” said Arabella.

“If Caravaggio was alive today,” said Anna, “Jack would be following him, not me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Arabella.

“He murdered a man in a drunken brawl. Spent his last few years on the run, but whenever he arrived in a new city, the local burghers turned a blind eye as long as he went on producing magnificent portraits of the Virgin Mother and the Christ child.”

“Anna, you’re an impossible guest, now come and sit down,” said Arabella as a maid entered the drawing room carrying a silver tray. She began to set up for tea by the fire.

“Now, my dear, will you have Indian or China?”

“I’ve always been puzzled,” said Anna taking the seat opposite Arabella, “why it isn’t “Indian or Chinese,” or “India or China”?”

For a moment, Arabella was silenced, saved only by the entry of the butler.

“M’lady,” said Andrews, “there’s a gentleman at the door with a package for you. I told him to take it around to the tradesman’s entrance, but he said he couldn’t release it without your signature.”

“A sort of modern-day Viola,” suggested Arabella. “I shall have to go and see what this peevish messenger brings,” she added. “Perhaps I will even throw him a ring for his troubles.”

“I feel sure the fair Olivia will know just how to handle him,” rejoined Anna.

Arabella gave a little bow and followed Andrews out of the room.

Anna was admiring Tintoretto’s Perseus and Andromeda when Arabella returned, the cheerful smile of only moments before replaced by a grim expression.

“Is there a problem?” asked Anna, as she turned around to face her host.

“The peevish fellow has sent back my ring,” replied Arabella. “Come and see for yourself.”

Anna followed her into the hall, where she found Andrews and the underbutler removing the casing of a red crate that Anna had hoped she had seen for the last time.

“It must have been sent from New York,” said Arabella, studying a label attached to the box, “probably on the same flight as you.”

“Seems to be following me around,” said Anna.

“You appear to have that effect on men,” said Arabella.

They both watched as Andrews neatly removed the bubble wrap to reveal a canvas that Anna had last seen in Anton’s studio.

“The only good thing to come out of this,” said Anna, “is that we can transfer the original frame back onto the masterpiece.”

“But what shall we do with him?” asked Arabella, gesturing toward the impostor. The butler gave a discreet cough. “You have a suggestion, Andrews?” inquired Arabella. “If so, let’s hear it.”

“No, m’lady,” Andrews replied, “but I thought you would want to know that your other guest is proceeding up the drive.”

“The man clearly has a gift for timing,” said Arabella, as she quickly checked her hair in the mirror. “Andrews,” she said, reverting to her normal role, “has the Wellington Room been prepared for Mr. Nakamura?”

“Yes, m’lady. And Dr. Petrescu will be in the Van Gogh room.”

“How appropriate,” said Arabella, turning to face Anna, “that he should spend his last night with you.”

Anna was relieved to see Arabella so quickly back into her stride and had a feeling that she might prove a genuine foil for Nakamura.

The butler opened the front door and walked down the steps at a pace that would ensure he reached the gravel just as the Toyota Lexus came to a halt. Andrews opened the back door of the limousine to allow Mr. Nakamura to step out. He was clutching a small square package.

“The Japanese always arrive bearing a gift,” whispered Anna, “but under no circumstances should you open it in their presence.”

“That’s all very well,” said Arabella, “but I haven’t got anything for him.”

“He won’t expect something in return. You have invited him to be a guest in your house, and that is the greatest compliment you can pay any Japanese.”

“That’s a relief,” said Arabella, as Mr. Nakamura appeared at the front door.

“Lady Arabella,” he said, bowing low, “it is a great honor to be invited to your magnificent home.”

“You honor my home, Mr. Nakamura,” said Arabella, hoping she’d said the correct thing.

The Japanese man bowed even lower, and when he rose came face-to-face with Lawrence’s portrait of Wellington.

“How appropriate,” he said. “Did the great man not dine at Wentworth Hall the night before he sailed for Waterloo?”

“Indeed he did,” said Arabella, “and you will sleep in the same bed that the Iron Duke slept in on that historic occasion.”

Nakamura turned to Anna and bowed. “How nice to see you again, Dr. Petrescu.”

“And you too, Nakamura-san,” said Anna. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

“Yes, thank you. We even landed on time, for a change,” said Nakamura, who didn’t move as his eyes roamed around the room. “You will please correct me, Anna, should I make a mistake. It is clear that the room is devoted to the English school. Gains borough?” he queried, as he admired the full-length portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. Anna nodded, before Nakamura moved on “Landseer, Morland, Romney, Stubbs, but then, I am stumped — is that the correct expression?”