The Old Painting
Uncle Cedric had always been a very dear friend and, although he was eighty-five when he passsed away, his death came as a great shock. He lived life to the full, was a great favourite with the children, and loved animals. He often accompanied me to watch county cricket matches, was fit enough to ride a bicycle, and indulged in long country walks. In spite of his age, he was a young man at heart, and there was an element of fun and mischief in his behaviour, including a tendency to play practical jokes. It was no surprise therefore, when this sense of humour extended to certain aspects of his will. In particular, he insisted on this being read within a week of his funeral at the local pub, with a condition that all the 'mourners' should raise their glasses in a toast to his memory and sing "For he's a jolly good fellow."
Cedric was a man of considerable means, and the solicitors, having assembled the beneficiariles, proceeded clause by clause to indicate his wishes. As he never married and had no descendants to worry about, he distributed the main body of his estate equally between six of his nearest relatives, including myself. This part of his fortune had been valued somewhere in the region of £3 million, but he claimed to have a residue of some £2.5 million which, for reasons best known to himself, would become available to any member of the family who could find it, and was not restricted to named beneficiaries.
There were gasps of disbelief when this clause was read out, and although the will was supposed to contain a number of pointers to it's whereabouts, the only clue I managed to pick up on was a vague reference suggesting that it might be hidden in a work of art. Knowing Uncle Cedric as we did, it was very clear that he wanted us to compete among ourselves for the remaining "Treasure" and was having a last little bit of fun at our expense.
Strange as it my seem, Cedric was never a man to flaunt his wealth. He had a beautiful, well furnished country house with extensive grounds, a rather ancient but elegant Rolls-Royce, a productive small holding and a few acres of woodland, all cared for by an estate manager. He did not go in for art treasures, although he had one rather nice portrait of a young army officer, and collected first edition proofs of some very important book publications. It was a condition of his will that the estate (excluding the £2.5 million residue), should be sold at auction and the procesds shared equally among the beneficiaries. If we wanted any of his possessions for ourselves, we were to bid for them in the usual way.
The auction day soon came, and I had made up my mind that the most likely repository for clues to his residual fortune was the old portrait and decided to bid for it. Before doing so, I took advice from an art dealer who valued it at £800 with a possible ceiling of £1,500 for somebody who might have a strong sentimental attachment. The sale was organised in the local village hall, the picture being No.15 on the list. The auctioneer started the bidding at £500 and progressed in £100 increments., My belief that the picture was indeed the clue to the fortune was strengthened when the bidding quickly passed through the £5,000 barrier, myself and one other person being the only contenders.
The contest went relentlessly on with gasps of disbelief from a fascinated public, reaching a staggering £10,000 before I decided to 'Bow out.' Clearly, my opponent's conviction was stronger than mine, since there was no hesitation in keeping one step ahead of mne. Because of the strength of my bidding, the auctioneer seemed a little surprised at my sudden withdrawal and hesitated for a few seconds before brining the hammer down. "Sold to 'The gentleman in grey' at the back," he barked, and quickly moved on to the next item.
Without hesition, I made my way to the back of the hall, hoping to make contact with my opponent, but he had completely disappeared. My approaches to the organisers also drew a blank. They would only indicate that the bidding had been undertaken by an agent 'on behalf of clients' and that they were forbidden to release any details other than the agent's name; a local firm called C.J. Rothchild which specialised in antiques. The fact that the bidder had gone to great lengths to cover his tracks, and had been prepared to risk such a large sum of money for a painting of meodest value, convinced me that one of the other beneficiaries had followed my line of thought. However, there was a possibility that we were both wrong and I was not prepared to give up my interest in the 'Treasure'.
It seemed to me that the first move in my quest was to try and find out who had made such an aggressive bid, and to establish how much they already knew. With this in mind, I decided on a process of elimination. Aunt Effi was the first on my list. She was Cedric's only surviving sister and two years his junior. Like Cedric, she was full of fun and comfortably off but never gave me the impression that she was the slightest bit interested in his money or possessions. In any case, I reasoned that she was far too old to partake in a potentially stressful treasure hunt.
Of the remaining beneficiaries (two nephews and two nieces), Henry was my chief suspect. He had a good job in the city and was already a millionaire. As the will was being read, he was overheard making some rather offensive remarks about Uncle Cedric and clearly felt that the bulk of the estate should have gone to him. His brother, Norman, had recently become a minister in the church and apart from an interest in Cedric's book collection, seemed content with his current share of the estate. He was a deeply religious man and, in my view, unlikely to have put in a bid.
Agnes, the daughter of Cedric's late brother, was a little difficult to fathom but she struck me as a very determined lady who would not let the opportunity of a fortune pass her by. Nellie (Agnes''s sister), was a very attractive lady in her mid forties, more interested in catching a man than chasing a fortune. She was charming but somewhat scatter-brained and probably did not give the picture a second thought.
Taking all these factors into account, the most likely bidders apart from myself were Henry and Agnes, and I decided to try and pump them for information. This would have to be undertaken quickly as they had booked into a local hotel for a few days to cover proceedings relating to the will and were scheduled to depart the following morning. Dinner at my expense seemed the obvious ploy, and on contacting them at the hotel, they seemed happy to accept. No mention being made of the reason I wanted to see them. The evening was surprisingly pleasant, but try as I might, niether gave any indication of knowing where the picture was. In fact, I gained a clear impression that they did not think it had anything to do with uncle Cedric's 'Treasure', and Henry thought I had taken leave of my senses in bidding such a high figure.
By the end of the evening I was convinced that both he and Agnes were not involved. Having drawn a complete blank with Agnes and Henry I was virtually back to square one, and had to consider a completely new approach. Rothchilds certainly knew where the picture was and if I could somehow persuade them to give me detalls, the rest would be easy. However, they were not permitied to release the information, and I did not want to declare my continuing interest and risk attracting other 'speculators'. It seemed to me that the only way of overcoming this impasse was to hire the services of a detective agency. I had no knowledge or experience of such agencies and was obliged to make use of local business directories, where I picked out an organisation which specialised in the gathering of intelligence. I telephoned and was given an appointment for the following morning.
The agency had a smart office block in the centre of town, and on entering the premises I was shown into a small but functional interview room overlooking the river. In less than five minutes a tall, attractive lady in her mid thirties entered and introduced herself as Sandra Higham, the firm's chief investigator. We had a brief discussion on the nature of the problem, and she agreed to undertake the assignment on a clear understanding that her involvement would not be made known to any third party, and that it's sole purpose would be to obtain the name of the painting's new owner. I was advised that a down payment of £250 would be required and that if all went well, the final cost (subject to a satisfactory conclusion) might be in the region of £1,000. I agreed to this and was told that the investigations would begin within a few days.
It was less than a week from the time of my interview that Sandra telephoned to say she had secured the name of the person I was looking for. "That was quick work" I enthused, "Who is it?" "It's Effi," she said., "Who?" I repeated in astonishment, "It can't be!" "I can assure you it is," said Sandra. "There's absolutely no doubt about it, she is the new owner of the picture." It took some time for the significance of Sandra's message to sink in. How could dear sweet old Effi be interested in Cedric's 'Treasure'? It just did not make sense. She had no need of the money, and I could think of no other reason for her to compete. Why had she gone to such great lengths to secure the picture, and why so secretively? There must be a reason and I had to find out.
I turned things over in my mind for a day or two before making an approach. I instinctively felt that this was not going to be easy, and I did not want to hurt her feelings. It crossed my mind that it might be better for sombody else to broach the subject, but I dismissed the idea. It just had to be me! By far the best time to tackle Effi on any delicate issue was a Sunday morning after church. She was always in a relaxed frame of mind, and much more inclined to be philosophical. On this particular Sunday, a light dusting of snow had fallen and I had made up a cosy open fire in her sitting room. She sat down in her favourite arm chair and I made her a cup of tea. We talked about the service and had a laugh about the vicar's sermon. She seemed at peace with the World. It was now or never, and I casually mentioned the picture.
"What made you pay so much for it Auntie?" I enquirsd gently. "How did you k-n-o-w?" she stoppsd abruptly and her face turned a shade of pink. "Oh dear!" she said, "I've given the game away, haven't I?" "Not really, Auntie," I replied, "I'm just upset that I pushed you so hard in the bidding but I didn't know it was you." Effi thought for a moment. "I didn't know it was you either!" she said, "But I would have gone a lot higher if I had to, that picture is very important to me and it has great sentimental value."
She told me that it was the only portrait of David Kerans, her late husband, who served as a doctor with the R.A.M.C. and had been tragically killed in a road accident two days after they were married. I chipped in at this point, "Oh Auntie!" I said, "I'm so sorry, I didn't know." "Of course you didn't!" she said "But there's much more to it than that. You see that picture contained hidden papers and information about Uncle Cedric."
She went on to explain that he was an officer in the secret service and had been involved in counter-espionage. Although he had been retired for more than thirty years, his activities were still covered by the Official Secrets Act. The government had warned him that members of the family (even after his death) could be in danger if any of the papers or information got into the wrong hands. "But why did Uncle Cedric have the painting and not you?" I enquired.
"Well, David and Cedric were very close," she said. "David lost his mother and father when he was a baby and he lived with us until he went into the army. That picture was given to your Uncle long before we decided to get married, and long before he went into the secret service. He used it as a hiding place for his papers because he thought it would be the last place that anybody would look. It was intended that I should have it when Cedric died but he forgot to mention it in the will and it had to be auctioned."
Effi reflected for a moment and then turned to me. "Well dear!" she said, "I've told you my story. Now perhaps you'll tell me why you pushed me so hard at the auction?" "It was the clause in Uncle Cedric's will regarding the residue of his estate." I replied. "That document left a number of pointers suggesting that a work of art might hold the key, and the painting seemed an obvious place to look." Effi threw back her head and laughed. "You weren't taken in by that old fraud were you?" She teased. "There is no residue to the estate: He put that in for a bit of fun. It was just one of Cedric's practical-jokes."
