Could she accept? It certainly sounded like the dream commission. And she’d never been to Scotland. Marcus had insisted they holiday at the villa in Spain.
‘So you think I should go?’
‘As long as you promise not to run off with a Gerard Butler lookalike because you’ve been enticed by what’s under his kilt.’
Lexi laughed. ‘That I can promise. I’m off men for good.’
Tasha grimaced. ‘God, me too.’
‘Idiot.’ She kissed her sister’s cheek. ‘I’ll give it some serious consideration.’
‘Good.’ Tasha removed the bubble wrap from the crate. ‘Right, what have we got?’
Lexi lifted a canvas and held it up.
It was a portrait of a middle-aged man leaning against a large ornate desk. He looked relaxed, his pale eyes smiling over the top of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with such tenderness it spoke volumes about the relationship between artist and subject. All the paintings were reputedly of similar style, portraits of the Earl of Horsley’s family at various stages of their lives. The paintings had struck a chord with Lexi, which is why she’d agreed to exhibit the work when she’d seen the photos.
As well as specialising in replicas, she occasionally freelanced for a few museums and private collectors helping to value and catalogue their work. She’d also started mentoring new up-and-coming artists, wanting to diversify her collection. The combination of collecting copies of the masters along with discovering new talent was proving an exciting development.
She angled the painting so her sister could see it. ‘What do you think?’
Tasha tilted her head. ‘Fine, if you like family portraits. Too elitist for my liking.’
‘Maybe, but I like the contrast between conventionality and intimacy.’
Tasha shrugged. ‘Still looks like some posh git with too much money to me.’
Lexi replaced the painting. ‘Philistine.’
‘Excuse me? I have a degree in fine art.’
‘I know, I was there, remember?’
‘Just because I choose skin as my canvas, doesn’t mean it’s not art.’
‘I agree.’
Tasha was by far the more talented sister. With a shared love of art and an unwillingness to be separated, they’d both won places at Oxford Brookes to study fine art. But whereas Lexi had gone on to study for an MA at The Courtauld Institute in London so she could focus on evaluating and selling art, Tasha had attended the Tattoo Training Academy in Essex. The result was two slightly unconventional outcomes but two highly successful businesses … Well, one successful business and Lexi desperately trying to hang on to the other, thanks to her cheating ex-husband.
Tasha frowned. ‘Hang on. There are twenty paintings here, but only nineteen listed.’
Lexi checked the list. ‘That’s strange. If I go through them, can you check for the corresponding listing on the inventory?’
‘Sure.’ Tasha picked up a pen. ‘Fire away.’
‘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