The Case of the Missing Madonna Read online

  ‘Courvoisier,’ Charles Carruthers said, ‘it really is good to see you again.’ His broad face broke into a grin as his large hand encased Patrick’s.

  Patrick saw a smile in his friend’s eyes and knew that he meant those words.

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Charles.’

  ‘You look well.’ Charles glanced at the kilt. ‘I see you came dressed for battle.’

  ‘As did you.’ Patrick indicated Charles’s tails and top hat.

  ‘The auld enemy?’

  Patrick laughed. ‘Not you and I.’

  ‘Are you ready for some Earl Grey?’ There was a twinkle in Carruthers’ eye.

  ‘Only if it’s very strong,’ Patrick said.

  ‘I’ll have a pot sent outside. There’s a table awaiting us under a particularly beautiful weeping willow.’

  They exited the way Patrick had entered and, as Carruthers described, found a willow and under it a table enclosed by an awning.

  Charles looked up at the threatening sky. ‘We don’t want to be rained on.’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ Patrick said.

  Carruthers indicated he should take a seat. There was a few moments’ silence as a silver tray arrived complete with a selection of tiny square-cut sandwiches and equally small cakes. At the sight of them, Patrick experienced a sudden desire for a large Bridie or a Scots pie.

  Carruthers waited while the waiter poured tea into the delicate china cups, then declared that was all they needed and let him depart. Before Patrick spoke, Carruthers pulled out a silver hip flask from a trouser pocket, poured the Earl Grey on the grass, and filled the cups with a pale-brown liquid.

  ‘They serve the beer in a teapot in Kano now. Sharia law,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘This, of course, is a fine Speyside malt.’

  Patrick tasted it. Speyside malts were essentially ‘sweet’ with little peatiness, though a little ‘smoke’. He recognized this one right away.

  ‘Macallan?’ he said.

  Carruthers nodded. ‘I was up there recently. Did the tour.’

  ‘Not all forty-six distilleries?’

  Carruthers gave a big belly laugh that seemed strange coming from someone wearing a top hat. ‘No, just half a dozen. But I made a point of sampling them all.’

  His friend was intent on breaking any ice that might have formed between them. He was also alluding to Patrick’s roots and his love of whisky. It was classic stuff, intended to put him at ease. He would have used the same tactics had he been in Carruthers’ shoes. Patrick finished what was in the cup and set it down on the saucer. Promptly, Carruthers refilled it.

  There was a moment’s silence, which suggested they were about to get to the main point of the proceedings. Patrick waited.

  Eventually Carruthers asked, ‘How well do you know the Esterel mountains?’

  Patrick was surprised by the sudden mention of the Esterel Massif, the red volcanic coastal mountain range that touched the sea just west of Cannes. Its rugged terrain, oak forests and deep gorges provided an ideal location for climbers and walkers such as himself. He shot Carruthers a glance. Was he still making small talk? By the look on his friend’s face, he wasn’t.

  ‘Pretty well,’ Patrick said guardedly.

  ‘We have word of some treasure hidden there, which we’re interested in finding.’

  ‘Treasure?’ Patrick laughed. ‘Is this the pitch for a new James Bond movie?’

  Carruthers didn’t smile. ‘No. It most definitely is not.’

  Patrick considered this, his mind going into overdrive. The Esterel mountains were peppered with caves, many of them undiscovered. They were known to be dry, with an even temperature, and much used during the Second World War to house resistance fighters and, in some instances, Nazi treasure stolen from the rich of conquered Europe. Was that what Carruthers was referring to?

  ‘Nazi gold? I thought that had all been located.’

  ‘Not gold. Paintings.’ Carruthers took a swig of whisky. ‘We are interested in one painting in particular.’

  ‘Is that the royal “we”?’

  To Patrick’s surprise, Carruthers nodded. ‘I shouldn’t be saying this, of course. Forsyth wouldn’t have,’ he added with a smile.

  ‘You think telling me that will influence my decision?’

  Carruthers shook his head. ‘No. I just believe in being straight with you.’

  ‘How did a Windsor painting get among a Nazi hoard?’ Patrick asked drily.

  ‘That you don’t need to know.’

  ‘They don’t have provenance?’

  ‘Let’s say it’s a family heirloom that went walkabout during the German occupation of France.’

  Patrick swallowed the remainder of his whisky. Neither its flavour nor the aftershock removed the bad taste from his mouth. This was an offer of redemption. The proposal, not uttered in so many words, was that he take on this special task and remove the blot from his copy book by doing the Windsors a favour. It was a decent proposal, which he had no intention of accepting. Before he could say so, Carruthers spoke again.

  ‘Before you give me your decision, there’s someone I would like you to meet.’

  Seamlessly, Carruthers produced his pièce de résistance.

  How she was aware they were at this point in the proceedings Patrick had no idea, but right on cue the woman in the green dress presented herself in front of them. Both men rose in unison, Carruthers going forward to greet her. A third chair appeared and was placed next to the table.

  ‘Grazia Lucca, meet Patrick de Courvoisier.’

  They eyed one another again.

  Patrick held out his hand. ‘I had a feeling we were destined to meet.’

  ‘After I studied your kilt?’ she said in perfect English.

  They each settled in their chairs and a short silence followed. Eventually Carruthers spoke.

  ‘Grazia is an art historian,’ he informed Patrick, with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Really?’ Patrick said. ‘How interesting.’

  ‘She is helping us with a little research.’

  ‘Into missing paintings, I expect.’

  The irony of the two men’s interchange wasn’t lost on Grazia. She raised a delicate eyebrow and awaited further developments.

  ‘Patrick and I were just enjoying a secret dram together,’ Carruthers said.

  Grazia smiled. ‘I hope there’s some left?’

  ‘You like whisky?’ Patrick said.

  ‘I come from Barga,’ she laughed, ‘the most Scottish town in Italy.’

  Carruthers was doing well with his bombardment, just as Patrick knew he would. A pardon subtly offered, a whisky with which to perhaps celebrate. And now a beautiful woman had been added to Carruthers’ enticements. It would be difficult to refuse such an offer. But refuse he would, nonetheless.

  Patrick rose and glanced at his watch, as Carruthers retrieved the hip flask once more.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to depart, so I won’t be able to share the rest of the contents of Charles’s hip flask with you, despite the fact it’s a Macallan. I wish you both well in your search for lost works of art.’ He turned specifically to Grazia. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Lucca.’

  With that, Patrick departed. What he really wanted to do was sprint round the lake and vault the wall. However, that wasn’t possible, so instead he headed for the main exit, which involved walking through the rather threadbare public rooms that formed the tourist entrance to the palace. No one prevented his departure, although a couple of guards looked askance at his leaving just as the Queen was making her way to the royal tent.

  Patrick emerged from the building to find a small crowd of sightseers busily taking photographs of the front of the building. The appearance of a man in a kilt caused some further photographic interest. Maybe they thought it was Prince Charles in his Highland garb. If they did, they were disappointed, as Patrick was soon recognized as being neither a royal nor a celebrity, minor or otherwise, and the cameras and mobil
es stopped clicking.

  He was aware that his abrupt departure had been rude, but Carruthers’ introduction of Grazia Lucca into the proceedings had been one step too far. Turning down the job and giving his reasons why, which would have involved raking up the past, had been rendered impossible by her arrival. Which was, of course, why Carruthers had arranged for her to appear just at that moment.

  Charles Carruthers was excellent at his job, but in this instance diplomacy had not been the main reason for the meeting, thus stronger measures had been deemed necessary, even emotional blackmail. Patrick didn’t hold this against his friend and former colleague. As far as he was concerned, he’d come as ordered and had given his answer.

  Checking his watch, Patrick realized he was a little ahead of his table reservation, so, having made a visit to his hotel room, where his brown-leather overnight bag had already been deposited, he decided to have a drink in the bar. This time he opted for a vodka martini, the memory of Scotch and diplomacy being too vivid in his mind.

  He watched while the martini was expertly mixed, indicated his approval, and took it, along with a small bowl of olives, to a corner table. The hotel bar held a sprinkling of other customers, some of whom he suspected had been at the garden party and were now making up for the absence of alcohol.

  Having sampled the martini and staved off his hunger with some olives, Patrick made a phone call. There was a pause before connection, then he heard the distinctive sound of a French phone ringing. Pascal took a few moments to answer.

  ‘Pascal, it’s Patrick.’

  ‘Oscar’s fine,’ Pascal said, before Patrick could ask. ‘Very well, in fact. He’s been fed and is lying in the sunshine in the courtyard.’ A pause. ‘How was the Queen?’

  ‘Very well, I think, although I saw her only briefly. She’s very sprightly for her age, especially when heading for the tea tent.’

  Pascal made a sound that could have been approving or disapproving, it was hard to tell.

  ‘I’ll be back on the morning flight tomorrow, so I should see you around noon.’

  ‘Have some lunch first,’ Pascal suggested. ‘Come for Oscar around four. We’ll be back from our walk by then.’

  Patrick might think the French bulldog belonged to him, but since Pascal had been called upon to look after Oscar, injured in the line of duty, he rather thought of him as his own.

  ‘OK,’ Patrick conceded.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to say. Someone phoned the hotel looking for you.’

  It was common knowledge that Patrick kept a room in Pascal’s small establishment, Hôtel Chanteclair, which he made use of when the winter set in and the boat proved too cold. But it was unusual for someone to try to contact him there.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Brother Robert from the abbey on St Honorat. He would like Le Limier to visit the abbey as soon as he returns to Cannes.’ Pascal sounded intrigued, as was Patrick.

  ‘Did he give any indication what it was about?’ Patrick said.

  There was the sound of the door buzzer in the background.

  ‘I have to go,’ Pascal said. ‘Guests have arrived.’

  Before Patrick could respond, Pascal hung up.

  Patrick slipped the mobile into his sporran and considered this new and welcome development. Things had been quiet since the black-pearl case had reached a conclusion. The crowds that frequented Cannes during the biggest film festival in the world had departed. Le Vieux Port, where the gunboat was tied up, had relaxed into early summer and no one from Le Suquet or elsewhere had sought out Le Limier with a job. Patrick wasn’t short of cash, the previous job having paid very well, but he preferred being busy. Also, the fact that he’d been contacted by a Cistercian monk intrigued him, almost enough to take his mind off London-centric matters.

  The Île de Saint-Honorat was one of the two Lérins islands, which lay off the coast of Cannes, the other being the Île Sainte-Marguerite. Ste Marguerite was the bigger of the two, nearer to Cannes and more popular with visitors, especially the French, who liked to picnic there. The island was a nature reserve, covered with fragrant pines that bordered numerous small rocky bays, offering excellent snorkelling and fishing, with stone tables on which to eat your picnic. Fort Royal, an ancient fortress facing Cannes, provided a historic monument to visit, alongside a row of restaurants ranging from simple fare to gastronomy.

  Honorat, on the other hand, was home to a working abbey, where the resident monks tended nearly eight hectares of red and white grapes from which they made world-renowned wines, in demand internationally and available in the monastery’s shop. There was also a very fine restaurant that served delicious local produce accompanied by St Honorat wines.

  A visit there in June would be a definite improvement on a royal garden party. Patrick’s spirits lifted. He finished his martini and headed for the French restaurant near the hotel.

  TWO

  Settled at his table, the wine chosen, Patrick awaited the arrival of the first course. He’d chosen the set menu, similar to that of his favourite Cannes establishment, Le Pistou, which was frequented predominantly by connoisseurs of French food.

  There had been three choices for each course, all of them good. He settled for a soupe de poisson, followed by a lamb-and-artichoke stew. While waiting for the food to arrive, he found a missed call on his mobile from an unknown number. This puzzled him for a number of reasons. He kept a selection of mobiles and this one he only used while in London. He didn’t give out this number readily, and those he’d given it to were listed on his phone.

  There was no message left with the missed call, so Patrick decided to ignore it and concentrate on the soup, which had arrived. Traditionally, soupe de poisson was served with croutons, rouille and grated Parmesan. The idea was to smear a little rouille on the croutons, float them in the soup as a garnish, and sprinkle cheese at will.

  As he set about doing this, he took time to check out his fellow diners. The restaurant was small, hidden up a side street, and definitely not pretentious. In fact, it had more of the air of a French café. The voices he could make out were a mixture of French and English. There was a large contingent of French people living in London now, somewhere between 300,000 and 400,000. As a result, London had been dubbed ‘France’s sixth biggest city’.

  Patrick had just finished the main course when she arrived.

  Grazia Lucca had changed her outfit, from green to chocolate. The effect was equally stunning. She spoke to the maître d’, who indicated Patrick’s table and seemed quite relaxed about sending her over – which made sense, it wasn’t the first time Patrick had had an assignation in this establishment.

  ‘May I join you?’

  She sounded a little nervous, as though she thought he might refuse.

  ‘Of course,’ Patrick said with a smile. It wasn’t her fault that Charles had sent her in search of him.

  He waited until she’d settled herself opposite, before saying, ‘I was just about to order dessert. In fact I was considering the chocolate delight … and here you are.’

  She looked a little nonplussed by the remark. ‘Charles told me where I might find you.’

  ‘Charles had me followed?’ Patrick said in disbelief.

  She looked taken aback by his reaction. ‘He said you often eat here when in town.’

  Patrick had been unaware that that was common knowledge, although he shouldn’t really have been surprised.

  ‘I take it he also gave you my mobile number?’ he said drily.

  Grazia flushed a little, which confirmed Patrick’s suspicion that she’d been the missed call.

  Just then, the waiter arrived to take the dessert order.

  ‘Would you like something?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Just coffee.’

  Patrick ordered two espressos and skipped the chocolate torte.

  ‘I think you’ve had a wasted journey. If you remember, I turned down the job.’

  ‘I know,’ she hesitated.

  Patrick w
aited. If that was true, why was she here?

  In answer to his unasked question, she said, ‘Charles wanted you to know who I will be working with in your place.’

  Patrick sat back in the chair and contemplated her. His intense gaze didn’t appear to intimidate Grazia Lucca.

  ‘It won’t make me change my mind,’ Patrick said, knowing he sounded like a stubborn schoolboy.

  ‘No, but Charles still thought you should be forewarned, as our paths may cross in Cannes.’

  The term ‘forewarned’ said it all. Patrick waited, hoping he would be wrong about the name, but fairly certain he wouldn’t be.

  ‘Giles—’ she began.

  ‘Huntington,’ Patrick finished for her.

  She nodded, watching him closely for his reaction.

  Patrick strove to display none, although he was aware his voice had been icily cold when he uttered the name.

  ‘Then I wish you luck,’ Patrick said, and swallowed his espresso in one mouthful. He waved at the waiter and asked for the bill, which was swiftly delivered.

  Patrick glanced at it, then laid down enough cash to incorporate a sizeable tip, before standing up.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have a very early flight tomorrow morning and I need some sleep,’ he said to soften the blow.

  ‘Can I walk you anywhere?’ he offered as they exited, making an effort to be pleasant despite his underlying thoughts. He suspected Grazia had been warned about his possible reaction to the news of his substitute. He also believed Charles had hoped the revelation might soften Patrick into acceptance, if only to protect Grazia from his sworn enemy.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ she said, quietly.

  Patrick held out his hand, which Grazia took. There was steel in the green eyes, as there was in the handshake. Grazia Lucca, he decided, was formidable, although he doubted whether she was just an art historian.

  ‘Perhaps we’ll meet in Cannes,’ she said.