The Wrong Way Down (3 page)

“Evidently not.” Gamadge took out his cigarette case, lighted a cigarette, looked down at Lady Audley, and said: “For Heaven's sake.”

“I could almost swear it was blank on Saturday.”

“Was the light on in the hall then?”

“I don't remember; I should think not, since it was morning. But I'd have noticed all that.” She glanced at the inscription below the portrait and away again.

“Very unlikely that you should be mistaken. It was as always on Saturday. The cleaning woman doesn't come on Saturday or Sunday, but on Sunday Miss Vance called on you; Miss Vance, who makes things happen.”

“I couldn't help wondering—”

“I can't help wondering either. Of course it would be more satisfactory if we were absolutely certain that the picture was as usual before Miss Vance came. Could Mr. Ashbury in California settle that for us?”

“I don't think so. He's not been East since he settled in San Francisco as a young man, and he wasn't at all the kind of boy to be interested in such things. Cousin Lawson mentioned the resemblance of the portrait to his mother because I'd known his mother; James never knew his grandmother at all. But I could write to James—if necessary. If not, I shouldn't much like to.”

“The picture isn't fully described in any inventory that you know of?”

“No, the insurance inventory lumps all the small pictures together as a ‘lot.'”

“And so your only evidence that the picture changed,” said Gamadge, smiling at her, “is at present the evidence of your own eyes.”

“And my memory. I don't think I'm mistaken.”

“A mystery, quite a mystery.” Gamadge bent to study the face of Lady Audley. “You know, this name seems to attract mystery. There was a nice old shocker by Miss Braddon—
Lady Audley's Secret
.”

“I dimly remember the title.”

“Nothing but a murder; Lady Audley's secret, if I remember it, was only that she pushed somebody down a well. Nothing to
this
. This is much subtler, much creepier altogether. I wonder if we could make it less creepy.”

“I wish we could.”

“But it might still be disagreeable, you know.”

“It couldn't be as disagreeable as having to believe that Iris Vance can make words come out on a framed picture more than a hundred years old.”

“Framed.” Gamadge repeated the word in a tone that sounded inquiring. He turned the aquatint. “Well, this is gratifying, I must say.”

“What is?”

“Not a professional job, the framing.”

“No, I remember that Uncle Vincent wanted to frame it, and found one in the house that just fitted. And I remember what used to be in this old black and gold thing—one of those dreadful memorials made out of hair.”

“Hair?”

“And seaweed and shells. Somebody's hair was the weeping willow over the tombstone.”

“That's a new one on me,” said Gamadge admiringly. “Better than framing the funeral wreath.” He was gently fiddling with the wooden back of the frame, and the old nails.

“Well, Uncle Vincent had the sense to throw the thing away.”

Gamadge turned Lady Audley face upwards again. He asked: “Any reference books in that book-room you spoke of? Dictionaries of names?”

“There must be. It's only a large closet off the drawing room, you know, with cupboards under the shelves for pictures.”

“Lead me to it. I'd like to find out something more about Lady Audley, if I can.” He added, as they went along the hall to the front of the house, “The Ashburys could have found out something about Lady Audley if they'd wanted to.”

“You mean the book would be here—the book the picture came out of?”

“Oh, no; why should Ashbury mutilate his own book? The portrait was out of the book when he bought it, I'm sure. I mean he could have taken the portrait to a dealer.”

“Well, you know how people are; they wonder and wonder and don't do a thing.”

“Restful.”

Miss Paxton opened a door at right angles to the old storm doors, and switched on lights. Gamadge saw a high amber-colored room with a parquet floor; gilt, brocaded furniture was huddled together at the window end. She went to a door in the opposite wall, and opened it. Gamadge followed her into a little room walled with books; below them, handles were set into broad panels of wood.

Gamadge turned slowly from shelf to shelf. “A nice, solid lot,” he said. “Speeches. Travels. Lives. A little fiction in its nobler form—Scott, George Eliot. All in fine condition.”

“I'm afraid the Ashburys weren't great readers.”

“Dealers hate great readers—you'll get good money for this little library. Let's see—nothing here for us, unless that dictionary of names.” He pulled out a big volume. “Audley, Audley, Audley. Lots of Audleys, but no Lady Audleys, and nothing to say which Audley we want.” He replaced the dictionary.

Miss Paxton tugged at one of the handles: “Here's where the loose pictures are. These funny tip-out cupboards; like bins.”

A panel came out from the wall to the extent of about a foot, and stopped. Gamadge turned to glance into the mass of photographs, engravings and sheet music within.

“Of course I'll have them all gone over,” said Miss Paxton.

Gamadge separated the mass here and there. “Plenty of colored photographs,” he said. “Very nice ones.”

“Some of the things Cousin Lawson or his father picked up in the galleries abroad.”

Gamadge pushed the cupboard to. “We'll have to telephone.”

“Telephone?”

“To a man I know who might know about Lady Audley.”

“The telephone is on the landing of the back stairs.” Miss Paxton led the way with alacrity. “I must say I like people who get things done.”

“I hope I'll catch him in his office where he keeps his files.”

“Would he be in his office at this time of day?”

“Hall practically lives in his office. He's always talking about retiring, but he hates to get far away from his books.”

They went through a door at the back of the hall to the landing of the service stairs. Miss Paxton insisted on his sitting on the stool in front of the telephone shelf, while she stood at his elbow. He dialed.

“Hall? This is Gamadge. I'm asking a favor as usual. A little information about a picture in a book, it's rather urgent.” He winked at Miss Paxton, who winked back at him. “The book is a collection of Holbein portraits engraved by Bartolozzi and published by I. Chamberlaine in 1793…Of course you know it. The picture I'm interested in is one of Lady Audley: A for Audley, U for urgent, D for—all right. I simply want to know who she was…You have? That's wonderful. Just a minute; when you call me back, call me at—” Gamadge looked at the number below the dial and repeated it twice. “Thanks, Hall. I'll be right here.”

He put down the receiver and swung to look up at Miss Paxton. “We're lucky. Hall has a catalogue of a sale, he has millions of them. It's itemized. He's sure there's a description of the book in it, with the plates fully described too.”

“Why,” said Miss Paxton, “it's the simplest thing in the world to find out about pictures, isn't it?”

“Simplest thing in the world,” agreed Gamadge.

“Just ask the right person.”

“That's all.”

“But I must confess I don't know why you should go to the trouble. Neither of us cares exactly who she was, do we? And it would have been enough for Uncle Vincent just to know what it says on the picture—now.”

“There's method in what I'm doing,” said Gamadge. “I had to supply Hall with details about the aquatint; as I couldn't do it, I'm making him supply them himself.” He turned on his bench to look along the hallway. “I rather wish you had the telephone nearer you at night. It's not even on the same floor as your bedroom. Now wait a minute: I know you're only seventy-five, but anybody can have acute indigestion in the small hours. I'm going to leave you the address of my doctor; he's a young fellow, doesn't mind being called at night.”

“It's very kind of you, Henry. I don't have indigestion, but it's very kind indeed of you.”

“And I beg that you won't leave that front door on the latch as you did today.”

“I never did before, and I won't again.” She added: “Burglars would be a little disappointed. I have only this gold brooch I wear, and my two old rings, and my watch. And I never keep much money in the house.”

“Nothing disappoints burglars.”

The telephone rang. Gamadge snatched up the receiver. “Yes, Hall? You have? Fine. Wait till I get out my pencil…
Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Brian Tuke. Married George Touchet, Lord Audley
…Not the chancellor; I see; the other one. Well, Hall, I'm more than grateful. Oh, by the way—what figures would you quote on the aquatint?…I see. And how about proof before letter?…Yes, of course, I understand. Well, I can't say how much obliged I am. Hope you'll find something I can do for
you
. Good-bye.”

He put down the receiver and sat looking up at Miss Paxton and smiling.

“Well!” She returned his smile. “We know all about her now. We even know that her husband wasn't the chancellor.”

“We know more than that. Tell me, Miss Paxton: did Miss Vance have an opportunity to examine this Audley portrait on Sunday?”

“Why, I suppose she may have glanced at it as she came into the sitting room with me. It was just beyond the door, as you know.”

“How about later, when she went home? Did you see her out?”

“She wouldn't hear of it. I stayed in the sitting room.”

“Could you
hear
her go out?”

“Hear her? Why, no; the carpets are thick, and the front door doesn't slam if you don't absolutely crash it.”

“She may have seen this picture in her childhood, when she came here with her parents?”

“I suppose so.”

“Her father was an artist. She may have learned something of art, engravings, that kind of thing from him?”

“Yes.” Miss Paxton was gazing at him fixedly.

“One more question: that deaf charwoman of yours—she wouldn't be likely to let a stranger in, if she did happen to be in the front hall and hear the bell, without saying anything to you about it? She seemed rather casual to me.”

“She can't
hear
the bell.”

“And she wasn't here on Sunday. Well, Miss Paxton, I shouldn't worry about the spirits if I were you; reason maintains its sway.”

“I'm very glad to hear it.”

“We have every right to believe that your eyes didn't deceive you, that you never were mistaken, and that the portrait of Lady Audley never had a line of lettering on it until after Miss Vance left on Sunday afternoon. In fact, we have the makings of a very pretty little case against Miss Vance, though I'm afraid you won't see the beauty of it. Now for some more evidence.”

He got up, put a hand on Miss Paxton's elbow, and steered her back into the sitting room. Picking up Lady Audley's portrait, he held it so that she could see the back of it.

“I said it wasn't dusty. That's because it's been handled within a very few days. These nails have been out recently.” He laid the picture down again. “This engraving is what they call lettered proof. Did you ever hear of ‘proof before letter'?”

“No.”

“I thought not. And I think Miss Vance made a little money by her call on you last Sunday afternoon.”

M
ISS PAXTON SANK DOWN
slowly in her chair. “I can see,” she said, “that you think Iris Vance changed the pictures.”

“If she did, she made money by it—or gave herself a chance to make money. The engraving that hung out there in the hall until—shall we say Sunday evening?”

“I'm sure I looked at it on Saturday morning.”

“That engraving was a proof before letter; which means a proof impression carefully made from the finished plate before the printing of the ordinary issue—” he tapped the glass of the portrait before him—“and before any inscription whatever is added.” He tapped the glass again, lower down. “Title, artist's name, engraver's name, date, anything.”

Miss Paxton listened in silence.

“Proof before letter,” continued Gamadge, “is more valuable than lettered proof. It's scarcer, for one thing, and it's often a finer impression. The engraver sometimes draws it himself. Now of course values differ very much from time to time in the case of things like this; fashions change, hobbies wax and wane, money is tight or free. Hall could only guess at these particular values—”