Peter Lovesey - The Vault

Peg had worked long enough in the antiques trade to know that synchronicity occurs from time to time in a quite eerie fashion. So she was not troubled that Mary Shelley had cropped up in another context the same day. It was not mere coincidence, nor entirely the mysterious working of fate. With the idea of Frankenstein already planted in her mind, she would have been alert to anything in Simon Minchendon's house that made connection with the story.

Were the pictures genuine? Blake had been so prolific, despite failing health towards the end, that no one could be certain how many unrecorded works had survived. Frankenstein was published in 1818. Blake would certainly have known of the book; he was illustrating and engraving to the end of his life in 1827. The theme of the novel would have found a resonance with his hatred of perverted science.

Peg decided there was only one way to find out. Using a penknife, she cut into the already disintegrating brown paper backing one of the frames. Methodically she prised out the rusty pins and removed the board that held the picture against the glass. The age of the mount and frame was of no importance, but did the drawing paper pass the test? Was it almost two hundred years old?

With extreme care, she lifted out the painting and studied it. Certainly the paper smelt old. There was foxing at the edges, which were rough and fraying. She was not an expert on the age of paper, but her knowledge of antiques of all sorts gave her a pretty reliable sense of what was genuinely old. This, she decided without wishful thinking, could safely be placed in the first two decades of the nineteenth century.

Nothing was written on the reverse. A faker will often try too hard and add some embellishment to bring extra conviction.

She performed a similar dissection of the second frame and mount. No further clues were revealed.

"I'm all fired up, Ellis. You know whose work this is, don't you?"

"They're not signed," he pointed out.

"That's no guide, ducky. Blake often left his work unsigned. These look to me like studies for engravings. He did thousands." She smiled. "Well, it would have been nice in a way if there was a signature, but then I would never have got them so cheap."

"Are you sure they're kosher?"

"What's your opinion?" Holding it delicately by the edge to avoid marking it with her dusty fingers, she handed him the exterior scene.

"You think this is Frankenstein and the monster?"

"It's the core of the book, their meeting in the shadow of Mont Blanc. The monster has strangled Frankenstein's young brother, the child William, and the servant Justine has been hanged for the crime."

"It's a long time since I read the story," Somerset admitted. "I've seen plenty of films, of course, but we all know the liberties they take."

"Take it from me, this is straight out of the book. No liberties at all."

He held the picture at arm's length. "Blake and Mary Shelley? I've never linked them in my mind before."

Peg said, "I did some checking this afternoon. He collaborated with Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley's mother. She wrote some rather indifferent stories for children and dear old Blake illustrated them. So there is a link, in a way."

"What will you do with them? Is there a space on the wall anywhere?"

She shook her head. "People come here looking for bargains, and these are something else. I've got an arrangement under way."

"A dealer?"

"Get away." With a mysterious smile, she held out her hands to take back the precious painting.

"You know someone?"

"Someone who will want these."

"Who's that? A collector?"

"Big game, darling. The rare beast we all pursue, a party who really must buy. The entire trade depends on people like them."

"Aren't you going to tell me?"

She gave him a skittish look. "I may-after I've had my bit of fun."

"You're being mean to me, Peg."

"This is the jungle, ducky."

"Local?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "I've been on the phone. I'm expecting an offer tonight, if that doesn't sound indelicate."

Ellis looked away, pink-faced. A vein was throbbing in his neck.

DONNA HAD not, after all, booked for a meal. She was old-fashioned enough to believe restaurant reservations ought to be made by men. She wouldn't enjoy her dinner if the waiters knew she had made the phone call.

Joe came in and, typical Joe, gushed apologies like a man who had just walked into a ladies' changing-room. He went on to claim confidently that when she heard the reason why he had neglected her for so long, she would not only understand, she would throw her arms around him and give him the biggest kiss ever. Donna doubted that.

Worse, he suggested they had room service. He would order champagne and caviar as well, he offered.

"Why?" said Donna, keeping herself under control with difficulty. "Why don't we go out?"

"It's getting late, honey. We don't want to walk the streets looking for a place with a free table. I can't wait to tell you what happened. Shall I call room service?"

They walked the streets looking for a place with a free table. To be exact, they walked as far as Brock Street, a mere three minutes from the hotel, and found a table straight away in a quiet restaurant.

Joe launched into his account of the trail that led to Mary Shelley's writing box.

"How do you know it's hers?" Donna said, as yet feeling no urge to throw her arms around Joe.

"It's got to be. I've got a feeling about this."

"I've got a feeling this woman saw you coming. She's running rings around you, Joe Dougan. You show her the book and she sees a chance to unload an old box on you. If it was Mary Shelley's, where's the sense in using it as a stand for a heavy vase?"

He opened his palms to emphasise the simple logic. "She didn't know it was Mary Shelley's. This is the whole point, Donna. And there's a very good chance that I'll get the proof when the box is opened. There could be other things inside."

"Like Mary Shelley's credit cards?"

"Oh, come on."

"You said she claims to have found the book inside the box."

"That's right. And a sketchbook that she sold. That's more evidence."

"It's not if she doesn't have it any more."

"No, listen. While Mary Shelley was staying in five, Abbey Churchyard, she was having drawing lessons from a a teacher called West. That's on record. She wrote in a letter to Leigh Hunt about finishing a picture she regarded as tedious and ugly. Oh, boy, I'd love to find that sketchbook."

"Joe."

"Honey?"

"I've had it up to here with Mary Shelley."

"Sure," he soothed her. "I can understand why. Listen, tomorrow let's do something totally unconnected with Frankenstein."

"Such as?"

Conveniently for Joe, someone had pinned some tourist leaflets to the wall behind Donna, and over her shoulder Joe could just read the large print. "I thought we might take a bus-trip somewhere. They do excursions to all kinds of places. How would you like to see Wilton House, where the Earl of Pembroke lives?"

"Is it open to the public?"

"Sure. I wouldn't mention it if not."

Donna melted a little. "I'll think it over."

"After tonight," said Joe rashly, "we'll draw a line under Mary Shelley."

"Thank God."

He looked at his watch. "There's only one more thing I need to do this evening, and that's go back to Noble and Nude and see if she found the key to the box."

Donna was lost for words.

IT WAS after eight when Diamond got back from the TV studios at Bristol. He'd phoned Stephanie, knowing she was sure to be uneasy about turning up late to the 'At Home'. She hated being late for things.

"You can afford to make an entrance in that terrific dress," he said with conviction. He'd had time to prepare a rallying speech on the drive back from Bristol. And it was a classy dress, a floral print in some silky material, worn with a shiny black belt. "In fact, it demands to be noticed. I like it. By God, I don't know where you found it, but it's a smashing little number."