The woman leaned over me not just leaned, but cast a shadow that swallowed me whole and said,
You dont understand. That portrait isnt merely dear to meits priceless. If anyone spoils it, or, heaven forbid, destroys it, I will die.
I smiled. She was certainly eccentric: younglooking, tall, striking, probably no older than forty, though her passport claimed sixtytwo. Nature had done a fine job of preserving her looks.
Why didnt you go to the police? I asked. Our agency usually tails wayward spouses, after all.
The portrait has no artistic or antique value, but to me its priceless, snapped Anne Whitaker, dropping into the armchair as if shed never consider walking away.
After a moment she added, Ill pay you triple.
I paused. The job was simple: trail the former daughterinlaw, make sure the portrait stayed with her, apply a little pressure and retrieve it amicably. Yet curiosity got the better of me.
What makes this portrait so valuable to you? I asked.
Andrew Ives, Ill tell you, though you may not believe it, Anne sighed.
—
Fortyseven years earlier.
What am I to do, Gran? Katherine wrapped her hands around her face and sobbed, glancing at the frail little Evelyn lying in the bed, growing weaker each day.
I cant help any more, Kate. Im sorry, Gran Ethel whispered, her toothless mouth trembling. Its too late; the earth is already reclaiming your daughter.
Katherine wailed louder, then in a fit of desperation began scratching her own face. Gran Ethel winced, then thought. Shed known Katherine since childhood and felt a pang of pity for the grieving mother.
Alright, dont cry. Theres a way.
Katherine fell silent, eyes fixed on the old woman.
You must find a man who paints Christan iconographer. Hell spend three nights painting a fulllength portrait of your daughter. Pay him exactly one hundred pounds and give the portrait to me; Ill do whats needed. Then youll sell the likeness for fifteen pence to the one who will guard it like the apple of their eye. If the portrait is ruined or destroyed, your daughter will die. And remember, Evelyn must never see the portrait, let alone touch it!
Following Grans instructions, Katherine went to a monastery and commissioned the iconographer. After three nights the cherished portrait was completed and handed to Katherine, who gave it to Gran Ethel, who then sold it for fifteen pence to her sister.
Against all medical expectations, Evelyn soon began to recover, and within months she forgot her illness entirely. Her aunt, Polly Archer, kept the portrait safe in a glassframed case. Evelyn grew up, married, bore two sons, and worked as a schoolteacher.
—
Well, I said with a grin, how did you learn the portrait was stolen?
Oh, its all so dreadful, Andrew Ives! Anne flapped her hands. Olivia, that shameless, penniless wretch, ran off with my Stan. She wouldnt let me see my grandson. She hated me so much she stole the portrait, slipped into my sisterinlaws flatPolly, whos already showing signs of dementiaand took it. Then she rang me, saying she now possessed it and would do whatever I commanded. A mercenary, that one
Anne pressed her lips together, a thin line of anger. Her narrowed eyes crackled like static; the hostility radiated even from a distance. I decided not to probe the roots of the feudnone of my business. The fee was triple, so I set about retrieving the portrait.
—
Locating the portrait didnt take long. Olivia turned out to be an attractive, slight young woman with tight chestnut curls and large brown eyes on a sharp cheekbones. She worked as a district nurse and was often away from home. I could have broken in with lockpicks, but I guessed she wasnt foolish enough to hide the portrait in her flat.
Soon enough my hunch proved right. Olivia frequently travelled to the countryside to visit her parents. I decided it was time to apply pressure and make her reveal where she kept the stolen painting. While watching her, I wondered why I never saw the child Anne claimed Olivia was sheltering from her motherinlaw and exhusband.
The front door swung open and a small, fragile figure appeared in the doorway. I flashed my privateinvestigator badge and said straight to the point,
Good afternoon, Olivia. Im here on behalf of Anne Whitaker. If you hand over her portrait willingly, the police wont learn a thing and well all move on.
Olivia stared, then narrowed her eyes and replied,
So thats how it is The old witch hired a detective. Shes scared, I see. Fine, Ill give you the portrait. One moment
She slipped inside, detached a bunch of keys, walked to a table and slipped something into her pocketsomething I didnt see. She emerged, gestured for me to follow, and walked with a light step toward a derelict shed leaning against the fence. She deftly unlocked the door, flicked a switch, and a single dim bulb sputtered to life. On a shelf among empty pickle jars sat the portrait of a young Anne Whitaker.
A grizzled old man burst from the house,
Olivia! Who are you? What do you want with my daughter?! he roared, his blue eyes blazing, fists clenched, ready to pounce.
I was taken aback. Why such a hostile reaction from a stranger whod never seen me?
Are you from that old hag? the man snarled through clenched teeth.
Yes, dad. Calm down. Hes after the portrait. Ill give it back
Suddenly Olivia seized a hammer from the shelf, swung it, and shattered the glass protecting the canvas. In the same breath she drew a penknife, slashed the painting, and the image of Anne Whitaker was ripped to shreds. I lunged, snatched the knife, but the portrait was already ruined beyond repair.
What have you done?! I shouted.
Olivia snapped the knife from my hand, lifted her chin, and snarled, Even if the tale of the painted life is a lie, let her burn, you monster.
Why do you hate Anne so much? I asked, stunned.
For two years Ive been fighting the courts to get my son back, she whispered, voice trembling. After the divorce, the judge awarded custody to my mother, but Stan, under his mothers influence, claimed the boy belonged to him and snatched him away. He hides him, refuses to return him, and Anne shields him! The police do nothing, saying hes the father and has rights. Im a mother who hasnt seen her child in two years!
She wailed, and I stared at the mutilated portrait, noticing the angry stare still gazing at me. She was a vindictive mother, taking out her pain on the woman who had once cared for her child. Yet my job wasnt done.
Im sorry for your suffering, I said gently. But I must return the portrait to Anne Whitaker.
Take it, Olivia waved, turning away, her thin shoulders shaking with sobs. I felt a pang of pity for her, but I collected the ruined canvas and headed for the car.
—
When I pulled up to Annes house, an ambulance was parked at the gate. I barely stepped out before two doctors, accompanied by a young man, wheeled a stretcher draped in a sheet out of the garden.
The young man saw me and the torn portrait in my hands, said something to the doctors and approached,
So, mum really didnt make this up
He brushed a tear from his cheek and stared horrified at the damaged painting.
Are you Stan? I asked.
No, Im his brother, Boris, the man shook his head. Stans abroad with his son. When did this happen?
Boris nodded toward the portrait.
Half an hour ago, I replied.
He nodded repeatedly, his face hardening.
Mum died half an hour ago. Massive heart attack.
—
A tiny figure burst from the house, likely Olivia spotting my car through the window. The boy who had been silent in the back seat sprang to his feet, flung the car door open and shouted,
Mum!!!
He ran into Olivias arms, arms spread wide, and within seconds was swallowed by his mothers embrace.
I sat there, a foolish smile tugging at my lips, realizing that this was the most valuable payment for my workno triple fee, no extra cash, just the quiet peace of a family reunited.
Sometimes the worth of a job isnt measured in money, but in the simple, priceless moments when a lost heart is finally found.
