Page 25 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Could be.”

I shook my head. “But wouldn’t there be preliminary drawings and sketches of said masterpiece? And we didn’t find any of those. No sketches in the style of a lost Rembrandt.”

“He burned them like he burned all his receipts and letters. He’s a cautious man.”

“Aye, okay, I’ll run with that. So let’s finish our tea and take another look at his paintings.”

We went back into the conservatory, but it was as we saw the first time. Commonplace, “easy-listening” stuff. No secret masterpieces or drawings or studies for such works.

Back to the living room.

In this, his personal space, his sanctuary, he preferred other people’s art.

A framed Rothko print, a very large Gauguin reproduction, a National Gallery Later Impressionists Exhibition poster, and those bloody Picassos.

“What do you think of these?” I asked Crabbie.

He lit his pipe, had a good puff, and examined them with me.

“Not really my cup of tea, Sean,” he said at last.

The Picassos were of a bearded man and a woman, both nude. Not really my thing either. They were about the size of a big hardback book, and surely if they were originals they’d be worth a few quid.

I went outside to the FO, asked to borrow her Polaroid camera, came back inside, and took pictures of both Picassos.

“What did you do that for?” Crabbie asked.

“I’ll show them to Archie Simmons. He’ll know whether they’re the real deal or not.”

“Or he’ll tell you they’re fake, and when they’re having the estate sale he’ll snap them up and sell them.”

Archie was, admittedly, not the most trustworthy character on the face of the earth.

I looked at the large Gaugin reproduction. It appeared to be called.D'où Venons-Nous? Que Sommes-Nous? Où Allons-Nous?In other words: Where do we come from? Where are we? Where are we going?

It was the usual Polynesian scene with muted colors and oddly rendered people. “Is it just me, or is Gauguin a bit shit?”

Crabbie looked at the painting. “Well, I’m no expert?—”

“But you know what you like?—”

“Aye.”

“And these?”

“Not my sort of thing at all either. Gauguin, you say? Name rings a bell.”

“Friend of Van Gogh. Left his family to become a painter and moved to the South Seas.” I stifled a yawn and looked out the window. It had begun to drizzle now, and the moon was covered not by a sixpence but by dark Ulster clouds. “What time is it?”

“A quarter to twelve.”

“We should head on, Crabbie,” I said. “We’re achieving nothing here. Check the Picasso angle in the morning.”

We were just cleaning the tea mugs and about to head out the door when we bumped into the chief inspector. Unlucky us.

“I’m surprised to see you, sir. I thought you’d gone home. I would have made you some tea.”

“I did go home. I came back. I bring tidings.”

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