some of it risque enough to make Ben think that either Signora Segura was an extremely permissive wife or else Juan Calixto was a single guy. A woman’s touch on a home left an un mistakable trace; the more Ben saw of the house, the more convinced he was that there was no Mrs Segura. That was fine by him. Fewer occupants to become alerted to his presence.
From somewhere above, he could hear the strains of a violin. He followed the music up the stairs, treading on the edge of each step to avoid creaks. At the top of the staircase was a dark landing. The music was clearer now – maybe Bach, or Haydn – and the smell of smoke stronger. Three doors led off the landing, one in the centre, one left and one right. The door on the right was ajar a couple of inches. The music was coming from the room beyond, as well as a shaft of light. Ben stepped softly over to it and peered through the crack.
The room was a study. Sitting on a deep green leather chair at an antique desk was a large, solidly-built man in his fifties with a mane of grey hair swept back from a high forehead. He was wearing an open-necked shirt with a silk necktie, and toying with the stem of a half-filled glass of red wine as he pored through what looked like a fine art auction catalogue. A curved pipe hung lazily from the corner of his mouth, its smoke drifting in the light of his desk lamp. Segura seemed preoccupied, glancing frequently at his chunky silver watch as if waiting for someone.
Ben very quietly turned the handle of the landing’s middle door and opened it a crack to reveal a bedroom. Unless Segura was the world’s tidiest bachelor, it had to be a guest room. Ben gently closed the door and returned to watching Segura in his study, hanging well back in the shadows.
The art collector’s desk clock was reading almost 11.15 when the door chimes sounded suddenly from below. Segura laid down his pipe, got up and bustled towards the study door. Ben slipped quickly into the guest bedroom as the Spaniard trotted heavily out onto the landing and hurried down the stairs.
A moment later, Ben heard voices, indistinct at first and then growing louder as Segura led his visitor back up to the study. Ben bent down to peer through the keyhole and saw De Crescenzo climbing the stairs behind his host. The count’s suit was rumpled from the long drive. He looked pale and nervy, wringing his hands and showing his grey teeth. They were speaking English; Ben guessed that was the only language they had in common. Segura led the Italian into the study and pulled the door to behind him.
As Ben emerged cautiously from the guest bedroom he was relieved to see that the Spaniard had left the door open a few inches. The two men were visible through the gap. Ben moved closer, and listened.
‘To business,’ Segura was saying in his rich accent.
De Crescenzo looked so nervous he could hardly breathe. ‘The Goya,’ he whispered. ‘Show me.’
Segura nodded. He slid open a desk drawer, took out a remote control and pointed it at a large oil painting mounted on the study wall. The painting slid aside with a whirr of an electric motor, revealing a hidden safe door with a wall-mounted keypad to one side. Shielding the keypad with his left hand, Segura punched in a number with his right index finger. Twelve digits, twelve little beeps. The door swung open.
‘Naturally,’ he said, turning to De Crescenzo, ‘the vast majority of my collection is stored in my basement vault. I brought this up here earlier, knowing you would wish to see it.’
He reached into the safe with both hands, and came out holding a rectangular object wrapped in white cloth. Ben watched as Segura carried it over to the desk and laid it down as though it could crumble into powder at any moment. As the Spaniard drew the cloth away, De Crescenzo let out a gasp and whispered, ‘May I hold it?’
‘Carefully, please,’ Segura said with a smile. The count picked it up. He was standing with his back to the door, so Ben had a clear view of the picture in his hands. It looked identical to the charcoal sketch at the exhibition, a drawing of a man on his knees praying to God with a look of devout passion, as though his life depended on it.
The same picture that had been stolen.
Ben stared at it. What was going on here?
De Crescenzo was swaying on his feet with amazement as he stood gaping at the sketch in his hands.
‘Now you understand why I asked you to be here in person,’ Segura said, reaching for his pipe. ‘This is not something I could merely describe by telephone. This, my friend, is the real “Penitent Sinner”. As certifiably authentic as it could possibly be.’ He relit the pipe with a lighter from his pocket and puffed clouds of smoke.
Ben was so stunned he had to bite back a choking cough.
‘How – how do I know—’ De Crescenzo stammered. ‘That this is the genuine article?’ Segura smiled. ‘I have been cautious. More cautious than you, my friend.’ As Ben listened, the Spaniard launched into a whole technical spiel about white lead dating, X-ray diffraction, infrared analysis, dendrochronology and stable isotope testing and a whole lot of other things Ben didn’t understand a word of but which seemed pretty convincing to Pietro De Crescenzo.
‘You have had this for—’
‘Seventeen years,’ Segura finished for him, nodding. ‘Like the private collector from whom I bought it, I prefer to avoid publicity. For the same reason, I generally refuse to loan out items from my collection.’ He gave a dark smile. ‘As I think you know, it can be a risky business.’
The count laid the Goya down gingerly on the desk and slumped into a nearby chair. Segura was watching him closely, and Ben could read the look on the Spaniard’s face. Segura was no idiot. He was looking at all the angles. Studying De Crescenzo for any sign of play-acting that might have indicated he’d been up to some kind of scam here. Have a fake painting knocked up by a discreet forger, arrange for it to be stolen in such a way that you could never be suspected, claim on the insurance, then feign total innocence when someone comes up with the original.
But whatever suspicions Segura might have had were clearly dissipated by the Italian’s reaction. Nobody could have acted so well. De Crescenzo suddenly looked about two hundred years old. For a few moments Ben was as concerned as Segura obviously was that the Italian might be about to keel over.
‘Would you care for a drink?’ Segura asked, motioning towards a decanter on a sideboard.
De Crescenzo dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief, tried to smile and shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. I’ll be all right.’
‘This must come as something of a shock, I know,’ Segura said with a note of sympathy. ‘Though I must say I am somewhat surprised you did not conduct similar testing to verify the authenticity of the piece yourself.’
De Crescenzo sank his head in his hands. ‘I assumed—’ he said weakly. His voice trailed off.
Segura laughed. ‘I have made similar assumptions in the past, and paid the price for them. It happens to us all.’
But De Crescenzo wasn’t listening. He sat there quaking, as if the full force of realisation was suddenly hitting him. ‘If I had known – if I had taken the trouble to check, instead of being blinded by sentiment, none of this tragedy might have occurred. This whole thing has been my fault.’
Segura stared at him. ‘How can you have been responsible for what those animals did?’
De Crescenzo shook his head furiously. ‘No, no. You don’t understand. The thieves were targeting the Goya specifically.’
‘But why would they have done that? They must have known how little it was worth, compared to—’
‘I don’t know why,’ De Crescenzo cut in. ‘All I know is that, had I not chosen to include it in the exhibition, innocent lives would have been spared.’ He fell into thought for a moment, then his face crinkled into a grimace and he gave a sour laugh. ‘And so history repeats itself. The first time, the crooks left with nothing. The second time, they left with a fake.’
Listening in the shadows, Ben wondered what he meant by that.
Segura shrugged, not seeming to understand. ‘You do look as though you need a drink, Pietro. I cannot begin to imagine what you have been through.’ Chewing on the stem of his pipe, he stepped over to the sideboard and picked up the decanter and a glass. ‘Here. Some cognac will settle your nerves.’
De Crescenzo shook his head again. ‘I think I will leave you now, and find a hotel.’ He rose unsteadily to his feet, held out his hand. ‘Thank you. Tomorrow I will return to Rome and inform the authorities.’
‘I would have preferred that my ownership of the Goya remain a secret,’ Segura said. ‘But I appreciate I no longer have that luxury.’
‘I’m grateful for your understanding,’ De Crescenzo said in a hoarse croak.
It was two minutes after midnight when Segura showed De Crescenzo back downstairs. The Italian took his Burberry raincoat from the ornate antique coat stand in the hallway where he’d hung it, then the two art scholars
