Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 34

March 13, 2020 Friday

Sister rubbed her watering eyes. “Blurred. Well, pollen is starting.”

“It’s all that reading.” Gray sat at the kitchen table, where she had moved her books and her inexpensive computer, which she rarely used. Her research project took over the room.

Golly, at that moment, jumped up on the table, pushing newspaper articles onto the floor. “Whee.”

“Golly, you’re insufferable.” Sister got up to fetch the papers before the dogs walked over them or before Golly, in a moment of wickedness, jumped off and tore the paper to shreds. She lived to tear paper. Good thing she didn’t live with the Franklins.

“There.” Sister placed the cut-out newspaper articles in a pile.

“With all this material you must have reached some conclusion.” Gray had helped her find some items.

“I have.” She looked at him. “Last night I realized art thefts fall into two categories. One is pure profit, well thought out. Impulse thefts, on the other hand, seem to be by people who are unbalanced or think they are righting a wrong, like the theft of the Mona Lisa.”

“And?”

“These thefts fall between both camps.” She held up her hand. “Sounds odd but here’s what I think. Of course, money is the primary motive. Shadowing that is the suicide of Florence Carter-Wood, Munnings’s first beautiful wife. The second was beautiful, too, but made of sterner stuff. All of the thefts involve sidesaddle. There’s a luscious painting, The Morning Ride, painted in 1913, showing Florence sidesaddle on Merrilegs, an elegant bay. She’s elegant, too, in a white jacket and a straw broad-brimmed hat. The marriage was not a success. Munnings was not a particularly sensitive man and she may have suffered from a bit of depression. Hard to say, given the times and the fact that these things were not medically considered. Anyway, she tried to kill herself on her wedding night.”

“Good Lord. What happened next?”

“He continued to paint her, seems to have bumped along, but he said the marriage was never consummated. Anyway, one of Munnings’s best friends, a tall, handsome gentlemanly fellow, Captain Gilbert Evans, liked her, fell for her and loved her. She in turn loved him. Evans left the country in 1914 for Nigeria, the colonial service, feeling this could not go on. He later joined the army, saw action in World War I in West Africa. Retired as a major, returned to Nigeria. She killed herself a few months after Gilbert left. So here’s the thing. The paintings of his second wife are easy to identify. The paintings commissioned for the main subject, usually a wife, are easy to identify. Men love to show off their wives. But other paintings where there are a few women or someone in the background, even racing crowds, it appears to me they resemble Florence.”

“Her image was burned in his brain.” Gray touched his military moustache.

“I think so. As he never mentioned her again the wound cut to the bone. I expect he felt some guilt. For all we know he may have smacked her around, but I truly believe he felt guilt.”

“Did Gilbert and Munnings meet again?”

“Years later Gilbert returned to England with his wife, Joan, twenty-two years his junior, whom he had met in Nigeria. Some event, I forget which. I’m trying to cram all this in. It was pleasant enough. And Munnings did see that Gilbert was given a painting of Florence. But the friendship wasn’t rekindled. The painting gift, that’s a deep gesture. Munnings had to have known that Gilbert was the better man.”

Gray took a deep breath, thought about that. “Two men of different temperaments. Gilbert seems to be the more giving man, able to respond to emotions. I don’t know. The ideas of how men and women behave were different then.” He paused. “But not as different as we would like.”

“True,” Sister agreed.

“Yes. What a sad story. What became of Gilbert’s wife?”

“She outlived him by many years. He died in 1966. She seemed not to have been troubled by Florence. That was long before her time. A wise woman, I think, and a respected and loved one. They had three children. In the end he returned to Cornwall, retired there, and the family was happy. It’s quite a story. There are even descendants, none of whom capitalized on the past.” Sister changed subjects. “There will be only four of us. If you want to ride out tomorrow, do.”

“Think I will,” he replied. “If you’ve been researching art thefts—”

She interrupted. “With your help.”

“A little. I became fascinated by the Isabella Stewart Gardner theft. Saw the museum long before the theft. In my youth. Mrs. Gardner must have been quite a girl. I discovered that on her birthday, April 14, soon to be here, a requiem is still conducted for the repose of her soul. Kind of like royals in Europe.”

“I consider a requiem mass an insurance policy.” Sister laughed. “In college I visited the museum. Loved it. She must have known everybody.”

“The very wealthy often do. For one thing, most of the people who inherit great wealth are given superb educations. I wonder if our thief is well-educated?”

“Could be. But I would think any successful thief, of big stuff, be it art, jewelry, or even in the old days racehorses, possessed a certain ingratiating charm. Like men who marry heiresses.”

“If a man marries a woman with more money than himself, I think, fine. If he marries her for her money I think he’s a bottom-feeder. A man can’t help it if he loves a rich woman but to marry her to live off of her, the worst. Like Rubirosa.” He named a famous gigolo. “Barbara Hutton, Doris Duke, plus a regiment of women for lovers, all beautiful. And the funny thing is, if we’d met him, we’d probably like him.”

Sister grinned. “Apparently he could charm women into a coma. But it was for the most part a superficial set. I’d die of boredom.”

Gray grunted a bit. “You know, back to research. Why don’t you ask Carter about jewel heists? I think people who do things like that may have common personality traits. Just a thought.”

“A good one.”

She got up, walked over to the landline, dialed Carter’s number after checking the hunt club directory.

“Carter.”

“Sister. Sorry to learn the rest of the season was canceled, but it was wise.”

“You’re not yet at your boat.”

“Thought I’d wait a few days to see how all this plays out. Will more restrictions be put into place?”

“I have a question. Can you think of great jewel heists?”

“Hmm. The Hope Diamond was stolen a couple of times. Originally it was the third eye of a Hindu god and pried out. Never a good idea to assault a god. Are you interested in historic jewel cons or thefts or recent ones?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

“Well, one of the most famous was the theft of the English crown jewels by an Irishman, Thomas Blood, 1671. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut, of course, plus how did he come into money? Anyway, he was caught but the funny thing is, King Charles II was amused by his cheek. Pardoned him, gave him an estate in Ireland and a title. Originally, Blood had passed himself off as an aristocrat to the Keeper of the Tower of London and promised to marry his daughter. Once accepted by the family he was curious, he said, about the crown jewels. The poor Keeper showed him, got bashed over the head. Blood ran with the jewels, stuffed under his clothing I think.”

“That’s a good one. Even better for what it says about Charles II. Clearly not a boring man.”

“Of course, no one can match the thefts of the Nazis during the war. They even dismantled the Amber Room in Russia, a room made entirely of amber for Peter the Great. Catherine the Great loved it so much she had it moved to her palace in St. Petersburg. It’s never been found. The Nazis looted everybody and everything, among their other achievements.”

“So some of these were thought out, others maybe more of a daring adventure?”

“I think that applies to any form of major theft.”

“Like the Munnings’s paintings?”

“Perhaps. Profit is always a big motive.”

“Carter, don’t you think, like with the crown jewels, someone will have to show off?”

“Maybe. There was another jewel thief, closer to our time, Murf the Surf, a partier. He eventually threw one party too many, bragged.”

“Would you divide major thefts into purely business or a huge adrenaline rush? Then throwing the cash around?”

He laughed. “Well, maybe some thieves put their gain into a brokerage account. I guess the smart ones.”

“Think Buddy would know about furniture thefts?”

“Yes, but due to the size of the furniture there aren’t as many…unless, of course, you have an army like the Germans. Well, any conquering army. And furniture doesn’t seem to inflame people the same way as jewelry. The great blue diamond is still missing. A Thai gardener stole it from his employer, a Saudi prince. There was murder, diplomatic relations strained between Saudi Arabia and Thailand. Jewelry causes huge problems.”

“Well, someone stole Uncle Ray’s Louis XV desk. Still hasn’t been found.”

“True. But furniture theft is more rare. Then again, maybe you should rummage through Buddy’s storage unit.” He laughed. “Oh, movement is more curtailed in Pennsylvania right now and you’ll never guess what Buddy is doing?”

“You’re right. I won’t.”

“Baking. He wants to bring Kathleen something he bakes when he can next visit.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Buddy’s not much of a talker. He’s a doer and he hopes if he gives her croissants or really fluffy biscuits he might win favor,” Carter declaimed with relish.

“I think he will. You’ve been helpful.”

“You do know a Munnings was stolen from Belle Baruch on July 31, 2003.”

“I don’t know enough. I know she was Bernard Baruch’s daughter, sort of an original, especially for her time.”

“Seventeen art works were stolen. The Munnings was Belle on Souriant III, thirty-nine inches by thirty-six. In 2003 it was worth one million. Belle was a fantastic rider. She commissioned the painting in 1932.”

“I take ‘an original’ meant she was gay?” Sister wryly mentioned.

“Well, I suppose,” Carter replied.

“But wasn’t Belle dead?”

“In 1964. But her sixteen thousand acre estate on the coast, near Georgetown, South Carolina, was left intact as a fundraiser. The art was there. Eleven of the paintings, including the Munnings, were recovered in 2016. Thirteen years later. Quite a story.”

“You tell it well,” she complimented him.

“What are you thinking about the thefts?”

“Money, of course. But I keep circling back to Florence Carter-Wood. I can’t quite tell you why, but I think her shadow is over this. And I think Delores Buckingham figured it out.”

“Ah.” Carter drew out the “ah.” “Who is to say, but it’s an intriguing thought.”

“We’re taking hounds out here tomorrow. Only five of us, plus we’ll be far away from one another. But I want to take hounds out one more time and put all the first-year entry in. It will be the first time they hunt all together.”

“Hope it’s a good hunt. Stay safe.”

“You, too.”