Christina stifled a laugh.
‘Yes, of course, sir.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t Mike Harrison you should be having this lunch with?’ asked William once the waiter had left them.
‘Quite sure. If anything were to go wrong, I need to know the cavalry are on my side, not just a former foot soldier.’
‘Then perhaps you should have asked Commander Hawksby to lunch.’
‘If I had,’ said Christina, ‘Miles would have known about it before they’d served coffee, and then I would have had no chance of pulling off my little coup.’
‘But why me?’
‘If Miles is told I was seen having lunch with a good-looking young man, he’ll assume we’re having an affair, because that’s how his mind works. And as long as you can convince your boss I’m not Mata Hari, there’s a good chance the Fitzmolean will get their Rembrandt back, and I don’t mean a copy.’
William wanted to believe her, but Lamont’s words, that woman’s up to something, lingered in his mind. ‘And what would you expect in return?’ he asked.
‘As I’m sure you know, my husband flew off to Monte Carlo last week with his latest tart, and I’ll be instructing Mr Harrison to gather enough evidence to initiate divorce proceedings.’
So Jackie saw that coming, thought William.
‘I also need to know where he is night and day during the next month.’
‘Why is that so important?’ asked William, as a plate of wafer-thin smoked salmon was placed in front of her, while he was served with cod and chips, not in a newspaper.
‘I’ll come to that in a moment,’ said Christina, as another waiter refilled her glass with champagne, and poured half a pint of bitter into a crystal tumbler for her guest.
‘But first I have to let you know what I have in mind for Miles, whom I assume you despise as much as I do.’
William tried to concentrate, knowing that the commander would expect a verbatim account of what Mrs Faulkner had said from the moment she’d arrived to the moment she left.
‘Do you know the great Shakespearean actor Dominic Kingston?’
‘I saw his Lear at the National last year,’ said William. ‘Quite magnificent.’
‘Not as magnificent as his wife’s recent performance.’
‘I didn’t know she was an actress.’
‘She isn’t,’ said Christina, ‘but she does give the occasional performance that brings the house down.’ William stopped eating. ‘It turns out that Mrs Kingston knew her husband’s theatrical routine whenever he was performing, down to the last minute, and took advantage of it. I intend to do the same. When Kingston was playing Lear at the National, he followed a routine that never varied. He would leave his home in Notting Hill around five in the afternoon, and be in his dressing room at the theatre by six, giving him more than enough time to transform himself into the ageing king before the curtain rose at 7.3
0.
‘The first half of the show ran for just over an hour, and the curtain came down on the second half around 10.20. After taking his bow, Kingston would return to his dressing room, remove his make-up, shower and change before being driven back home to Notting Hill, where he was dropped off around 11.30. So, from the moment he left the house, to the moment he got back home was over six hours. More than enough time.’
‘More than enough time for what?’ asked William.
‘One Thursday evening, just after six,’ continued Christina, ‘three removal vans turned up outside Mr Kingston’s home and left five hours later, by which time every stick of furniture and, more importantly, his celebrated art collection, had been removed. So when Mr Kingston arrived home at 11.30, he found the cupboard was literally bare.’
‘Would you care for another drink, sir?’ asked the wine waiter.
‘No, thank you,’ said William, not wanting her to stop.
‘I’m grateful to Mr Kingston,’ continued Christina, ‘because I intend to create even more devastation for Miles, and, more importantly, I’ll have seven days, not seven hours, in which to carry out my little subterfuge.’
‘Why do you need seven days?’ asked William.
‘Because like Mrs Kingston, I know exactly what he has planned for the next month. On December 23rd, he intends to dump the tart and give her a one-way ticket back to Stansted, before he flies on to Melbourne to spend Christmas with some of his more dubious friends. On December 26th, he’ll be sitting in a box watching the opening day of the second Test match, so the earliest he could possibly return to Monte Carlo or England is December 31st. While he’s engrossed in a cricket match on the other side of the world, I’ll be packing up all of his most valuable paintings in Monte Carlo and shipping them to Southampton. I’ll then return to England and carry out the same exercise at Limpton Hall. By the time he gets home, his treasured art collection will consist of just one picture: the copy of the Rembrandt.’