Arabella was at the time accompanying her guests through to the dining room.
Krantz, dressed in a black skintight tracksuit, circled the estate twice before she decided where she would enter the grounds. It certainly wasn’t going to be through the front gates. Although the high stone walls that surrounded the estate had proved impregnable when originally built to keep invaders out, particularly the French and Germans, by the beginning of the twenty-first century wear and tear, and the minimum wage, meant that there were one or two places where entry would have been simple enough for a local lad planning to steal apples.
Once Krantz had selected her point of entry, she easily climbed the weakened perimeter in a matter of seconds, straddled the wall, fell and rolled over, as she had done a thousand times following a bad dismount from the high bar.
Krantz remained still for a moment as she waited for the moon to disappear behind a cloud. She then ran thirty or forty yards to the safety of a little copse of trees down by the river. She waited for the moon to reappear so that she could study the terrain more carefully, aware that she would have to be patient. In her line of work, impatience led to mistakes, and mistakes could not be rectified quite as easily as in some other professions.
Krantz had a clear view of the front of the house, but it was another forty minutes before the vast oak door was opened by a man in a black tailcoat and white tie, allowing the two dogs out for their nightly frolic. They sniffed the air, immediately picking up Krantz’s scent, and began barking loudly as they bounded toward her. But then she had been waiting for them—patiently.
The English, her instructor had once told her, were an animal-loving nation, and you could tell a person’s class by the dogs they chose to share their homes with. The working class liked greyhounds, the middle classes Jack Russells and cocker spaniels, while the nouveau riche preferred a Rottweiler or German shepherd to protect their newly made wealth. The upper classes traditionally chose Labradors, dogs quite unsuited for protection, as they were more likely to lick you than take a chunk out of you. When Krantz was told about these dogs, it was the first time she had come across the word soppy. Only the Queen had Corgis.
Krantz didn’t move as the two dogs bounded toward her, occasionally stopping to sniff the air, now aware of another smell that made their tails wag even faster. Krantz had earlier visited Curnick’s in the Fulham Road and selected the most tender pieces of sirloin steak, which would have been appreciated by those guests now dining at Wentworth Hall. Krantz felt no expense should be spared. After all, it was to be their last supper.
Krantz laid the large juicy morsels around her in a circle and remained motionless in the center, like a dumb waiter. Once Brunswick and Picton came across the meat, they quickly tucked into their first course, not showing a great deal of interest in the human statue in the center of the circle. Krantz crouched slowly down on one knee and began to lay out a second helping, wherever she saw a gap appear in the circle. Occasionally the dogs would pause between mouthfuls, look up at her with doleful eyes, tails wagging if anything more enthusiastically, before they returned to the feast.
Once she had laid before them the final delicacy, Krantz leant forward and began to stroke the silky head of Picton, the younger of the two dogs. He didn’t even look up when she drew the kitchen knife from its sheath. Sheffield steel, also purchased from the Fulham Road that afternoon.
Once again, she gently stroked the head of the chocolate Labrador, and then suddenly, without warning, grabbed Picton by the ears, jerked his head away from the last succulent morsels and, with one slash of the blade, sliced into the animal’s throat. A loud bark was quickly followed by a shrill yelp, and in the darkness Krantz could not see the large black eyes giving her a pained expression. The black Labrador, older but not wiser, looked up and growled, which took him a full second. More than enough time for Krantz to thrust her left forearm under the dog’s jaw, causing Brunswick to raise his head just long enough for Krantz to slash out at his throat, though not with her usual skill and precision. The dog sank to the ground, whimpering in pain. Krantz leant forward, pulled up his silken ears and with one final movement finished off the job.
Krantz dragged both dogs into the copse and dumped them behind a fallen oak. She then washed her hands in the stream
, annoyed to find her brand-new tracksuit was covered in blood. She finally wiped the knife on the grass before replacing it in its sheath. She checked her watch. She had allocated two hours for the entire operation, so she reckoned she still had over an hour before those in the house, occupied with either serving or being served, would notice the dogs had not returned from their evening constitutional.
The distance between the copse and the north end of the house Krantz estimated to be 100, perhaps 120 yards. With the moon throwing out such a clear light, if only intermittently, she knew that there was only one form of movement that would go unobserved.
She fell to her knees before lying flat on the grass. She first placed one arm in front of her, followed by one leg, the second arm, then the second leg, and finally she eased her body forward. Her record for a hundred yards as a human crab was seven minutes and nineteen seconds. Occasionally, she would stop and raise her head to study the layout of the house so that she could consider her point of entry. The ground floor was ablaze with light, while the first floor was almost in darkness. The second floor, where the servants resided, had only one light on. Krantz wasn’t interested in the second floor. The person she was looking for would be on the ground floor, and later the first.
When Krantz was within ten yards of the house, she slowed each movement down until she felt a finger touch the outer wall. She lay still, cocked her head to one side, and used the light of the moon to study the edifice more carefully. Only great estates still boasted drainpipes of that size. When you’ve performed a somersault on a four-inch-wide beam, a drainpipe that prominent is a ladder.
Krantz next checked the windows of the large room where the most noise was coming from. Although the heavy curtains were drawn, she spotted one affording a slight chink. She moved even more slowly toward the noise and laughter. When she reached the window, she pushed herself up onto her knees until one eye was in line with the tiny gap in the curtain.
The first thing she saw was a man dressed in a dinner jacket. He was on his feet, a glass of champagne in one hand as if proposing a toast. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but then she wasn’t interested. Her eyes swept that part of the room she could see. At one end of the table sat a lady in a long silk dress with her back to the window, looking intently at the man delivering the impromptu speech. Krantz’s eyes rested on her diamond necklace, but that wasn’t her trade. Her specialty was two or three inches above the sparkling gems.
She turned her attention to the other end of the table. She almost smiled when she saw who was eating pheasant and sipping a glass of wine. When Petrescu retired to bed later that night, Krantz would be waiting for her, hidden in a place Petrescu would least expect to find her.
Krantz glanced toward the man in the black tailcoat who had opened the door to let the dogs out. He was now standing behind the lady wearing the silk gown, refilling her glass with wine, while other servants removed plates and one did nothing more than scrape crumbs from the table into a silver tray. Krantz remained absolutely still while her eyes continued to move around the room, searching for the other throat Fenston had sent her to cut.
“Lady Arabella, I rise to thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I have much enjoyed trout from the River Test, and pheasant shot on your estate, while in the company of two remarkable women. But tonight will remain memorable for me for many other reasons. Not least, that I will leave Wentworth Hall tomorrow with two unique additions to my collection—one of the finest examples of Van Gogh’s work, as well as one of the most talented young professionals in her field, who has agreed to be the CEO of my foundation. Your great-grandfather,” said Nakamura, turning to face his hostess, “was wise enough in eighteen eighty-nine, over a century ago, to purchase from Dr. Gachet the self-portrait of his close friend, Vincent Van Gogh. Tomorrow, that masterpiece will begin a journey to the other side of the world, but I must warn you, Arabella, that after only a few hours in your home, I have my eye on another of your national treasures, and this time I would be willing to pay well over the odds.”
“Which one, may I ask?” said Arabella.
Krantz decided that it was time to move on.
She crept slowly toward the north end of the building, unaware that the massive cornerstones had been an architectural delight to Sir John Vanbrugh; to her they formed perfectly proportioned footholds to the first floor.
She climbed up onto the first-floor balcony in less than two minutes and paused for a moment to consider how many bedrooms she might have to enter. She knew that while there were guests in the house there was no reason to think any of the rooms would be alarmed, and because of the age of the building, entry wouldn’t have caused much difficulty for a burglar on his first outing. With the aid of her knife, Krantz slipped the bolt on the window of the first room. Once inside, she didn’t fumble around for a light but switched on a slimline pen flashlight, which illuminated an area about the size of a small television screen. The square of light moved across the wall, illuminating picture after picture, and although Hals, Hobbema, and Van Goyen would have delighted most connoisseurs’ eyes, Krantz passed quickly over them in search of another Dutch master. Once she had given cursory consideration to every painting in the room, she switched off the torch and headed back to the balcony. She entered the second guest bedroom as Arabella rose to thank Mr. Nakamura for his gracious speech.
Once again Krantz studied each canvas, and once again none brought a smile to her lips. She quickly returned to the parapet, as the butler offered Mr. Nakamura a port and opened the cigar box. Mr. Nakamura allowed Andrews to pour him a Taylor’s 47. When the butler returned to his mistress at the other end of the table, Arabella declined the port, but rolled several cigars between her thumb and forefinger before she selected a Monte Cristo. As the butler struck a match for his mistress, Arabella smiled. Everything was going to plan.
56
KRANTZ HAD COVERED five bedrooms by the time Arabella invited her guests to join her in the drawing room for coffee. There were still another nine rooms left to consider, and Krantz was aware that not only was she running out of time, but she wouldn’t be given a second chance.
She moved swiftly to the next room, where someone who believed in fresh air had left a window wide open. She switched on her flashlight, to be greeted by a steely glare from the Iron Duke. She moved on to the next picture, just as Mr. Nakamura placed his coffee cup back on the side table and rose from his place. “I think it is time for me to retire to bed, Lady Arabella,” he said, “in case those dull men of Corus Steel feel I have lost my edge.” He turned to Anna. “I look forward to seeing you in the morning, when we might discuss over breakfast any ideas you have for developing my collection, and perhaps even your remuneration.”
“But you have already made it clear what you think I am worth,” said Anna.
“I don’t recall that,” said Nakamura, looking puzzled.