World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 23

“Alors,” Dr. Mirlande Louissaint said, cocking her head slightly. It tipped further and further over until she was actually leaning to one side. Then the other. Like a very large, very slow pendulum.

She and her assistant had watched as Gamache unrolled the giant painting on the floor of the Incident Room, using books to weigh down the corners. As more and more of the work was revealed, Dr. Louissaint had made a series of sounds. Increasing in their astonishment but decreasing in volume.

Until finally the entire thing could be seen, and she whispered, “Alors.”

Then repeated it. “Alors.” Well. Well, well.

At least, thought Gamache as he straightened up and stretched, the Chief Conservator from the Musée had graduated from guttural sounds to an actual word.

“A World of Curiosities,” she whispered.

“Pardon?”

“The Paston Treasure.” She motioned toward the painting. “It’s the nickname given to it. Alors.” She leaned over the canvas before straightening up. “But this isn’t the real thing.”

“No.”

“What exactly do you want from me?”

“Anything you can tell me about it. How long ago it was painted. If the technique reminds you of any artist. Is there a painting underneath?” He brought out a baggie with the nails. “And I’d like you to look at these. Are they genuine or reproductions?”

She took the bag, glanced at it, then handed it back. “They’re real.”

“You’re sure?”

There was a slight snort from her assistant, amused anyone would question her patron.

Dr. Louissaint stared at Gamache, but he just waited. A glare was not a reply. He needed the words.

“Yes, the nails are hand-forged and date from the era of the original Paston Treasure, the mid-1600s.” She widened her eyes, as if to say, Heard enough?

“Merci.”

“Is this”—Dr. Louissaint tilted her head toward the canvas on the floor—“part of an investigation, Chief Inspector?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure.”

This admission of doubt seemed to impress her.

“Your colleague, Inspector Beauvoir, was it?” When Gamache agreed, she continued, “Told me a little. Enough for me to bring some equipment and—” She pointed to the young woman now setting up what looked like a scanner. “Maryse.”

“Bonjour,” said Gamache.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” said Maryse, then went back to work.

Dr. Louissaint turned to Gamache. “I’ve seen copies of The Paston Treasure. And photographs. Read books on it. I even visited it in the UK.” She spoke of the painting as though it were a person. “It’s a masterpiece, one of the most studied works of art, and yet”—she leaned closer to the copy—“it remains a mystery.”

“How so?”

“It was painted in the great age of exploration, when ships and merchants were pushing the boundaries of the known world and bringing back their finds. The Pastons gathered a huge collection and then commissioned someone to paint at least part of it. But how did they decide which of the two hundred pieces would be in the painting? Why so much emphasis on music? On time? The hourglass, the timepiece, the clock. Does it say six o’clock or half past eleven? Is the time significant?”

“We studied the painting in art college,” said Maryse, piping in. “Partly as a work of art.”

“But also art history?” suggested Gamache.

“Not just that, but history itself. And natural sciences, and geography. It’s described as a portal into the past.”

He could hear the young woman’s excitement as she talked about the original.

“And yet, it left so much of itself unknown,” said Dr. Louissaint. “Including who even painted it. Must’ve taken months and months, and then not to sign it? Why? I see yours isn’t signed either.”

“No, that would be too easy.”

She smiled, then bent closer to the painting. “Do you mind if I take some samples?”

Gamache gave them both gloves and watched as the conservator, on hands and knees, scraped a corner. Then she put on headgear, like jewelers wore, and moved farther along. Examining closely. Closely. Maryse turned on the scanner and moved it back and forth across the work.

After a few minutes, Dr. Louissaint rose, shoved the magnifying glasses up onto her head, and went over to the monitor.

“This isn’t a copy.”

“If it’s not a copy,” asked Gamache, “what is it?”

He joined them by the screen, where a ghostly image of the original Paston Treasure appeared.

“A paint-by-number.”

Gamache gave a small grunt of amusement. “A local artist, Clara Morrow, said the same thing. Thought it must be that. Not a real paint-by-number, of course, but the same idea.”

“Clara Morrow lives here?” said the Chief Conservator and her assistant, as one. Both sounded like teenage girls being told their favorite actor was next door.

“She does.”

“I’d love to meet her.” Again the women spoke in unison.

“I did my thesis on her,” said Maryse.

“I went to her first solo show at the Musée d’art contemporain,” said Dr. Louissaint, as though trying to one-up Maryse.

“Perhaps…,” suggested Gamache, and tilted his head toward the painting on the floor.

“Right, désolée. Whoever did this just painted over the copy and added their own bits.” She pulled the loupe over her eyes again and turned to Gamache as though examining him closely. “Now why would anyone do this?”

He shook his head and hoped those glasses didn’t help her see his complete and utter bafflement. Though it was hardly hidden.

Dr. Louissaint knelt down again and minutely examined the canvas before struggling back up.

Gamache helped her to her feet, and she thanked him. “Too many years kneeling on cold floors or standing on scaffolding trying to save murals.”

“I know the feeling.” He did not say what he’d spent years kneeling beside. And that they were beyond saving.

Dr. Louissaint took off her headgear and stared down at the painting. Then she stepped back, taking in the full effect of the overpainted image.

“There’s something about it, isn’t there? And not just because of the deliberately modern touches, which are bizarre, and yet seem to fit in. It’s both compelling and”—Dr. Louissaint searched for the word—“offensive. I’m not sure that’s the right word. But close. It’s not just because of the young Black man as part of the Paston collection, or the fact they’ve ruined a masterpiece. It’s something else.”

Gamache felt it too. “Offensive” was, he thought, the right word. Offensive in all its meaning. It not only offended, but there was something aggressive about it. It seemed an attack, even as it just lay there on the cold concrete floor.

Dr. Louissaint wandered the room, walking off stiff joints. She stopped at the open door to the evidence locker, stared. And turned.

“What’s that?”

Gamache joined her. “The book?” He assumed she’d seen the grimoire.

“No, the elephant. Can I see it?”

Gamache put on gloves and brought the statue out. She took his elbow in an imperious way and walked him and the elephant over to a window. Re-donning her loupe, she bent close to the bronze sculpture. Getting Gamache to turn it this way and that.

“Nice, nice,” she mumbled. “Late eighteenth century. Maybe early nineteenth. Indian, of course. Solid?”

She peered at Gamache, who nodded. It was getting heavy in his hands.

“But these markings don’t make sense,” she continued. “Any work like this I’ve seen has had almost no etching. Besides”—she leaned closer, then lifted her headgear—“it’s recent. Someone’s put them on in the last couple of years, I’d say.”

He looked at the lines more closely. Then at Dr. Louissaint. “Do they look at all familiar?”

“No. They look like Sanskrit or…” She looked closer. “No, not hieroglyphics. But they do appear to be writing of some sort.” She turned to look back at the huge canvas. “There are similar marks on the painting.”

He stared at her for a moment, then both of them almost ran back to the canvas and knelt beside it.

He couldn’t see them, but when she handed him her special glasses, they popped out. There they were, passing as wood grain. As texture in the heavy curtains. Etched into the trumpet.

What had looked like random lines to the naked eye now came into focus. They were shapes. He looked up and down, left and right. Scanning the immense canvas. They were everywhere.

It was as though the painting were screaming at him. Trying to tell him something.