Eventually Mrs Pargeter inclined her head, gracefully accepting their apologies.
“All we were really saying,” said Truffler Mason plaintively, “is that if Inspector Wilkinson’s sniffing around you, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“Thank you.” But the puzzlement hadn’t entirely left Mrs Pargeter’s innocent face. “I can’t imagine why it took you so long to tell me that.” She smiled easily, letting them off the hook. “Now, did you say HRH and I were going to see Palings Price tomorrow…?”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Nineteen
They were once again in the back room of ‘DENZIL PRICE INTERIORS’. Propped up on a minimalist steel chair was the Rubens that the thieves had left at Chastaigne Varleigh. Against the wall stood the two minor Madonnas which had also escaped abduction. The rich colours of the paintings spoiled the room’s monochrome image, but the designer didn’t seem to mind.
Mrs Pargeter and Hamish Ramon Henriques looked on in respectful silence while he made his expert assessment.
An expression of almost gastronomic relish played around Palings Price’s mouth as he gazed at the painting. He wasn’t quite licking his lips, but very nearly.
“Now this is very beautiful…” he murmured.
“Yes…” Mrs Pargeter agreed mistily. She had felt a great warmth for the fake Rubens in VVO’s studio, but the sight of the real thing was even more potent. The painting’s voluptuous flesh glowed down the centuries and found a welcoming glow in her own voluptuous flesh. Like called to like. Mrs Pargeter felt a sudden pang of sorrow that her husband was dead. The late Mr Pargeter would have really responded to that painting. It embodied everything he had ever looked for in a woman.
Maybe it was the conversation with Truffler and Hedgeclipper at Greene’s Hotel the evening before that had set her mind on the track, but she found she’d been thinking a lot about her husband that morning. Not morbid thoughts. No, rather she had a little bubble of excitement inside her, gratitude for the wonderful years that they’d had together, and a great sense of well-being. The last shadow of disappointment about the failure to get the paintings from Chastaigne Varleigh had passed. Now she felt entirely confident that Veronica Chastaigne’s request would be fulfilled, and it was stimulating to be a part of the operation that would fulfil it. Mrs Pargeter felt free and irresponsible, almost skittish.
“One of the best examples of Rubens’s mature period,” Palings Price was saying. “The model was his second wife Helene Fourment.”
“It’s stunning,” Mrs Pargeter agreed. “My husband would really have loved it.”
“Why particularly?” asked HRH.
“Well, obviously, because he liked his women – ” But no. She checked herself. That was private. “This was the sort of thing he liked,” she concluded lightly.
“Oh. Right.”
Mrs Pargeter felt the need to move the conversation hastily on. “Where was it stolen from?”
“Pantheon Gallery, Berne. In 1982,” said Palings Price. He pointed to the Madonnas. “Those two were taken at the same time. Big fuss when it happened. All over the international press.”
“I’ll bet it was.”
HRH ran a thoughtful hand through his splendid moustache. “Odd that the three paintings the thieves left at Chastaigne Varleigh should be from the same haul…”
“Yes.” Mrs Pargeter seized on the thought. “Suggests they knew quite a lot about what they were dealing with.”
But Palings Price, who was after all an expert in these matters, was unconvinced. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Could just be coincidence.”
“Hmm.” Mrs Pargeter sighed a contented little sigh. “We’ll probably know more when Truffler’s tracked down the rest of the stuff that was stolen.”
“You sound very confident that he’ll find it.”
“Well, of course he will, Palings. Truffler’s the best in the business, isn’t he?”
“That’s true.”
Mrs Pargeter looked again at the paintings. “Well, at least we’ve got these three, so we can make a start. Do you reckon there’s going to be any problem getting these back to where they came from, HRH?”
The travel agent’s magnificent mane of white hair shook confidently. “No. Berne’ll be easy. Fritzi the Finger’s based in Salzburg. Your husband got him out of a few spots. He’ll be honoured to help, won’t he, Palings?”
“Absolutely. This sort of job’s meat and drink to him, anyway.”
HRH was thoughtful for a moment. “No, the only problem will be finding a courier to get the goods out of this country…”
“Couldn’t I do that?” Mrs Pargeter volunteered eagerly.
It was just her skittish mood of the morning finding expression, but the suggestion clearly shocked Hamish Ramon Henriques. There was a strong tone of disapproval in his voice as he said, “I wouldn’t want you to put yourself at any risk, Mrs Pargeter.”
“Besides,” the gallery owner interposed, “smuggling old masters is actually a criminal activity…”
“Oh yes.” She was properly contrite. “Sorry, I got carried away there.”
Palings Price continued to spell out the situation for her. “And you’ve never been personally involved in anything illegal, have you?”
An innocent blush suffused her cheeks at the very idea. “Good heavens, no,” said Mrs Pargeter.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Twenty
The studio of VVO still looked as cluttered, but this time Mrs Pargeter was aware of how hygienic all of its clutter was. Having met the houseproud Deirdre Winthrop, she could no longer believe in the reality of the husband’s bohemianism. The studio now appeared to her like a stage set, its dust neatly scattered, its cobwebs recently sprayed on. Even the splashes and splodges of paint on every surface no longer looked random; their exact positioning and their precise level of exuberance had been carefully calculated.
Since his last encounter with Mrs Pargeter and HRH, VVO had been busy – though not as busy as he’d have had to be if all the pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh had been saved. The fruits of his labour were there to be seen, but this time there was no fake Rubens flesh to excite charming comparisons. What VVO had been busy on was his own work, the kind of paintings which he believed he had been placed on this earth to produce.
“Oh dear,” thought Mrs Pargeter, as she looked at the latest creations. There were three of them. In one a lamb with a watermelon grin, wearing a pink bow whose wingspan would not have shamed a jumbo jet, cavorted in front of a quaint windmill. On the second, two lovable ducklings skidded hopelessly on an icy lake, trying to catch up with the mother and the rest of her family procession. And in the third – returning to one of the artist’s favourite themes – a winsome Scottie dog in a natty little tartan coat circled a blossom-laden tree, from whose branches a fluffy white pussy cat grinned down cheekily.
Two of the paintings were already fixed into aluminium frames, and VVO was easing the Scottie dog into the third. Empty, propped against the wall, stood the finely wrought wooden frames of the Rubens and the two Madonnas.
“There,” said VVO, as he screwed the last crosspiece into position at the back of the canvas.
Palings Price looked admiringly at the framed Scottie. “Great. And no one would ever know there was a Rubens under that piece of…” Discretion intervened and his words trailed away.
“Under that piece of what?” asked VVO suspiciously.
“Under that piece of very fine modern painting,” said Mrs Pargeter, ever the conciliator. “I think is what Palings was about to say, isn’t that right?”