“I heard it was ancient, like from Roman times. Mona Pearl said it was priceless.”

“Priceless? Ha! Not according to my sources,” Le Crous scoffed. “Like I said, the only worthwhile pieces in the Duchess’s collection are the Shammas paintings.”

“How do you know the statue isn’t valuable? I don’t understand why Mona Pearl would lie about that,” I said.

“As a journalist, I must keep my source’s identity a secret until my book has been thoroughly fact-checked. I don’t want to risk a libel lawsuit. But let’s just say that on the walls of the Strickland mansion, not all is as it appears.”

“Who was this Shammas guy, anyway? I’d never heard of him until recently.”

Le Crous spoke slowly, as if the words had come to him in a dream. His eyes had a distant, faraway look. “I know only these things about him: He was from the American Midwest. He painted in the 1990s. He only ever made four paintings, as far as my research can prove. But according to my sources, every one of those paintings was a masterpiece.”

“What got you interested in Mr. Shammas?” I asked, trying to be polite. Le Crous reminded me a little of Mr. Covarrubias. They both had deep, plummy voices, and they both loved to hear themselves talk.

“I’d heard rumors of Shammas’s first set of portraits for years. Word was that someone had offered ten million for the pair, but the anonymous seller refused the offer. That caught my attention. Then I’d heard a second set of Shammas portraits had ended up in the possession of a certain small-town Duchess. I had to see for myself whether these paintings were worth all the excitement, if, indeed, they existed at all.”

“That’s very interesting,” I said, not really meaning it. Le Crous seemed to have two moods: grumpy and pompous.

“Through interviews with individuals who claim to have seen the portraits, I have been able to determine that Shammas was left-handed, and that he often painted and repainted a canvas hundreds of times before he considered it complete. All my findings will be detailed in my book, which will be released next year to major accolades and awards, not to mention blockbuster sales, of course. I already have interested publishers.”

“Wow,” I said. “Good for you, Mr. Le Crous.” Fortunately, I was rescued from further small talk with the puffed-up writer by the hiss of microphone feedback.

A red-faced man in spats had climbed the stairs of the throne platform next to us, wireless microphone in hand. He was apparently suffering from a bad case of hay fever, but he made his announcement nevertheless, sniffling into the microphone. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Ahem. May I have your attention? I am Lesley Gatewood, the Duchess’s personal secretary, and it is my honor to welcome you to the Strickland mansion for the first time in ten years.”

The crowd cheered; some of the rowdier guests hooted like monkeys and howled like wild wolves. Mr. Gatewood waved his hands to quiet them.