Senen Cove

The cottage stood at the end of Maria’s Lane in the hamlet of Senen Cove. It had four bedrooms, a modern kitchen, and a spacious sitting room that Gabriel, after a painstaking survey of the alternatives, claimed as his studio. The favorable publicity surrounding his recent appearance at the Courtauld Gallery had resulted in an avalanche of lucrative requests for his services. Regrettably, a financially lopsided prior commitment, made under duress during a boozy lunch at Claridge’s, required his attention first.

The work in question, Madonna and Child, oil on canvas, 94 by 76 centimeters, by Orazio Gentileschi, arrived at the cottage in the back of a Mercedes transit van. Gabriel extracted the painting from its shipping crate and secured it to a large studio easel. A cool sea breeze, blowing through the open windows, vented the noxious fumes of his solvents. Nevertheless, at Chiara’s insistence, he agreed to wear a protective mask for the first time in his long career.

He rose at dawn each morning and worked without a break until midday. The children, after gamely sampling the local pub fare, prevailed on their mother to prepare proper Venetian lunches instead. Afterward Gabriel would hike along the South West Coast Path to the tiny port of Mousehole, where he had stashed the ketch. The dangerous rip currents and swift tides of the Cornish coast posed a welcome challenge to his seamanship. The long walks back to the cottage in Senen Cove shed five pounds from his already slender physique.

Returning home late one afternoon, he was surprised to see Nicholas Lovegrove sitting on the terrace with Chiara, a glass of wine in hand. He had traveled all the way to Cornwall, he claimed, to check on the status of the Gentileschi. The true purpose of the visit, though, was to interrogate Gabriel about the Picasso Papers scandal. Gabriel told Lovegrove as much as he could, which was next to nothing.

“Come on, Allon. Show a little leg.”

“Suffice to say, Nicky, you played a small but vital role in preventing Hugh Graves from becoming prime minister.”

“I gathered that. But how?”

“One thing led to another. That’s all I can say.”

“And the Picasso?”

“The flight data on Harris Weber’s executive jet would suggest that the painting is in the British Virgin Islands. The authorities there are searching for it now.”

“Kicking down doors, are they?”

“Hardly.”

“It’s a shame the painting slipped through our fingers,” said Lovegrove. “Still, I have to admit, I rather enjoyed our little escapade. Especially the time I spent with Anna Rolfe.” He turned to Chiara. “She really is quite extraordinary, don’t you think?”

Gabriel interjected before his wife could answer. “Perhaps we should discuss the Gentileschi instead.”

“How soon can you have it ready?”

“Unless I can squeeze it into my carry-on luggage, it will have to be finished before we leave for Venice.”

“The sooner the better.”

“Where’s the fire, Nicky?”

“Isherwood Fine Arts.”

“Come again?”

“It seems your dear friend Sarah Bancroft has a buyer. Very hush-hush. Anonymous shell company. That sort of thing.”

“How much did she get for it?”

“Eight figures.”

“Plus dealer’s commission, I suppose.”

“But of course.”

“So you and my dear friend Sarah Bancroft will each earn in excess of a million pounds on the sale,” said Gabriel. “And I will make a lousy fifty thousand.”

“You’re not trying to renege on our arrangement, are you?”

“A deal’s a deal, Nicky.”

Lovegrove smiled. “How refreshing.”

*  *  *

The geography of the west Cornish coast was such that twice each afternoon Gabriel walked through a crime scene. The car park at Land’s End where Charlotte Blake had left her Vauxhall Astra. The overgrown hedgerow where her body had been found. The stately stone manor where her lover, Leonard Bradley, lived with his wife and three children. It was inevitable, then, that Gabriel and Bradley should meet. It happened late one afternoon near the Tater-du Lighthouse. Gabriel was headed back to the cottage after leaving the ketch in Mousehole Harbor. Bradley was mulling over a particularly profitable day of trading.

“Allon,” he called out. “I was hoping I might bump into you.”

The remark caught Gabriel by surprise. “How did you know I was in the neighborhood?” he asked.

“I heard the rumor at the chippy in Senen Cove.”

“I would be grateful if you didn’t repeat it.”

“It’s rather too late for that, I’m afraid. It seems you’re the talk of Cornwall.” They set off together along the coast path. Bradley walked with his hands clasped behind his back. His pace and manner were deliberative. Finally, he said, “You misled me the afternoon you and that detective came to my home.”

“Did I?”

“You said it was your first visit to Cornwall. But I have it on the highest authority that you and your wife lived for a time in Gunwalloe, of all places. But you also deceived me about the nature of your investigation. You already knew the truth about OOC Group, Limited, when you came to see me.”

“I knew most of the truth,” admitted Gabriel. “But not all of it. You gave me the final piece of the puzzle.”

“Lucinda?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Is she responsible for Charlotte’s death?”

“She played no role in her murder. But, yes, Lucinda is to blame for what happened.”

“Which means I am as well.”

Gabriel was silent.

“I have a right to know, Allon.”

“You sent Charlotte to Lucinda Graves with the best of intentions. You mustn’t blame yourself for her murder. It was just . . .”

“Bad luck?”

“Yes.”