The Blue Last (46 page)

She was back. “I'm sorry. It's been busy today.”

“Mr. Trueblood is under the impression his is an original Masaccio. Is that what you told him?”

“Oh, my goodness,
no.
” Her laugh was breathy. “But there's a
possibility
it might be. Mr. Jasperson's been trying to authenticate them. You're familiar with Masaccio? A fifteenth-century painter of the Italian Renaissance—”

“And is Mr. Jasperson having some success in doing this? What's the provenance?”

She shook her head. “We don't know. I found them in a little old church in Tuscany. Of course, I didn't guess at their value then, but when I brought them into the shop, well, Mr. Jasperson was more than a little astonished.”

“Because they were so valuable?”

“Because they were so
divine.
”

Turning to the panel, they breathed in a little divinity.

She said, “I'll tell you what might be possible. Possibly, your friend mentioned that his might be a
copy
of a panel by Masaccio. On the other hand, they could be panels of the polyptych originally in a church in Pisa. The Santa Maria del Carmine. An altarpiece, most of which was recovered. Part, you see, is still missing.”

That little morsel wafted down as gently as the morning's snow, as quietly and unobtrusively as a snowflake.

“Then this,” Melrose said innocently, “might be original?”

“I tremble to think.” Her blue eyes widened.

Melrose laughed. “I'm sure you do. Though if you believed it, the panel wouldn't be selling for—” Melrose fingered the white tag—“two thousand pounds.” He dropped the tag and looked at her.

“No, of course it wouldn't.”

“At auction how much might it fetch?”

“Oh, heavens, it would be priceless.”

In his mind's eye, Melrose saw Trueblood clutching his picture, carrying it all over Tuscany. He smiled. “Priceless, I agree.”

In silence, they regarded the panel.

Melrose said, “Now, Miss Eccleston, here's the thing: that friend of mine believes he possesses something utterly unique. He's been to Florence to try to authenticate the work. It doesn't surprise me your proprietor here has had no luck. No one could swear either way. The thing is, though, with this—” Melrose nodded toward the second St. Who “—that if other pieces keep turning up, Mr. Trueblood will be terrifically disappointed, for I'm sure you agree any more panels would seem to dilute the notion of originality, wouldn't they? To find even one under the circumstances you've related appears nearly impossible. And more than that . . . well . . .” He shrugged.

She nodded and nodded.

“What I propose is that
I
purchase this, which would prevent his seeing it and,
and,
Miss Eccleston, should Mr. Jasperson—or you—come across any
other
such, you will be so good as to let me know right away. Agreed?”

Oh, she was happy! “Why, yes, of course. Yes.”

Melrose took out his checkbook, slapped it open on the writing table, pushed over the tea caddy and said, “I want this too.”

“Oh,” she said, as if he'd pinched her. “Certainly. That's three hundred, that is.”

Melrose wrote out a check for twenty-three hundred pounds and ripped it out. “There you are. Now, I'd like you to keep the panel here until I can come and collect it. The thing is, I'm meeting Mr. Trueblood and wouldn't want him to start asking what's in the parcel.”

“Delighted, delighted to hold it for you. I'll just put it in back.”

“I'll take the tea caddy. You needn't wrap it.”

She ferried the panel away.

On the way to the door, Melrose hauled off and kicked the
putti.

Then he drove back to Long Piddleton; he had shut up Agatha and now he would have to shut up Theo Wrenn Browne.

 

 

 

The bell over the door of the Wrenn's Nest Bookshop jangled unpleasantly, like a pinched nerve, as if anything coming under the purview of the store's owner reflected the owner's temperament.

Melrose waited, tapping his fingers on the counter, looking out of the shop's bay window at the Jack and Hammer directly across the street. His friends were gathered there, apparently having a merry time. Trueblood, in particular. Theo Wrenn Browne would be waltzing right over there when he saw them in that window seat, eager to impart any unwanted information he had to share about Trueblood's painting.

“Why, Mr. Plant. What a pleasant surprise!”

Liar.

“Whatever brings
you
here?”

“Books, oddly enough. Where are your art history books?”

“Art? History?” A finely wrought eyebrow was raised.

“Now, put those two words together, Mr. Browne, and you'll be very close to what I came in for.” He should, he supposed, be milder, but Browne was such a goddamned fool.

Theo Wrenn Browne tilted his head in the direction of some shelves. “Over here.”

Melrose followed him. The pickings were slim, which didn't bother Melrose at all, since he didn't intend to pick anything. What he wanted was to know exactly what Browne knew about the other panel in Jasperson's shop. Certainly, Browne would be delighted at any opportunity to burst Trueblood's little balloon.

“Now, here's a nice one.” Browne tried to foist Andy Warhol on him.

“No.” Melrose pulled down some lackluster study on Flemish art, then reshelved it. Only one book bore at all on the subject—that is, to get the subject going:
Early Renaissance Art.
He started thumbing through the thick slick pages. “Ah. Brunelleschi . . . Donatello . . . Masolino . . .” he read in a whisper.

“What are you looking for, Mr. Plant?”

“Italian Renaissance paintings.” And he continued in that reverent way: “Giotto . . . Masaccio . . .”

“Oh!” said Theo, happy to recognize a name, happier to have bad news to impart. “Mr. Trueblood's so-called painting.”

“ ‘So-called'?” Melrose managed to look confused. “I don't know why you say that. We've just got back from Florence.” He turned back to the book and muttered, “The Church of San Giovenale a Carcia—”

“And—?” Theo prompted him.

“And what?”

“You said you just got back from Florence.”

“That's right.” Melrose continued his whispered communion with the book. “San Gimignano . . . Monteriggioni . . .” The pages fluttered. Melrose hadn't the vaguest notion what he was doing. But he had some dim idea that it would come to him.

Frustrated, Theo insisted. “You said you just got back from
Florence.
”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you said it as if that
explained
something.”

“Florence—” Melrose paused. “Florence explains
every
thing!” He clapped an arm about Browne's shoulders, a gesture that completely stumped Theo. He tried to step back, but Melrose had him in a lock.

“The Brancacci Chapel!” Here Melrose threw out his other arm and drew, between thumb and forefinger, a banner in air and, as if reading the print thereon, exclaimed, “The Brancacci Chapel! You've seen it, of course?”

“I? Uh, no, no. Now if you'd just let me get back to—”

Melrose's arm tightened and he began to walk both of them to the store's big bay window. “Imagine!” he exclaimed. Across the street were his friends seated at their favorite table—Trueblood, Diane Demorney, Joanna the Mad, Vivian Rivington. “Imagine we are within this glorious chapel, face-to-face with the frescoes. Just close your eyes—”

Theo didn't want to.

“And imagine seeing Adam and Eve and the expulsion from Paradise.” Trueblood had his head in his hands much like the figure of Adam, and Joanna, her head thrown back in a rictus of laughter that bore a stunning resemblance to Eve's howl. Melrose was rather enjoying this reenactment. “Then we have
Tribute Money
—” Dick Scroggs had entered the perimeter of the window. “Next, we have
St. Peter Healing the Sick with his Shadow.
” Melrose made a wiping motion with his hand, as if scenes were appearing and disappearing, as if they were watching a dumb show. Mrs. Withersby hove into view, the veritable model for the poor wretch begging for St. Peter's help. In the case of Withersby, it was bumming cigarettes and whatever else life had on offer.

“Uh, Mr. Plant, I think, yes, I think that's my phone ringing!”

Melrose hugged him closer. “Let it ring, let it ring. Let me tell you about San Gimignano—” And Melrose did so, told him about San Gimignano and Siena, in mind-withering detail, all the while enclosing the bookseller in an iron grip. Finally, he released him and said, “I must be on my way. Coming to the pub, are you?”

“Uh, no. No, I think not. Not this evening.” He took several steps backward.

“Pity. Good evening, then.” Melrose whistled himself out the door.

“Good lord, Melrose! Where have you been? We're all dining at Ardry End tonight. It's Christmas Eve.” Diane Demorney made these announcements as if they had just then come to mind unbidden by outside exigency. “Are we exchanging presents tonight, then?”

Marshall Trueblood lit a cigarette. “You mean for what you actually want?”

“Very funny. But were we to get something for everyone? That would make—” she counted the people around the table by actually pointing her finger. “If Agatha's coming, that's, let's see,
six.
If everyone is to give everyone else a gift, that's—” Running out of fingers, she squeezed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead.

Joanna said, “Count me out, Diane. I've got to be on my way to Devon this afternoon. Promised I'd turn up for Christmas dinner tomorrow.”

“Where in Devon?” Diane asked, not happy with a further refinement on a problem she hadn't yet solved.

“Exmoor.”

Diane's martini actually stopped on its way to her mouth.
“Exmoor?
But people don't
live
there, do they? It's a
moor.
”

“You've never been righter, Diane.”

People waited patiently, for Diane's present count. Finally, Vivian said, “Diane, if there are six people and all six are giving each of the others a gift, then—” Vivian made an encouraging noise.

“Easy for you to say, Vivian, you've already
done
yours.”

“That's beside the point; the point is the number.”

Melrose wished he was back in the Brancacci Chapel. “Actually, there will be seven, not six.”

Diane looked as if he had thrown the final spanner in the works. “Who else?”

“I've invited Mr. Steptoe.”

They all looked blank.

“Our new greengrocer.”

They still looked blank. Finally, Vivian said, “That's sweet of you Melrose. He can get to know people.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

From the bar, where he was reading the Sidbury paper, Dick Scroggs called over, “Don't see your horoscope column today, Miss Demorney.”

“The stars are on holiday, Dick.”

“No presents,” said Melrose. “You have to do that on your own, go house to house, or whatever.”

Diane heaved a sigh of relief, tapped a red fingernail against her empty martini glass and gave Dick Scroggs a little wave. “Did you set a time, Melrose? I mean will we be having drinkies beforehand?”

“We're having drinkies beforehand right now.” He smiled. “But, yes, more drinkies will be on offer this evening. Come at seven.”

R
ichard Jury reached over to the ice bucket Ruthven had left, at Jury's request, plucked up a cube and dropped it in his whiskey. He had inclined lately toward as bitter a cold as he could get—cold walks, cold drinks, cold rooms, bitter and anesthetizing cold. He did not know why other than wanting to arm himself against the specter of Christmas past, present and probably future. He did not like Christmas; he felt depleted by it.

“That's a thirty-year-old single malt you're watering down,” said Melrose Plant. They were seated in comfortable chairs next to the fire.

“It'll be gone before the ice melts. Now, back to St. Jerome.”

“I think it's John, St. John.”

“You didn't see whatever's left of this polyptych in the church in Pisa?”

“It's no longer there. That's part of the point. Parts have found their way into various churches and museums in Europe. And some of the panels are still missing.”