âOdd that the three paintings the thieves left at Chastaigne Varleigh should be from the same haul . . .â
âYes.â Mrs Pargeter seized on the thought. âSuggests they knew quite a lot about what they were dealing with.â
But Palings Price, who was after all an expert in these matters, was unconvinced. âNot necessarily,â he said. âCould just be coincidence.â
âHmm.â Mrs Pargeter sighed a contented little sigh. âWeâll probably know more when Trufflerâs tracked down the rest of the stuff that was stolen.â
âYou sound very confident that heâll find it.â
âWell, of course he will, Palings. Trufflerâs the best in the business, isnât he?â
âThatâs true.â
Mrs Pargeter looked again at the paintings. âWell, at least weâve got these three, so we can make a start. Do you reckon thereâs going to be any problem getting these back to where they came from, HRH?â
The travel agentâs magnificent mane of white hair shook confidently. âNo. Berneâll be easy. Fritzi the Fingerâs based in Salzburg. Your husband got him out of a few spots. Heâll be honoured to help, wonât he, Palings?â
âAbsolutely. This sort of jobâs meat and drink to him, anyway.â
HRH was thoughtful for a moment. âNo, the only problem will be finding a courier to get the goods out of this country . . .â
âCouldnât I do that?â 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, âI wouldnât want you to put yourself at any risk, Mrs Pargeter.â
âBesides,â the gallery owner interposed, âsmuggling old masters is actually a criminal activity . . .â
âOh yes.â She was properly contrite. âSorry, I got carried away there.â
Palings Price continued to spell out the situation for her. âAnd youâve never been personally involved in anything illegal, have you?â
An innocent blush suffused her cheeks at the very idea. âGood heavens, no,â said Mrs Pargeter.
Chapter 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 husbandâs 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 â though not as busy as heâd 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.
âOh dear,â 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 â returning to one of the artistâs favourite themes â 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,
Kami García
JG Faherty
John Ramsey Miller
Michelle Mulder
David Zieroth
Myra Nour
Paige Shelton
J.J. Marstead
S. K. Ng
Marjorie Eccles