Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

“I think that Anna—”

“Oh, my God,” said Arabella, who turned and, not bothering to wait for the chief superintendent’s response, began running back toward the house. She continued on up the steps, through the open door, before dashing up the staircase, not stopping until she reached the guest bedroom. She found Andrews kneeling on the floor, placing a bandage expertly around Anna’s leg. Mr. Nakamura came running through the door. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath before he said, “For many years, Arabella, I have wondered what took place at an English country-house party.” He paused. “Well, now I know.”

Arabella burst out laughing and turned toward Nakamura, to find him staring at the mutilated canvas on the floor by the side of the bed.

“Oh my God,” repeated Arabella, when she first set eyes on what was left of her inheritance. “That bastard Fenston has beaten us after all. Now I understand why he was so confident that I’d be forced to sell off the rest of my collection, even finally relinquishing Wentworth Hall.”

Anna rose slowly to her feet and sat on the end of the bed. “I don’t think so,” she said, facing her host. Arabella looked puzzled. “But you have Andrews to thank for that.”

“Andrews?” repeated Arabella.

“Yes. He warned me that Mr. Nakamura would be leaving first thing in the morning if he was not to be late for his meeting with Corus Steel and suggested that if I didn’t want to be disturbed at some ungodly hour, perhaps it might be wise for him to remove the painting during dinner. This would not only allow his staff to transfer the frame back onto the original, but also give them enough time to have the picture packed and ready before Mr. Nakamura departed.” Anna paused. “I put it to Andrews that you might not be too pleased to discover that he had flouted your wishes, while I had clearly abused your hospitality. I think I recall Andrews’s exact words,” said Anna. “If you were to allow me to replace the masterpiece with the fake, I feel confident that her ladyship would be none the wiser.”

It was one of the rare occasions during the past forty-nine years that Andrews had witnessed the Lady Arabella rendered speechless.

“I think you should fire him on the spot for insubordination,” said Nakamura, “then I can offer him a job. Were you to accept,” he said, turning to Andrews, “I would be happy to double your present salary.”

“Not a hope,” said Arabella, before the butler was given a chance to respond. “Andrews is one national treasure I will never part with.”

Mr. Nakamura woke a few minutes after six, when he thought he heard the bedroom door close. He spent a few moments thinking over what had taken place the previous evening, trying to convince himself it hadn’t all been a dream.

He pushed back the sheets and lowered his feet onto the carpet, to find a pair of slippers and a dressing gown had been left by the side of the bed. He placed his feet in the slippers, put on the dressing gown, and walked to the end of the bed, where he’d left his dinner jacket, evening dress shirt, and the rest of his clothes on a chair. He had intended to pack before leaving, but they were no longer there. He tried to recall if he had already put them in his suitcase. He opened the lid to discover that his dress shirt had been washed, ironed, and packed, and his dinner jacket was pressed and hanging up in his suit carrier.

He walked into the bathroom to find the large bath three-quarters full. He placed a hand in the water: the temperature was warm, but not hot. Then he recalled the bedroom door closing. No doubt with just enough force to wake him, without disturbing any other guest. He took off his dressing gown and stepped into the bath.

Anna came out of the bathroom and started to get dressed. She was putting on Tina’s watch when she first saw the envelope on the bedside table. Had Andrews delivered it while she was in the shower? She felt sure it hadn’t been there when she woke. Anna was scrawled on it in Arabella’s unmistakable, bold hand.

She sat on the end of the bed and tore open the envelope.

September 26th, 2001

Dearest Anna ,

How do I begin to thank you? Ten days ago you told me that you wished to prove you had nothing to do with Victoria’s tragic death. Since then, you have done so much more, and even ended up saving the family’s bacon .

Anna burst out laughing at the quaint English expression, causing two slips of paper to fall out of the envelope and onto the floor. Anna bent down to pick them up. The first was a Coutts’ check made out to Anna Petrescu for one million pounds. The second...

Once Nakamura was dressed, he picked up his cell phone from the bedside table and dialed a number in Tokyo. He instructed his finance director to deposit the sum of forty-five million dollars by electronic transfer with his bank in London. He wouldn’t need to brief his lawyers, as he had already given them clear instructions to transfer the full amount to Coutts & Co. in the Strand, where the Wentworth family had maintained an account for over two centuries.

Before leaving the room to go down to breakfast, Mr. Nakamura paused in front of the portrait of Wellington. He gave the Iron Duke a slight bow, feeling sure that he would have enjoyed last night’s skirmishes.

As he walked down the marble staircase, he spotted Andrews in the hall. He was supervising the moving of the red box, which contained the Van Gogh with its original frame restored. The underbutler was placing the crate next to the front door so that it could be loaded into Mr. Nakamura’s car the moment his chauffeur appeared.

Arabella bustled out of the breakfast room as her guest reached the bottom step.

“Good morning, Takashi,” she said. “I do hope that, despite everything, you managed some sleep.”

“Yes, thank you, Arabella,” he replied, as Anna limped down behind him.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Anna.

“Sotheby’s would have charged me a lot more,” said Arabella, without explanation.

“And I know that Tina—,” began Anna, when there was a firm rap on the front door. Nakamura paused, as Andrews walked sedately across the hall.

“Probably my driver,” Nakamura suggested, as the butler pulled open the oak door.

“Good morning, sir,” Andrews said.

Arabella swung around and smiled at her unexpected guest.

“Good morning, Jack,” she said. “I hadn’t realized you were joining us for breakfast. Have you just popped across from the States, or have you spent the night at our local police station?”

“No, Arabella, I did not, but I’m told that you should have done,” replied Jack with a grin.

“Hello, my hero,” said Anna, giving Jack a kiss. “You arrived just in time to save us all.”

“Not quite fair,” chipped in Arabella, “as it was Jack who tipped off the local constabulary in the first place.”

Anna smiled and, turning to Nakamura, said, “This is my friend, Jack Fitzgerald Delaney.”

“No doubt christened John,” suggested Mr. Nakamura, as he shook hands with Jack.

“Correct, sir.”

“Names chosen by an Irish mother, or perhaps you were born on the twenty-second of November, nineteen sixty-three?”

“Guilty on both counts,” admitted Jack.

“Very droll,” said Arabella, as she led her guests through to the breakfast room, and Anna explained to Jack why she had a bandage around her leg.

Arabella invited Nakamura to take the place on her right. Gesturing to Jack, she said, “Come and sit on my left, young man. There are still one or two questions that I need answered.” Jack eyed the deviled kidneys as he picked up his knife and fork. “And you can forget any thought of food,” Arabella added, “until you’ve explained why I’m not on the front page of the Daily Mail following my heroic efforts last night.”