“I am afraid I cannot.”
“Nor can I, but all gathered information may later turn out to be significant on a case such as this,” said Joanna and looked at the door. “And now, Mr. Hawke, if you would be so kind, please accompany us to the restoration section, for I have a few questions for Mr. Delvecchio.”
Simon Hawke led the way down the stairs, after signaling to the female clerk that he would be absent momentarily. The restoration area was brightly lighted and quite warm due to the nearby central heat furnace that was hidden behind a brick wall. The restorer, Giuseppe Delvecchio, was seated in front of a painting that had the hallmarks of works done by French impressionists. It depicted well-dressed children playing in a park near a calm, blue lake that had boats upon it. We watched Delvecchio wrap a bit of cotton around a wooden dowel, then wet it with solvent and gently swirl it against the canvas. As a layer of varnish was removed, a child’s head appeared. Another dip and swirl brought out the little girl’s golden hair.
“It appears to be a Renoir,” I commented.
“But it is not, although its owner insists it is the work of Pierre-Auguste Renoir,” Delvecchio replied. “Most likely it was painted by Frédéric Bazille, who was a fellow student and greatly admired Renoir’s style.”
“Did you so inform the owner?”
“I did, but he was convinced it was an authentic, unsigned Renoir, and I saw no benefit to argue the point.” Delvecchio rose from his chair to stretch his back and asked, “Are you interested in Renoir?”
“To a limited extent,” I replied, as rehearsed on our ride to the gallery. “It is Paolo Veronese who arouses my curiosity.”
“Is there one particular work of his that you admire?”
“La Bella Nani.”
“Ah, I see you have been to visit the Countess of Wessex.”
“I have.”
“She considers Veronese among the greats, but not all share that opinion.”
“Do you?”
“No,” Delvecchio said at once. “How can you worship the work of an artist who paints a large woman with a head that is far too small for her body?”
“It did seem a little off.”
“Yet that oddity is considered one of his very best works.”
“I hope you did not express that opinion to her,” Hawke interjected.
“I may be crazy, but I am not a fool,” Delvecchio said, with a mischievous smile.
Joanna asked, “Did she bring the painting into the gallery?”
“No, madam,” Delvecchio answered. “She insisted I visit her home. Apparently Scotland Yard wished the painting to remain in place.”
“To keep the crime scene intact.”
“So I was told.”
“Did you find her to be as well informed as I did?” I asked.
“The countess is very knowledgeable, particularly in the paintings from the Italian Renaissance,” Delvecchio replied. “But why she places Caravaggio above Raphael is beyond me.”
“With Veronese being well below both.”
“All would agree to that assessment.”
“I take it she nonetheless wished for you to restore the Veronese painting.”
“That was her wish, but only after thoroughly investigating my credentials.” Delvecchio huffed. “She actually made a long-distance call to the Uffizi in my presence.”
“Was she satisfied?” I asked.
“Women like the countess are never satisfied.”
“I say!” Hawke said indignantly.
“I withdraw the remark, although it is true,” Delvecchio said. “She must be in control of everything, including her husband and the dog.”
One could not but like the restorer, for like most Italians he was outspoken and forthright, but with no meanness and a pleasant spirit.
“But I must say I got along well with the husband who knows nothing about art,” Delvecchio continued on. “And I even managed to befriend their mastiff Nelson.”
“While I was there, the hound eyed me rather warily,” I recalled.
“Did you give him a dog biscuit?”
“I did not.”
“You should have, for to a dog nothing is more important than food, and the person who provides it automatically becomes a friend.”
“So you knew beforehand that the countess had a dog.”
“I had no such information,” Delvecchio said. “It was only good fortune, for I always carry one for my own sweet greyhound, Mimi.”
Joanna gestured to a water dish on the floor near the wall. “Do you bring the dog to work? Or more importantly, does she ever spend the night here?”
A most intriguing question, I thought immediately, for the greyhound would have barked at a nighttime intruder and frightened him away. Unless of course the dog was familiar with that individual.
“I am not permitted to bring my dog because when I did he barked incessantly,” Delvecchio said in a sad voice.
“The barking went on and on,” Hawke added. “And was most disturbing, for it could be heard in the gallery above.”
“It was so unusual for Mimi to behave this way, for at home she is quiet as a lamb.” Delvecchio pointed to the thick wall that enclosed the central heating furnace. “She barked and even clawed at the wall, as if she had picked up the scent of a rabbit or some other prey.”
“A pest control expert was called in and seemed convinced that a squirrel or some other rodent had become trapped in the chimney behind the wall that had been bricked off to prevent the loss of heat, so I had to pay a mason to brick off the top of the chimney as well,” Hawke stated unhappily. “All of the masonry came at added expense, which the gallery could ill afford, with our business so depressed. And I fear that it will continue to be so unless the despicable vandal is caught.”
“We now have a partial description of him,” I encouraged.
“So I have been told,” Hawke said. “Inspector Lestrade inquired about a person associated with the gallery who had a red, quite noticeable rash about his neck and back of his head. No such individual has ever been employed here.”
“Did the restorer who was a forger and supposedly fled to Australia have an obvious skin condition?” asked Joanna.
“James Blackstone certainly did not, nor did Harry
