A bell jangled as he opened the door on a large room that smelled of wood polish and money. Trueblood could spend a week here. C. Jasperson knew his stuff. In the middle of the room was a center table with a green marble top on a gilded pediment adorned with putti. To someone else, the piece would have been quite gorgeous, but Melrose couldn’t stand cherub adornments; he had a hard time to keep from kicking them. To his right was a Queen Anne mirrored bookcase he wouldn’t have minded having for Ardry End. Near it was an inlaid walnut writing table on which sat an ormolu tea caddy. Melrose loved to find things inside other things and was delighted to see three little tea caddies nesting inside the big one. He smiled and put the cover back on. Near these pieces was a work table, a porcelain plaque inlaid on its top, the interior mirrored. Vivian would like this. He appeared to be doing his Christmas shopping all over again. As he moved from piece to piece, his eyes traveled over the walls, looking for the painting-or plaque-Agatha had claimed to be like Trueblood’s. He didn’t see it until he’d stepped closer to a little alcove on his left, and there it was. For once Agatha was right. The painting was either of a saint or a monk and could have been a companion piece to Trueblood’s. That this painting too might be a section of Masaccio’s altarpiece was ludicrous.
“Hello.”
The soft voice made him jump. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the Platonic Idea of Grandmother. It was this pink-complexioned, sky blue-eyed, rousingly coral-lipsticked mouth that everyone wanted for a grandmother and nobody ever got. She smiled and looked, well, merry. “Could I help you?”
Melrose made a slight bow. “I’m interested in this. You know, a friend of mine told me he’d found one in Swinton very much like this. Are you Miss Eccleston?”
“Yes, I am. Amy Eccleston. Why, he was here very recently, about two weeks ago it must have been. He was quite taken by that panel. I believe both could be the side panels of a triptych or polyptych. Excuse me for a minute.” The telephone was ringing and she whisked herself away into another room. He spent the odd few minutes studying the so-called Masaccio (as she hadn’t yet called it) and trying to remember what Di Bada had told them about Vasari’s description of the Pisa polyptych in that church in Pisa. St. Jerome? St. Julian? St. Nicholas?
She was back. “I’m sorry. It’s been busy today.”
“Mr. Trueblood is under the impression his is an original Masaccio. Is that what you told him?”
“Oh, my goodness, no.” Her laugh was breathy. “But there’s a possibility it might be. Mr. Jasperson’s been trying to authenticate them. You’re familiar with Masaccio? A fifteenth-century painter of the Italian Renaissance-”
“And is Mr. Jasperson having some success in doing this? What’s the provenance?”
She shook her head. “We don’t know. I found them in a little old church in Tuscany. Of course, I didn’t guess at their value then, but when I brought them into the shop, well, Mr. Jasperson was more than a little astonished.”
“Because they were so valuable?”
“Because they were so divine.”
Turning to the panel, they breathed in a little divinity.
She said, “I’ll tell you what might be possible. Possibly, your friend mentioned that his might be a copy of a panel by Masaccio. On the other hand, they could be panels of the polyptych originally in a church in Pisa. The Santa Maria del Carmine. An altarpiece, most of which was recovered. Part, you see, is still missing.”
That little morsel wafted down as gently as the morning’s snow, as quietly and unobtrusively as a snowflake.
“Then this,” Melrose said innocently, “might be original?”
“I tremble to think.” Her blue eyes widened.
Melrose laughed. “I’m sure you do. Though if you believed it, the panel wouldn’t be selling for-” Melrose fingered the white tag-“two thousand pounds.” He dropped the tag and looked at her.
“No, of course it wouldn’t.”
“At auction how much might it fetch?”
“Oh, heavens, it would be priceless.”
In his mind’s eye, Melrose saw Trueblood clutching his picture, carrying it all over Tuscany. He smiled. “Priceless, I agree.”
In silence, they regarded the panel.
Melrose said, “Now, Miss Eccleston, here’s the thing: that friend of mine believes he possesses something utterly unique. He’s been to Florence to try to authenticate the work. It doesn’t surprise me your proprietor here has had no luck. No one could swear either way. The thing is, though, with this-” Melrose nodded toward the second St. Who “-that if other pieces keep turning up, Mr. Trueblood will be terrifically disappointed, for I’m sure you agree any more panels would seem to dilute the notion of originality, wouldn’t they? To find even one under the circumstances you’ve related appears nearly impossible. And more than that… well…” He shrugged.
She nodded and nodded.
“What I propose is that I purchase this, which would prevent his seeing it and, and, Miss Eccleston, should Mr. Jasperson-or you-come across any other such, you will be so good as to let me know right away. Agreed?”
Oh, she was happy! “Why, yes, of course. Yes.”
Melrose took out his checkbook, slapped it open on the writing table, pushed over the tea caddy and said, “I want this too.”
“Oh,” she said, as if he’d pinched her. “Certainly. That’s three hundred, that is.”
Melrose wrote out a check for twenty-three hundred pounds and ripped it out. “There you are. Now, I’d like you to keep the panel here until I can come and collect it. The thing is, I’m meeting Mr. Trueblood and wouldn’t want him to start asking what’s in the parcel.”
“Delighted, delighted to hold it for you. I’ll just put it in back.”
“I’ll take the tea caddy. You needn’t wrap it.”
She ferried the panel away.
On the way to the door, Melrose hauled off and kicked the putti.
Then he drove back to Long Piddleton; he had shut up Agatha and now he would have to shut up Theo Wrenn Browne.
The bell over the door of the Wrenn’s Nest Bookshop jangled unpleasantly, like a pinched nerve, as if anything coming under the purview of the store’s owner reflected the owner’s temperament.
Melrose waited, tapping his fingers on the counter, looking out of the shop’s bay window at the Jack and Hammer directly across the street. His friends were gathered there, apparently having a merry time. Trueblood, in particular. Theo Wrenn Browne would be waltzing right over there when he saw them in that window seat, eager to impart any unwanted information he had to share about Trueblood’s painting.
“Why, Mr. Plant. What a pleasant surprise!”
Liar.
“Whatever brings you here?”
“Books, oddly enough. Where are your art history books?”
“Art? History?” A finely wrought eyebrow was raised.
“Now, put those two words together, Mr. Browne, and you’ll be very close to what I came in for.” He should, he supposed, be milder, but Browne was such a goddamned fool.
Theo Wrenn Browne tilted his head in the direction of some shelves. “Over here.”
Melrose followed him. The pickings were slim, which didn’t bother Melrose at all, since he didn’t intend to pick anything. What he wanted was to know exactly what Browne knew about the other panel in Jasperson’s shop. Certainly, Browne would be delighted at any opportunity to burst Trueblood’s little balloon.