Page 10 of When You're Lost

Mary’s mouth pulled tight.“He’s very busy today.A new shipment of works came in, plus we have a private viewing tonight.”

Finn felt a flicker of impatience.“Mary, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.I can call in twenty officers and forensic teams, and we’ll have them crawling all over your gallery.That wouldn’t look good for anyone’s reputation, would it?”He slipped his Home Office ID from his pocket, flashing it just enough to underscore his point.

Mary seemed to shrink slightly, swallowing.“All right.One moment, please.I’ll see if he can spare a few minutes.”

She retreated down the corridor, her footsteps echoing on polished flooring.Finn let out a breath.“Sorry to strong-arm her,” he said quietly to Eleanor.“We do need answers.”

Eleanor crossed her arms.“Do you always threaten people?”

He offered a lopsided grin.“Only when my charm doesn’t do the trick.”

She shook her head, turning her attention to a few framed paintings that lined the foyer's walls.Finn watched her move from piece to piece, leaning in to read the small placards describing each artist and date.Despite her aloof manner, she examined the artwork with sincere interest, her head tilting slightly to capture the details.He had to admit she looked calm and competent despite having been unsettled earlier.

Before Finn could comment, footsteps approached again.Mary led a tall man in a tailored navy suit, neatly combed dark hair shot through with silver at the temples.He wore designer glasses with thin frames.His posture conveyed self-assurance—borderline arrogance—and he had a certain polished handsomeness that might appeal to wealthy patrons.This was Harrison Blackthorn, presumably.

He extended a hand, though his expression remained guarded."Harrison Blackthorn, I understand you're here about Victoria Palmer?"

Finn shook his hand.“Yes, I’m Finn Wright, with the Home Office, and this is Doctor Eleanor Matthews.We’re investigating Victoria Palmer’s death.”

Harrison’s lips parted in a momentary gasp.“But… She was just here a few… This is terrible news!Victoria… What happened to her…?”He trailed off, letting the question dangle, but Finn suspected he wasn’t as clueless as he appeared.

Finn opted for brevity.“She was murdered.”

Harrison’s eyes flickered with something—shock, or perhaps something well-performed.“That’s… appalling.I can’t imagine.”

Eleanor stepped forward.“We’d like more information about her recent work here.She was authenticating a painting, correct?”

“Yes,” Harrison replied, clearing his throat.“A piece we acquired not long ago.We wanted her confirmation before announcing it for display.Unfortunately, she left abruptly, and we never got a final verdict.”

Finn caught the slight twitch at Harrison’s jaw, as though recalling an uncomfortable memory.“Why abruptly?”he asked.

The gallery owner’s mouth thinned.“We had a… disagreement.She suggested it might be a forgery, which, given the funds we’d spent, was not something I wanted to hear.We’d just paid a considerable amount to put it on show soon.Victoria left in frustration, I believe.”

Eleanor nodded.“Would it be possible to see that painting?”

Harrison glanced at Mary, who stood behind him.She gave a small nod, and he sighed.“Fine, follow me.It’s in a private room.”

They trailed him past a series of lit alcoves featuring modern artwork, then down a short hallway to a door marked PRIVATE.Inside was a narrow storage and preparation space with tall easels and racks of paintings.Spotlights on adjustable arms provided focused illumination.A single canvas sat in prominence on a large easel: the piece in question, presumably.

Harrison led them to it.“It’s titledGod’s Hand, the Puppet Master.Allegedly a work of the mid-19th century by Elias Balcombe, an English artist known for dark, philosophical themes.”

Finn eyed the painting.It depicted an enormous white hand descending from the top frame, each finger connected to thin strands that dangled downward, manipulating tiny human figures below.The background was a cloudy, muted sky, and the human figures looked anguished, their arms and legs contorted as if controlled by invisible strings.

“It’s… unsettling,” Finn remarked.

Harrison clasped his hands behind his back.“Precisely why certain collectors like it.Symbolic, thought-provoking.”

“But Victoria suspected a forgery,” Finn prompted.

“Yes.Said some details were inconsistent with the period.We hired another expert who authenticated it afterward, though.So presumably, it’s genuine.”

Eleanor stepped closer, leaning in.The overhead lamp revealed textures of paint, cracks along the canvas.She narrowed her eyes.“Well, I’d suggest you get a third opinion.”She pointed at a patch of bright turquoise in the corner.“That pigment looks suspiciously modern.If this was truly mid-1800s, Balcombe wouldn’t have had access to that particular synthetic dye.”

Harrison’s lips tightened.“Are you questioning our second expert’s credentials, Doctor?”

“I’m questioning the painting,” Eleanor shot back calmly.“And, by extension, the gallery that might be promoting a forged piece.”

Finn watched Harrison’s face darken.“We wouldn’t intentionally display a forgery,” he said.“We’re a reputable institution.And I certainly didn’t threaten Victoria over it, if that’s going to be your next question.”A forced smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

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