had been abraded along its sides, something pressing against it there, grinding pigment into pigment. He set the magnifying glass down and rubbed his face before turning to Bayber, staring at him.
‘Well?’ Cranston said.
Stephen didn’t take his eyes off of Bayber. ‘Where are they?’ he asked.
‘Where are what?’ Cranston said, his voice agitated and rising, his eyes scanning the corners of the room. ‘For God’s sake, Jameson, be clear. What exactly are you looking for?’
Stephen waited until Bayber gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He turned to Cranston and Finch and smiled.
‘The other two pieces of the painting, of course.’
Cranston departed in a flurry, wanting to make immediate arrangements to have the painting moved to a lab, where Stephen could use more sophisticated technology to authenticate it. ‘Late for a meeting across town,’ he said, tapping the face of his watch with a finger. ‘You don’t mind if I go ahead, do you?’ He disappeared into the backseat of the waiting car and shouted out the door, ‘I’ll leave the two of you to your plans then. Let me know what you need, and I’ll see it’s taken care of.’ The car’s departing splash soaked Finch’s shoes.
He and Stephen were left standing outside Thomas’s apartment waiting for a cab in weather that had shifted from mist to drizzle. They stood uncomfortably close to each other in order to share Finch’s umbrella, Finch straining to hold his arm in an awkward position over his head to accommodate the difference in their heights.
‘This will make Sylvia extremely unhappy,’ Stephen said, looking pleased with himself. ‘She’ll be forced to be civil to me.’
‘Who is Sylvia?’
‘Dreadful cow. Here’s hoping you never meet her. Now, about these arrangements …’
Any semblance of calm had evaporated once Thomas confirmed the existence of two additional pieces. Cranston’s normal nervous mannerisms became amplified, his fingers dancing across the air, plucking at some invisible keyboard. Stephen had begun to fidget and mutter, no doubt sensing an opportunity for redemption. Finch himself had felt an unusual level of agitation.
‘All three works to Murchison & Dunne then, Mr. Bayber?’ Cranston could hardly contain himself.
Thomas nodded. ‘Of course, Mr. Cranston. That has always been my intention. That the work be sold in its entirety. Only in its entirety.’
‘Marvelous,’ Cranston said.
Finch’s throat tightened. Of course. Never a good sign with Thomas. He felt the need to sit down, the weight of a promise he hadn’t wanted to make sitting like a stone in his gut.
‘So, Mr. Cranston. You will contact me with a plan, I assume?’
‘A plan?’ Cranston’s brows arched closer to his hairline, but he smiled indulgently.
‘A plan for finding the other two panels, of course.’
Finch put his hand to his forehead.
Cranston blanched, the color quickly leaving his face. ‘You don’t have them here?’
Thomas smiled, and shook his head.
‘But you know where they are?’ Stephen asked.
‘Well, if he did, it’s unlikely there’d be a need to find them, Mr. Jameson. Look here, Bayber …’ Cranston’s mood had abruptly sharpened, which was understandable. Finch himself was becoming less enthused by the minute.
‘Please, Mr. Cranston.’ Thomas opened his hands to them, as if offering the most obvious of explanations. ‘Don’t alarm yourself. It’s a simple matter. The other two panels were sent to the Kessler sisters many years ago. I believe they’d be happy for the income the sale would presumably bring.’
‘You’ll call and ask them?’ Stephen appeared to wait for another rebuke from Cranston, but evidently Cranston was wondering the same thing.
Thomas walked to the window, staring at the velvet curtain as if he could see through it, out onto the street and into the flat afternoon light. ‘I’ve lost track of them, I’m afraid.’
Finch coughed. The situation was clearly getting out of hand. This wasn’t anything he’d signed up for, shaky promise or not. He needed to extricate himself from the looming mess as rapidly as possible.
‘Thomas,’ he said, ‘surely this would be better suited to an investigator of some sort? A professional person who could locate the Kessler sisters and find out whether they still have the paintings in their possession? Then Murchison & Dunne could approach the owners regarding an acquisition. And Jameson could authenticate the works. I doubt anyone in this room has the particular skills required to track down missing persons.’
‘Yes,’ Cranston agreed. ‘That sounds quite reasonable.’
‘Oh, but you have the skills,’ Thomas said, pressing his fingertips together. ‘Denny, I believe you and Mr. Jameson are exactly the right people for the job.’
It became alarmingly clear that Thomas had thought the whole thing out, and that Finch and Stephen had just been tasked with a quest, their fortunes now intertwined.
‘If I might ask, Mr. Bayber, why is that?’ Stephen appeared to be completely baffled.
‘Who better to look,’ Thomas said, ‘than those who have a vested interest in the outcome? Financial, and otherwise.’
‘So, Professor, should I make the reservations, or should you?’
‘Reservations?’ Finch was distracted. Drops from one of the umbrella’s ribs funneled down the back of his neck. His wool socks were damp, driving the chill straight into his ankles.
‘For our flights. We can get to Rochester from JFK in no time. It’s probably not much of a cab ride from there.’
‘I’m not entirely convinced this is the best way to go about things. Cranston shouldn’t have left so quickly.’
‘Is there a problem?’ Stephen asked, shifting his briefcase to his other hand and waving at a taxi that slowed briefly before speeding past them. At Finch’s hesitation, he blurted, ‘You do believe it’s his work, don’t you? It was only a cursory examination, but I’m reasonably sure …’
‘You may be only reasonably sure. I have no doubt of it.’
Finch knew it was Thomas’s work the moment he saw it. Not that the portrait was like anything else Thomas had done, but Finch recognized it, nonetheless. The black, white, and yellow pigments of his verdaccio deftly knit to produce an underpainting of grayish green that toned the warm bone of the
