Free The Hogarth Conspiracy by Alex Connor Page B

someone had seen him? He was a respected man who moved in the highest circles, a confidant of some of the most important personages in the land. Sir Oliver Peters had always led an exemplary life. Why risk his reputation—and that of his family—on a shortcut home?
    He knew why. Because he had been desperate to get home. Hong Kong was no place for a dying man, and Oliver had been more than glad to leave. But he couldn’t have told Sonia that, because then he would have had to explain everything else. Instead, he had taken the proffered lift and grown more wretched by the minute in that unfamiliar, overheated atmosphere until, unexpectedly, fate had tossed him the Hogarth grenade.
    Yes, his bank had said that morning, there had been a robbery. Several of the safe deposit boxes had been broken into, along with his. They were incredibly apologetic but explained that there had been no way of getting in touch with him. For his own security and wary of any revealing documentation being available, Oliver had given them only his cell number and had forgotten to update them when he had changed it.
    Their relief had been obvious when he had contacted them.
    â€œWe’re very sorry—”
    â€œBut I saw nothing about it in the news.”
    â€œWe’re managing to keep the matter secret, sir.”
    â€œI had only two objects in my safety deposit box. You remember?”
    â€œYes, Sir Oliver. A diamond necklace and a painting, as I remember.”
    â€œHave both been taken?”
    There had been a lift of hope in the man’s voice. “Only the painting, sir.”
    Of course , Oliver thought; the painting had been the only thing the thief had wanted. And then, when he understood the danger of possessing it, he had sold it. To Bernie Freeland. Oliver swallowed, relieved that the inscribed ring had never been stored with the painting, relieved that the other evidence of the royal bastard had not been found. Nor would it be because no one knew where the ring was. Except him.
    â€œYou said that other safety deposit boxes were broken into. Were other customers robbed?”
    â€œNo, sir,” the manager had replied, hoarse with embarrassment. “Only you.”
    Only you . Of course it was only him. The thief had been after the painting, nothing else. And Oliver had a good idea who the thief had been—Guy Manners, the adopted son of one of the wealthiest banking families in Europe. Oliver held his panic in check. Obviously he couldn’t go to the court. No one spoke directly of royal bastards. Such matters were passed over to courtiers to deal with. Like Nathaniel Overton, who had managed the secret and then passed it down to his descendants, who had in turn passed it on to Oliver. Any direct plea for aid from the royals would have been unthinkable. Oliver’s family had served them and managed their secret for generations, as they were expected to. With complete discretion. Even if the royal family did come to hear of the theft, there would be no direct contact; instead, they would expect the matter to be solved without being involved in any way. It was tradition. Rigid, unbroken tradition.
    Sir Oliver Peters was on his own.
    Walking quickly down Marylebone High Street, he tried to shake off a portentous feeling of doom. But the conversation with the bank manager continued to come back to him, crystal sharp.
    â€œDo the police have any leads?” he had asked. “Any idea who took the painting?”
    â€œNo, sir. We’re truly very sorry about this.”
    â€œDid you ever look at the painting?”
    â€œNo, sir!” The manager was genuinely offended. “The safety deposit box was never opened by anyone but yourself. As you know, the picture was always kept in a sealed cylinder. Neither I nor any of my staff have even seen the painting. You always expressly insisted that no one should ever look at the work or handle it.”
    â€œWell, someone managed to