Isherwood replenished his teacup and picked reflectively at the corner of his napkin. “You did the world a favor by killing him,” he said quietly. “Now you have to do one for yourself and that gorgeous wife of yours. It’s time for you and Chiara to rejoin the living.”

“We are living, Julian. Quite well, actually.”

“No, you’re not. You’re in mourning. You’re sitting an extended shivah for the child you lost in Russia. But you can walk the cliffs from here to Land’s End, Gabriel, and it will never bring that baby back. Chiara knows it. And it’s time for you to start thinking about something other than a Russian oligarch named Ivan Kharkov.”

“Something like a painting?”

“Exactly.”

Gabriel exhaled heavily. “Who’s the artist?”

“Rembrandt.”

“What condition is it in?”

“Hard to say.”

“Why is that?”

“Because at the moment, it’s missing.”

“How can I restore a missing painting?”

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. I don’t need you to restore a painting, Gabriel. I need you to find one.”

CHAPTER 5

5

LIZARD POINT, CORNWALL

They walked along the cliffs toward Lizard Light, a study in contrasts, figures from different paintings. Isherwood’s hands were shoved into the pockets of his tweed country coat, the ends of his woolen scarf fluttering like warning flags in the raw wind. Paradoxically, he was speaking of summer—a sultry afternoon in July when he had visited a château in the Loire Valley to pick over the collection of its deceased owner, one of the more ghoulish aspects of an art dealer’s dubious existence.

“There were one or two paintings that were mildly interesting, but the rest was complete crap. As I was leaving, my mobile rang. It was none other than David Cavendish, art adviser to the vastly rich, and a rather shady character, to put it mildly.”

“What did he want?”

“He had a proposition for me. The kind that couldn’t be discussed over the phone. Insisted I come see him right away. He was staying at a borrowed villa on Sardinia. That’s Cavendish’s way. He’s a houseguest of a man. Never pays for anything. But he promised the trip would be well worth my time. He also hinted that the house was filled with pretty girls and a great deal of excellent wine.”

“So you caught the next plane?”

“What choice did I have?”

“And the proposition?”

“He had a client who wanted to dispose of a major portrait. A Rembrandt. Quite a prize. Never been seen in public. Said his client was disinclined to use one of the big auction houses. Wanted the matter handled privately. He also said the client wished to see the painting hanging in a museum. Cavendish tried to portray him as some sort of humanitarian. More likely, he just couldn’t bear the thought of it hanging on the wall of another collector.”

“Why you?”