Acolyte to Priestess - The Twelve Crimes of Hannah Smith Series, Page 2

  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.

  Chapter Four – Honest as the day is long

  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.

  Chapter Five – All that glitters is not gold

  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 s
mall 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.