would be fulfilled, and it was stimulating to be a part of the operation that would fulfil it. Mrs Pargeter felt free and irresponsible, almost skittish.
“One of the best examples of Rubens’s mature period,” Palings Price was saying. “The model was his second wife Helene Fourment.”
“It’s stunning,” Mrs Pargeter agreed. “My husband would really have loved it.”
“Why particularly?” asked HRH.
“Well, obviously, because he liked his women – ” But no. She checked herself. That was private. “This was the sort of thing he liked,” she concluded lightly.
“Oh. Right.”
Mrs Pargeter felt the need to move the conversation hastily on. “Where was it stolen from?”
“Pantheon Gallery, Berne. In 1982,” said Palings Price. He pointed to the Madonnas. “Those two were taken at the same time. Big fuss when it happened. All over the international press.”
“I’ll bet it was.”
HRH ran a thoughtful hand through his splendid moustache. “Odd that the three paintings the thieves left at Chastaigne Varleigh should be from the same haul…”
“Yes.” Mrs Pargeter seized on the thought. “Suggests they knew quite a lot about what they were dealing with.”
But Palings Price, who was after all an expert in these matters, was unconvinced. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Could just be coincidence.”
“Hmm.” Mrs Pargeter sighed a contented little sigh. “We’ll probably know more when Truffler’s tracked down the rest of the stuff that was stolen.”
“You sound very confident that he’ll find it.”
“Well, of course he will, Palings. Truffler’s the best in the business, isn’t he?”
“That’s true.”
Mrs Pargeter looked again at the paintings. “Well, at least we’ve got these three, so we can make a start. Do you reckon there’s going to be any problem getting these back to where they came from, HRH?”
The travel agent’s magnificent mane of white hair shook confidently. “No. Berne’ll be easy. Fritzi the Finger’s based in Salzburg. Your husband got him out of a few spots. He’ll be honoured to help, won’t he, Palings?”
“Absolutely. This sort of job’s meat and drink to him, anyway.”
HRH was thoughtful for a moment. “No, the only problem will be finding a courier to get the goods out of this country…”
“Couldn’t I do that?” Mrs Pargeter volunteered eagerly.
It was just her skittish mood of the morning finding expression, but the suggestion clearly shocked Hamish Ramon Henriques. There was a strong tone of disapproval in his voice as he said, “I wouldn’t want you to put yourself at any risk, Mrs Pargeter.”
“Besides,” the gallery owner interposed, “smuggling old masters is actually a criminal activity…”
“Oh yes.” She was properly contrite. “Sorry, I got carried away there.”
Palings Price continued to spell out the situation for her. “And you’ve never been personally involved in anything illegal, have you?”
An innocent blush suffused her cheeks at the very idea. “Good heavens, no,” said Mrs Pargeter.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Twenty
The studio of VVO still looked as cluttered, but this time Mrs Pargeter was aware of how
Since his last encounter with Mrs Pargeter and HRH, VVO had been busy – though not as busy as he’d have had to be if all the pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh had been saved. The fruits of his labour were there to be seen, but this time there was no fake Rubens flesh to excite charming comparisons. What VVO had been busy on was his own work, the kind of paintings which he believed he had been placed on this earth to produce.
“Oh dear,” thought Mrs Pargeter, as she looked at the latest creations. There were three of them. In one a lamb with a watermelon grin, wearing a pink bow whose wingspan would not have shamed a jumbo jet, cavorted in front of a quaint windmill. On the second, two lovable ducklings skidded hopelessly on an icy lake, trying to catch up with the mother and the rest of her family procession. And in the third – returning to one of the artist’s favourite themes – a winsome Scottie dog in a natty little tartan coat circled a blossom-laden tree, from whose branches a fluffy white pussy cat grinned down cheekily.
Two of the paintings were already fixed into aluminium frames, and VVO was easing the Scottie dog into the third. Empty, propped against the wall, stood the finely wrought wooden frames of the Rubens and the two Madonnas.
“There,” said VVO, as he screwed the last crosspiece into position at the back of the canvas.
Palings Price looked admiringly at the framed Scottie. “Great. And no one would ever know there was a Rubens under that piece of…” Discretion intervened and his words trailed away.
“Under that piece of what?” asked VVO suspiciously.
“Under that piece of very fine modern painting,” said Mrs Pargeter, ever the conciliator. “I think is what Palings was about to say, isn’t that right?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” the interior designer lied.
VVO didn’t seem entirely convinced by the cover-up. “After I’m dead, you know,” he said truculently, “the true value of my work will be recognized.”
“Yes, VVO, I’m sure it will,” Mrs Pargeter agreed, her soothing tone disguising the ambiguity of her words.
VVO was reassured, anyway. “Thank you, Mrs Pargeter. At least you recognize what I’m capable of.”
“Oh, certainly.” And before the painter had time to spot another double-edged compliment, she rubbed her hands together with relish and said, “Great, terrific. So all we need now is a courier to get the paintings down to Berne…”
VVO looked hopefully round the room until his glance engaged with Mrs Pargeter’s. She did feel tempted to give in to the appeal in those dog-like eyes. The skittish mood was still with her. The courier job wasn’t complicated. Surely VVO couldn’t mess it up. And the late Mr Pargeter had been renowned for constantly opening up new opportunities for his staff, trusting them with ever greater responsibilities.
But her indulgent fantasies were interrupted by the voice of Hamish Ramon Henriques. Shaking his head decidedly, the travel agent pronounced a firm “No.”
“Oh, come on,” the artist wheedled, “you could let me do this. It’s not fair, I’m never allowed to do any of the exciting stuff. And it’d be so easy for me to be your courier. Me and Deirdre could be going off in the camper for a continental holiday. Why not? it’s something we often do.”
But that suggestion prompted another shake of HRH’s fine Iberian head. “I said no. Apart from anything else, it’s always a risk entrusting this kind of thing to someone with a criminal record. The police are –”
Fury burned in the eye of VVO. “Now hang on a minute. Just because you’ve got a criminal record, there’s no need to imagine –”
“How dare you!” HRH snapped back. “I can assure you I do not have –”
Mrs Pargeter raised her hands as if to smooth out a lumpy duvet. “Please, please. There’s no need to argue. I’m sure no one in this room has any kind of criminal record.”
VVO and HRH looked a little sheepish after their outburst, and Palings Price’s face was fixed in a rictus of self-righteousness. Mrs Pargeter gave a reassuring smile to all of them. “Good. See, no worries on that score.”
“No,” HRH agreed, eager to sweep the disagreement hastily under the carpet. “Your late husband took enormous care of the people who worked for him.”
