Page 77 of Road Trip
“No. But maybe, by the time he painted Lord Philpott, he no longer felt the need to do a first draft.”
“That sounds like a reasonable assumption.” Maeve gave hersister a high-five. “Look at you, turning into a real art historian. This is great, Therese.”
“Wait ’til you see what else I dug up. I searched all through the National Gallery’s database and didn’t find any other DeJongh paintings, which was kind of a letdown, but then I remembered, there are other big art museums in London.”
“Like the Victoria and Albert?” Maeve said.
“Exactly. And guess what? The V and A has three DeJonghs in its collection.”
She’d bookmarked the museum’s index and started reading off the descriptions of the paintings.
“Portrait of Letaetia, Lady Moulthorpe, painted 1910.Two children with puppy, Primrose and Cordelia Simmons, 1899, and lastly,Pencil sketch of a lady, 1882.” Therese clicked on a key and pointed at the computer screen. “Guess who the lady is?”
The likeness was unmistakable. The subject of the sketch had to be Lady Geraldine.
“It’s her,” Maeve said, unable to take her eyes away from the sketch.
“Right? All of this, together, proves our portrait is the original, real deal. The painting that was auctioned off has to be the one the IRA stole, and it’s got to be a study, because that’s how DeJongh worked.”
Therese jumped off the bed and did a creditable version of an Irish jig. “And that means our finished painting of Lady G has got to be worth way more than the study that sold for one point two million.”
She flopped backward onto the bed and kicked her arms and legs in the air. “We’re rich, Maeve!”
“Maybe.”
Therese glared. “What the fuck does that mean? I should have known you’d find a way to piss on my parade. Can’t you, for once, trust my instincts?”
Maeve instantly regretted her word choice.
“I do trust your instincts,” she said. “And you’re right, it does look like our portrait is the real deal. But remember what Wyllona told you when you showed her our portrait? For a painting as potentially valuable as this, we have to be able to authenticate the chain of custody. And that’s going to be dicey.”
“We have Kathleen’s letters to her brother, telling him that the painting was given to her by Lady Delia,” Therese said. “That should be good enough.”
“Hey,” Maeve said, her voice softening. “I’m on your side, remember?
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Therese snapped.
“Okay, here’s the issue. Now, don’t shoot the messenger, but our great-grandmother’s name is still notorious in these parts. The first time I mentioned Kathleen’s name to Liam, when he and his cousin Maddie were showing me around the home farm? They exchanged this funny look. I finally asked him about that last night, and he informed me that local legend has it that Kathleen was a murderer and a thief.”
“That’s crazy,” Therese protested.
“According to Liam, the Rossingtons were the local equivalent of the Kennedys—rich, powerful, connected. They owned everything around this village, and they were not universally liked. Lord Rossington was an Englishman who only bought the manor house in the late 1860s. But Lady Delia was universally beloved; she founded a hospital, donated the money to build the local library, and, of course, took in a poor village girl to be raised and educated with all the privileges of the wealthy. As far as the locals were concerned, Kathleen was an ungrateful, murderous thief, who fled the country after robbing the family that took her in out of the goodness of their hearts.”
“The locals don’t know what we know,” Therese replied hotly. “That their darling married Lord Rossington seduced an innocent teenaged village girl and knocked her up. Kathleen was one of theirs, whether they like it or not.”
“Not according to Esme Rossington, whom I happened to meetat the Willow Tree when I was there with Liam last night,” Maeve said.
“You met Esme? Did you ask about the portrait?”
“I didn’t get a chance. The first thing she said when she met me was that I was a pushy American, and the last thing she said, as Liam and I were dropping her off at her cottage, was that I should stop ‘mucking about’ in things that didn’t concern me.”
“Why were you and your boyfriend giving Esme Rossington a ride? Doesn’t she drive?”
“Her pal Reggie, whom Liam described as her jack-of-all-trades, passed out drunk in the bathroom, and I suggested we should take her home, thinking a good deed might make her a little less antagonistic toward me.”
“Didn’t work, huh?”
“She warmed up to Liam, because she liked his late mother, but she was cold as ice to me, especially after I mentioned Kathleen’s name. So it’s still the same old story. Kathleen’s word against the Rossingtons’. And there’s nobody left alive who can prove Kathleen was innocent.”
