“I knew it from the moment I laid I eyes on you,” she said with a mischievous wink. “You were hiding something. It was plain as day.”
Dottie Cox from the Corner Market was next. “It was those beautiful green eyes of yours that gave you away. Always moving, they were. Like a pair of searchlights.”
Duncan Reynolds wasted no time on pleasantries. “Quite possibly the rudest man I’ve ever met.”
“It wasn’t me, Duncan. It was only a role I was playing at the time.”
The old railman swallowed some of his beer. “I suppose you heard about poor Professor Blake.”
“I read about it in the papers.”
“Know her?”
“Didn’t, actually.”
“Wonderful woman. And quite beautiful, if you ask me. Reminded me of one of those women—”
Vera Hobbs cut him off. “That’s quite enough, Duncan, dear. Otherwise, Mr. Allon will never come back again.”
He consented to deliver a few remarks, which concluded with a heartfelt if uproariously funny apology for his past conduct. Afterward they feasted on traditional Cornish fare, including pasties fresh from Vera’s oven. When the party finally ended at midnight, several men insisted on escorting the Allon family to their car because of the threat posed by the Chopper. This sent Irene into another spasm of panic. Gabriel found it a welcome reprieve from her usual fretting about melting ice caps and submerged cities.
“Was it my imagination,” said Chiara when the children had fallen asleep, “or did you enjoy that immensely?”
“I have to admit, I did.”
“Irene and Raphael love it here, you know.”
“What’s not to love? It’s very special.”
“It’s the perfect place to spend the summer, don’t you think?”
“We can always rent a cottage for a few weeks.”
“But wouldn’t you prefer to have something of your own?”
“We can’t afford it.”
Chiara didn’t bother with a retort. “There’s a lovely cottage near Gwennap Head that just came on the market.”
“Leonard Bradley says it can be had for a million and a half.”
“Actually, I was able to talk them down to one point four.”
“Chiara . . .”
“The cottage is extraordinary, and there’s a separate building where you can set up your studio.”
“And work my fingers to the bone to pay for everything.”
“Please say yes, Gabriel.”
He glanced over his shoulder at his daughter. “What about the Chopper?”
“You’ll think of something,” said Chiara. “You always do.”
61
Port Navas
It would be another week before Gabriel completed the restoration of the Gentileschi. He shipped the painting to Isherwood Fine Arts, which sold the work to something called Quantum International, Ltd., for the princely sum of ten million pounds. Sarah Bancroft leaked details of the sale to Amelia March of ARTnews, along with the name of the celebrity conservator who had knocked the canvas into shape. Sarah also agreed to give the celebrity conservator a slice of her lucrative dealer’s commission. He wired a portion of the funds to a Marseilles-based thief and invested the remainder in a five-bedroom cottage near Gwennap Head in deepest West Cornwall.
They took formal possession of the property on a Wednesday afternoon in late August. Chiara spent the remainder of her holiday planning a wholesale architectural renovation that would push the final cost of the project well past the original asking price. Gabriel, for his part, lined up several private commissions that would keep the Allon family financially afloat.
But each afternoon he hiked the South West Coast Path to the tiny port of Mousehole and sailed his old wooden ketch in the treacherous waters off the Cornish coast. During one excursion the weather turned suddenly violent, and he was fortunate the vessel did not smash herself to pieces on Logan Rock. That evening the Allon family dined at the home of Cordelia and Leonard Bradley. The occasion was saved from perfection by news of yet another murder, this one in Port Isaac. Poor Irene spent a sleepless night of terror in her parents’ bed. Gabriel’s Beretta, which he had carried into the country with the assent of SIS chief Graham Seymour, rested on the bedside table.
The following morning, their last in Cornwall, was spent packing their bags and preparing the Gwennap Head cottage for the coming winter. Gabriel left behind the studio easel and supplies he had acquired for the Gentileschi restoration, then set off on foot toward Mousehole. Fair play required him to return the ketch from whence he had purloined it. Chiara and the children planned to collect him quayside in Port Navas, provided, of course, that Irene could be talked out of her room. From there they would proceed to the Hilton Hotel at Heathrow’s Terminal 5. They were booked on the morning’s first flight to Venice.
The precise timing of the operation, though, was held hostage by the fickle nature of Cornwall’s winds and tides. Gabriel crossed Mount’s Bay in just under three hours, but unfavorable conditions slowed his journey around Lizard Point, and the sun was beginning to set by the time he finally reached the mouth of the Helford. He rang Chiara and gave her an update on his position and estimated time of arrival. With Raphael’s help, she coaxed Irene into the car and started east.
The outgoing tide was running hard and fast, slowing Gabriel’s progress further still. He dropped his sails at Padgagarrack Cove and made his way upriver under power. Port Navas Creek, flat and calm in the gathering darkness, received him like a trusted friend. He aimed the prow toward the stone quay near the old foreman’s cottage and, wishing to prolong the journey a moment longer, reduced his speed to a crawl. That was when he spotted the flare of a torch. Smiling, he flashed his running lights twice in reply.
* * *
“Permission to come aboard.”
Gabriel frowned at Peel’s black policeman’s footwear. “Not in those things, you don’t.”
Peel left his shoes on the quay and stepped over the lifeline. “Is there anything to drink on this vessel?”
