A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(66)

“?‘Deposizione di Cristo’ di Tintoretto,” he declared as we came to the next painting, the language of his birth rolling off his tongue in easy cadence.

I turned to gaze up at the emotional scene of Christ being removed from the cross. This was the fourth or fifth Venetian artist whose work we had encountered. Perhaps there was something to Anderley’s theory that some of the paintings had been acquired from the auctions that followed Napoleon’s conquering of the Italian states and his confiscation of their art. I could only hope the records reflected that, though I strongly suspected they’d been modified to display a more palatable origin, and so we would have to read between the lines.

Neither of us raising objections about the Tintoretto attribution, we strolled on, entering the music room, which featured a beautifully carved harpsichord with a mermaid statue poised between the two pedestal feet supporting the wider end with the keys. The inside of the lid was painted with a pastoral scene of a forest and glade with blue mountains rising in the background. A pair of lovers stood hand in hand next to a river winding lazily toward the viewer in the far-right foreground. It appeared to me to be Italian in origin, but I was no expert in musical instruments.

“Make a note of this,” I told Anderley. “I’d like to know if paintings and sculptures are the only acquisitions Lord Alisdair made.”

While he bent to the task, I lifted my gaze to look around the chamber, intrigued by the mural which covered two of the walls. It was a depiction of Apollo tended by the nymphs as he plucked on his lyre, while satyrs skipped about in the background playing pipes and flutes. From a distance, the colors and movement were captivating, but the nearer I drew, the more flaws began to emerge. A clumsily executed profile here and an awkward positioning of an arm there. The vibrant pigment had cracked in the shading of the sky in the background, and yet appeared coagulated in the marbled dirt at the figures’ feet.

“I wonder . . .” Anderley ruminated, as he came to stand beside me.

“Could this be the work of Signor Pellegrini?” I finished for him, for it was obvious we had the same thought. “Lord Barbreck didn’t mention anything about his having painted a mural within the manor.” I sighed. “But then, he hasn’t been precisely forthcoming.”

I heard the scratch of his pencil across the paper, telling me he was already making a notation to ask the marquess. Or better yet, my aunt. She had been by far the most informative about such things.

Narrowing my eyes, I scrutinized the brushstrokes in the folds of the nymphs’ gowns. A prickling sensation began along the back of my neck, for I recognized this handiwork. I had just seen it in the long gallery and in a painting in one of the corridors.

An artist’s brushstrokes were as distinctive as fingerprints, as unique as the swirls of color and specks of light within a person’s eyes. A student or follower could seek to emulate a master’s style, but they were never entirely successful. There were always subtle and telling differences which could be deciphered by the trained eye. The same could be said for forgers.

I must have made some sort of noise or sign of recognition, for when I looked up, it was to find Anderley studying me with almost as much intensity as I’d been studying the painting.

“You’ve found something important,” he prompted.

“Yes.” I nodded to the wall. “Whoever painted this also painted that Van Dyck and one or more of the Zoffanys. And he may have painted the other forgeries we’ve found.”

Anderley grasped the implication as rapidly as I had. “Then Lord Alisdair wasn’t fooled into purchasing forgeries. They were created later.”

I tilted my head. “Unless he purchased them in Italy from the same man who later visited him here and painted this mural. But I think it’s more likely your interpretation is correct.” I frowned. “That Lord Alisdair and Signor Pellegrini deliberately forged the copies, either while abroad or after they’d returned to Scotland with the originals in their possession.”

“Then they either forged the copies before giving them to Barbreck or switched them for the originals at a later date.”

I pivoted to gaze out the window at the broad sweep of lawn leading down toward the loch. “Perhaps they tried to fob the forged copies off first, but when they were almost caught by the Titian they sold to the Campbells, they altered their method. They gave the original to Barbreck so that the painting would initially stand up to his and others’ scrutiny, and then later, when interest in it had waned, they replaced it with the copy while the marquess was away.”

“That would explain why his lordship did not recognize that so many of his paintings were forgeries,” Anderley agreed. “Particularly as his eyesight deteriorated.”

“Yes, but . . .” I turned to look up at a pastoral landscape by an artist I didn’t recognize hanging on the adjacent wall. “How were they able to make the switches without anyone noticing? Some of the forgeries are quite large.” Though none of them were as massive as the one mounted before us. “Even if Lord Barbreck was away, taking part of the staff with him, there would still have been several dozen servants at work in the house and on the grounds. Someone must have seen something.”

Anderley propped the book he’d used as something sturdy to write on against his hip and tilted his head, seeming to give the matter his full consideration. “The staff of grand homes aren’t precisely known for their discretion. If one of them had seen something, then the rest of the staff would know about it within hours. And if the upper servants were loyal to his lordship, then you can be certain they would have informed him of it.”