said. âIâm afraid I didnât understand a single word of what you were talking about.â
Truffler Mason and Hedgeclipper Clinton fell over themselves in their confusion and assurances that they couldnât think whatâd come over them, that theyâd been well out of order, that they didnât wish in any way to imply that the late Mr Pargeter had at any level been connected with any activity which did not fit within the strictest parameters of the British legal system.
Eventually Mrs Pargeter inclined her head, gracefully accepting their apologies.
âAll we were really saying,â said Truffler Mason plaintively, âis that if Inspector Wilkinsonâs sniffing around you, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.â
âThank you.â But the puzzlement hadnât entirely left Mrs Pargeterâs innocent face. âI canât imagine why it took you so long to tell me that.â She smiled easily, letting them off the hook. âNow, did you say HRH and I were going to see Palings Price tomorrow . . .?â
Chapter Nineteen
They were once again in the back room of âDENZIL PRICE INTERIORSâ. 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 roomâs monochrome image, but the designer didnât 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 Priceâs mouth as he gazed at the painting. He wasnât quite licking his lips, but very nearly.
âNow this is very beautiful . . .â he murmured.
âYes . . .â Mrs Pargeter agreed mistily. She had felt a great warmth for the fake Rubens in VVOâs studio, but the sight of the real thing was even more potent. The paintingâs 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 Greeneâs Hotel the evening before that had set her mind on the track, but she found sheâd 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 theyâd 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 Chastaigneâs 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.
âOne of the best examples of Rubensâs mature period,â Palings Price was saying. âThe model was his second wife Hélène Fourment.â
âItâs stunning,â Mrs Pargeter agreed. âMy husband would really have loved it.â
âWhy particularly?â asked HRH.
âWell, obviously, because he liked his womenââ But no. She checked herself. That was private. âThis was the sort of thing he liked,â she concluded lightly.
âOh. Right.â
Mrs Pargeter felt the need to move the conversation hastily on. âWhere was it stolen from?â
âPantheon Gallery, Berne. In 1982,â said Palings Price. He pointed to the Madonnas. âThose two were taken at the same time. Big fuss when it happened. All over the international press.â
âIâll bet it was.â
HRH ran a thoughtful hand through his splendid moustache.
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