The Blue Last

“You’ve never been righter, Diane.”

People waited patiently, for Diane’s present count. Finally, Vivian said, “Diane, if there are six people and all six are giving each of the others a gift, then-” Vivian made an encouraging noise.

“Easy for you to say, Vivian, you’ve already done yours.”

“That’s beside the point; the point is the number.”

Melrose wished he was back in the Brancacci Chapel. “Actually, there will be seven, not six.”

Diane looked as if he had thrown the final spanner in the works. “Who else?”

“I’ve invited Mr. Steptoe.”

They all looked blank.

“Our new greengrocer.”

They still looked blank. Finally, Vivian said, “That’s sweet of you Melrose. He can get to know people.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

From the bar, where he was reading the Sidbury paper, Dick Scroggs called over, “Don’t see your horoscope column today, Miss Demorney.”

“The stars are on holiday, Dick.”

“No presents,” said Melrose. “You have to do that on your own, go house to house, or whatever.”

Diane heaved a sigh of relief, tapped a red fingernail against her empty martini glass and gave Dick Scroggs a little wave. “Did you set a time, Melrose? I mean will we be having drinkies beforehand?”

“We’re having drinkies beforehand right now.” He smiled. “But, yes, more drinkies will be on offer this evening. Come at seven.”

Forty-eight

Richard Jury reached over to the ice bucket Ruthven had left, at Jury’s request, plucked up a cube and dropped it in his whiskey. He had inclined lately toward as bitter a cold as he could get-cold walks, cold drinks, cold rooms, bitter and anesthetizing cold. He did not know why other than wanting to arm himself against the specter of Christmas past, present and probably future. He did not like Christmas; he felt depleted by it.

“That’s a thirty-year-old single malt you’re watering down,” said Melrose Plant. They were seated in comfortable chairs next to the fire.

“It’ll be gone before the ice melts. Now, back to St. Jerome.”

“I think it’s John, St. John.”

“You didn’t see whatever’s left of this polyptych in the church in Pisa?”

“It’s no longer there. That’s part of the point. Parts have found their way into various churches and museums in Europe. And some of the panels are still missing.”

Jury nodded and drank his whiskey. “What’s this dealer’s name?”

“Jasperson. The woman who’s selling them is named Amy Eccleston.”

Jury leaned over and set his empty glass on the table. “I’d like a word with Jasperson. Do you have his number?”

“Here.” Melrose handed over a card from his jacket pocket.

“Where’s the phone?” Jury rose.

Melrose waved him down. “No, sit down. Ruthven can bring it.” Melrose pressed the enamel button beneath the table beside his chair.

Ruthven appeared, was duly dispatched and returned with the phone. Jury thanked him.

“I could easily have gone to the phone rather than the phone coming to me.”

“Hell, no. I want to hear what you say.”

Jury dialed as Melrose refilled their glasses and plopped another ice cube in Jury’s. Jury leaned back and waited and said to Melrose, “I’d be surprised to get anybody on Christmas Eve-hello. Mr. Jasperson, please. This is-? Mr. Jasperson, I’m Superintendent Richard Jury of Scotland Yard… No, nothing’s wrong…” Jury asked him about the two paintings and whether he’d had them authenticated and where they’d come from. “The thing is, Mr. Jasperson, what I’ve been led to believe is that what you’ve got there might be a panel from an altarpiece by Masaccio-”

On his end, Jasperson’s response must have been forceful-cried or cursed or laughed-for Jury moved the receiver away from his ear, regarded Plant with a shrug, then put the receiver back as Jasperson said something else, making Jury laugh. “I suppose not. Would anyone else connected with your shop possibly know…? No… Miss Eccleston, I see. Well, I might just pop round there for five minutes and see what is… Yes. Oh, no, you needn’t go there. Bad enough to be bothered at all on Christmas… Yes. Thanks. Wait. Tell me, if one of these panels did turn out to be by Masaccio, how much would it fetch at auction?… You don’t say. Thank you.”

Jury hung up. “Never saw them.”

Melrose sat forward, eyes wide.

“I think we should have a little talk with Amy Eccleston, don’t you?”

Melrose was up like a shot. “Let’s go.”

With their coats on and going out the door, Melrose asked, “How much did he say a Masaccio would get?”

“Around twenty-five, thirty million pounds.”

“My God! But why would she be selling it for a measly two thousand, then?”

“Maybe she doesn’t know anyone with thirty million.”

There were two other customers when Jury walked into C. Jasperson’s, American from the sound of them, middle-aged women in jumpers and slacks browsing and apparently giving sod all about the holiday. He liked that attitude.

Amy Eccleston, who had been conferring with them, excused herself and threaded her way through tables and chairs and objets d’art to join Jury near the front of the room. Her smile diminished fractionally when she saw his identification. “Oh.” Then the telephone rang and she was off to answer it, no doubt grateful for the pause it gave her.

Jury studied the table in the middle of the room, frowning at the gilt and fat cherubs embracing the table legs. Why would anyone need such a piece, much less at this shocking price? He let the tag dangle.

The middle-aged Americans smiled at him on their way out and he returned the smile. So they smiled again, perhaps thinking they had short-changed this man in the smile department. The bell jittered as they left.

Melrose, who had spent a few minutes outside contemplating the green, passed them in the doorway. He and Jury had decided it would be better if they entered separately so as not to arouse Amy Eccleston’s suspicions, at least not immediately.

Returning from the telephone call, Miss Eccleston saw Melrose and made a delighted sound. She said she’d fetch his painting in just a moment. To Jury she said, “Now, what did you want, Inspector?”

“Superintendent, actually. I understand you’ve sold two paintings lately attributed to the Italian painter Masaccio?”

With a self-righteous air, she corrected him. “No, indeed not! I didn’t say they were by Masaccio. I merely said there’s the possibility.”

“You came across them yourself, did you?”

“Yes. In Italy. I found them in a little church in San Giovanni Valdarno. I thought they were unusual and very striking. Of course, that they might have been painted by Masaccio didn’t occur to me at the time.”

“Even though,” put in Melrose, coming up on the two, “San Giovanni Valdarno was his place of birth?”

She looked from the one to the other, clearly disturbed that they appeared now to be together. “I wasn’t thinking of that. Superintendent, what’s wrong here? You seem to be accusing me of something.”

Jury had been making notes in his small notebook. “What makes all of this suspect is that Mr. Jasperson knows absolutely nothing about these two paintings. Yet they’re hanging here-or were-in his shop.”

“Mr. Jasperson?” Her face looked chalky.

Jury just looked at her.

“I’ve been with Mr. Jasperson for three years now. He’s always-”

“Too bad you won’t be with him for three more, Miss Eccleston. The way I see it is this: you’ve been doing this