On the journey back to King’s Cross, she went over her plans for the next few days. She would first have to dispose of any other valuables she still had and be on her way to Heathrow before any of her creditors were aware that she had, to quote her friend Bofie Bridgwater, done a bunk. As for Desmond Mellor, by the time he got out of prison, she would be the least of his problems, and Virginia was confident he wouldn’t consider pursuing her halfway round the world for a few thousand pounds.
Virginia was grateful for Sir Edward’s advice. After all, it would be difficult for anyone to serve her with a writ if they didn’t know where she was. She’d already told Bofie she would be spending a few weeks in the South of France, to throw everyone off the scent. She didn’t give a passing thought to what would become of Freddie. After all, he wasn’t her child.
Soon after arriving back at her flat, Virginia was pleased to receive a telephone call from her distant cousin, confirming that a chauffeur would meet her at the airport and then drive her to his estate in the country. She liked the words chauffeur and estate.
Once Virginia had cashed Mellor’s cheques, cleared her bank account and purchased a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires, she set about the long process of packing. She quickly discovered just how many of her possessions, not least her shoes, she couldn’t live without, and reluctantly accepted that she would have to buy another large suitcase. A short walk to Harrods usually solved most of her problems, and today was no exception. She managed to find a trunk with a dent in the side, and agreed to take it off their hands for half price. The young salesman hadn’t noticed the dent before.
‘Be sure to deliver it to my home in Chelsea,’ she instructed the hapless assistant, ‘later this morning.’
A green-coated doorman opened the door and touched the peak of his cap as Virginia stepped out on to the Brompton Road.
‘Taxi, madam?’
She was about to say yes when her gaze settled on an art gallery on the other side of the road. Crane Kalman. Why did she know that name? And then she remembered.
‘No, thank you.’ She raised a gloved hand to stop the traffic as she made her way across the Brompton Road, wondering if she could pick up another two or three hundred pounds for Mrs Mellor’s old pictures. As she entered the gallery a bell rang and a short man with thick, wiry hair bustled up to her.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ he asked, unable to hide his mid-European accent.
‘I was recently in Salford, and—’
‘Ah, yes, you must be Lady Virginia Fenwick. Mr Wilks rang to say you might come in if you were interested in selling the late Mrs Mellor’s art collection.’
‘How much are you willing to offer?’ asked Virginia, who didn’t have a moment to waste.
‘Over the years,’ said Mr Kalman, who didn’t appear to be in any hurry, ‘Mrs Mellor acquired eleven oils, and twenty-three drawings from the local rent collector. Perhaps you were unaware that she was a close friend of the artist? And I have reason to believe—’
‘How much?’ Virginia repeated, aware of how little time she had before she needed to leave for Heathrow.
‘I consider one eighty would be a fair price.’
‘Two hundred, and you have a deal.’
Kalman hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘I would agree to that, my lady, and even go to two thirty, if you were able to tell me where the missing painting was.’
‘The missing painting?’
‘I’m in possession of an inventory of all the works the artist sold or gave to Mrs Mellor, but I haven’t been able to locate the Mill Lane Industrial Estate, which she gave to her son, and wondered if you had any idea where it is.’
Virginia knew exactly where it was but she didn’t have the time to travel down to Bristol and pick it up from Mellor’s office. However, one phone call to his secretary and it could be dispatched to the gallery immediately.
‘I accept your offer of two hundred and thirty, and will make sure that the painting is delivered to you in the next few days.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Kalman, who returned to his desk, wrote out a cheque and handed it over.
Virginia folded it, dropped it in her handbag and gave the gallery owner an ingratiating smile, before turning and walking back out on to the Brompton Road and hailing a taxi.
‘Coutts in the Strand,’ she instructed the driver.
She was considering how she would spend her last night in London – Bofie had suggested Annabel’s – when the taxi drew up outside the bank.
‘Wait here,’ she said, ‘this shouldn’t take long.’
She entered the banking hall, hurried across to one of the tellers, took out the cheque and passed it across the counter.
‘I’d like to cash this.’
‘Certainly, madam,’ said the cashier before catching his breath. ‘I presume you mean you’d like to deposit the full amount in your account?’
‘No, I’ll take it in cash,’ said Virginia, ‘preferably fives.’
‘I’m not sure that will be possible,’ stammered the cashier.
‘Why not?’ demanded Virginia.
‘I don’t have ￡230,000 in cash, my lady.’
‘She’s willing to make an offer?’ said Ellie May. ‘But I thought she was penniless?’
‘So did I,’ admitted Lord Goodman. ‘I have it on good authority that she was cut out of her father’s will and her only income is a modest monthly allowance supplied by her brother.’