“Yes, that’s the one. Eighty-six by one hundred and twenty-four inches, if memory serves.”
“It doesn’t,” said Gabriel. “The canvas was a hundred and twenty-eight inches wide.”
Jeremy Crabbe had been under the impression that it was the work of the Flemish painter Erasmus Quellinus, but any fool could see the brushwork belonged to none other than Peter Paul Rubens. Gabriel had cleaned it, and Julian had made a killing.
“I suppose he was in on your little secret, too,” said Jeremy.
“Julian? He hadn’t a clue.”
Jeremy made to reply, but Gabriel abruptly turned away and accepted the outstretched paw of Niles Dunham, a curator from the National Gallery who was known for his usually infallible eye.
“Well played, my good fellow,” he murmured. “Well played, indeed.”
“Thank you, Niles.”
“What are you working on?”
Gabriel answered.
“Il Pordenone?” Niles made a distasteful face. “He’s beneath you.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I might have something a bit more interesting, if you can find the time.”
“You can’t afford me, Niles.”
“And if I were to double our usual fee? How do I contact you?”
Gabriel pointed out Sarah Bancroft.
“Is she a spy, too?” asked Niles.
“Sarah? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Niles cast a dubious eye toward tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a thoroughly disreputable Old Master dealer from Bury Street. “Oliver says that husband of hers used to be a contract killer.”
“Oliver says a lot of things.”
“Who’s that stunningly beautiful creature standing next to him?”
“My wife.”
“Well played,” said Niles enviously. “Well played, indeed.”
The next hand Gabriel grasped was attached to Nicholas Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich. “The penny just dropped,” he breathed.
“Did it?”
“That special winter auction at Christie’s a few years back. There was something funny going on in the saleroom that night.”
“There usually is, Nicky.”
Lovegrove didn’t disagree. “A client of mine is looking to unload his Gentileschi,” he said, changing the subject. “But it needs a bit of retouching and a new coat of varnish. Is there any chance you might be willing to take it on?”
“That depends on whether your client has any money.”
“Not at the moment. Messy divorce. But I think I can convince him to give you a piece of the final sale price.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Two percent.”
“Surely you jest.”
“All right, five. But it’s my final offer.”
“Make it ten, and you’ve got a deal.”
“Highway robbery.”
“You would know, Nicky.”
Smiling, Lovegrove beckoned a tall woman with the flawless features of a fashion model. “This is my dear friend Olivia Watson,” he explained to Gabriel. “Olivia runs a wildly successful contemporary art gallery in King Street.”
“You don’t say.”
“You’ve met?”
