Mrs Pargeter 06; Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Nineteen

They were once again in the back room of ‘DENZIL PRICE INTERIORS’. Propped up on a minimalist steel chair was the Rubens that the thieves had left at Chastaigne Varleigh. Against the wall stood the two minor Madonnas which had also escaped abduction. The rich colours of the paintings spoiled the room’s monochrome image, but the designer didn’t seem to mind.

Mrs Pargeter and Hamish Ramon Henriques looked on in respectful silence while he made his expert assessment.

An expression of almost gastronomic relish played around Palings Price’s mouth as he gazed at the painting. He wasn’t quite licking his lips, but very nearly.

“Now this is very beautiful…” he murmured.

“Yes…” Mrs Pargeter agreed mistily. She had felt a great warmth for the fake Rubens in VVO’s studio, but the sight of the real thing was even more potent. The painting’s voluptuous flesh glowed down the centuries and found a welcoming glow in her own voluptuous flesh. Like called to like. Mrs Pargeter felt a sudden pang of sorrow that her husband was dead. The late Mr Pargeter would have really responded to that painting. It embodied everything he had ever looked for in a woman.

Maybe it was the conversation with Truffler and Hedgeclipper at Greene’s Hotel the evening before that had set her mind on the track, but she found she’d been thinking a lot about her husband that morning. Not morbid thoughts. No, rather she had a little bubble of excitement inside her, gratitude for the wonderful years that they’d had together, and a great sense of well-being. The last shadow of disappointment about the failure to get the paintings from Chastaigne Varleigh had passed. Now she felt entirely confident that Veronica Chastaigne’s request would be fulfilled, and it was stimulating to be a part of the operation that would fulfil it. Mrs Pargeter felt free and irresponsible, almost skittish.

“One of the best examples of Rubens’s mature period,” Palings Price was saying. “The model was his second wife Helene Fourment.”

“It’s stunning,” Mrs Pargeter agreed. “My husband would really have loved it.”

“Why particularly?” asked HRH.

“Well, obviously, because he liked his women – ” But no. She checked herself. That was private. “This was the sort of thing he liked,” she concluded lightly.

“Oh. Right.”

Mrs Pargeter felt the need to move the conversation hastily on. “Where was it stolen from?”

“Pantheon Gallery, Berne. In 1982,” said Palings Price. He pointed to the Madonnas. “Those two were taken at the same time. Big fuss when it happened. All over the international press.”

“I’ll bet it was.”

HRH ran a thoughtful hand through his splendid moustache. “Odd that the three paintings the thieves left at Chastaigne Varleigh should be from the same haul…”

“Yes.” Mrs Pargeter seized on the thought. “Suggests they knew quite a lot about what they were dealing with.”

But Palings Price, who was after all an expert in these matters, was unconvinced. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Could just be coincidence.”

“Hmm.” Mrs Pargeter sighed a contented little sigh. “We’ll probably know more when Truffler’s tracked down the rest of the stuff that was stolen.”

“You sound very confident that he’ll find it.”

“Well, of course he will, Palings. Truffler’s the best in the business, isn’t he?”

“That’s true.”

Mrs Pargeter looked again at the paintings. “Well, at least we’ve got these three, so we can make a start. Do you reckon there’s going to be any problem getting these back to where they came from, HRH?”

The travel agent’s magnificent mane of white hair shook confidently. “No. Berne’ll be easy. Fritzi the Finger’s based in Salzburg. Your husband got him out of a few spots. He’ll be honoured to help, won’t he, Palings?”

“Absolutely. This sort of job’s meat and drink to him, anyway.”

HRH was thoughtful for a moment. “No, the only problem will be finding a courier to get the goods out of this country…”

“Couldn’t I do that?” Mrs Pargeter volunteered eagerly.

It was just her skittish mood of the morning finding expression, but the suggestion clearly shocked Hamish Ramon Henriques. There was a strong tone of disapproval in his voice as he said, “I wouldn’t want you to put yourself at any risk, Mrs Pargeter.”

“Besides,” the gallery owner interposed, “smuggling old masters is actually a criminal activity…”

“Oh yes.” She was properly contrite. “Sorry, I got carried away there.”

Palings Price continued to spell out the situation for her. “And you’ve never been personally involved in anything illegal, have you?”

An innocent blush suffused her cheeks at the very idea. “Good heavens, no,” said Mrs Pargeter.