Tracy Corbett - Secret Things and Highland Flings

‘Okay. So we know the first painting is the middle-aged man.’ Lexi placed it to one side. ‘The second painting is a child’s portrait.’ She viewed the reverse of the canvas. ‘Thomas Elliott-Wentworth, aged nine, garden scene, fifteen-inch dark wood frame.’

Tasha made a note.

Lexi systematically went through each painting, casting her eye over the quality of the work. The more she saw, the more she warmed to the artist. The intimacy of the poses, the awkwardness of the human form had been captured perfectly.

Tasha ticked off each painting as she went through the collection. ‘That’s everything on the list.’

Only one remained.

Lexi picked up the last painting. ‘This must be our stowaway.’

After removing the protective sheet, she placed the nineteen-inch frame on an easel and stood back to look.

When Tasha swore, she knew she wasn’t the only one startled by what had been uncovered. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Finally, Tasha came over. ‘Is that Renaissance?’

‘Looks like it.’

Tasha let out a slow whistle. ‘It has to be a fake, right?’

Logically, Lexi would have to agree. The chances of it being genuine were almost non-existent and yet every artistic instinct she possessed screamed that it wasn’t.

‘Can you tell if it’s real?’

‘Perhaps, but I’d have to carry out a series of tests. I’d need the owner’s permission.’

‘What’s your gut telling you?’

‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to make a quick assessment.’ Lexi tried to switch off the art fanatic in her and view the painting through critical eyes. ‘The frame clearly isn’t as old as the canvas, so it’s been replaced,’ she said, pointing to the main body of the painting. ‘In contrast, the canvas has evidence of multiple repairs and restoration, which is hard to fake.’

She searched out her magnifying glass and ultraviolet fluorescent wand. After switching off the lights, she waved the purple light over the painting, her skin prickling with nervous excitement. ‘There’s an intricate pattern of spiderweb cracks covering the surface.’

‘So we know it’s old.’

Lexi’s pulse quickened. ‘Really old. Look at the long, confident brushstrokes. Most fakes are revealed by a sense of hesitation, an effort to replicate rather than create.’ She studied the canvas through the magnifying glass.

Tasha peered closer. ‘What do you see?’

‘Shiny pigments, indicating the use of lead whites, and possible traces of azurite and smalt infused in the paint during the 1600s.’ She pointed to the detailing on the cloth around the old man’s neck. ‘Can you see the way the minerals dance on the surface, like the sun sparkling off the ocean?’

‘Very poetic.’

Lexi switched the lights back on. ‘Judging by the thickness of paint and swirling brushstrokes, the paint has been applied with a palette knife instead of a brush.’ She handed Tasha the magnifying glass. ‘The style is very distinctive.’

Tasha studied the canvas through the magnifying glass. ‘So if this is a fake, then whoever painted it really knew their stuff.’

‘A master in his or her own right. Without further lab tests on the paint I couldn’t be sure, but they don’t appear to have made a single obvious mistake.’

They both descended into silence. It was Tasha who broke it.

‘So, this is either a really good forgery …’

‘Or it’s an original Albrico Spinelli.’

Tasha let out a low whistle. ‘Fuck me!’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Wednesday 30th May

Less than two hours after receiving the news that the forged Spinelli had already been packed up and sent to a gallery in Windsor, Olly had boarded the overnight sleeper and was now heading out of London, bound for Berkshire. If he’d had more time he could have formulated a better plan, one that didn’t involve him running out on his injured sister. But he’d been forced into a knee-jerk response.

Having grabbed an overnight bag, he’d given Louisa the lame excuse of ‘needing to see Sophie urgently’ as explanation for leaving her and bolted from the castle. Her tearful concerns that he wouldn’t return had nearly been his undoing. Thankfully, Harry had arrived back from his business trip and the distraction of being reunited with her husband had diverted Louisa’s attentions, allowing Olly to escape.

Although how he planned to deal with the problem in hand, he didn’t know. But he had bigger things to worry about. Like where he was going to sleep tonight.

He hadn’t realised Sophie was staying with friends in Central London. So not only was his lie already unravelling, but he also had no place to stay. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a key?

He could have called Sophie and begged her to return. But then he’d have to explain why he was in Windsor, and Sophie was a lot more astute than Louisa and harder to fob off. It was better she didn’t know.

Besides, she wouldn’t thank him for ruining her social life. She was probably partying at some swanky venue with one of the numerous men she dated but that no one ever met. Sophie kept her family and friends separate. Having done the same, he could hardly complain.

It was late afternoon by the time he walked up the hill to where Windsor Castle sat proudly overlooking the town centre. It was a far cry from the rustic and remote Rubha Castle – the epitome of a royal residence, with its manicured lawns and troops of guards wearing impressive red coats and busby hats, proudly protecting the crown. Hordes of tourists mingled outside, snapping photos and trying to get the unresponsive guards to smile.

He checked his directions and walked past the statue of Queen Victoria. He found himself in the old medieval area of the town, the lanes narrow and cobbled. The crooked houses either side dated back to the 1600s, but they’d all been converted into souvenir shops, cafés and taverns. But it was the dwellings ahead that drew his attention.

Tainted Love Tattoos looked classy and discerning, with a neon sign that glowed in the window advertising ‘Room to Let’. Handy.

Of course, the place of real interest was next door: Ryan Fine Arts.

Now he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. If it were any other painting he’d simply walk in there, introduce himself, explain that there’d been a mix-up and ask for the painting to be returned. But it wasn’t any old painting.

According to the website, the owner of Ryan Fine Arts had a degree in the history of art. There was no way she wouldn’t recognise a Spinelli. The Cursed Man had been missing for nearly three hundred years, so if it suddenly turned up now it would be a huge deal. News that the family who’d sold The Sacrificial Woman were found to be in possession of its sister painting would hit the headlines. Especially if that painting turned out to be fake. The French buyer of the first painting would probably sue, the Wentworth family would lose both properties, his parents would be labelled crooks, his siblings shamed and four hundred years of family history would be wiped out.

The secret he’d spent the last decade running away from would be exposed.

There was no way he could let that happen. He had to get that painting back without raising suspicion. How the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know.

He decided a little reconnaissance was required before formulating a plan. He needed time to think.

The front of the gallery was mostly glass, displaying a few works in the window. Good-quality pieces, mounted against a soft white background, indicating the owner knew their stuff. Of course, it was a classy joint. When Louisa had searched for a gallery to take their mother’s collection, she’d done her research. She wouldn’t have proceeded unless she was confident the curator was professional and a genuine art-lover. Which was great as far as selling their mother’s legitimate paintings was concerned, but bad news when trying to outsmart an expert.