Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (28)
“I thought she was dating that actor.”
“She’s shagging sleazy Simon on the side.”
As if on cue, there was another eruption of laughter from the opposite end of the bar, where Julian had just concluded an encore performance of the alleged incident in Kensington—this time for Nicky Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly wealthy.
“Is that really how it happened?” asked Amelia.
“No,” said Sarah, smiling sadly. “The lamppost attacked him.”
After finishing her drink, Sarah wiped the smudge of lipstick from Julian’s cheek and went into Jermyn Street. There were no taxis in sight, so she walked around the corner to Piccadilly and caught one there. As it bore her westward across London, she scrolled through the possibilities on Deliveroo, dithering between Indian and Thai. She ordered Italian instead and immediately regretted her choice. She had gained five pounds during the pandemic and another five after marrying Christopher. Despite thrice-weekly training runs on the footpaths of Hyde Park, the weight refused to budge.
As the taxi sped past the Royal Albert Hall, Sarah resolved to place herself on yet another diet. But not tonight; she was hungry enough to eat one of her Ferragamo pumps. After dinner, which she would consume while watching something mindless on television, she would crawl into her empty marital bed and remain there for the better part of the weekend, listening to “When Your Lover Has Gone” on repeat. Billie Holiday’s classic 1956 recording, of course. When one was truly depressed, no other version would do.
She did her best Lady Day impersonation as the taxi turned into Queen’s Gate Terrace and stopped opposite the elegant Georgian house at Number 18. It wasn’t all theirs, only the luxurious maisonette on the lower two levels. Sarah was overjoyed to see a light burning downstairs in the kitchen. Environmentally conscious, she was certain she had not left it on by mistake that morning. The most plausible explanation was that her lover was not gone after all.
She paid off the driver and hurried down the steps to the maisonette’s lower entrance. There she found the door ajar and the security system disengaged. Inside, lying on the kitchen island, was a canvas that had been removed from its stretcher—a riverscape with distant windmills, somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 by 60 centimeters, bearing what appeared to be the initials of the Dutch Golden Age painter Aelbert Cuyp.
Next to the painting was an envelope from Galerie Georges Fleury in Paris. And next to the envelope was an excellent bottle of Sancerre, from which Gabriel, wincing in pain, was attempting to extract the cork. Sarah closed the door and, laughing in spite of herself, shed her coat. It was, she thought, the perfect end to a perfectly dreadful week.
19
Queen’s Gate Terrace
Sarah checked the status of her Deliveroo order and saw it was still open. “Tagliatelle with ragù or veal Milanese?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“My husband is away. I could use the company.”
“In that case, I’ll have the veal.”
“Tagliatelle it is.” Sarah placed the order, then looked down at the frameless, stretcherless canvas lying on her counter. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. And for that swollen hand of yours as well.”
“Where would you like me to begin?”
“Why not the hand?”
“I assaulted a plainclothes Carabinieri officer after meeting with Julian in Venice.”
“And the painting?”
“I acquired it this afternoon at Galerie Georges Fleury.”
“I can see that.” Sarah tapped the envelope. “But how in the world did you pay for it?”
Gabriel removed the sales agreement from the envelope and pointed toward the practiced signature of the buyer.
“That was very generous of her,” said Sarah.
“Generosity had nothing to do with it. She expects to be repaid in full.”
“By whom?”
“You, of course.”
“So the painting is mine? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I suppose it is.”
“How much did I spend on it?”
“One million euros.”
“For that kind of money, I should have got a frame.” Sarah tugged at the frayed corner of the canvas. “And a stretcher as well.”
“The management of the Bristol Hotel might have found it odd if I had left an antique picture frame behind in my room.”
“And the stretcher?”
“It’s in a rubbish bin outside the Gare du Nord.”
“Of course it is.” Sarah sighed. “You should probably put it on a new one first thing in the morning to stabilize the image.”
“If I do that, it won’t fit in my carry-on luggage.”
“Where are you planning to take it?”
“New York,” said Gabriel. “And you’re coming with me.”
“Why?”
“Because that painting is a forgery. And I have a funny feeling the one you sold to Phillip Somerset for six and a half million pounds is a fake as well.”
“Oh, hell,” said Sarah. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Gabriel drew his mobile phone and retrieved the photograph of the painting he had seen in Valerie Bérrangar’s villa in Saint-André-du-Bois. Portrait of an Unknown Woman, oil on canvas, 115 by 92 centimeters, attributed to a follower of the Flemish Baroque painter Anthony van Dyck.