THE TWELVE CRIMES OF HANNAH SMITH
Crime One - Possession is Nine-Tenths of the Law
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The Twelve Crimes of Hannah Smith is a set of crime stories which will only be available on this website. A new crime will be added bi-monthly. These crime stories will build into a set of twelve which forms the prequel to the feature length crime thriller trilogy The Virtue of Dishonesty, of which the first part is The Dog & The Eagle - to be published only here. In the meantime, why not check out the following published thrillers (which have a romantic side to them as well) -: Dust Jacket The Inspector Fenchurch Mysteries Zac Tremble Investigates Revelation & Exodus The Baker |
“Very good, Hannah … lift your chin a little … that’s right … and turn … extend the arm a little more … perfect!”
Madam clapped her hands and gave everyone five minutes to recover. Hannah’s calves ached like hell but she didn’t show it or complain. Dancing came naturally to her; she had rhythm and poise a plenty, a good ear for the music and bags of expression all of which was only equalled by her desire to be the best - which she was, as far as Madam was concerned and she’d seen plenty of young dancers in her time.
The rest of the group mingled, leaving Hannah to herself. She liked it that way. Hannah was never one to get too close to anyone; she wasn’t haughty just reserved and maybe a little shy.
“From the beginning!” boomed Madam and they practised for another hour before being dismissed.
“Hannah …” said Madam as Hannah was getting ready to leave, “if you have a moment I would like to speak to you …”
Hannah grabbed her things and followed Madam into her private rooms. The dance studio formed part of her private home, connected via a door from the hallway; the house was in Clapham, overlooking the Common.
“Yes, Madam …” ventured Hannah, wondering what the old woman could possibly want with her.
“My dear, don’t look so worried; I have a treat for you …”
The old woman, French by birth and as graceful as a gazelle, handed her a thick piece of paper - an invitation.
“What is it?” asked Hannah, seeing words but making not head or tail of them yet.
“A private party; they would like you to dance, with a partner … I think Gerald. Something classic yet with a twist. It’s a hundred pounds for you and you will meet some very fine people.”
“When?”
“Saturday …”
“I’ll need to get the night off.”
“Let me know if you can’t …”
Hannah worked in a cocktail bar in the West End most nights to make ends meet; paying the rent on a tiny but chic little room just off the Edgware Road, paying Madam, attending deportment classes and language classes, shorthand, book-keeping and commerce and endless other things. No other seventeen-year-old girl did more to improve her prospects in this life than Hannah. She came from Ventnor on the Isle of Wight and had been in London for six months; ostensibly to learn to dance. However, the big city and the bright lights offered so much more to the girl who dreamed of being someone, a somebody - not in the public eye – but nevertheless, a mover and shaker behind the scenes. She’d have done very well as a Parisian salon hostess and she played the piano too.
Not a plain girl by any means but if you asked, “Oh; what does Hannah look like?” The person asked would struggle for a minute to pinpoint that feature that set her apart from the crowd. If she wanted to, she could melt away. Conversely, dressed and made up she could look like a million dollars and felt very comfortable in it. Naturally graceful and stylish, lithesome, a dancer, strong and agile, highly competitive and very, very intelligent; perhaps too intelligent for her own good and often, as a result, bored and restless, hence the myriad of courses and classes.
A day later she phoned Madam, “Madam, I can get the night off …”
“Excellent! And Gerald can make it too ... practice on Friday from four to six.”
“Thank you, Madam …”
Madam clapped her hands and gave everyone five minutes to recover. Hannah’s calves ached like hell but she didn’t show it or complain. Dancing came naturally to her; she had rhythm and poise a plenty, a good ear for the music and bags of expression all of which was only equalled by her desire to be the best - which she was, as far as Madam was concerned and she’d seen plenty of young dancers in her time.
The rest of the group mingled, leaving Hannah to herself. She liked it that way. Hannah was never one to get too close to anyone; she wasn’t haughty just reserved and maybe a little shy.
“From the beginning!” boomed Madam and they practised for another hour before being dismissed.
“Hannah …” said Madam as Hannah was getting ready to leave, “if you have a moment I would like to speak to you …”
Hannah grabbed her things and followed Madam into her private rooms. The dance studio formed part of her private home, connected via a door from the hallway; the house was in Clapham, overlooking the Common.
“Yes, Madam …” ventured Hannah, wondering what the old woman could possibly want with her.
“My dear, don’t look so worried; I have a treat for you …”
The old woman, French by birth and as graceful as a gazelle, handed her a thick piece of paper - an invitation.
“What is it?” asked Hannah, seeing words but making not head or tail of them yet.
“A private party; they would like you to dance, with a partner … I think Gerald. Something classic yet with a twist. It’s a hundred pounds for you and you will meet some very fine people.”
“When?”
“Saturday …”
“I’ll need to get the night off.”
“Let me know if you can’t …”
Hannah worked in a cocktail bar in the West End most nights to make ends meet; paying the rent on a tiny but chic little room just off the Edgware Road, paying Madam, attending deportment classes and language classes, shorthand, book-keeping and commerce and endless other things. No other seventeen-year-old girl did more to improve her prospects in this life than Hannah. She came from Ventnor on the Isle of Wight and had been in London for six months; ostensibly to learn to dance. However, the big city and the bright lights offered so much more to the girl who dreamed of being someone, a somebody - not in the public eye – but nevertheless, a mover and shaker behind the scenes. She’d have done very well as a Parisian salon hostess and she played the piano too.
Not a plain girl by any means but if you asked, “Oh; what does Hannah look like?” The person asked would struggle for a minute to pinpoint that feature that set her apart from the crowd. If she wanted to, she could melt away. Conversely, dressed and made up she could look like a million dollars and felt very comfortable in it. Naturally graceful and stylish, lithesome, a dancer, strong and agile, highly competitive and very, very intelligent; perhaps too intelligent for her own good and often, as a result, bored and restless, hence the myriad of courses and classes.
A day later she phoned Madam, “Madam, I can get the night off …”
“Excellent! And Gerald can make it too ... practice on Friday from four to six.”
“Thank you, Madam …”
The name of the house and the family which resided there was ‘Hawksbill’. The master was a big thing in banking; the mistress was the equivalent of that salon hostess and she moved and shaked behind the scenes to ensure the very finest people graced her soirees. The profit was considerable; the currency, information. She was the hawk in this relationship and Hannah admired her instantly.
“My dear child; come in out for the rain and let me fetch you a glass of champagne,” she said as Hannah was admitted by the housekeeper but Madam kept her hawk’s eye on the vestibule likewise the salon and the study where her husband was wheeling and dealing with some European investors. “Your partner has telephoned to say that he cannot make it and Madam Perrot cannot find a replacement at such short notice. Time for you to shine, my dear; don’t worry, you’ll do just fine. Madam suggests the competition piece which you have been working on.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine; I just need to loosen up ... but what about the music?”
“I can play for you; it’s a piece I adore as it happens. Let me show you where you can change …”
Francis escorted Hannah to a room upstairs where she could change and loosen up for fifteen minutes.
“Come down when you’re ready, child, and relax!”
Easier said than done when you have fifteen minutes to polish a dance which you’ve only been working on in your spare time, with a pianist you don’t know and a room full of people equally alien. Still, Hannah was always up for the challenge and she preferred to dance alone ... and if Gerald canned then she would get his hundred pounds too. These thoughts entertained her as she made her preparations.
She changed into her pretty costume and loosened up, performing a series of stretching exercises, then she checked her makeup and hair and judged herself to be ready. She descended and entered the main salon, catching the mistress’s eye who then marshalled everyone to take a seat, leaving the floor to Hannah. Francis took up position at the piano and after a few bars to get her fingers loose she signalled to Hannah that she was ready and the performance began.
A simple country dance spiced with something exotic; a bit like your favourite meat and vegetables cooked in a deliciously aromatic sauce; you looked at it doubtfully until you’d taken the first bite then you couldn’t get enough and before long the platter was clean and you were looking for second helpings. The performance lasted twenty minutes or so and the applause was warm and enthusiastic; pianist and dancer took a bow and for the last five seconds Francis stepped away and gave the floor back to Hannah to accept her due praise.
Thinking no one would actually wish to speak to her directly, she made to leave the room but two or three women waylaid her and very soon Hannah was mingling, veritably dancing through the crowd until she came across the master of the house, Gareth Hawksbill, the banker.
“My dear, that was delightful and wonderfully entertaining; won’t you come into the study and I’ll give you your fee …”
She accepted his arm and was escorted to the study where two or three European banker types were ensconced with heavyweight tax papers; they didn’t pay her any attention.
“Here you go, my dear child; and Francis insists you have something extra for your bravery in going solo at such short notice.”
He handed her a thickish envelope.
“Thank you, Mr Hawksbill!”
“Call me Gareth; my colleagues missed a treat but as you can see, they are pouring over the latest tax regulations from Strasbourg. Thank God Maggie has them by the scruff of the neck else we shouldn’t make a penny!”
Now Hannah was studying business finance so her question was well aimed and it grasped everyone’s attention.
“If Sterling rises much more against the Dollar then wouldn’t you do better to bundle into Yen futures?”
A colleague, possibly Spanish, looked at her directly and said, “The young lady might have a point.” at which point Francis materialised.
“There you are, my dear; come and speak to the Foreign Secretary and leave these boys to their balance sheets and I think Hettie has a proposition for you …”
And that was how the evening was; a waltz of a different kind. Having one’s fingertips kissed by the Foreign Secretary was most definitely the highlight as far as Hannah was concerned ... but that was before she had opened the envelope!
Hettie was a favourite of the Hawksbill’s; originally a Lancashire lass who had inherited millions from her grandfather; an art collector and seasoned socialite.
“Hannah; I have a gathering in two weeks’ time and I would be delighted if you would come and dance for us and of course feel free to bring a guest and enjoy the party afterwards …”
“I would love to …”
Hannah said goodbye and disappeared into the Notting Hill night, grabbing a bus rather than risk scuffing the heels of her favourite shoes though she toyed with the idea of a cab but promised herself she wouldn’t open the envelope until she was safely behind her door. Her mother called her ‘my little squirrel’.
If Hannah excelled at dancing then she certainly excelled at hoarding; just about anything of value that she came across - a Limoges tea cup, a pair of gloves by Chanel, antique lace, a first edition of ‘Wuthering Heights’, pieces of hand-painted silk, ivory figures, a jade lotus flower and so on. She had an eye for quality even when it was encrusted with grime and dust.
In her room she flung herself down on the bed and opened the envelope to find that it contained five hundred pounds.
“Sorry, Gerald; you missed out there!” she said to herself and she placed the notes in a box, roughly the same size as a tissue box, which she kept under a loose floorboard by the radiator. There was already quite a stack in there before the five hundred was deposited.
“One day, Hannah,” she mused, looking longingly at a print of a Degas painting of a ballerina which she’d found in Portobello Market that she’d hung on the wall by the window.
On Sunday, by way of a reward and celebration, she took herself to the Ritz to have tea and took in the last performance of Forgotten Land by Kylian at Sadler’s Wells.
Well, it was her eighteenth birthday!
“My dear child; come in out for the rain and let me fetch you a glass of champagne,” she said as Hannah was admitted by the housekeeper but Madam kept her hawk’s eye on the vestibule likewise the salon and the study where her husband was wheeling and dealing with some European investors. “Your partner has telephoned to say that he cannot make it and Madam Perrot cannot find a replacement at such short notice. Time for you to shine, my dear; don’t worry, you’ll do just fine. Madam suggests the competition piece which you have been working on.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine; I just need to loosen up ... but what about the music?”
“I can play for you; it’s a piece I adore as it happens. Let me show you where you can change …”
Francis escorted Hannah to a room upstairs where she could change and loosen up for fifteen minutes.
“Come down when you’re ready, child, and relax!”
Easier said than done when you have fifteen minutes to polish a dance which you’ve only been working on in your spare time, with a pianist you don’t know and a room full of people equally alien. Still, Hannah was always up for the challenge and she preferred to dance alone ... and if Gerald canned then she would get his hundred pounds too. These thoughts entertained her as she made her preparations.
She changed into her pretty costume and loosened up, performing a series of stretching exercises, then she checked her makeup and hair and judged herself to be ready. She descended and entered the main salon, catching the mistress’s eye who then marshalled everyone to take a seat, leaving the floor to Hannah. Francis took up position at the piano and after a few bars to get her fingers loose she signalled to Hannah that she was ready and the performance began.
A simple country dance spiced with something exotic; a bit like your favourite meat and vegetables cooked in a deliciously aromatic sauce; you looked at it doubtfully until you’d taken the first bite then you couldn’t get enough and before long the platter was clean and you were looking for second helpings. The performance lasted twenty minutes or so and the applause was warm and enthusiastic; pianist and dancer took a bow and for the last five seconds Francis stepped away and gave the floor back to Hannah to accept her due praise.
Thinking no one would actually wish to speak to her directly, she made to leave the room but two or three women waylaid her and very soon Hannah was mingling, veritably dancing through the crowd until she came across the master of the house, Gareth Hawksbill, the banker.
“My dear, that was delightful and wonderfully entertaining; won’t you come into the study and I’ll give you your fee …”
She accepted his arm and was escorted to the study where two or three European banker types were ensconced with heavyweight tax papers; they didn’t pay her any attention.
“Here you go, my dear child; and Francis insists you have something extra for your bravery in going solo at such short notice.”
He handed her a thickish envelope.
“Thank you, Mr Hawksbill!”
“Call me Gareth; my colleagues missed a treat but as you can see, they are pouring over the latest tax regulations from Strasbourg. Thank God Maggie has them by the scruff of the neck else we shouldn’t make a penny!”
Now Hannah was studying business finance so her question was well aimed and it grasped everyone’s attention.
“If Sterling rises much more against the Dollar then wouldn’t you do better to bundle into Yen futures?”
A colleague, possibly Spanish, looked at her directly and said, “The young lady might have a point.” at which point Francis materialised.
“There you are, my dear; come and speak to the Foreign Secretary and leave these boys to their balance sheets and I think Hettie has a proposition for you …”
And that was how the evening was; a waltz of a different kind. Having one’s fingertips kissed by the Foreign Secretary was most definitely the highlight as far as Hannah was concerned ... but that was before she had opened the envelope!
Hettie was a favourite of the Hawksbill’s; originally a Lancashire lass who had inherited millions from her grandfather; an art collector and seasoned socialite.
“Hannah; I have a gathering in two weeks’ time and I would be delighted if you would come and dance for us and of course feel free to bring a guest and enjoy the party afterwards …”
“I would love to …”
Hannah said goodbye and disappeared into the Notting Hill night, grabbing a bus rather than risk scuffing the heels of her favourite shoes though she toyed with the idea of a cab but promised herself she wouldn’t open the envelope until she was safely behind her door. Her mother called her ‘my little squirrel’.
If Hannah excelled at dancing then she certainly excelled at hoarding; just about anything of value that she came across - a Limoges tea cup, a pair of gloves by Chanel, antique lace, a first edition of ‘Wuthering Heights’, pieces of hand-painted silk, ivory figures, a jade lotus flower and so on. She had an eye for quality even when it was encrusted with grime and dust.
In her room she flung herself down on the bed and opened the envelope to find that it contained five hundred pounds.
“Sorry, Gerald; you missed out there!” she said to herself and she placed the notes in a box, roughly the same size as a tissue box, which she kept under a loose floorboard by the radiator. There was already quite a stack in there before the five hundred was deposited.
“One day, Hannah,” she mused, looking longingly at a print of a Degas painting of a ballerina which she’d found in Portobello Market that she’d hung on the wall by the window.
On Sunday, by way of a reward and celebration, she took herself to the Ritz to have tea and took in the last performance of Forgotten Land by Kylian at Sadler’s Wells.
Well, it was her eighteenth birthday!
Two weeks later and she was knocking at the door of Hettie’s smart house in Portman Square, accompanied by William, her closest and gayest friend. Hannah had no girlfriends and William was practically her only pal. He worked in theatre and regularly did her hair and makeup for performances and competitions. They were shown into the small salon where Hannah could change and William could put the final touches to her makeup.
“Jesus! Have you seen the stuff?” he exclaimed, eyeing every kind of antique stuff with which the house was literally bulging at seams.
“She’s a collector and fabulously wealthy; have you seen the canapés waiter?”
“Yes and he’s fairly well bulging too but I don’t stand a chance …”
“Certainly not with an attitude like that; he’s pretty but no prettier than you ... just smile …”
“Yeah! Maybe I will …”
Hannah was performing solo again and the crowd was larger. Hettie didn’t play so had hired a pianist. It was someone Hannah knew, and she felt more confident and the piece was one she had practised more often.
“Am I ready?” she asked William.
“Yup! I wish everyone was as easy to make up as you. Your face is just so … so adaptable to so many styles. I bet you could even pass off as a man if you wanted to-”
“Thanks!”
“I didn’t mean it like that; you’re beautiful …”
Hannah kissed him on the cheek.
“Go and grab some canapés!”
She made her way out and Hettie commandeered her for a second to re-introduce her to the pianist and of course to Francis and Gareth. They smiled and wished her well.
“Would everyone take their seats, please,” announced Hettie and after a few minutes of bustle, the floor was Hannah’s.
The piece was very contemporary and edgy; the moves were subtle and intricate, full of expression and based on a Greek tragedy, ‘Electra’ by Euripides. The dance was physically very demanding and Hannah loved to push herself to the limit without making it look like it cost her any effort. Her body caught everyone’s attention; not just the men’s. However, one man in particular paid her more than his fair share. Rathbone was his name. The piece ended with a ‘chaotic splurge’ - Hannah’s own words. The applause was hearty and lasted for three or four minutes, during which Hannah bowed and then invited the pianist to accept his due praise.
“My dear; that was wonderful!” exclaimed Hettie, “Come! Get yourself a glass of champagne and by all means stay for the party but let me pay you first …”
She escorted Hannah to her study and retrieved an envelope from her desk which she handed over.
“You are very talented, Hannah; is dancing your chosen career?”
“Oh; I don’t know; perhaps ... but there is so much I want to do and see. I love to dance but I want to travel and find excitement!”
Her eyes were shining and her hands were immediately animated but then she became shy, and blushed deeply.
“My dear; the World is your oyster. If you can dance like that then you’ll never go hungry ... Do you like art?”
“I like some art. I especially like Degas because he painted such wonderful pictures of dancers …”
“Come with me; I have something to show you.”
Hettie looked practically conspiratorial as she towed Hannah to a first floor sitting room - seemingly her own private retreat – and on one of the walls was a painting of a ballerina. Hannah needed no clues to see that it was a Degas.
“It’s beautiful!” exclaimed Hannah, automatically stepping up to it.
“It’s an original; it was the first piece I acquired when I began to collect. It reminds me to follow my dreams …”
“I have a print of a similar picture in my room. It reminds me to follow mine.”
“Having and following dreams is easier when you’re young; especially when you have talent. I have money but the dreams get lost in the ‘noise’; everyone wants to talk ... and I shouldn’t neglect my guests. I imagine more than a few will want to speak to you. Was that your boyfriend who you arrived with?”
“William; no, he’s just a friend. I don’t have a boyfriend …”
“Make them dance, child!”
They quit the little room and re-joined the other guests in the main salon. Hannah sought out William.
“I’ve got our money; we don’t have to stay. Did you catch his eye yet?”
“Yes and he ignored me.”
“Well, there’s a guy standing by the fireplace who is eyeing you up; go and talk to him.”
“What do I say?”
“Just say something like “did you enjoy the performance?” and take it from there.”
“Oh, Christ, Hannah!”
“Do it!”
He left and for a moment Hannah was alone and just as she was about to look around for an inviting face, Rathbone was in front of her.
“You are a wonderful dancer, young lady; well done ...”
“Thank you,” replied Hannah, smiling prettily.
“I’m Rathbone …”
“Hannah …”
“Are you a professional?” he asked and he never took his eyes from hers.
“No; but I’m training … Actually, I’m a cocktail waitress and studying; languages and business finance.”
“So that?”
“I don’t know exactly. I was going to talk to Gareth about it; he’s in banking.”
“Yes he is and very successful; but once you’re on the greasy pole you feel - I’m sure - that you have to stay on at all costs …”
“And you?” asked Hannah, feeling strangely confident talking to this man who was at least three times older than her.
“I prefer to fly! Work freelance; never tied down.”
“Doesn’t that get a bit lonely?”
“Never; in any case, I prefer to sleep alone-”
“Me too!” admitted Hannah and then realised she’d divulged something very private about herself and blushed again.
“Don’t blush, child; though you’re prettier for it. Did she show you the Degas?”
“Yes; she did. It’s beautiful,” replied Hannah, recovering quickly.
“I want it but she won’t sell.”
“She said it was the first piece that she’d acquired.”
“Yes it was; she out bid me for it and it has plagued me ever since. That was twenty years or more ago but I just can’t get over it.”
“She doesn’t need the money …”
“No, hardly; I wonder what would persuade her to sell ...”
Hannah said nothing, knowing next to little about Hettie and what might motivate her that way. She was intrigued by Rathbone, practically mesmerised by him and found it difficult to take her eyes from his despite the fact that it must have appeared to everyone else that she was thus enamoured.
“My dear, I’m hogging you; you should mingle and get yourself another gig out of this. We’ll meet again,” he said and then disappeared, leaving Hannah a little dizzy but fortunately William came back to rescue her.
“He wants me to go back with him; shall I go?” he asked.
“Of course! Help me to get changed and I’ll give you your share then we’re free to fly.”
“And you?”
“I prefer to sleep alone …” but she wasn’t really answering him as she caught sight of Rathbone as he left the salon. He darted like a cat and then melted like a shadow. Only then did she realise that despite having spent five minutes looking into his eyes that she couldn’t recall what colour they were.
Hannah mingled a little, but picked up no fresh invitations; she didn’t mind, her head was whirring with lots of other things. Rathbone dominated her thoughts and his quest, as yet unsuccessful, to liberate the Degas from Hettie that he so sorely wanted for his own.
Hettie was the last to speak to her before she decided to leave.
“I saw you talking to Rathbone, my dear. Be careful around him; he has a way of making you admit to things you’d rather you hadn’t.”
“Yes; he was a little disarming … A great admirer of your Degas.”
“Oh, what that man wouldn’t give to have it; but I’ll never sell it. Even when I die, I’ll leave it to the Nation rather than see it hung over his mantelpiece ...”
Hannah left and was plagued by the ‘uncharitableness’ of what Hettie had said; why would she deny him the picture even in death? Back home she deposited her fee in the box - another five hundred pounds - and resisted the temptation to count the contents.
“Just wait, Hannah,” she said to herself.
Instead, she meditated on her Degas. In the few minutes before sleep came to her the most amazing thing happened which hadn’t happened since childhood. In her head, in her mind’s eye, she saw a box drawn by an invisible hand and when the cube had been drawn it got labelled “Rathbone” and from the box extended a line to another box being drawn which got labelled “Hettie” and a line extended from her to a box called “Degas’s picture”. More lines and more boxes got drawn and suddenly there was an array of boxes and lines all interconnected and despite the bewildering collection she saw a sense in it and then, just a second before she dropped off, she saw it, the means to get the Degas for Rathbone.
“Jesus! Have you seen the stuff?” he exclaimed, eyeing every kind of antique stuff with which the house was literally bulging at seams.
“She’s a collector and fabulously wealthy; have you seen the canapés waiter?”
“Yes and he’s fairly well bulging too but I don’t stand a chance …”
“Certainly not with an attitude like that; he’s pretty but no prettier than you ... just smile …”
“Yeah! Maybe I will …”
Hannah was performing solo again and the crowd was larger. Hettie didn’t play so had hired a pianist. It was someone Hannah knew, and she felt more confident and the piece was one she had practised more often.
“Am I ready?” she asked William.
“Yup! I wish everyone was as easy to make up as you. Your face is just so … so adaptable to so many styles. I bet you could even pass off as a man if you wanted to-”
“Thanks!”
“I didn’t mean it like that; you’re beautiful …”
Hannah kissed him on the cheek.
“Go and grab some canapés!”
She made her way out and Hettie commandeered her for a second to re-introduce her to the pianist and of course to Francis and Gareth. They smiled and wished her well.
“Would everyone take their seats, please,” announced Hettie and after a few minutes of bustle, the floor was Hannah’s.
The piece was very contemporary and edgy; the moves were subtle and intricate, full of expression and based on a Greek tragedy, ‘Electra’ by Euripides. The dance was physically very demanding and Hannah loved to push herself to the limit without making it look like it cost her any effort. Her body caught everyone’s attention; not just the men’s. However, one man in particular paid her more than his fair share. Rathbone was his name. The piece ended with a ‘chaotic splurge’ - Hannah’s own words. The applause was hearty and lasted for three or four minutes, during which Hannah bowed and then invited the pianist to accept his due praise.
“My dear; that was wonderful!” exclaimed Hettie, “Come! Get yourself a glass of champagne and by all means stay for the party but let me pay you first …”
She escorted Hannah to her study and retrieved an envelope from her desk which she handed over.
“You are very talented, Hannah; is dancing your chosen career?”
“Oh; I don’t know; perhaps ... but there is so much I want to do and see. I love to dance but I want to travel and find excitement!”
Her eyes were shining and her hands were immediately animated but then she became shy, and blushed deeply.
“My dear; the World is your oyster. If you can dance like that then you’ll never go hungry ... Do you like art?”
“I like some art. I especially like Degas because he painted such wonderful pictures of dancers …”
“Come with me; I have something to show you.”
Hettie looked practically conspiratorial as she towed Hannah to a first floor sitting room - seemingly her own private retreat – and on one of the walls was a painting of a ballerina. Hannah needed no clues to see that it was a Degas.
“It’s beautiful!” exclaimed Hannah, automatically stepping up to it.
“It’s an original; it was the first piece I acquired when I began to collect. It reminds me to follow my dreams …”
“I have a print of a similar picture in my room. It reminds me to follow mine.”
“Having and following dreams is easier when you’re young; especially when you have talent. I have money but the dreams get lost in the ‘noise’; everyone wants to talk ... and I shouldn’t neglect my guests. I imagine more than a few will want to speak to you. Was that your boyfriend who you arrived with?”
“William; no, he’s just a friend. I don’t have a boyfriend …”
“Make them dance, child!”
They quit the little room and re-joined the other guests in the main salon. Hannah sought out William.
“I’ve got our money; we don’t have to stay. Did you catch his eye yet?”
“Yes and he ignored me.”
“Well, there’s a guy standing by the fireplace who is eyeing you up; go and talk to him.”
“What do I say?”
“Just say something like “did you enjoy the performance?” and take it from there.”
“Oh, Christ, Hannah!”
“Do it!”
He left and for a moment Hannah was alone and just as she was about to look around for an inviting face, Rathbone was in front of her.
“You are a wonderful dancer, young lady; well done ...”
“Thank you,” replied Hannah, smiling prettily.
“I’m Rathbone …”
“Hannah …”
“Are you a professional?” he asked and he never took his eyes from hers.
“No; but I’m training … Actually, I’m a cocktail waitress and studying; languages and business finance.”
“So that?”
“I don’t know exactly. I was going to talk to Gareth about it; he’s in banking.”
“Yes he is and very successful; but once you’re on the greasy pole you feel - I’m sure - that you have to stay on at all costs …”
“And you?” asked Hannah, feeling strangely confident talking to this man who was at least three times older than her.
“I prefer to fly! Work freelance; never tied down.”
“Doesn’t that get a bit lonely?”
“Never; in any case, I prefer to sleep alone-”
“Me too!” admitted Hannah and then realised she’d divulged something very private about herself and blushed again.
“Don’t blush, child; though you’re prettier for it. Did she show you the Degas?”
“Yes; she did. It’s beautiful,” replied Hannah, recovering quickly.
“I want it but she won’t sell.”
“She said it was the first piece that she’d acquired.”
“Yes it was; she out bid me for it and it has plagued me ever since. That was twenty years or more ago but I just can’t get over it.”
“She doesn’t need the money …”
“No, hardly; I wonder what would persuade her to sell ...”
Hannah said nothing, knowing next to little about Hettie and what might motivate her that way. She was intrigued by Rathbone, practically mesmerised by him and found it difficult to take her eyes from his despite the fact that it must have appeared to everyone else that she was thus enamoured.
“My dear, I’m hogging you; you should mingle and get yourself another gig out of this. We’ll meet again,” he said and then disappeared, leaving Hannah a little dizzy but fortunately William came back to rescue her.
“He wants me to go back with him; shall I go?” he asked.
“Of course! Help me to get changed and I’ll give you your share then we’re free to fly.”
“And you?”
“I prefer to sleep alone …” but she wasn’t really answering him as she caught sight of Rathbone as he left the salon. He darted like a cat and then melted like a shadow. Only then did she realise that despite having spent five minutes looking into his eyes that she couldn’t recall what colour they were.
Hannah mingled a little, but picked up no fresh invitations; she didn’t mind, her head was whirring with lots of other things. Rathbone dominated her thoughts and his quest, as yet unsuccessful, to liberate the Degas from Hettie that he so sorely wanted for his own.
Hettie was the last to speak to her before she decided to leave.
“I saw you talking to Rathbone, my dear. Be careful around him; he has a way of making you admit to things you’d rather you hadn’t.”
“Yes; he was a little disarming … A great admirer of your Degas.”
“Oh, what that man wouldn’t give to have it; but I’ll never sell it. Even when I die, I’ll leave it to the Nation rather than see it hung over his mantelpiece ...”
Hannah left and was plagued by the ‘uncharitableness’ of what Hettie had said; why would she deny him the picture even in death? Back home she deposited her fee in the box - another five hundred pounds - and resisted the temptation to count the contents.
“Just wait, Hannah,” she said to herself.
Instead, she meditated on her Degas. In the few minutes before sleep came to her the most amazing thing happened which hadn’t happened since childhood. In her head, in her mind’s eye, she saw a box drawn by an invisible hand and when the cube had been drawn it got labelled “Rathbone” and from the box extended a line to another box being drawn which got labelled “Hettie” and a line extended from her to a box called “Degas’s picture”. More lines and more boxes got drawn and suddenly there was an array of boxes and lines all interconnected and despite the bewildering collection she saw a sense in it and then, just a second before she dropped off, she saw it, the means to get the Degas for Rathbone.
Hannah came from solid stock; her father was a doctor and her mother was a school teacher. She was an only child but despite that she’d never been spoiled - and in fact her parents were a little too strict if anything. They loved her and cared for her until she had said that she wanted to leave and pursue a career as a dancer. Then they supported her to find the room and the class with Madam but beyond that it was very much the case of “the rest is up to you”. She loved them but knew she’d never inhabit their world and the island was very small; much too small for a bird with wings and a desire to use them.
She’d never done a dishonest thing or told a lie so the connection and the thoughts about how someone could get Rathbone the Degas were a great surprise to her, almost frightening, more so because she believed she wouldn’t have had those thoughts had it not been for the encounter with Rathbone. He had unlocked something, liberated something; indeed, had freed her mind. What she couldn’t really work out was why she felt that motivated to get it for him. He and Hettie were, in fact, playing a game and it was only a beautiful picture - Rathbone could have purchased others since and he had in fact.
She did feel Hettie was being uncharitable; just another level to the game she mused but the sticking point was what she would get out of it. If she did it then money was the obvious answer. She knew she needed money for the life she wanted to lead but to just do it for money seemed, well, ugly, base and plain criminal in fact. Only then did she feel the adrenalin flow as she pictured herself actually doing it; she felt the rush and her heart was racing and skipping beats.
“I must see him!” she said in desperation.
She had no means to find him easily of course and she didn’t feel it was ‘politique’ to apply to Hettie for the man’s address so she cogitated and sought out William to find out how his night of passion had gone.
“Oh my God!” were his first words.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“You bet; he’s amazing!”
“Spare me the details; I just hoped you were okay.”
“Did you get another gig?”
“Not exactly; there might be something in the pipeline though … Shall we walk?”
They toured Covent Garden to see the street performers and enjoy the early summer sunshine.
“Do you know that man I was talking to; Rathbone?” she asked on the off chance.
“No; but the guy I was with said he was pretty shady. He has a shop in Angel; an antiques shop apparently. Hugh thinks it’s just a front for handling stolen goods.”
“Why does he think that?”
“He overheard that woman Francis say to Hettie that she should count the spoons - or something like that …”
As they were walking and talking, the thing happened again and the “shop” got its own box and some lines got added and whereas before, everything new had a colour but the colours looked pretty randomly assigned, now the stronger links and most important information started to get colour-coded, making it easier to see.
The couple parted and Hannah headed immediately to Angel to find the shop; she thought she’d know it as soon as she saw it and she was right, a rather curious little place, tucked away and caught in a web of shadows. It was open. She looked in the window at the equally curious collection of antiques and suddenly Rathbone was at her shoulder.
“My dear! What a nice surprise; won’t you come in?”
“Hello, Rathbone,” she said and she didn’t recognise the voice which left her mouth; a much older voice and laden with secrets.
He smiled and showed her in.
“Tea?” he asked quaintly.
“Love some ...” she said absently as she gazed around the shop at the displays. Nothing was quite what it seemed; closer inspection told you, for example, that the cute little portrait of a Victorian child was actually painted on a piece of mummified human skin, apparently the child’s own, having died from Typhoid fever. It left Hannah feeling ‘unclean’ but altogether fascinated.
“What do you see that you really, really want?” Rathbone asked as he handed over the cup and saucer.
“The powder compact there,” Hannah said, pointing at the article in a little display case which held other similar things.
“Ah! Yes, well spotted ... accredited to Fabergé ... a pretty little thing. You have an eye and taste; so unlike most young women I know. They always want something big and chunky, and the gaudier the better …”
“How much is it?” asked Hannah.
“Ten thousand pounds,” he replied as he fished it out and handed it over to her.
“Is it gold?”
“Yes and his monogram is enamel; it’s genuine ...”
She held it up and opened the lid and checked her face in the little mirror like she was the Tsarina herself. She handed it back and just smiled but then added, “Why do want the Degas so badly?”
He seemed caught off guard momentarily and refocused to gain his composure again.
“It speaks to me; as plainly as you - it has a soul. I barely think about anything else,” he admitted and he was surprised by how so easily he’d let slip something so personal to this complete stranger.
“What would you give to have it?” Hannah asked, looking directly into his eyes which she saw were green with dark halos around the pupils; a fact she registered and would now never forget.
“Practically anything; this shop and everything in it ... my soul …”
“If I said I could get it for you what would you say?”
“I wouldn’t say how but I would ask why.”
“Because you desire it for the right reason.”
“And Hettie doesn’t?”
“She’s a collector; it’s vanity - “I have a “Degas” - it’s a soulless motive for wanting to keep it.”
“But it’s hers ... and to steal it would be wrong,” Rathbone added, feeling slightly out of his depth, “and in any case, if someone did then all fingers would point at me …”
“For twenty-five thousand pounds and the Fabergé compact, I could guarantee that you would have good title to it.”
“And you?”
“I’ll have what I really, really want and no one will suspect me.”
“You play a dangerous game, young lady …”
Hannah smiled and added, “I need a prop; something small and apparently valuable ... the lipstick case …”
“A fake but nonetheless looks the part.”
“Let me have it and in a week, on Sunday afternoon, at three o’clock, meet me at the entrance to the Physic Garden and have the money and the compact with you. I’ll hand you the painting and a receipt that shows that you bought it from Hettie; one she won’t be able to deny issuing …”
“And if you fail?”
“I won’t but if I do you will have lost nothing more than a worthless bauble … What is your surname?”
“Lawe.”
“Are we agreed?”
He hesitated but masked it by ferreting in the display cabinet for the lipstick case.
“For some strange reason, I trust you and believe in you; a rare commodity both. We are agreed; twenty-five thousand pounds and the compact for the picture and a receipt signed by Hettie herself …”
“Then I will see you next Sunday; please don’t be late.”
“Have no fear of that …”
Hannah plucked the lipstick case from his fingers and popped it in her bag.
“Thank you!” she said and she left, hot footing it immediately to Hettie’s in Portman Square. What amazed her more than anything was her energy. She seemed to be running on pure adrenalin; it kept everything sharply focussed yet despite that, her breathing was quite normal.
She arrived at Hettie’s and the housekeeper answered the door.
“Is Hettie at home? It’s Hannah.”
“I’m sorry, my dear, she’s out. What was it you wanted?” asked the woman, a mature old bird who looked like Miss Marple - a thought which gave Hannah a smile on her inward looking face.
“I think I dropped my lipstick case here last night when I got changed; I was hoping someone had found it ...”
“Come in, my dear, and we’ll look for it. I haven’t seen it but Gordon might and Mrs Braithwaite is due back at five; have a cup of tea won’t you?”
“Thank you; if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“None at all,” she said, trailing off as she waddled in, leaving Hannah to close the door behind herself.
She’d never done a dishonest thing or told a lie so the connection and the thoughts about how someone could get Rathbone the Degas were a great surprise to her, almost frightening, more so because she believed she wouldn’t have had those thoughts had it not been for the encounter with Rathbone. He had unlocked something, liberated something; indeed, had freed her mind. What she couldn’t really work out was why she felt that motivated to get it for him. He and Hettie were, in fact, playing a game and it was only a beautiful picture - Rathbone could have purchased others since and he had in fact.
She did feel Hettie was being uncharitable; just another level to the game she mused but the sticking point was what she would get out of it. If she did it then money was the obvious answer. She knew she needed money for the life she wanted to lead but to just do it for money seemed, well, ugly, base and plain criminal in fact. Only then did she feel the adrenalin flow as she pictured herself actually doing it; she felt the rush and her heart was racing and skipping beats.
“I must see him!” she said in desperation.
She had no means to find him easily of course and she didn’t feel it was ‘politique’ to apply to Hettie for the man’s address so she cogitated and sought out William to find out how his night of passion had gone.
“Oh my God!” were his first words.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“You bet; he’s amazing!”
“Spare me the details; I just hoped you were okay.”
“Did you get another gig?”
“Not exactly; there might be something in the pipeline though … Shall we walk?”
They toured Covent Garden to see the street performers and enjoy the early summer sunshine.
“Do you know that man I was talking to; Rathbone?” she asked on the off chance.
“No; but the guy I was with said he was pretty shady. He has a shop in Angel; an antiques shop apparently. Hugh thinks it’s just a front for handling stolen goods.”
“Why does he think that?”
“He overheard that woman Francis say to Hettie that she should count the spoons - or something like that …”
As they were walking and talking, the thing happened again and the “shop” got its own box and some lines got added and whereas before, everything new had a colour but the colours looked pretty randomly assigned, now the stronger links and most important information started to get colour-coded, making it easier to see.
The couple parted and Hannah headed immediately to Angel to find the shop; she thought she’d know it as soon as she saw it and she was right, a rather curious little place, tucked away and caught in a web of shadows. It was open. She looked in the window at the equally curious collection of antiques and suddenly Rathbone was at her shoulder.
“My dear! What a nice surprise; won’t you come in?”
“Hello, Rathbone,” she said and she didn’t recognise the voice which left her mouth; a much older voice and laden with secrets.
He smiled and showed her in.
“Tea?” he asked quaintly.
“Love some ...” she said absently as she gazed around the shop at the displays. Nothing was quite what it seemed; closer inspection told you, for example, that the cute little portrait of a Victorian child was actually painted on a piece of mummified human skin, apparently the child’s own, having died from Typhoid fever. It left Hannah feeling ‘unclean’ but altogether fascinated.
“What do you see that you really, really want?” Rathbone asked as he handed over the cup and saucer.
“The powder compact there,” Hannah said, pointing at the article in a little display case which held other similar things.
“Ah! Yes, well spotted ... accredited to Fabergé ... a pretty little thing. You have an eye and taste; so unlike most young women I know. They always want something big and chunky, and the gaudier the better …”
“How much is it?” asked Hannah.
“Ten thousand pounds,” he replied as he fished it out and handed it over to her.
“Is it gold?”
“Yes and his monogram is enamel; it’s genuine ...”
She held it up and opened the lid and checked her face in the little mirror like she was the Tsarina herself. She handed it back and just smiled but then added, “Why do want the Degas so badly?”
He seemed caught off guard momentarily and refocused to gain his composure again.
“It speaks to me; as plainly as you - it has a soul. I barely think about anything else,” he admitted and he was surprised by how so easily he’d let slip something so personal to this complete stranger.
“What would you give to have it?” Hannah asked, looking directly into his eyes which she saw were green with dark halos around the pupils; a fact she registered and would now never forget.
“Practically anything; this shop and everything in it ... my soul …”
“If I said I could get it for you what would you say?”
“I wouldn’t say how but I would ask why.”
“Because you desire it for the right reason.”
“And Hettie doesn’t?”
“She’s a collector; it’s vanity - “I have a “Degas” - it’s a soulless motive for wanting to keep it.”
“But it’s hers ... and to steal it would be wrong,” Rathbone added, feeling slightly out of his depth, “and in any case, if someone did then all fingers would point at me …”
“For twenty-five thousand pounds and the Fabergé compact, I could guarantee that you would have good title to it.”
“And you?”
“I’ll have what I really, really want and no one will suspect me.”
“You play a dangerous game, young lady …”
Hannah smiled and added, “I need a prop; something small and apparently valuable ... the lipstick case …”
“A fake but nonetheless looks the part.”
“Let me have it and in a week, on Sunday afternoon, at three o’clock, meet me at the entrance to the Physic Garden and have the money and the compact with you. I’ll hand you the painting and a receipt that shows that you bought it from Hettie; one she won’t be able to deny issuing …”
“And if you fail?”
“I won’t but if I do you will have lost nothing more than a worthless bauble … What is your surname?”
“Lawe.”
“Are we agreed?”
He hesitated but masked it by ferreting in the display cabinet for the lipstick case.
“For some strange reason, I trust you and believe in you; a rare commodity both. We are agreed; twenty-five thousand pounds and the compact for the picture and a receipt signed by Hettie herself …”
“Then I will see you next Sunday; please don’t be late.”
“Have no fear of that …”
Hannah plucked the lipstick case from his fingers and popped it in her bag.
“Thank you!” she said and she left, hot footing it immediately to Hettie’s in Portman Square. What amazed her more than anything was her energy. She seemed to be running on pure adrenalin; it kept everything sharply focussed yet despite that, her breathing was quite normal.
She arrived at Hettie’s and the housekeeper answered the door.
“Is Hettie at home? It’s Hannah.”
“I’m sorry, my dear, she’s out. What was it you wanted?” asked the woman, a mature old bird who looked like Miss Marple - a thought which gave Hannah a smile on her inward looking face.
“I think I dropped my lipstick case here last night when I got changed; I was hoping someone had found it ...”
“Come in, my dear, and we’ll look for it. I haven’t seen it but Gordon might and Mrs Braithwaite is due back at five; have a cup of tea won’t you?”
“Thank you; if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“None at all,” she said, trailing off as she waddled in, leaving Hannah to close the door behind herself.
Shakespeare actually said “glisters” but let’s not split hairs. Hannah was escorted to the kitchen where the housekeeper – Margaret - introduced her to her husband, Gordon. They kept house for Hettie and apparently they had a family connection; a stalwart Lancashire couple with few airs and graces but loyalty in buckets.
“Gordon; the young lady lost a lipstick case last night; did you come across it by chance?” she asked her husband.
“Where might you have dropped it, young lady?” he asked.
“I changed in the small salon but Hettie showed me the Degas upstairs … perhaps in either of those two rooms.”
“The small salon has been vacuumed today but the small room upstairs is Mrs Braithwaite’s private sitting room and cleaned less often; most likely it is there. I’ll go and have a look whilst Margaret gets you a cup of tea … Mrs Braithwaite was very taken with your performance last evening.”
“Thank you,” said Hannah politely as the man shuffled off in the direction of Hettie’s private boudoir.
“There you go, my dear; a nice cup of tea. So, tell me a little about yourself; are you from London?”
For the next ten minutes, Hannah told Margaret her short life history up to the point of the performance the evening before.
“And what of your plans, my dear?”
“Become a really good dancer and maybe travel …” said Hannah and it was largely still how she felt most of the time but the world seemed only ever to grow and her dreams expand with it, “I’d also like to study art; like the fine painting in the room where I dropped my lipstick.”
“Speaking of which, where is Gordon?”
“Perhaps I should go and help him; it might have rolled under the sofa.”
“Would you, my dear? I have to start dinner.”
Hannah left the old woman and went up to the first floor room where Gordon was hunting for the lipstick.
“Margaret said I might help you, Gordon; it could have rolled under the sofa …”
“To be honest, child, I can’t see so well, especially in this dim light she has the room in - to protect the painting apparently. If you want to look, I’d be grateful; these knees of mine aren’t what they were.”
“That’s fine …”
Margaret called up for Gordon whose assistance she needed.
“I’ll be fine … if it’s not under the sofa then it isn’t here and I’ll call it lost,” she said, subtly adapting her pattern of speech to match his; it garnered his confidence.
“Right you are …”
He left to render his good lady wife some assistance and finally Hannah was alone in the private boudoir of Hettie Braithwaite. She sat at the desk and tried the drawers which opened to her amazement. Carefully lifting everything out, she found Hettie’s most personal of things, including her diary and the inventory of the collection which she had amassed over the last twenty years. Hannah pulled it out and opened it at the first page to see the entry for the Degas which Hettie had said had been her first purchase ... and sure enough it was the first entry.
Hannah quickly scanned the pages for acquisitions and disposals and, confirming her suspicion, found the entry for the disposal of the Degas some ten years later; a private sale to an overseas collector.
“It is a fake!” she said to herself. She heard Gordon’s feet on the stairs and quickly put everything back, throwing herself on the floor, wedging her arm under the sofa.
“Have you found it?” he asked as he entered the room.
“It’s here!” she gasped and at that precise moment withdrew her arm and held up the lipstick case for him to see.
“Well done! Mother has taken a cake out of the oven; come and get a piece whilst it’s hot.”
Hannah descended behind him and the full plan now filled her head and it put a beautiful smile on her face.
“You found it, my dear; what a pretty thing. I’m not surprised you wanted to find it,” said Margaret as she dispensed more tea and a piece of warm plum cake.
Hannah left before Hettie showed up and made her way to the house of her dance teacher to hatch the plan.
“If we put on the performance then I’m sure Mrs Braithwaite will lend us the painting for the evening …”
“It’s an idea ... and to stage the performance for charity will certainly tug at the heart strings. Let me call her and ask her.”
Hannah’s idea was to stage a dance performance for charity and it was her proposal to dress as the ballerina in the Degas and bring it to life. Now that Hannah knew for certain that the Degas was fake, she was pretty sure that Hettie would not want the picture to be viewed because there was always the risk that the overseas collector would find out and then her charade would be exposed. Hannah planned to pose as a collector and offer to purchase the Degas from her so that Hettie could be rid of the potential embarrassment and have the perfect excuse not to show the painting.
Hannah mused that Rathbone didn’t know that the picture was a fake and he’d be buying a copy for twenty-five thousand pounds plus the Fabergé compact. When he found out; if he ever did, then of course he couldn’t say anything because his reputation would be in tatters too.
“Gordon; the young lady lost a lipstick case last night; did you come across it by chance?” she asked her husband.
“Where might you have dropped it, young lady?” he asked.
“I changed in the small salon but Hettie showed me the Degas upstairs … perhaps in either of those two rooms.”
“The small salon has been vacuumed today but the small room upstairs is Mrs Braithwaite’s private sitting room and cleaned less often; most likely it is there. I’ll go and have a look whilst Margaret gets you a cup of tea … Mrs Braithwaite was very taken with your performance last evening.”
“Thank you,” said Hannah politely as the man shuffled off in the direction of Hettie’s private boudoir.
“There you go, my dear; a nice cup of tea. So, tell me a little about yourself; are you from London?”
For the next ten minutes, Hannah told Margaret her short life history up to the point of the performance the evening before.
“And what of your plans, my dear?”
“Become a really good dancer and maybe travel …” said Hannah and it was largely still how she felt most of the time but the world seemed only ever to grow and her dreams expand with it, “I’d also like to study art; like the fine painting in the room where I dropped my lipstick.”
“Speaking of which, where is Gordon?”
“Perhaps I should go and help him; it might have rolled under the sofa.”
“Would you, my dear? I have to start dinner.”
Hannah left the old woman and went up to the first floor room where Gordon was hunting for the lipstick.
“Margaret said I might help you, Gordon; it could have rolled under the sofa …”
“To be honest, child, I can’t see so well, especially in this dim light she has the room in - to protect the painting apparently. If you want to look, I’d be grateful; these knees of mine aren’t what they were.”
“That’s fine …”
Margaret called up for Gordon whose assistance she needed.
“I’ll be fine … if it’s not under the sofa then it isn’t here and I’ll call it lost,” she said, subtly adapting her pattern of speech to match his; it garnered his confidence.
“Right you are …”
He left to render his good lady wife some assistance and finally Hannah was alone in the private boudoir of Hettie Braithwaite. She sat at the desk and tried the drawers which opened to her amazement. Carefully lifting everything out, she found Hettie’s most personal of things, including her diary and the inventory of the collection which she had amassed over the last twenty years. Hannah pulled it out and opened it at the first page to see the entry for the Degas which Hettie had said had been her first purchase ... and sure enough it was the first entry.
Hannah quickly scanned the pages for acquisitions and disposals and, confirming her suspicion, found the entry for the disposal of the Degas some ten years later; a private sale to an overseas collector.
“It is a fake!” she said to herself. She heard Gordon’s feet on the stairs and quickly put everything back, throwing herself on the floor, wedging her arm under the sofa.
“Have you found it?” he asked as he entered the room.
“It’s here!” she gasped and at that precise moment withdrew her arm and held up the lipstick case for him to see.
“Well done! Mother has taken a cake out of the oven; come and get a piece whilst it’s hot.”
Hannah descended behind him and the full plan now filled her head and it put a beautiful smile on her face.
“You found it, my dear; what a pretty thing. I’m not surprised you wanted to find it,” said Margaret as she dispensed more tea and a piece of warm plum cake.
Hannah left before Hettie showed up and made her way to the house of her dance teacher to hatch the plan.
“If we put on the performance then I’m sure Mrs Braithwaite will lend us the painting for the evening …”
“It’s an idea ... and to stage the performance for charity will certainly tug at the heart strings. Let me call her and ask her.”
Hannah’s idea was to stage a dance performance for charity and it was her proposal to dress as the ballerina in the Degas and bring it to life. Now that Hannah knew for certain that the Degas was fake, she was pretty sure that Hettie would not want the picture to be viewed because there was always the risk that the overseas collector would find out and then her charade would be exposed. Hannah planned to pose as a collector and offer to purchase the Degas from her so that Hettie could be rid of the potential embarrassment and have the perfect excuse not to show the painting.
Hannah mused that Rathbone didn’t know that the picture was a fake and he’d be buying a copy for twenty-five thousand pounds plus the Fabergé compact. When he found out; if he ever did, then of course he couldn’t say anything because his reputation would be in tatters too.
Mrs Braithwaite would be delighted to exhibit the painting for the evening as centre piece for the performance which Hannah would dance, so said Madam a few days later; and now Hannah needed to act very quickly. She planned to get William to do her hair and makeup; oriental style. She borrowed a very chic outfit from a dance colleague and practised her accent; English spoken by a young Japanese business woman. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done and frequently lapsed but she practised for hours. She telephoned Hettie a few days later to set up the appointment for the possible purchase, and sure enough Hettie would only be too pleased to meet with her. When Hettie asked how she knew that she had the Degas, Hannah replied that a business associate of Gareth’s had mentioned it.
The appointment was set for two days hence, on the Friday, at eleven in the morning at the house in Portman Square. Hannah got a business card mocked up with her name ‘R Lawe - Consultant International Tax Adviser’ printed on it with a fake telephone number and an address in Hong Kong.
Hannah studied herself in the mirror for hours and once William had done her makeup and put her hair under a wig which was called, apparently, a ‘power bob’, she didn’t recognise herself.
The riskiest part of the plan was getting Hettie to write out a receipt for the picture, without having got any money for the painting. But Hannah was going to suggest that if Hettie could wait until the Monday then the exchange rate of yen to sterling would be in her favour but a receipt was necessary in order to arrange insurance. She knew Hettie wanted shot of the picture so there was motivation on her side to conclude the deal and get the offending article out of her possession before she was required to hand it over for the gala.
Hannah made her way to Portman Square for the appointment and took a cab just in case Hettie was looking out for her; it looked more professional she thought. The first hurdle was whether Margaret would recognise her; she was sure Gordon wouldn’t. If she could fool Margaret then she felt much more confident.
She rang the bell and took a very deep breath, said a Japanese proverb in her head three times and shot the cuffs of her crisp white shirt from the sleeves of her Chanel jacket.
The appointment was set for two days hence, on the Friday, at eleven in the morning at the house in Portman Square. Hannah got a business card mocked up with her name ‘R Lawe - Consultant International Tax Adviser’ printed on it with a fake telephone number and an address in Hong Kong.
Hannah studied herself in the mirror for hours and once William had done her makeup and put her hair under a wig which was called, apparently, a ‘power bob’, she didn’t recognise herself.
The riskiest part of the plan was getting Hettie to write out a receipt for the picture, without having got any money for the painting. But Hannah was going to suggest that if Hettie could wait until the Monday then the exchange rate of yen to sterling would be in her favour but a receipt was necessary in order to arrange insurance. She knew Hettie wanted shot of the picture so there was motivation on her side to conclude the deal and get the offending article out of her possession before she was required to hand it over for the gala.
Hannah made her way to Portman Square for the appointment and took a cab just in case Hettie was looking out for her; it looked more professional she thought. The first hurdle was whether Margaret would recognise her; she was sure Gordon wouldn’t. If she could fool Margaret then she felt much more confident.
She rang the bell and took a very deep breath, said a Japanese proverb in her head three times and shot the cuffs of her crisp white shirt from the sleeves of her Chanel jacket.
Margaret answered and asked Hannah to come in, ushering her into the small salon, asking very politely if she would like tea. Hannah replied that if there was any jasmine tea she would very gratefully take a cup else water. Five minutes later, Hettie came in and the test of the disguise - which had passed Margaret’s inspection - was now under the full glare of the house lights.
So far so good as introductions were made and Hannah dropped the appropriate names into her opener to ensure that credentials were established pretty quickly. Then the invitation was extended to Hannah to view the picture and they adjourned to the small boudoir. Hannah knew Hettie wouldn’t move it because the light was dim and that would mask the forgery should a very close inspection be requested.
“Payment on Monday would be fine, Ms Lawe, if, as you say, the exchange rate will work in my favour, and I have no reason to doubt it, and I can see the need for the receipt to organise the insurance but there is the question of the performance tomorrow night at which the picture was to be exhibited. Do you still plan to loan the piece to the dance company?” were Hettie’s words as Hannah examined the picture and Hannah knew that Hettie didn’t want the piece to be exhibited for risk of disclosure.
“No, Mrs Braithwaite; we do not plan to exhibit the piece. Perhaps the dance company could use another; maybe the Toulouse Lautrec?” was Hannah’s question by return.
“If you purchase the piece then I will phone them straightaway and alert them to the change in the plan.”
“I certainly do wish to purchase the piece,” stated Hannah very confidently.
Hettie asked Gordon to wrap the picture and whilst he did so, Hettie took tea, jasmine, with Hannah in the small salon and it was the riskiest part of the plan as the room was bright. However, Hannah had worn a little pill box hat with a veil that just covered her eyes, and well-timed lapses into Japanese were designed to put Hettie in no two minds that Ms R Lawe was the genuine article, unlike the Degas that was delivered to them fifteen minutes later.
Profuse thanks were shared and Hannah left, hailing a cab instantly.
In the evening, she spoke to Madam who explained to her that the Degas was no longer available but they could have a Toulouse Lautrec instead and would Hannah mind doing a “can-can” inspired routine?
“Of course not, Madam; it’s for charity and no one will complain.”
And of course no one did and hardly anyone paid the picture any attention at all whilst Hannah was high kicking and displaying her ample charms.
On the Friday and Saturday evenings, the Degas hung in her room where her print usually did; that was packed along with everything else she intended to take because after the handover she was off to Paris to study with a dance instructor recommended by Madam.
So far so good as introductions were made and Hannah dropped the appropriate names into her opener to ensure that credentials were established pretty quickly. Then the invitation was extended to Hannah to view the picture and they adjourned to the small boudoir. Hannah knew Hettie wouldn’t move it because the light was dim and that would mask the forgery should a very close inspection be requested.
“Payment on Monday would be fine, Ms Lawe, if, as you say, the exchange rate will work in my favour, and I have no reason to doubt it, and I can see the need for the receipt to organise the insurance but there is the question of the performance tomorrow night at which the picture was to be exhibited. Do you still plan to loan the piece to the dance company?” were Hettie’s words as Hannah examined the picture and Hannah knew that Hettie didn’t want the piece to be exhibited for risk of disclosure.
“No, Mrs Braithwaite; we do not plan to exhibit the piece. Perhaps the dance company could use another; maybe the Toulouse Lautrec?” was Hannah’s question by return.
“If you purchase the piece then I will phone them straightaway and alert them to the change in the plan.”
“I certainly do wish to purchase the piece,” stated Hannah very confidently.
Hettie asked Gordon to wrap the picture and whilst he did so, Hettie took tea, jasmine, with Hannah in the small salon and it was the riskiest part of the plan as the room was bright. However, Hannah had worn a little pill box hat with a veil that just covered her eyes, and well-timed lapses into Japanese were designed to put Hettie in no two minds that Ms R Lawe was the genuine article, unlike the Degas that was delivered to them fifteen minutes later.
Profuse thanks were shared and Hannah left, hailing a cab instantly.
In the evening, she spoke to Madam who explained to her that the Degas was no longer available but they could have a Toulouse Lautrec instead and would Hannah mind doing a “can-can” inspired routine?
“Of course not, Madam; it’s for charity and no one will complain.”
And of course no one did and hardly anyone paid the picture any attention at all whilst Hannah was high kicking and displaying her ample charms.
On the Friday and Saturday evenings, the Degas hung in her room where her print usually did; that was packed along with everything else she intended to take because after the handover she was off to Paris to study with a dance instructor recommended by Madam.
Hannah was already at the entrance to the Physic Garden before Rathbone arrived; the picture was secured in a smart portfolio by her side, the receipt was in an envelope in her hand.
“Hannah,” he beamed as he arrived, looking flushed with the anticipation.
She handed him the envelope which he opened, and he removed the receipt which he scanned rapidly.
“How did you do it?” he asked.
“It was just a matter of applying to Mrs Braithwaite’s charitable side,” Hannah replied, “but of course I played no part in this …”
“No, no; of course not. Who would believe it anyway?”
“The picture is here,” and she gestured to the portfolio but she was really asking for her payment.
“May I see it?” he almost begged.
She handed him the case and he unzipped it just enough to see the picture within.
“I can’t wait to see her,” he said.
“Perhaps leave it a day or two, Rathbone; I believe Hettie is in mourning!” and Hannah winked.
“Yes; a little decorum I agree will go a long way … here’s your money and the compact.”
He handed her a large jiffy bag which contained the thick wads of fifty pound notes, and the compact wrapped in tissue paper.
“Thank you …”
“You’re not going to count it?” he asked.
“Should I?”
“No; it’s all there.”
“I have to go, Rathbone; I have a class,” Hannah lied.
“Of course; and if you ever need anything in the future, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”
“I will; goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Hannah.”
She left and hailed a cab, asking the cabbie to drop her at Waterloo East.
She caught a train to Dover, thence took the ferry to Calais and the following day a train to Paris where she weaved her way to Montmartre and took up a room above a bakery on Rue Lepic, overlooking Le Moulin de la Galette.
Throughout the journey, she wondered just what Rathbone was going to say to Hettie and how Hettie would react. If Hettie went looking for the business card to prove to herself, if no one else, that she had been duped then she wouldn’t find it; Hannah had lifted that off of the desk whilst Hettie had admonished Gordon for bumping the doorframe with the picture as he returned with it wrapped. So Hettie couldn’t deny it without a lot of questions and neither could she admit to Rathbone that it was a fake for her reputation would be in tatters and neither could he if he ever found out; a man of his calibre buying a fake; no one would take him seriously again.
As far as Hannah was concerned, Hettie got off lightly because she hadn’t been swindled out of anything in reality and to get shot of the picture did her no end of favours for the most part; she could always deny selling the picture to Rathbone because she had a record of a genuine sale ten years earlier and assert that someone else had sold Rathbone the picture, forging the receipt.
Margaret and Gordon had seen the Japanese business woman leave with the picture but Hettie could always rely on their loyalty and who was to say which Degas the young woman had left with?
She did feel a little sorry for Rathbone; he had purchased a fake but he thought it was real and it was what he really wanted; wasn’t that enough? If he gloated to Hettie then she too would know he had a fake and that might give her a private moment of satisfaction; or maybe she’d finally extend her charity to him and marry the poor bastard because it was what they both really wanted. Their denial was their weakness, masquerading as their power over each other. The games adults play mused Hannah.
Hannah was more than happy because the Cartier lipstick case she had pinched from Hettie’s boudoir, seen on the evening of the performance, leaving the fake in its place, was worth at least five thousand pounds and together with the Fabergé compact and the bag stuffed with fifty pound notes, she had somewhere in the region of five hundred thousand French francs and that made her very happy indeed.
“Hannah,” he beamed as he arrived, looking flushed with the anticipation.
She handed him the envelope which he opened, and he removed the receipt which he scanned rapidly.
“How did you do it?” he asked.
“It was just a matter of applying to Mrs Braithwaite’s charitable side,” Hannah replied, “but of course I played no part in this …”
“No, no; of course not. Who would believe it anyway?”
“The picture is here,” and she gestured to the portfolio but she was really asking for her payment.
“May I see it?” he almost begged.
She handed him the case and he unzipped it just enough to see the picture within.
“I can’t wait to see her,” he said.
“Perhaps leave it a day or two, Rathbone; I believe Hettie is in mourning!” and Hannah winked.
“Yes; a little decorum I agree will go a long way … here’s your money and the compact.”
He handed her a large jiffy bag which contained the thick wads of fifty pound notes, and the compact wrapped in tissue paper.
“Thank you …”
“You’re not going to count it?” he asked.
“Should I?”
“No; it’s all there.”
“I have to go, Rathbone; I have a class,” Hannah lied.
“Of course; and if you ever need anything in the future, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”
“I will; goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Hannah.”
She left and hailed a cab, asking the cabbie to drop her at Waterloo East.
She caught a train to Dover, thence took the ferry to Calais and the following day a train to Paris where she weaved her way to Montmartre and took up a room above a bakery on Rue Lepic, overlooking Le Moulin de la Galette.
Throughout the journey, she wondered just what Rathbone was going to say to Hettie and how Hettie would react. If Hettie went looking for the business card to prove to herself, if no one else, that she had been duped then she wouldn’t find it; Hannah had lifted that off of the desk whilst Hettie had admonished Gordon for bumping the doorframe with the picture as he returned with it wrapped. So Hettie couldn’t deny it without a lot of questions and neither could she admit to Rathbone that it was a fake for her reputation would be in tatters and neither could he if he ever found out; a man of his calibre buying a fake; no one would take him seriously again.
As far as Hannah was concerned, Hettie got off lightly because she hadn’t been swindled out of anything in reality and to get shot of the picture did her no end of favours for the most part; she could always deny selling the picture to Rathbone because she had a record of a genuine sale ten years earlier and assert that someone else had sold Rathbone the picture, forging the receipt.
Margaret and Gordon had seen the Japanese business woman leave with the picture but Hettie could always rely on their loyalty and who was to say which Degas the young woman had left with?
She did feel a little sorry for Rathbone; he had purchased a fake but he thought it was real and it was what he really wanted; wasn’t that enough? If he gloated to Hettie then she too would know he had a fake and that might give her a private moment of satisfaction; or maybe she’d finally extend her charity to him and marry the poor bastard because it was what they both really wanted. Their denial was their weakness, masquerading as their power over each other. The games adults play mused Hannah.
Hannah was more than happy because the Cartier lipstick case she had pinched from Hettie’s boudoir, seen on the evening of the performance, leaving the fake in its place, was worth at least five thousand pounds and together with the Fabergé compact and the bag stuffed with fifty pound notes, she had somewhere in the region of five hundred thousand French francs and that made her very happy indeed.
