suggested.
The old man leaned forward in his hospital bed, suddenly alert. âRead them!â he said urgently. âRead them!â
âAnd what do we do about the painting?â
âForget about that for now! Itâs gone. It could well have been stolen to order â thatâs not unknown in the art world. It might be on its way to New York or Berlin as we speak. God knows how many dealers went after itââ
âBut how would they
know
about it?â
âSeraphina?â
âShe only told Johnny Ravenscourt.â
âAnd how many people did
he
tell?â Gaspare asked perceptively. âWhat kind of a man is he?â
âScared. He was very close to Seraphina.â
âDâyou think he could have stolen the Titian?â
âNo,â Nino said confidently. âJohnny Ravenscourt isnât like that. Heâs no thug, just a rich man with time to indulge his interests. His obsession with The Skin Hunter came from his research into serial killers. The fact that thereâs a portrait in the mix means little to him â except for the legend that its emergence would bring back Vespucci.â
âHe believes that?â
âOh yes,â Nino said emphatically. âHe believes it â and it scares the shit out of him. I reckon the reason he gave me his notes was to get them off his hands. Iâd say that Johnny Ravenscourt wants to put some distance between himself and his subject.â
âBut Vespucciâs victims were womenââ
âThat makes no difference â logic doesnât come into this. Johnny Ravenscourtâs spooked. The moment he gave me his research I could see him relax. It was like watching a man jump over a gate to escape a charging bull.â Nino paused for an instant. âHis notes connected him to The Skin Hunter. By getting rid of them he severed that connection.â
âAnd?â
âI think he also believes that if the legend
is
true, Vespucci will come after me now, not him.â
19
There is a passageway from Kensington Church Street that leads through an archway to a scruffy path around the back of the church. Over the years the figure of Christ has hung in a shrine there, crucified and on view to the passing traffic. At times yobs have thrown paint over Him, others have laid flowers at His feet, and at Christmas tinsel is wound gently around the brutal crown of thorns. He has stood under the wind, under the snow, and hung His head when summer sun cracked His painted face. And He was still standing as Nino cut through the passageway, heading for the convent gallery.
Unlocking the back door and turning off the repaired alarm, Nino made himself a drink and then moved to the drawing room on the first floor. In Gaspareâs absence he flicked on all the lights, spreading out Johnny Ravenscourtâs notes on the table and sitting down. Above him loomed the caramel angels, the Japanese suit of armour on duty by the door, a globe â dented in the Horn of Africa â holding up a Turkish rug.
Painstakingly Nino began to sort out Johnny Ravenscourtâs research. On his left he placed all the scraps of paper and hasty notes, on his right the photographs and reproductions, and in the centre he put the two notepads. He then started to read, choosing the journals first. Ravenscourtâs handwriting was surprisingly small for a big man, but every word was readable.
Angelico Vespucci b. 1510Â â not known where he died. Last heard of February, 1556. His list of victims is open to debate, but there are records in the chapel of the Mazzerotti church. (The priest was so difficult, I had to donate to the renovations before he would even talk to me and then he was evasive. No one wants to talk about Angelico Vespucci. They pretend he never existed, until you come along with proof or asking questions. Heâs like Veniceâs dirty little secret.) Anyway, their
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