A Fatal Frame of Mind

Chapter Six

“Now this is a crime scene.”Shawn surveyed the Ngallery approvingly. Three walls were covered with a series of cardboard placards describing the exhibit in several languages. The fourth was hidden behind a heavy red velvet drape.

“Yes, Shawn, that’s what we call the place we find a dead body,” Lassiter said. “You can generally identify it by the yellow tape surrounding the area with the words ‘crime scene’ printed on them. At least you will once you’re able to read at a second-grade level.”

“Thanks, Lassie,” Shawn said. “But what I meant is that this is the kind of place you want to find a body. None of those damp alleys or dismal dive bars. This has class. You’d be proud to be found dead in a place like this.”

“That’s a very interesting point, Mr. Spencer,” Kitteredge said. “I never made the connection, but an art museum does provide the ideal circumstance for such a discovery. For one thing, the lighting and visual presentation are designed to give the maximum dramatic mood, thus heightening the already raised emotions in the situation. And on a more prosaic level, of course, the temperature will be strictly kept between eighteen and twenty degrees Celsius, while the humidity will stay at no more than four percent, which makes the forensics so much easier to read. And then of course there is the ritualistic aspect common to the investigation of a murder and the appreciation of a work of art, both of which are presented as quasi-religious ceremonies.”

Listening to Professor Kitteredge, Gus was transported back to his school days. Everything he said was so fascinating that Gus would have been content simply to listen to him for days.

“Plus you’ve got a nifty red curtain to pull away and reveal the body,” Shawn said. “Which maybe somebody should do.”

“Thank you, Shawn,” Lassiter said. “If it hadn’t been for you, I might have completely forgotten to do my job.” He walked over to the wall and pulled the curtain back a few inches, revealing a dangling push-button control like the ones for garage openers.

Gus noticed that Kitteredge was staring intently at the curtain. “You might want to look away,” Gus said. “This kind of thing can be pretty shocking if you’re not used to it.”

“I couldn’t look away if a thousand bodies lay on that floor,” Kitteredge said. “I’ve waited so long for this moment.”

“Umm, which moment would that be?” Gus said.

“Do you have any idea what’s behind that curtain?” Kitteredge said. “You should, so you understand what you’re looking at. The Defence of Guinevere isn’t just a painting, Gus. It’s not even just a masterpiece. It’s a work of art that has gone unseen for a century and a half. But it’s even more than that.”

“Is it a floor wax, too?” Shawn said.

“This was the last picture Dante Gabriel Rossetti painted before his untimely death at age fifty-four on April 9, 1882,” Kitteredge said, ignoring the interruption as only a man who’d spent decades teaching Intro to Art History to basketball players hoping for an easy grade could do. “For many years, it existed only as a rumor. It was never publicly exhibited anywhere, and the only references to it were brief mentions in other artists’ journals. Somehow it fell into the hands of a private collector-”

“That means someone who buys a painting and then owns it,” Shawn muttered to Gus. “I can’t believe he missed the opportunity to explain that concept for us.”

“Sssh!” Gus hissed.

“-and there it stayed for the next one hundred and fifty years,” Kitteredge continued. “The owner, whose will continues to demand his complete anonymity, refused to allow anyone to see this picture, or even to acknowledge that it existed. And believe me, many scholars over the years tried to get a glimpse of the piece-no one harder than me, by the way. But the painting was handed down through the generations, and apparently each new heir was more fanatical about keeping it hidden than the last.”

As Kitteredge spoke he moved out into the center of the room as if he were taking over a lecture hall.

Shawn took the opportunity to whisper to Gus. “Why does he keep doing that?”

“Doing what?” Gus said.

“Throwing in little pieces of information that have nothing to do with what he’s saying, but just clutter up his speech and make it impossible to follow his point.”

“He’s brilliant,” Gus said. “That’s how geniuses talk.”

“That’s how the homeless guy who sits outside the Macy’s on State Street talks,” Shawn said. “If I’d known he was a genius, I might have dropped another quarter into his can.”

Gus redirected his attention to Kitteredge, who was preparing to launch himself back onto that sea of knowledge.

“The painting’s subject, as I’m sure you know, is a scene from a poem by Rossetti’s friend and fellow member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, William Morris,” Kitteredge said. “It takes the form of a speech by the queen to the assembled knights of Camelot in which she explains and justifies her adulterous relationship with Lancelot while she-”

During this speech Lassiter had been walking the perimeter of the room, minutely examining the scene. Now he was back in front of the curtain. “You may be here for a painting, Professor, but we are here to investigate a murder.”

Gus could have spent hours more listening to the professor talk. But that would have to wait. “I’m sure the picture is great, but you really need to prepare yourself.”

“I’ve been preparing for this all my professional life,” Kitteredge said. “It’s a tragedy that there’s a death involved, but that can’t diminish the importance of this moment. Look-the curtain is starting to move.”

It was. Lassiter had pushed the button on the control, and the drape was sliding back slowly. Maybe he’d let himself get caught up in Kitteredge’s excitement, but Gus found himself leaning forward to catch his first glimpse of the painting.

“If we leave now, we can beat the line at the valet,” Shawn said, leaning in to him.

Then the curtain was pulled back farther, and Gus stopped caring about the picture behind it.

Gus’ first thought was that the velvet curtain had slipped off its rings and puddled on the floor. It was the only thing his conscious mind could accept as a cause of the large pool of crimson that had spread across the white marble floor.

But there was something else on the floor as well.

It was the body of a man.

And there was a sword through its heart.

Gus noticed that Kitteredge seemed to barely notice the body. He was staring at the painting as if trying to suck it into his brain through his eyes.

Lassiter kneeled down by the body, studying it closely. “Do you know this man?”

Kitteredge pulled his eyes away from the picture and looked down at the corpse. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a worn meerschaum pipe, and put it thoughtfully in his mouth. Gus recognized the movement from his brief time in class. The professor had done exactly the same thing every time he was about to make a substantial point.

“I know who he is,” he said. “As you’ve been told, that’s Clay Filkins, the curator. But look at that sword. It’s a thirteenth-century estoc-although, since it’s of British manufacture, we should call it by its English name, tuck. You see, it has no cutting edge, just an extremely sharp point designed to penetrate the cracks in an opponent’s armor. And judging by the inscription along the blade, it was made for Geoffrey, Earl of Norwich who lived from 1253 to 1289.”

“That’s very helpful, Professor,” Lassiter said. “I’ll send a couple of my best men to stake out the thirteenth century to see if we can catch this Geoffrey.”

Kitteredge didn’t seem to notice the joke. “It comes from this museum’s arms and armory collection. As do many other, more appropriate weapons. There’s a dirk, for instance, that was made for an assassin in the late 1500s and-”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Lassiter said.

“There’s always time for nonsense,” Shawn said. “Or is that breakfast? Anyway, if you want to talk to this guy, you’re going to have to make time, because there’s some fascinating historical fact associated with every syllable. Apparently it’s some kind of genius thing.”

“You don’t understand what I’m saying,” Kitteredge said, an edge of urgency taking over his voice. “You have to ask why the killer chose this particular sword. It was valuable when combating an opponent in chain mail, because the blade’s square cross section allowed it to be long, stiff, and extremely sharp at the tip, which is what was required for penetrating the mail. But for attacking an unarmed curator, the falx or the marmeluke, both of which are also in the collection, would have been much more practical.”

Lassiter let out a heavy sigh. “You’re not real, are you?” he said. “Spencer set you up for this.”

“A lifetime of study and research set me up for this, Detective,” Kitteredge said, drawing himself up to his full height.

“That’s wonderful,” Lassiter said. “Maybe I need to talk to some ignorant people for a while. Spencer?”

“Should I tell you who did it, or wait until we’ve got all the suspects together?” Shawn said.

“Are you actually going to pretend you know who committed this terrible crime?” Lassiter said.

“Not yet,” Shawn said. “But I never know when the spirits are going to speak to me. Or what they’re going to say. Right now they’re so busy telling me how good I look in a tuxedo, they don’t seem to have time for anything else.”

“Just get out of here, Spencer, and let the grown-ups do our jobs,” Lassiter said. “I promise you we’ll bring you back when it’s playtime.”

Shawn turned hopefully to O’Hara. “It’s always playtime for me,” he said. “Want to come?”

“Not now, Shawn,” she said. “You and Gus run along.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Shawn said. “Gus?”

But Gus was still staring down at the body on the floor. And then he followed the professor’s eyes back to the painting. A long-haired woman stood in the center of the picture, her arms outstretched. Behind her were a couple of knights in armor. She faced what must have been a throne, although it was seen only from behind. And leaning against that throne was a sword.

A long, wide sword.

Just like the one sticking out of Filkins’ body.