A Thief in the Night Read Free

Septimus Society, calling out the name of Lord Lenham-Cawde. Grey-haired heads turned and voices from deep in the comfortable leather armchairs shushed and tutted at the intrusion butting into their accustomed silence like a peal of bells at early morning.
    ‘There you are, George. By God you’re a hard man to find!’ Basson said, peering around the wing of Lord George Lenham-Cawde’s chair, where the young peer was deep in reading the Daily Graphic .
    ‘My dear Simon, how good to see you, though I was trying to concentrate on the law reports.’ Lord George stood, towering above Basson, who was square and solid and of middle height, a rugger blue at college. They shook hands and Lord George pointed across to the sofa where his friend sat, enjoying scones and tea.
    ‘You never met Harry Lacey, did you Simon? Harry, this is Sir Simon Basson, at Cambridge with me. Good scholar and a capital batsman.’
    ‘No; pleased to meet you Harry.’
    Professor Lacey was round and short, a man who enjoyed his food and drink and who was constantly ribbed and tormented by Lord George about his attempts to lose some weight.
    ‘Glad to meet you, Sir Simon … I’ve had not a word from George since he was immersed in the crime stories. All he wants to talk about today are the habitual criminals supposedly teeming in the streets.’
    ‘Well, that’s exactly right, and it’s why I’ve come to see you. One of these blackguards has been busy taking me for a fool … and he’s succeeded.’ Basson sat down, put one hand on the table to support himself and gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m finding it hard to feel pleasant in the social world as I’ve just discovered that I’ve been duped, robbed absolutely. This rogue in a rather loud suit has bilked me, George, done me for almost a thousand pounds!’
    Lord George ordered some brandy and sat down next to his friend, trying to console him. ‘Now Simon, when you’re ready, please tell me more.’ George stretched his long legs out, took out a cigarette and sat back, looking intently at his friend’s face. Looking back at George, Simon saw someone who was in every way composed, confident and assured. Here was a man in his late thirties, a former army man, sitting there with his short, rich black hair and that dark moustache, elegantly posed, smoking and allowing his wonderfully acute brain to set to work. He knew he had come to the right man for help. ‘Come on Simon, as the great playwright said, give us a round, unvarnished tale,’ he said, and Simon found the words.
    ‘I bought a painting from this rogue … and it’s a fake, George.’
    ‘Now how do you know the thing is a fake, my dear Simon? In all our time together as students, I knew you as a sensible, rational cove, not easily taken in…’
    ‘Hah! Well I have been. It was at the Matchdown auction rooms I met this crook. Thought all was well, then last night – as you may know I was giving a dinner in my rooms in the very heart of Marylebone for Sparrow Warburton’s new book of poems and all the aesthetic types came you know – and there I was, mine host, cheery, and trying my best to hold a conversation about Turner … I even had that chap Grossmith there to play the piano for us … such a droll type … anyway I was going on about painting and showing off my new acquisition when this little chap tugs at my sleeve and, pointing to my new watercolour, he says, “Sorry to say, Sir Simon, but this picture here … this is no F.W. Canlon I’m afraid.”
    ‘All heads turned to the picture. Then followed a lecture by this little man – some kind of lecturer I believe – as to why the pretty landscape with Lincoln Cathedral was the work of a very clever forger!’
    Harry wiped his mouth clear of crumbs with a napkin, sipped the last of his tea, and said, ‘Canlon … very collectable. All his best work is Lincolnshire. Beyond my pocket though. Did he paint your place, George? George’s family seat is near Horncastle,