The Magyar Venus

CHAPTERFIVE

September 11

"YOU SLEPT WITH HIM. I KNOW YOU DID," MORGAN SAID.

"Whaaa?" I said, or something like that. I was sure I had just dropped off to sleep, having wandered around most of the night, and there was that persistent ringing sound again. Being awakened by an unpleasant phone call was becoming an annoying part of my daily routine.

"I saw the way you looked at each other last night," she said. "You were practically gobbling each other up with your eyes."

"Oh, please, Morgan. I did nothing of the sort." Not that I wouldn't have, if he'd asked. At least that is what I'd concluded at three a.m. And it was rather funny she'd said gobbling, after that story of his about the goose.

"Honestly?" she said. "You didn't go to bed with him?"

Why is this happening to me, I wondered, as the door bell rang. "Honestly," I said as, holding the phone in one hand, I accepted a large box that promised flowers.

"So why were you there?" she said.

"I believe we discussed how I would need to talk with him about the Venus's provenance, did we not?"

"And?" she demanded.

"He told me how he found the diaries, and from them the Venus," I replied. "I could see nothing very wrong with his story." That wasn't entirely true, but having opened the box with the phone cradled between shoulder and chin, I'd found twenty-three gorgeous long-stemmed roses. Presumably I was supposed to be the twenty-fourth rose. It was a bit of a cliche perhaps, but it had been a long time since anyone had sent me roses.

"Whose side are you on?" she said.

"Will you please stop asking me that question? Either you want my help or you don't." I hit the End Call button. There was much to be said for these fancy phones, but there was no question it would have been a lot more satisfying to slam the phone down very loudly instead.

May I see you again? the card said. There was no name, but that would hardly have been necessary.

The phone rang again. Fancy technology told me it was the Watson residence. I debated about answering, but finally did.

"I'm sorry," Morgan said. "Look, I am going to trust you with something. I know you won't let me down and rat on me." She was almost whispering. "I had an affair with him. Karoly I mean, and I don't mean in college. Very recently. He threatened to tell my husband. I made a significant donation to the museum at his request to prevent him from doing that. He's far too subtle to ask for the money for him self, and large donations make him look good. I'm telling you this because even if you didn't sleep with him last night, you need to know what kind of person you're dealing with. He is slime of the worst kind." She sobbed just once, then blew her nose.

I sighed. It did not take a genius to realize that either Karoly or Morgan was lying. She had been holding a check in her hand when I saw her, and he'd thanked her for the donation. But he'd said he'd broken off with her. Maybe she'd thought a donation would get him back?

"Thanks for the warning," I said.

"What next?" she said.

"I'll have to think about that. I got a lot of information last night that I need to digest before deciding."

"Okay," she said. "But remember what I told you. Be careful around Karoly Molnar!"

What to do? Part of me had wanted to tell Karoly that his former classmates were out to destroy his reputation by proving that his most cherished achievement was a fake. The other part of me didn't trust them either. Having spent a little time getting reacquainted had reminded me why I hadn't bothered to stay in touch after I graduated. Cybil was always running herself down in a way that very quickly became tiresome, and when she'd left a year before she was to graduate because, as she'd put it, she got knocked up, she'd got into the married couple thing with a vengeance, and her single friends found themselves left out. Diana was just plain crabby much of the time, and absolutely certain her opinions, which she stated with firm conviction, were correct.

Grace had been nice enough but always a little distant, and she sure hadn't been kind to me while I was seeing Karoly for reasons I had finally understood only a few nights ago. It would have been a lot more sensible if she'd just told me what the problem was, rather than sulking for a year, although to be fair, I was so besotted with Charles I might have overlooked the obvious. Now, in my opinion, she was just downright sanctimonious, particularly where her opinions about my drinking habits were concerned. Morgan I'd always liked, but she'd gone off to Africa or somewhere upon graduation, then taken up modeling in Europe and we'd completely lost touch. One of the things I'd always liked about her, though, was that she had a vivid imagination. In other words, one was never entirely sure when she was telling the real truth, or the truth as she saw it.

Karoly I had been wildly in love with, no doubt about it. I still found him very attractive, but it did strain credibility to think that he was always telling the truth, while the Divas never were. While I had told the Divas that I could find nothing questionable in what he had to say, that was simply not the case. He had reeked of sincerity the previous evening, and there was no question he hadn't forgotten our college experiences, but that, to my mind, meant very little if I left my emotions out of it, difficult though that might be.

So again the question. What should I do? If there were not still a lacuna, a hole, in my recollection of events, a rather worrisome one, about what had happened that evening, the part when I was a semiconscious drunk, I would simply have walked away. I didn't need a new romance, or even an old one revisited. And I'd managed quite nicely without the Divas for many years. The people I held most dear I had met after I graduated, when I'd found an occupation I loved. What I did need was to know what happened the night the Venus was unveiled. I couldn't live with even the slightest doubt about my possible culpability in either the break-in at the Cottingham, or much worse, Anna's death. As tempting as it might be, I couldn't just forget it. Not with the vision of that little piece of blue cloth caught in the railing of the Glen Road Bridge. Not with the memory of a dent in my car that no body shop could ever erase, and the slash of silver paint on the rock near the bridge. Not with Alfred Nabb's words echoing through my mind.

Desperate for something to take my mind off these anxieties, real or otherwise, I picked up The Traveler and the Cave, noted briefly the dedication, to Lillian Larrington, then turned to the foreword by one Karoly Molnar, and started to read.

In 1995 I was working in the Bramley Museum in London, England, on a collection of papers belonging to a man by the name of C. J. Piper who at one time held the same position I did at the museum, that of Chief Curator.

One of the files caught my attention, although I would not appreciate why for some time. It was an account of a meeting of a group of scientists, including some from the Bramley Museum, at which a paper had been presented on a discovery in the Biikk Mountains of northern Hungary. The paper itself was in the collection, although it took me several days to find it. It was dated February 15, 1901. The paper was presented by Piper, and given the rather excited tone of the minutes of that meeting, he had made quite an impression. In it, he claimed to have found evidence of prehistoric man in a cave in the Biikk Hills. The site, located at a depth of two meters, contained evidence of fire, and of cooking. There were remains of animal bones, the skull of what Piper maintained was a cave bear, as well as primitive implements. In another part of the cave, Piper found what he believed to be a sacred site, a grave containing the skeleton of a man touched with red ochre, and garlanded with shell necklaces and bracelets. Judging from the skull, Piper determined that this was not a Neanderthal, but indeed early Homo sapiens. He also found what he believed were votive offerings.

Piper's paper included some drawings of the site, a very convincing description of the actual excavation, and some sketches of the grave goods. A drawing by Piper, an obviously talented artist, of the skeleton in situ was a very prominent part of the presentation, and the minutes of the meeting made much of it.

I am not an anthropologist. I am an art historian and curator. So it is doubtful that I would have paid much attention to this file, nor have reason to remember it later, but for one aspect of the drawing of Piper's discovery. That was that amongst the profusion of beads and some primitive tools that lay with the skeleton, there rested an exquisite small carving of a woman's head and torso, which had apparently been found in the grave. It was impossible to tell the material, but Piper's paper did make reference to ivory objects.

I was enchanted by it. What, I wondered, would motivate early man, if indeed that was the case, to carve such an object and place it in a grave? Was the body that of a person of some importance, or was the object itself imbued, in the minds of the inhabitants of that cave, with magical power? Did this tiny carving tell us that the people of that time could comprehend the idea of an afterlife?

There was one other question that was to haunt me for many months. Why did some of the drawings of that cave site look familiar to me?

Months later I was back in Budapest, working for the Bramley Museum on a joint exhibit with the Hungarian National Museum. Somewhat nostalgic for the two happy years I had spent in Budapest as the proprietor of an antique shop on Falk Miksa, I revisited that site.

I skimmed the following paragraph or two, the account of the old woman coming into his store and his purchase of the diaries. It was exactly as he told me, except for the conclusion, which was somewhat self-serving, no matter what he said. I bought the papers, paying, I thought, rather too much for them. I did not expect a reward for what I had done, but rewarded I have been many times over. Because standing there on Falk Miksa, I remembered seeing something very similar to the drawings I'd more recently uncovered, the paper written and presented by C. J. Piper. Hardly able to contain myself until I was back in England, I took out the box I had purchased at least three years earlier, and which I had kept simply because in my profession it is difficult, if not impossible, to throw anything out, and quickly rifled through it. The box contained some diaries dating from about March 1900 to the winter of 1901. And included with the text were rough sketches that matched, I was certain, the drawings in Piper's presentation.

I read through the diaries with great haste, stopping neither to eat nor to sleep. I had found by dint of what seemed to me a miracle, the diaries of C J. Piper, the same man who had presented his paper in London, of that I was certain, although the author had not put his name to the page. Imagine my excitement when I realized that the drawings were the same, although the ones in the diaries are only sketches, those in the presentation fully realized. On reading both, side by side, I found the description of the work and the cave and its astounding contents the same. Here was the real life story behind the learned paper. And what a story it is.

"I am quite decided that I will travel," the account begins. "Indeed I feel quite giddy at the prospect." We learn early on that the writer, whom we now know to be Piper, lived in London, was a rather solitary sort, quite resolved not to marry—although I can tell you that Piper did marry some years after his return to London and his triumphant presentation to his peers in 1901. He was a handsome man, as sketches of his talk that appeared in local papers attest, and I would expect he was in demand as an escort. For whatever reasons, here only hinted at, and influenced no doubt by the Victorian gentleman's love of travel, an enthusiasm that bordered on mania, the author embarked on a voyage of France, the first such find in modern times. So Piper knew what to look for.

Science was also very much the rage during that time. Charles Darwin had been dead for eighteen years when Piper set out, and it was generally recognized that the principles Darwin had outlined need be applied to man, although there were still many who refused to accept Darwin's evolutionary theories.

It is in this context that Piper set off for the continent, stopping eventually in what is now northern Hungary after a sojourn in Budapest, and beginning his study of the limestone caves in the Biikk Mountains. Piper seems to have scoured the caves alone for a period of time, but once he settled on one, he assembled a team of workers. We know their names because of the detailed account of the work: in addition to Piper himself there was a fellow Brit, one supposes, by the name of S. B. Morison, two Hungarian brothers, Peter and Pal Fekete, and another Hungarian by the name of Zoltdn Nddasdi.

Piper, overcoming hardship and initial disappointment, found what he sought, an ancient burial in one of the caves. We still don't know which cave, but his account of his efforts, the careful detailing of the excavation, the recording of every inch of the site, continues to impress today. Dr. Frederick Madison, a preeminent anthropologist who very generously assisted me in assessing these diaries and indeed the Venus itself, assured me that the work was done in a way that would be acceptable practice today. Professor Madison was also most helpful in arranging for me to test the inks and the paper on which both documents were written, and I am most grateful to him for that. The tests showed that both paper and ink dated to the time period in question and neither he nor I have any difficulty considering both documents authentic.

Piper returned to England to some acclaim. His findings were considered "convincing" by several of those present, according to the minutes of that historic meeting. His achievements were heard beyond the meeting itself. "Mr. Piper has given us an admirable account of his studies on the history of man in the far reaches of Hungary. The illustrations he has shown us are superb, and one cannot find fault with his conclusions," one of the newspapers at the time reported.

The diaries unfortunately end rather abruptly, and make no reference to Piper's return to England. Perhaps later accounts are lost. In the early pages of the diary, Piper confesses that he hopes that he may profit from travel, and it appears that indeed he did. From sources other than his diaries, we learn that he settled again in London where his reputation seems to have ensured that he was much in demand as a dinner guest. What we would now call society columns seem to indicate that he dined out on his adventures for some years. He was also able to purchase a country property in addition to his London residence. He married rather well, which cannot have hurt his fortunes. We can find, however, no hint that he ever made another journey to rival his first. He died at his country property in Devon on July 30, 1945, having borne witness to two terrible world wars.

As readers will doubtless learn, or know already, these diaries led to a most extraordinary discovery, a Paleolithic Venus figure now named the Magyar Venus. It is for this, I am convinced, that Piper will be remembered best.

Here, then, are the diaries of an extraordinary adventurer and a keen man of science: Cyril James Piper.

WELL, WEREN’T THERE holes big enough to drive a truck through in that one? While I couldn't dispute that the forward to the book and the explanation that Karoly had given me over dinner were absolutely consistent, indeed absolutely the same—and that is what one did, after all, in tracing the history of an object, that is, look for the inconsistencies— there was the odd little matter that bothered me, in both the official preface to the book, and our dinner conversation. Why were the diaries in Budapest when Piper obviously went back to England, not just to present his findings, but, if Karoly's research was valid, to stay? Was it really possible he would just leave them behind? Surely that is not what one does with diaries. If he took them with him, how did they get back, particularly given the catastrophic events that engulfed Hungary in the past century?

And why was the discovery of the Venus relegated to a paragraph or two, and not even named in the foreword? Had Karoly found her after the book had gone to print? Possibly. Did he plan a second book all about her? Probably. Still, there were questions.

And finally, were there just too many coincidences? Karoly had accidentally found Piper's paper, and he had then just as accidentally found the diaries, and then, my goodness!, up pops the Venus. Maybe, horrible thought though it was, the story was just too pat, the two explanations way too consistent, as if they'd been rehearsed over and over. Maybe Diana was right. There could be something wrong here. Some additional research of my own was required. I picked up the phone.

"Hi, Frank," I said, once I was connected by a receptionist that sounded to be five years old. "It's Lara."

"Lara!" he said. "Hello." He sounded a little diffident, shall we say, hardly surprising given I'd propositioned him rather loudly and inappropriately that night in the bar. I could hardly believe I'd done it, and couldn't even think about it without turning pink with embarrassment.

"I called to apologize for the other night. I didn't get a chance to do so at the funeral. I don't know what got into me. I don't normally drink like that, nor act like that. It's just that I've recently ended a relationship of several years, and I suppose I wasn't really myself. It's been tough," I added. Now I'd see if this blatant and only marginally truthful appeal for pity would work.

"Oh, dear!" he said. "That's really too bad."

"I was hoping you'd let me take you to lunch somewhere hideously expensive to make up for it," I said.

He laughed. "Of course you can."

"How about today?" I said.

"I think that would be fine. Give me a sec to check my calendar." There was a brief pause, then, "Sure, where and when?"

"Bistro 990 at one?"

"That ought to do it," he said. "Make up for the other night, I mean. As long as you don't proposition me again."

There was no question I'd be paying for my evening of indiscretion for a long time. "I promise," I said. "See you at one."

I insisted we have a very fine bottle of wine, and carefully sipped mine as he quaffed his with enthusiasm.

"I'm reading Karoly's book," I said. "I'm enjoying it. I expect given all the hoopla over the Venus it will do very well. It's gorgeous, by the way. The illustrations, the photographs, the cover, everything. It's really well done."

"Thanks. I'm happy," he said. "Initial sales are fine. The chains are starting to pick it up which is good. We'll see how it goes on the reorders. It's got everything, though. A twenty-five thousand-year-old Venus, an author the TV cameras love and women reporters swoon over, and a real-life mystery solved. The diaries themselves almost don't matter. Please don't tell anyone I said that, especially Karoly. You won't, will you?" he said, taking another gulp of wine.

"Given what you have on me, it would be rather silly of me to tell your secrets, wouldn't it?" I said.

He smiled. "Thanks for reminding me. A case of this wine and you will be forgiven forever. Just kidding! Actually, you weren't that bad, and I was an eligible bachelor when you last saw me. It was long after college that I was prepared to accept where my true, urn, inclinations lay. I was rather flattered. I even gave your offer due consideration."

"You're being very kind. The book must have been astronomically expensive to produce. Very fancy paper, lots of design work."

"It was. I was afraid we wouldn't even be considered for it, that the Cottingham and Karoly would go to one of the big art or university presses, but Courtney Cottingham put in some money, which helped. Karoly talked her into it, silver-tongued bastard that he is. He could talk the birds out of the trees, that guy."

"I heard from him yesterday," I said. "Did you give him my phone number?" Okay, so that question wasn't part of the research, but I had to know.

"How could I do that?" he said. "I don't know what it is."

"I was surprised he called, because he obviously didn't know me that evening at the Cottingham."

"You mentioned that in the bar. More than once. I reminded him about you, that you'd been an item and so on, when I talked to him the next day. I'm glad he called you."

Ouch, I thought. Sometimes it's better not to know, as I'd had reason to say on this subject more than once. I hadn't really believed that glasses story, but still… "So Karoly just walked into your office with the manuscript in his briefcase?"

"Pretty much," he replied. "He didn't have an agent or anything. He was just shopping it around. At the time, he hadn't acquired the Venus, so I guess there wasn't much interest in it. There are lots of Victorian travel books, and unless there's a special hook, like King Tut's tomb or something, they don't elicit much interest. If it hadn't been Karoly, I wouldn't have paid much attention to it. I mean, we at Kalman and Horst try to publish books by Canadians, on subjects of interest to Canadians. Naturally, we were quietly going broke doing so. Karoly might qualify, but the book in and of itself might not have. But you know how persuasive Karoly can be. He said he'd do something that would make the book sell, and by George, he has. He may have single-handedly saved our bacon."

"Did you actually get to see the diaries themselves? That would have been exciting, at least for someone like me who likes old stuff."

"I didn't see the originals. Karoly now has them in a vault somewhere, and he will probably donate them to the Cottingham. I expect he's just waiting until he's made enough money that the charitable tax receipt will be worth something to him. I saw copies, though. All handwritten, of course, and the sketches Karoly talks about are there, no question about it. I've seen the Piper presentation at the London club, too. Also a copy. The original is still in the Bramley Museum. Karoly is trying to see if the Bramley might consider sending the diaries to the Cottingham, either as a temporary exhibit, or better still, on permanent loan—unless he can convince the Bramley to sell them, and sweet-talk some old dear into paying for them. Speaking of Karoly," he went on. "I got the distinct impression in the bar that night that the Dovercourt Divas were not entirely enamored of our Karoly. That wouldn't be the case, would it?"

"I don't know," I said, shrugging my shoulders. Who was pumping whom here? "I think he loved and left a lot of us, so there might be some residual resentment. It would be odd if we weren't pretty much over it by now." If Frank Kalman thought he was going to get information out of me, he was mistaken. I was the one asking the questions. Obviously he didn't know he was dealing with the Dea Muta.

"What was that business with Anna, though?" I said. "All that 'how could you?' stuff. What was that about?"

"That was unpleasant, wasn't it?" he said. "I have no idea."

"But she seemed to be looking right at the group you were in: Karoly, you, Courtney Cottingham, Woodward Watson."

"I suppose it looked that way. From where I was standing it was difficult to tell. I can only speak for myself, but I can't think what it would be that would make her direct that comment to me. One hates to speak ill of the dead," he said, "but one cannot help but feel Anna was a little, shall we say, unhinged. Didn't someone tell me she had that condition where you can't leave home? What's it called?"

"Agoraphobia," I said.

"Right. They'd declared her an unfit mother, too, hadn't they? Taken her kids away from her? I can't take too seriously anything she might say."

"I guess," I said. "Too bad about what happened to her."

"Terrible," he agreed. "Very sad. Are the Dovercourt Divas planning another get-together?"

"I haven't heard of any plans," I said.

"I wouldn't mind coming along if they are, and if you'll permit it, of course. It was great to see everybody the other night, even if it ended badly. I'm referring to Anna, of course, not your um… you know."

Frank and I seemed to have run out of things to say, which I suppose is what often happens when former classmates get together after twenty years or so. I paid the bill. Forgiveness, coupled with very little additional information, had not come cheaply.

There was a voice mail message from Diana waiting for me. "The Divas, what's left of them, are getting together again for a planning session," she said. "Please come. Bloor Street Diner at five."

I left a message for Diana to tell her I'd be there, and that Frank had indicated he'd like to join the group any time we got together. I said I'd leave it up to her, but she could call him if she chose to. I didn't think she would.

On the way to the so-called planning session, I went to the Cottingham and had another look at the Venus. I hadn't noticed the other night, besotted, like everyone else, by the Venus herself, but the exhibit was an interesting one. Sections from both the diaries and Piper's presentation had been greatly enlarged and mounted on panels. Particularly interesting was the formal drawing of the grave site showing the skeleton, the beads, and the Venus. It was unquestionably the Venus on display in the case. The detail was exquisite. I knew that archaeological expeditions often had an illustrator as part of the team, given the nature of photography at that time. Even though there were cameras then, it would not have been easy to take photographs in the cave.

I liked the handwriting on the diaries. It was neat, precise like the drawings, and despite the fact that the passages chosen were about the project, there was someone very real and personable behind the science.

I left a note for Karoly, thanking him for the roses, and telling him I'd like to see him again, then I headed for the diner.

"Okay, now that we're all here, let's get started," Diana said. "What have we got so far, Lara?" She sounded rather officious.

"Not much," I said. "I'm sure Morgan has told you that the Venus was never in Lillian Larrington's possession, that she put up the money to purchase her, that's all. I talked to Karoly—"

"You didn't!" Grace exclaimed. "You talked to him about this? Does he know our plans?"

"Of course not," I said. "We had dinner together, that's all." Morgan raised her eyebrows. "I just asked him about the Venus. Why wouldn't I?"

"Are you sure that was a good idea?" Grace said.

"Give her a little credit," Morgan said. "She's an antique dealer. Why wouldn't she ask him about it?"

"Can we get on with this?" Diana interjected. "What are we going to do next?"

"We," I said, emphasizing the word, "aren't entirely sure, yet." How did I manage to get myself into these situations? "I have to try to find the name of the dealer from whom Karoly purchased the Venus, talk to that person, and see if they'll tell me where they got it, which is very doubtful, even if I can find this person in the first place."

"That's not a problem," Diana said.

"What do you mean it's not a problem?" I said. "If Karoly won't tell me, how am I going to get it?"

"I can find out where he got it," she said.

"How would you know that?" Grace said.

Diana looked at us all as if we were clearly of subnormal intelligence. "I expect I wrote the check," she said. "I was the bookkeeper until very recently, if you recall."

"So who is it then?" I said. This conversation was starting to set my teeth on edge.

"I don't know offhand, but I'll get it for you."

"How would you do that?" Morgan said. "Given that you no longer work there. Are you planning to drive through the plate glass window and get it?"

"Are you implying that I'm the one who tried to break into the Cottingham?" Diana demanded.

"Ladies," Grace said irritably. "To the subject at hand, if you please? We are too old to be bickering like children."

"I kept copies of all the documents I handled in the last six months," Diana said. "I have them at home. If you can give me more information, I'll get you a name."

"It should be a check for about a million," I said.

"I don't recall any that big, and I'm sure I would. Not in the entire time I was there. I'll have a look through the stuff, though. Can you give me any more information that might help me narrow it down?"

"Europe. It was a dealer in Europe."

"Okay, I'll go through everything when I get home and call you with what I have," she said. "Assuming I find it, which I will, what then?"

"I'll get in touch with this person or company, and see what I can find out. I have to tell you though, that Karoly told me that the dealer wouldn't tell him who had owned it. If he wouldn't tell the man with the check, he probably won't tell me."

"Maybe you should take Morgan along with you, and have her vamp him," Cybil said.

"Oh, puh-leeze," Morgan said.

"Just kidding," Cybil said. "Sorry."

"Is it a good idea to purchase something as expensive as the Venus without knowing who owned it?" Grace asked.

"Normally no," I replied. "If I remember correctly, Karoly said he wouldn't have touched it with a barge pole if he didn't have the other documents that would appear to authenticate it."

"Could this not be part of an elaborate hoax?" Morgan asked. "The paper, the diaries, everything?"

"It could be, sure," I said. "But according to Karoly, the ink and paper on the diaries and the presentation check out."

"So they are authentic," Grace said. "Both the diaries and the Venus?"

"It's still possible to fake these things, even the Venus. But it wouldn't be easy. You'd have to find a piece of mammoth ivory twenty-five thousand or so years old, for starters, and most of us don't have that kind of thing lying around. You couldn't use modern metal tools to carve it, because the metal would show up, tiny fragments of it, and the Venus, if you will recall, dates to the Stone Age. As for the diaries and the presentation to the science club, you'd also have to find old paper, not too difficult given it's only a hundred years ago, and you'd have to know the composition of ink at that time, also not so difficult, given the relatively recent date on the documents."

"So it's still possible this is all a fraud, and Karoly is part of it."

"It's possible, yes. It's also possible it's a fraud and Karoly was duped along with everybody else."

"This is fraud, and he's part of it," Diana said. "I just know it." I thought for a minute she was going to break down and cry, but she got up and went to the washroom.

"Seriously," Cybil said. "What if, like you said, this dealer won't tell you where he got it. If he wouldn't tell Karoly, why would he tell you?"

"That too is a good question," I said. "We'd be at something of a stalemate."

"What would you do then?"

"I'd start at the other end," I said. "With the Venus, and then trace it forward, rather than back."

"From 1900, you mean?"

"Yes."

"That wouldn't be so difficult, would it? It's only a hundred years."

"That would be a hundred years that contain two world wars, a Nazi occupation, about forty-five years under Soviet domination, to say nothing of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution when two hundred thousand people left the country. So, no problem," I said rather caustically.

"Would we have to go to Hungary?" Morgan said.

"Another drink, ladies?" the waiter said, before I could answer.

"Not for me," I said.

"Good idea," Grace said.

"Why don't you just let that one go, Grace," Morgan said. "If we want Lara's help, maybe you should just let that one go."

"I'll second that," Cybil said.

Grace looked nonplussed. "It's time we got going," Diana said, returning to the table. "The trail is not getting any warmer. I'll get you that name, and you can take it from there."

I stopped to do some shopping on the way home, and when I got there one of the people I least wanted to talk to at this moment was sitting on my front doorstep. "I think I spoke too soon," Diana said. "I've brought the whole file for you to look at. I didn't copy everything, only the big ones, or ones I thought were suspicious. As I think I told you, there isn't one here for a million dollars."

I didn't want to invite her in, so I told her I was busy that evening, so she'd have to leave the files with me, and I'd have a look through them later that night.

She didn't want to do it, but I didn't give her a choice. It was an interesting selection of documents to be sure, and while there was a lot of material, it was pretty obvious that what had captured Diana's interest were Karoly's expense claims. She had marked several for special attention, many of them meals in rather fancy restaurants. When he traveled, Karoly showed a definite preference for both hotels and restaurants with lots of stars. Where he had listed guests for lunch or dinner, she had put a little yellow sticky on the invoice with the note "check guests". On the hotel bills, there was a question about the minibar usage.

I suppose this kind of thing is what a good bookkeeper is supposed to do. However, she seemed to me to be overly diligent, if not downright enthusiastic. She had kept a clipping of a newspaper feature on Karoly written while he'd been director of the Bramley, one that referred to his difficult relationships with the Bramley staff, but also his high-rolling tastes. In my opinion, it was none of her business as a freelance bookkeeper, what he chose to spend the Cottingham's money on, as long as the board of directors agreed, and assuming there was no fraud. I doubted there'd be a peep out of the board of the Cottingham now that Karoly had snagged the Venus, no matter how much he'd spent doing it. The lines at the ticket booth would put all thoughts of that right out of their minds.

Still, for my purposes and whatever her reasons, the fact she'd kept these invoices proved useful. Stuck in the invoices for a trip to Budapest, there was one receipt that I found much more interesting than where he ate. This receipt made reference to a head of a woman, believed to be old. Wasn't that an understatement of some proportion!

There were two disturbing things about the invoice. One was that the company was in Budapest. Karoly had dodged my question about where he'd found the Venus, but in saying Europe he had implied it was somewhere other than Hungary. The second, even more glaring, was that the invoice was for $600,000, not a million.

As if on cue the telephone rang. My fancy phone said it was the Cottingham Museum. I decided I didn't want to talk to him. The conversation with Frank earlier, in which he'd told me that he'd had to remind Karoly who I was, and even that we'd been, shall we say close, still rankled. And while I wasn't going to spend my life tracking his expenses the way Diana did, I needed some time to think about the discrepancy between Lillian Larrington's money and what he had paid for the Venus, if indeed that was what the receipt was for. Perhaps there was some logical explanation, a final payment, perhaps, although that was not how I would have done it. Any receipt from me would show the total amount of the purchase. Perhaps it was one of those receipts you get to try not to pay too much duty on something you've purchased, much less than the ticket price, although why he would need to do that for an object so old that was destined for a museum, I couldn't imagine.

Whatever the explanation, I didn't want to see him, so I let the message go to voice mail, and stomped around my house in a snit for about an hour. But then I had a thought. Karoly had never actually said he had paid $1,000,000 for the Venus had he? He said he'd taken Lily's lovely money and made an offer the dealer couldn't refuse. I had thought a million because that's what Lily had told Morgan and me she'd donated to the Cottingham. It was not necessarily all for the purchase of the Venus. Part of it could have gone for the exhibit, which was impressive, and perhaps also something toward the publication of the book, which was essentially the exhibit catalog, or indeed for something else entirely. I picked up my message.

"Hi," he said, once again not introducing himself. "I was wondering if you would let me come over later this evening. Or, if you'd prefer, you could come to my place." He gave me an address in a fancy downtown condo. "Or failing either of these, and this last is my least-favored option I want you to know, would you meet me for a drink in the bar at Canoe around nine? I'm at the office. I'll be here until about eight-thirty or so. I think I gave you the number, but if I didn't here it is." He dictated both his home and office numbers. "Call me back when you get this. If I don't hear from you by the time I leave the office, I'll assume you're out."

"Oh, why not?" I said aloud, and dialed his office. I got his voicemail. "Hi," I said. "It's just after eight. Sorry I missed you. If you're still free, I think I'll go with your least-favored option. The bar at Canoe at nine. See you there." There then followed another wardrobe frenzy—I really needed to get out and shop, or at least get to the dry cleaners—and I was off to the bar. I didn't yet have my car back, something about sanding still needing to be done before paint could be applied, so I grabbed a taxi on Parliament Street.

We spent a pleasant hour or so. He was late, but then so was I. We talked about books, films, wines we liked, just about anything but business, and it was fine with me. When it was time to go, he said, "I have a feeling we're both going home alone, is that right?"

"I think so," I said.

"I was afraid of that. Where is rohypnol when you need it?" he said.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I should not have said that. It was in poor taste. Forgive me."

"What is whatever that thing you just said?"

He looked at me in some embarrassment. "It's a date rape drug," he said. "You know, you slip it to the woman in question, and she gets all amorous. The trouble is she's barely conscious and can't remember a thing afterwards. Hardly ideal. As I said, my comment was in poor taste."

"How do you spell that?" I said. He looked at me as if I was mad, but he told me.

"Is this stuff easy to get?" I said.

"Apparently. Honestly, I have no idea. Please tell me I am forgiven."

"This is all very edifying," I said. "And yes, you are forgiven."

"Thank you. Is your car out of the shop, yet?"

"No."

"Good. I'll take you home then."

"I think I'll take a cab," I said.

"I would never do anything like that," he said.

"Like what?"

"Slip you a drug," he said.

"I know that," I said.

"So I'll take you home," he said. "I'll behave myself, if that's what you want."

"I'll see you soon," I said, kissing him on the cheek.

"It's not as if we're exactly—how to put this—strangers?"

"It was a long time ago. I'll see you soon," I repeated.

"I hope so," he said. He sounded a little grumpy.

WHEN I GOT home, the message light on my phone was flashing. The kitchen clock said it was 12:15. "Tomorrow," I said to it. Because I had things to do. I went on the Internet and did a search of rohypnol. My symptoms all were there, right down to the retrograde amnesia: blurred vision, dizziness, disinhibition—I cringed to think about propositioning Frank, and chatting up all those young men at the bar—difficulty speaking, the works. Apparently the stuff took only twenty or thirty minutes to kick in, and peaked in a couple of hours.

I looked at the phone. It was still flashing, and I finally gave in and put in my password.

The first message was from Cybil. "I'm feeling a little blue, and could use a chat," she said. "It's about 9:30. Please call me when you get in. It doesn't matter how late it is."

The second message was from Karoly. "Hi. Just checking to see you got home all right. Sorry I was such a jerk."

I ignored them both. No doubt Cybil was going to tell me what horrible thing Karoly had done to her that would make her a member of the new Vengeful Divas. Karoly was going to apologize one more time, and maybe make another pitch to come over. I made myself a cup of herbal tea that claimed relaxing powers, sat down in my favorite armchair at the back of the house overlooking my garden, and decided it could wait. I had rather a lot to think about.

Was it possible someone had slipped a drug into my drink? Did I want to believe so because it would make me feel better, absolve me of responsibility, or did it really happen? And if someone had slipped me a drug of some kind, one that made me appear drunk, and leave me with no memories of what happened, who would it have been, and more importantly, why would they? I went over and over the events of that night in the bar, insofar as I recalled them. What had happened just before I started feeling peculiar?

Anna had come into the bar and made a little scene. So what could that possibly have to do with it?

As I sat there, at 3:30 by my watch, the motion detectors I'd installed at the back of the house suddenly kicked in, and the yard was awash in light. I got up and peered into the yard, but could see nothing. The lights switched off after a few seconds, but then switched on again.

My property backs on a cemetery, one that starts at my back wall and ends down in the valley where Anna met her death. Other than having to endure repeated jokes on the part of everyone who notices this for the first time—ones about how people are dying to get into the neighborhood and so on—the location has much to recommend it. The cemetery is a very old one, rife with history, acres of old, gnarled trees, and yes, the neighbors are really quiet. The gates are locked at sunset, presumably to keep out the undesirable elements in society, but quite frankly, most people, no matter how malign, don't like to spend the night in a graveyard. I've often considered it one of the safest places in the world.

But perhaps not at this very moment. The moon was full, casting shadows across the yard. My porch lights kept flicking off and on. I turned out the light in the back room, and when the lights came on, peered toward the back of the yard. I still couldn't see anything, but I knew with absolute assurance that something was out there, something in the graveyard, just a little beyond where the beam of my lights could reach.

I thought of waking my neighbor Alex Stewart, a lovely man who is both friend and occasional staff in the shop, but I remembered that he'd gone to his cottage in Ireland for a couple of weeks. I couldn't call Rob, and certainly not Karoly. I grabbed a flashlight and headed out into the yard.

The moon went behind a cloud for a moment just as my flashlight failed, and a spectral vision rose above the gravestones and floated toward me. It was Anna, one arm up and pointing, the same way she had in the bar. It appeared she was pointing at me. In the other hand she held the Magyar Venus, which she held out toward me. Her mouth opened and closed as if she was trying to tell me something. She was crying. I tried to speak, to ask her what had happened and to tell her I was sorry if I'd been involved in any way, but the words stuck in my throat. She turned and gestured across the graveyard, and I knew she was pointing in the direction of the bridge where she'd met her death. Then she turned back to me, her eyes grew very large, her mouth gaped wide in a scream, and she started straight for me.

I awoke, heart pounding, gasping for air. I was sitting in my favorite armchair and the garden outside was dark. As the stark terror of the nightmare subsided, I realized that I would never find any semblance of peace of mind, nor sleep through the night, until I knew why and how Anna died. I also knew that I'd spent enough time wallowing in my own anxieties and insecurities, and not enough actually doing something that would let Anna's soul, and my conscience, rest. My subconscious was telling me that Anna's death and the Magyar Venus were related. My conscious brain was telling me that one of the people I'd thought were friends had drugged me. That's all I had to work with.

And then it came to me. I would check out the Venus's provenance, just as I'd been asked to do. I'd prove it was a fake, or I'd prove it was genuine. It didn't much matter which, in terms of what I really needed to know. If it was genuine, it would go a long way toward making me trust my old love again. If it was a fake, and he'd covered it up, then I'd vindicated the others. Either way, I was sure to find out what happened that night. Either way, the road ahead was the same. I sat down at my computer and booked a flight to Budapest for the very next night. I left a voice mail for Clive at the shop to say where I'd gone, and how he could reach me. Then I sent e-mails to the Divas, Karoly, and Frank telling them only that I was off to Hungary. At least one of them would have to wonder why.