“Do you ever miss it?” asked Peel.
“Yes, of course. But Venice has its charms.”
“Better food.”
“I’ve always had a fondness for Cornish cuisine, myself.”
“Perhaps you can spend a summer here with Chiara and the children.”
“Only if you let me borrow that beautiful sailing vessel of yours.”
“Deal.”
Gabriel turned through a gap in a wind-bent hedgerow of blackthorn. Behind it stood stately Wexford Cottage, the finest cottage
in Gunwalloe. The windows were darkened, the shades tightly drawn. Adhered to the heavy wooden door was a notice declaring
the premises to be an active crime scene. Detective Sergeant Timothy Peel thrust a key into the lock and led Gabriel inside.
7
Wexford Cottage
They pulled on shoe covers and latex gloves in the entrance hall and went into the sitting room. The furnishings were contemporary and sophisticated, as were the paintings hanging on the walls. Piled on the low coffee table were monographs and volumes of art history and criticism, including an essential compendium of Pablo Picasso’s enormous body of work. Self-Portrait with a Palette, painted by the artist in 1906, graced the cover.
“Ever restored him?” inquired Peel.
“Picasso?” Gabriel looked up and frowned. “Once or twice, Timothy.”
“I read not long ago that he’s the most stolen artist in the world.”
“Did you really?” asked Gabriel dubiously.
“And the most forged as well,” Peel persevered.
“That’s correct. In all likelihood there are more fake Picassos in existence than real ones.”
“But you undoubtedly can tell the difference.”
“Pablo and I are reasonably well acquainted,” said Gabriel. “And I’ve enjoyed our time together despite the fact he doesn’t think much of my craft.”
“Espionage?”
“Restoration. Picasso disapproved of it. He thought cracking and natural aging gave his paintings a sense of character.” Gabriel paused, then added, “But I digress.”
It was an invitation for Peel to get to the point. The young detective responded by indicating the moisture ring next to the book. “We found a mug of tea when we made entry into the cottage. We assume Professor Blake left it there the afternoon she was murdered.”
“And then, of course, there was the light burning in the kitchen.”
“And the dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter. All of which suggests she was in a bit of a rush when she set out for Land’s End.”
“So stipulated,” said Gabriel. “But where are we going with this?”
“Her office.”
It was in the adjoining room. Entering, Peel switched on the desk lamp. The computer was an iMac with a twenty-seven-inch display, ideal for scrutinizing photographs of paintings or old exhibition records. Gabriel reached down and nudged the mouse. The computer awakened and requested a password for admission.
“Have you cracked it?”
“Not yet.”
“Whyever not?”
“The territorial police forces in Britain no longer have the authority to obtain private data without the consent of a government oversight body connected to the Home Office. We are currently awaiting approval.”
“If you like, I might be able to—”
“Don’t even think about it.”
Gabriel looked down at the books and papers scattered over the desktop. One of the volumes was The Rape of Europa, the indispensable account of Nazi art looting written by Lynn Nicholas. Beneath it was a copy of Charlotte Blake’s Picasso: The War Years. Gabriel lifted the cover of a nearby manila folder. Inside, bound by a metal clasp, was a list of every known work of art stolen by the Germans during the Occupation.
Peel was now peering over Gabriel’s shoulder. “It looks as though Professor Blake might have been conducting research on a painting.”
“That’s hardly surprising, Timothy. After all, that’s what she does.”
“A Picasso, if you ask me,” said Peel, undeterred.
“Why would you assume that?”
“She highlighted every Picasso looted by the Nazis during the war.”
Gabriel thumbed through the thick printout. It appeared to be the case.
