The Triarchs

by Derek Wilson

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

The first case for Tim Lacy, ex-SAS officer, security expert and well-respected figure in the art world, a circle made up of dubious dealers, unscrupulous collectors, fraudsters, crime bosses and bona fide connoisseurs, all in pursuit of the rare, the beautiful and the valuable. Aspiring artist Venetia Granville has just inherited an historic mansion in Wiltshire. Before long she has also acquired a brutally murdered corpse. She turns to Lacy for help and he soon finds out that the victim - an art dealer who was evaluating the house's contents - had discovered a long-lost masterpiece by Raphael called 'The Triarchs', now worth millions and now nowhere to be found. On his mission to recover the priceless canvas, Lacy finds himself attracting the terrifying attentions of criminal gangs who will stop at nothing to protect their interests...

Release date: November 30, 2012

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 440

Sample

The determined beating of rain on the windowless attic roof confirmed that outside there was no let-up in the autumn storm. Within, all was dryness. The dryness of antiquity. The dryness of massive hand-hewn oak and of dust seldom disturbed in four centuries. There was a click, and an almost solid shaft of light probed the gloom.

‘I’ve come better prepared this time.’ The young man stepped through the doorway. The beam from his powerful torch ranged over the miscellany of discarded objects. Utilitarian, fanciful, some grotesque – they had all been at one time or another important in the daily life of the Cranvilles, only to be dismissed as useless by some later generation, then consigned to this cavernous mausoleum.

‘Oh dear, the thought of having to sort this lot out is too depressing for words.’ The woman peered past her visitor, light from a naked bulb on the landing behind making a halo of her fair hair.

‘Well, don’t worry yourself about the pictures. I should be able to separate the wheat from the chaff for you on this visit.’ He directed the beam towards the end wall, where ornate gilded frames gave back a dull gold gleam.

‘Will you be OK? Can I do anything?’

‘No thank you, Miss Cranville. Just leave it to me. I’ll sort out any items that seem interesting, and bring them downstairs so that we can have a closer look. If there’s anything comparable to the one we found last time …’

‘You’re sure about that one?’

‘Well, as I explained in the letter, I’ve got more research to do on it, but the quality is indisputable. So, who knows what other treasures may be lurking here?’ He advanced into the attic.

There were a dozen or more paintings stacked unscientifically, one atop the other, in three piles against the wall. He felt a tingle of excitement as he carefully lifted each one aside, and played his torch over the surface. What would it be? Some eighteenth-century family portrait executed by a provincial hack? An indifferent copy of an old master? Or the genuine article – a long-lost original from the atelier of one of the great Dutchmen or Italians?

Half an hour later he was engrossed in the study of a small picture. It was a Flemish ‘Annunciation’ – that much was obvious. But an original or a copy? The highlights, flesh tones and the silver-grey of Gabriel’s wings, penetrated the discoloured varnish. (Strange about the varnish, he thought. The other one had had just the same coating.) When he turned it over, the oak panel on which it was painted gave every appearance of venerable age. Yes, this one certainly merited close scrutiny.

He lifted the unframed picture to place it carefully on top of the four others he had already selected. As he straightened, he heard – or thought he heard above the drumming of the rain – a soft footfall.

‘Miss Cranville?’

He half turned. Something flashed in the light of the torch. Then his head exploded with sudden pain. He sagged to his knees. The painted panel clattered to the floor. His body fell across it. Again and again the silver candlestick struck the back of his skull. It did not stop until the point of impact was a mess of flesh, bone, hair and blood.

Big Ben chimed 2.45, as Tim Lacy strolled along the Embankment. This was the time he liked London best – at night when he had it to himself. Especially after an evening that had abundantly satisfied all the senses. He had just spent such an evening. The English Opera’s performance of Idomeneo had been both profound and scintillating. Dinner had been well up to Cyrano’s usual superlative standard. The companion upon whom he had lavished these delights had, in her turn, been equally generous. Now, having torn himself from the lady’s enthusiastic embrace, he was enjoying the nocturnal charms of his city.

There was a dank October chill in the air, but Tim wore no topcoat over his thickset frame. Hands deep in pockets, he sauntered across Parliament Square, past the silent black bulk of the Abbey, and turned into Great Smith Street. A couple more blocks and he would be in his warm, comfortable apartment. A glass of the very special Armagnac he kept exclusively for his own consumption would, he assured himself, appropriately round off an excellent day. He crossed the street to enter the familiar Victorian portal, let himself in, and climbed the steps to the first floor.

There was a woman sitting with her back to his front door.

That was the first shock.

The second came when she looked up. Recognition douched his sense of well-being like a bucketful of ice-cold nitric acid.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Venetia Cranville uncoiled stiffly and stood up. She brushed the long hair from her face and stared back unapologetically, almost defiantly.

‘Tim, I don’t like this any more than you do, but I need your help.’

‘“I need. I need.” I seem to have heard those words rather often.’ He tossed his key-ring from hand to hand.

‘Tim, please. Just let me come in and explain.’

He did not move. For several seconds he looked deep into her Judas-blue eyes. Beautiful, as always. He read anxiety and fear in them. Little girl lost, reaching out for acceptance, reassurance, comfort. He had to make an effort to remind himself of the lies those eyes had told during the sixteen months and three days he had been under their spell. He reached past her and jammed the key into the lock.

‘Keep it short.’ He let her precede him into the flat. ‘It’s late and I have to be in Paris by lunchtime.’

‘Business is good, then?’ She sat on the edge of a deep settee and stretched her long legs before her.

Tim subsided heavily into an armchair opposite. ‘Since this is painful for both of us, let’s get it over quickly.’

Venetia nodded. But the words would not come. She had rehearsed them over and over again, ever since she had, reluctantly, decided to throw herself on Tim’s mercy. Now that she was face to face with the familiar, rugged, uncomplicated, no-nonsense scowl of her exlover, baring her soul was suddenly hard and painful. When she did find something to say it was not what she had intended.

‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t such a good idea after all.’

‘Whatever it was, spill it. Then we can both get some sleep.’

It came out in a rush. ‘Tim, I need somewhere to hide – no, rest … stay … get myself together. Oh, I don’t know! I’ve got the police on my back. Oh God, it’s awful. They think I’ve murdered someone.’

‘Well you have – our child. Or had you forgotten?’

Now the blue eyes lasered anger. ‘Not again, Tim. Not now. This is deadly serious.’

‘And aborting my baby isn’t?’

Venetia sprang to her feet. ‘I should’ve known you wouldn’t listen!’

‘You certainly should!’ Tim made no effort to rise. ‘After what we’ve been through, you pitch up here in the dead of night. Unannounced. Looking for a shoulder to lean on. Did you really expect me to say “OK, Venetia, move back in. Let’s go on as if nothing has happened”?’

He gazed at her, trying to catalogue objectively what he saw. She was beautiful; there was no denying that. Beautiful in a distracted, fay sort of way. Her shoulder-length hair straggled in gold wisps, and constantly needed to be pushed back by a fluttering hand. The blue, full-length coat and loosely-knotted scarf seemed to have been donned hurriedly. ‘A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a wantonness.’ Not for the first time, Venetia brought Herrick’s lines to mind. She was a wayward, wilful spirit, and he could not be dispassionate about her. Deep wounds took longer than ten months to heal.

He watched her standing indecisive in the middle of the room, knuckling away her tears. Genuine or for effect? It didn’t really matter. He sighed and shook his head. ‘Sit down and tell me a tale of police and murder.’

She resumed her seat. The story came out jerkily at first, then gathered pace until the words gushed forth incoherently.

‘Three months ago Uncle Ralph died. He was quite gaga towards the end, poor dear. In a nursing home. He hated it.’

Tim reflected that Uncle Ralph had probably never been what anyone would call ‘sane’. He remembered that spectral figure with the gaunt face and shambling gait, who insisted on being known as ‘Rafe de Cranville’, showing him round his magnificent Wiltshire home. Tim loved the cream stone and jumbled roofs of the part-Plantaganet, part-Tudor mansion. He loved the way it still dominated its downland hollow, as it had done for well over four centuries. He was sorry to hear that the old house had now lost its dedicated caretaker.

‘So you became the proud owner of Farrans Court?’

Venetia pouted. ‘Yes. He kept his promise – or, rather, his threat. He left the ghastly place to me – the “last of the Cranvilles”.’

Tim, whose ancestors had never even risen to the rank of sheep-stealers, found it hard to understand the annoyance, even bitterness, with which Venetia regarded her heritage. She had, presumably, absorbed it from her father during their brief relationship. Hugh Cranville, eldest of two surviving brothers (a third was killed at Tobruk), taking to extreme the maxim that ‘simple faith’ is more than ‘Norman blood’, had refused to have anything to do with the family estate, which he regarded as a millstone. He had simply given Farrans to Ralph, and gone to Italy to paint. His egalitarian principles had not prevented him marrying into a wealthy Milanese family and living off his wife’s income. By her he sired two daughters, Venetia and Firenze (heaven preserve offspring from the romantic whims of their parents), thereby cocking a final snook at the proud family name. Tiring of la dolce vita, he had one day taken off into the wide blue yonder, and never been heard of again.

Thereafter, the girls had divided their time between schools in England, where their uncle Ralph kept an eye on them, and holidays with their mother in the sunnier clime of Umbria. Apart from his nieces, Ralph’s life had been devoted to Farrans. Saving it, preserving it, passing on his inheritance intact had become an obsession. Everything, literally everything, had gone into restoring the house and keeping it in good repair. The farmland had been sold off, to be followed by all the best furniture, silver and pictures. Farrans had sucked up every last penny the old man could lay his hands on. But he had succeeded in his purpose. The house was in splendid shape as he neared his end. Ralph had the satisfaction of knowing that he could deliver to the next generation the torch of an ancient family, burning brightly.

It mattered not that the hand into which that torch was to be thrust was extremely reluctant to receive it. Venetia had told her uncle often that she did not want the burdensome responsibility of Farrans. He never listened. She would, he assured her, feel differently when she actually came to live in the house and bring up her family there (the family that Ralph himself had never had the inclination to engender).

‘Of course, it took simply aeons to sort out his affairs. God! I wouldn’t have believed lawyers and accountants and people could be so slow. We had to get everything valued – down to the last doormat. That’s how I found the pictures.’

‘Pictures?’

‘Yes. In the attic. I suppose I should’ve remembered them. We used to play up there as kids – murder in the dark. Oh!’ She stopped suddenly, again tugging strands of blond hair away from her cheek. ‘Only now it’s real murder, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘You’re not being very helpful.’

‘It’s your story.’

‘Sorry. I’m not telling it very well, am I?’

‘Not very.’ Tim looked at his watch. ‘I presume you are going to get to the point of it this side of dawn?’

Venetia scowled, part anger, part concentration. ‘There were a lot of old paintings stacked up there, covered in dust and cobwebs and bird droppings. Obviously they’d hung in the house once, till people had got tired of them and had them stacked away. I got a local dealer in from Marlborough to have a look at them. It was too dark for him to see much. There’s no light up there, and the canvases were all grimy. The first time, he took one of the smaller pictures away. He said he’d come back with a torch and sort out the rest later. I had to go to Italy for a couple of weeks, but when I got back and phoned him to make another appointment, he sounded very excited. He said he’d done some preliminary cleaning on the painting he’d taken away, and it was quite valuable. Perhaps some of the others might be good, too. He took a photograph of it, and did a report for me.’

From a large tapestry bag she took an A4 buff envelope, and laid it on the low table between them.

‘We fixed another visit for Tuesday afternoon, just a couple of days ago. Oh, God, it gives me the creeps to think about it.’ She looked at him appealingly. ‘Tim, I wouldn’t mind a drink. Would that be asking too much?’

Silently he poured an Irish whiskey the way she liked – no ice and a dash of water.

She gulped it down, took a deep breath, and went on with her story.

‘I took him up to the attic and left him there, while I got on with various tidying-up jobs. It got dark early. It was a rotten day. He didn’t come down and I didn’t want to disturb him. It was almost six before I went up to the attic to fetch him.’ She paused, took another deep breath. ‘At first I could only see his torch lying on the floor. I called out, and there was no answer. I went to pick up the torch and almost fell over him.’

‘Him?’

‘Yes, the dealer. I shone the torch down, and there he was. I thought he must have been taken ill. Until I saw his head. It was caved in. He was lying across a painting and there was blood all over it – glistening. And splashes over the other pictures. Oh, Tim, I was terrified. I knew there must be someone else in the house: a madman, a murderer, lurking in the shadows, hiding in some empty room. I rushed out, got in the car and drove into Marlborough. Then I realised I’d have to go to the police. But when I went to the station, they said they already knew. They’d had a telephone tip-off, and would I come with them back to Farrans.’

‘But why …?’

‘There was no trace of anyone else having been in the house, and the murder weapon had only one set of fingerprints on it. Mine.’

‘What was the weapon?’

‘A heavy Victorian candlestick – all florid and knobbly. I’d been cleaning it, along with the few other bits of silver Uncle hadn’t sold off.’

Tim sat back, eyes closed, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. Trust Venetia to get herself into a mess like this – and then run away from it. He said: ‘It certainly doesn’t look good, but it’ll look a hell of a lot worse if you do a bunk. Fingerprints don’t prove anything, and then there’s the mysterious telephone call. Your best bet is to go and face it out, with a good lawyer if necessary. From what you’ve told me, I’d say the police will be hard put to it to make out any sort of case.’

Venetia looked more miserable than ever.

‘There are supposed to be three points to be proved in the conviction of a murderer, aren’t there – means, opportunity and motive?’

‘Exactly. And you certainly don’t have a motive.’

‘Yes, I do. Or they’ll think I do if they see that.’ She pointed to the envelope. ‘Grosmith – that’s the dealer – thought the first picture he found in the attic might be worth a great deal of money. Normally that would go into the estate, and be calculated for death duty. But if no one else knew about it, I could spirit it away and sell it off privately. So, on paper, I had a very good reason for silencing poor Mr Grosmith.’

‘So the police haven’t seen this letter?’

She shook her head. ‘No! And they mustn’t!’

Tim knew what he had to advise, and he also knew Venetia would not listen. Her only way of extricating herself was to be absolutely open with the police: to tell them everything. But because she was scared – and, more importantly, because she had never learned to be honest with herself – she would find that very difficult. He said, ‘OK, Venetia, you’ve had a terrible shock, and I’m sorry. You can unwind here – for tonight. But tomorrow you’ll have to face up to reality.’

‘Thank you, Tim. I knew you’d help out. I won’t be a nuisance. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

‘You certainly will! You vacated my bed ten months ago, remember?’

Twenty minutes later Tim Lacy lay in that same bed – a Carolean four-poster with headboard inlaid in bog oak and boxwood – and knew he was unlikely to sleep. He had given Venetia blankets and pillows, and thought she would be reasonably comfortable. She looked exhausted. Probably she would slip easily into unconsciousness. But he was now wide awake, dormant emotions raked savagely into painful life. Old quarrels re-running themselves in his head.

To take his mind off past agonies, he opened Venetia’s buff envelope. He tipped out its contents on to the counterpane. A single sheet of typed notepaper and a 6 × 4 photograph.

The letter, on heavy cream bond with a pretentious embossed heading – ‘Grosmith Gallery, Antiques and Works of Art, Downs House, Marlborough’ – was written in a florid hand.

Dear Miss Cranville,

Further to our telephone conversation, here is my report on your painting, together with a photograph taken after preliminary cleaning.

We have removed a layer of discoloured varnish and this has brought to light a fine Renaissance work in very good condition. The colours are vivid, the composition excellent and the brushwork is of a particularly high quality.

I am not yet in a position to advise you as to approximate value, but I can assure you that this is an important work of art. It is North Italian, early to mid-sixteenth century. Unrecorded items of this period and quality very seldom come on to the market, and when they do they are much sought after. This makes it particularly important to find out all we can about your painting. May I ask you to leave it in my hands a little longer so that I can research it thoroughly?

I look forward very much to examining the rest of the pictures at Farrans Court. Who knows what other gems we might find?

Yours sincerely

    Arthur Grosmith

Tim laid the letter aside and picked up the black-and-white print. He held it to the lamp to get a better view.

The next moment he sat up straight. ‘Good Lord!’ He stared at it. Blinked. Tilted it in case the light was playing tricks. It wasn’t.

He jumped out of bed, grabbed up his dressing-gown and strode to the door, shouting, ‘Venetia! Why didn’t you tell me what this picture is? It changes everything.’

She sat up on the sofa, hugging a large pink blanket around her.

He tossed the photograph on to the seat beside her. ‘How long has The Triarchs been at Farrans?’

Venetia gazed at the picture vacantly. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It could have been up in the attic for ages. Why do you call it The Triarchs? It looks like a run-of-the-mill religious picture. Pretty, though.’

‘Pretty!’ He went to the black lacquered chest on its elaborate, gilded stand. He opened the door and removed a bottle and a glass. He would have that Armagnac after all. He needed it. ‘Pretty! I’m sure Raphael would be over the moon with that accolade!’

‘Raphael?’ Venetia’s eyes opened wide. She looked more closely at the photograph. She could see now that its subject was the Adoration of the Magi, though not handled in any conventional form with cattle and straw all over the place. In the centre of the composition the Madonna, in a very relaxed seated pose, cradled the Christ child in her arms. The stable, if stable it was, was a stone structure in the middle distance, set in a sparsely-wooded landscape, with a river and far hills merging into a hazy sky. The painting was perfectly balanced by the figures of the three kings who made up the foreground.

‘Well, yes, I suppose it could be a Raphael, or more probably “School of”, but Mr Grosmith—’

‘Huh!’ Tim waved the letter contemptuously. ‘Mr Grosmith of “Grosmith Gallery Antiques and Works of Art” is … was nothing but a general-purpose provincial dealer. He wouldn’t know a Turner from a Tintoretto, a Picasso from a pizza. He’d certainly never handled anything like this.’ Tim pointed to the picture. He sat down beside Venetia and swirled the brandy round in its balloon glass.

Venetia frowned at him. She knew him far too well to question his judgment about old masters. ‘So what you’re saying is that this … Triarchs, or whatever it’s called, is a well-known, authenticated Raphael?’

‘Yes and no.’ He sipped the Armagnac and let the rivulet of smooth fire run down his throat. ‘It’s well known to those who specialise in such things. In the art world The Triarchs is a legend.’

‘You haven’t told me why it’s called The Triarchs.’

‘It’s because of the three kings. The word means three rulers: three men who had divided up a territory between them. In this case Europe – or, I suppose, more accurately, north Italy.’

Venetia shook her head and brushed the hair away from her face. ‘You’ve lost me.’

He picked up the photograph and moved closer to her, totally mastered now by his enthusiasm. ‘These three figures,’ he pointed to the men grouped in a semicircle round the Virgin, ‘they really are rulers. The bareheaded one here, on the right, is Pope Julius II – Raphael’s patron, and the patron of Michelangelo.’

Venetia pouted. ‘I know that. I’m not a complete dunce. He commissioned the painting of the Sistine Chapel and had a stormy relationship with Michelangelo, and they called him the “warrior pope” because he spent more time on his horse than at his prayers. Who are the other two?’

‘The massive, athletic ox of a man on one knee – that’s Maximilian I, Holy Roman Emperor. And this other kneeling figure is Louis XII of France. A more bellicose bunch it would be hard to imagine. They all spent most of their lives fighting for land and power. Round about 1506–10 – I’m not sure, because I’m not very good on dates – they came together in the League of Cambrai. It seems that Venice was getting too big for its boots. Not content with being a great commercial power, controlling the trade of the eastern Med, it ruled a sizable chunk of the mainland between the Alps and the Po. The state was fabulously wealthy because of the galleys laden with spices, gold, ivory and precious stones from the Levant, so the doges could afford to pay condottieri whose mercenary armies gobbled up still more territory.’

‘And that didn’t suit Pope Julius and Co?’ Venetia was fascinated despite herself. It had been partly Tim’s ability to catch her up in his own enthusiasms that had frightened her off their relationship.

‘Exactly! Give the lady a prize! Hence the League of Cambrai – formed to put the Venetians in their place. If I remember rightly, Spain came in as well.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Oh, what usually happened in Renaissance politics: a few battles, a few conquests, and then, when the contracting parties had got all they thought they could get out of the military conflict, the alliance fell apart and the allies went back to fighting each other.’

‘So it was all a waste of time?’

‘These affairs usually were. A few towns captured. A few thousand acres of peasant holdings transferred from one ruler to another. It signified little. Unless,’ he added bitterly, ‘you take account of dead soldiers and grieving widows and orphaned children. But men like Julius, Maximilian and Louis didn’t bother themselves with such trifles. Statesmen and generals never do.’

Venetia recognised the hobbyhorse breaking out of its stable. Tim’s years in the SAS had left him heartily disillusioned about the politics of war. She quickly pointed to the photograph. ‘And where does this come into the story?’

‘Raphael can’t have been in Rome long.’ Tim went over to the floor-to-ceiling shelves where his books stood in ordered rows. He selected the appropriate volume of Bryan’s Painters and Engravers and turned the pages. ‘Yes, here we are: 1508. Julius collected men of talent, and he recognised something very special in this precocious twenty-five year old. Raphael was painting with a fluency and inventiveness rare in men twice his age. So Julius grabbed him to do a huge series of murals for the papal apartments. Then, on an impulse, he deflected him from that project to paint The Triarchs.’

‘To mark the League of Whatsit?’

‘The League of Cambrai.’ The slightest frown of impatience flitted across his face. ‘I guess it was a diplomatic gesture, probably designed as a gift for the Emperor. Maximilian fancied himself as a great patron and a man of taste. He surrounded himself with artists and scholars – Altdorfer, Cranach, Dürer:

‘But the picture wasn’t finished before Julius and Maximilian fell out?’

‘Ah, now that’s the first of many various mysteries about The Triarchs.’ Tim, without meaning to, poured another brandy. Venetia diffidently picked up her empty glass from the coffee table and Tim refilled it. How quickly the externals of an old routine slipped back into place, even when the soul had gone out of it.

‘Mystery?’ She gulped the spirit in a very masculine way.

‘I can’t remember all the details.’ Tim crossed the room again. ‘There was an article about it in Apollo a few years ago.’ He rummaged through the bound copies of the magazine in the bottom row of the bookshelf, talking as he searched. ‘There were a couple of letters in the Vatican Archive referring to it, but the painting itself disappeared. It’s been an enigma ever since. It’s come to light three or four times in the intervening centuries … Ah, got it!’ He returned and laid the open volume on her lap. She saw a full-page version of her painting, this time in colour, illustrating an article by an American expert. She raised her eyebrows at the very unscholarly title of the feature.

‘The Bloody Triarchs?’

Tim laughed. ‘Sounds a bit over the top, doesn’t it. But it seems to be a fact that this picture has often been associated with violence. It started life commemorating a rather cynical military alliance and, according to the legend, death and destruction have accompanied it ever since. It’s acquired the reputation of being unlucky, cursed. Nonsense, of course, but it may explain why it’s been hidden from view most of its existence. Hardly anyone’s ever seen it.’

‘Then, how do we know what it looks like? And how come there’s a photograph of it in this magazine?’

‘In the seventeenth century a copy was made of it. Some scholars think it was done by Rubens, but I doubt it. It’s in the Kunsthistoriches Museum in Vienna. I’ve seen it there myself. But, as far as I know, the original hasn’t been heard of since before the last war. I think it was in Austria then.’

He sat beside her on the sofa once more, and some moments passed in silence. Venetia stared at the Apollo article with its gory title.

‘The Bloody Triarchs! Well, it certainly seems to be living up to its reputation. Oh, Tim, what are we going to do?’

He frowned. ‘Well, the first thing is to think the whole thing through. Unless poor Arthur had a secret life which could have provoked a crime passionnel, it’s reasonable to assume that his murder is connected with The Triarchs. Now, he didn’t realise what he’d found. But someone else obviously did, and knew that he had a goldmine within his grasp.’

‘But who?’

Tim shrugged. ‘One of Grosmith’s cronies, perhaps. The dealers’ world has more than its fair share of unscrupulous people.’

‘Unscrupulous enough to kill?’

‘For something as valuable as this? My God, yes!’

He jumped up and began to pace the room excitedly. ‘The more I think about it, the more obvious it all seems – I could almost write the script. Grosmith shows the picture to one of his friends, or sends him a copy of the photo and talks on the phone: he says he is going to do some research. “I’ve found this sixteenth-century Italian Adoration of the Magi,” he says. “Hidden away for yonks in the attic of an old country house.” His chum recognises it instantly. His heart misses a beat – just as mine did, when I saw the photo. Immediately he sees this is his chance, not only to make a fortune but also to have his name written into the history books as the man who finally located a long-lost Raphael. The only problem is how to get his hands on it. “This is very interesting,” he says. “Who does the painting belong to?” “Oh,” Grosmith replies warily, “some lady whose property I’m valuing.” “Does she know what the painting is or where it came from?” “No, it’s been stored away for years with a pile of other pictures. I didn’t realise what it was, myself, till I’d cleaned off the varnish.” “And you haven’t told anyone else about it?” “No, only you.” “Good, well look, keep it under your hat and let me have a really good look at it.”

‘Does young Arthur begin to smell a rat at this point, I wonder. “I can’t let it out of my sight without the owner’s permission,” he says. “But I’m seeing her again on Tuesday, and I’ll ask her then.” So our unscrupulous friend has until Tuesday to plan