She blinked and focused on his face. Far better than on the wretched painting which was not the painting she and all her family thought it was. After a moment, her inner panic subsided enough for his words to register when he repeated, “Could the painting have vanished for weeks?”
She sat back and thought, then reluctantly nodded. “Mrs. Kemp dusts in there occasionally, but only every few months or so. With no one going in there, there really is no need.”
He trapped her gaze. “So there would have been periods during which the painting could have been gone from the wall.”
“Yes.” She looked past his shoulder at the canvas propped on the chair. “And if whoever it was replaced the Albertinelli with that…” She shook her head. “Even I wouldn’t have noticed.”
He remained hunkered in front of her, his gaze on her face. “I want you to think carefully—who else besides the family and staff currently here would have known of the painting? Not just glimpsed it but have known it for what it was—an old master’s work and, even more specifically, an Albertinelli?”
She thought back. “Dr. Hatchett—he spent a lot of time with Mama in that room. And her nurse and the local midwife, and my governess and Maggie’s as well, and Harry’s tutors, and the minister and the deacon—all would have been in that room fairly frequently. Mama held court there, and she was terribly fond of that painting.” She focused on his eyes and grimaced. “And that’s not counting Mama’s close friends. She had a circle of lady friends, and when she fell ill, their husbands often visited, too. Plus, of course, Pyne and his wife and the Morrises as well.”
Godfrey grimaced. “That’s far too many people to imagine investigating.”
She blinked. “Investigating?”
He met her eyes. “The person who took the painting had to be someone who knew it was there and who knew the house well enough to get in and out without being seen.”
She frowned. “The house is so large, anyone could have broken in and just looked around and found it.”
But he was shaking his head. “No.” He swung half around and pointed at the painting. “No itinerant or burglar would have bothered with that. It’s hardly attractive to the general viewer. Only someone who knew what it was and what it was worth would have given it a second glance.”
She had to admit that was true. The painting was simple and relatively plain, just three figures—women in richly hued gowns with long shawls over their heads—meeting on stone steps before an ornate archway with the sky and the hint of a hill behind. The precision of the lines of the archway and gowns, the colors—even dimmed by the patina of centuries—and the soft expressions on the women’s faces were what had drawn her mother to the piece and prompted her to have it hung in pride of place in her private parlor. But speaking generally, it wasn’t an eye-catching work.
Frowning, she stared at the painting. “What aren’t you saying?”
He sighed and swiveled to sit on the floor by her feet. He drew up his long legs, looped his arms about his knees, and stared at the painting, too. “The critical question is, as this is a forgery, where is the original Albertinelli? It has to be somewhere. I had hoped only a few outsiders would know of the painting, and a little quiet investigating might have told us who took it, and we could follow the trail from there. But clearly, it’s not going to be that simple.”
“How do you think it was done—stolen and taken from the house?”
Godfrey explained about the painting being removed from the frame. “I’m certain that was what happened because the nails securing the frame are, at the most, three years old. The surface of nails changes with time.” He glanced at her. “I’m assuming you’re not going to tell me that the painting was reframed three years ago?”
She shook her head. “As far as I know, that frame is the one my ancestor brought home or had the painting put into before he hung it, and it hasn’t been touched since—at least not in my lifetime.”
He nodded. “That’s what I thought. And judging by the way the nails have been put in, whoever did so wasn’t a professional framer, so there’s no sense asking around the local artist’s shops. Whoever took the painting returned with the copy weeks later, put it back in the frame, and rehung the picture on the wall.”
She frowned. “But why? Why go to the bother of having a copy made and putting it back?”
“Indeed. And that’s another very telling point.” He paused, then said, “This isn’t any run-of-the-mill theft. Usually, the only reason a copy would be switched for an original, as has happened here, is if it was in the best interests of either the thief or the eventual new owner for there to be no hue and cry raised over the missing painting.” He paused, then admitted, “In this case, either could be possible.”
She seemed to ponder that, then sighed. “I have to say that I’m cravenly glad we aren’t going to be asking questions of all the people who knew of the painting. I’ve known most of them for all of my life, and while it seems one must be a thief, all the others aren’t. Any suggestion we harbor suspicions… It would be hellishly tricky not to hurt people simply by asking the most basic questions.” She met his eyes. “That’s not a path my father or I would wish to take.”
He raked a hand through his hair, then lowered his arm. “Given the number of possibilities, I doubt we would get far by that route, anyway.”
She sighed again, this time in defeat. “So we’re left with a worthless forgery and no way to find the original.” Her tone was dull.
“No.” He pushed to his feet. “We have another way forward.”
She blinked at him. “We do?”
He nodded. “The forger, Hendall. He lives in Amsterdam. I know where to find him. Once we speak with your father, if he agrees, I propose to visit Hendall and ask him who commissioned this work.” He gestured to the painting.
“Will he remember, do you think?”
“Oh yes. He won’t have forgotten an Albertinelli.”
She looked into his face. “But will he tell you?”
He couldn’t hold back a small, entirely unhumorous smile. “Given I’ll be acting for your family and you hold irrefutable evidence that the original is yours…” He tipped his head. “I can think of several types of pressure that might be brought to bear on Hendall. Enough that he will find it much easier to simply tell me who brought him the painting to be copied and, if he knows, who now holds the original.”
She frowned. “Could they be the same man?”
“In this case, that’s unlikely. Whoever stole the painting is almost certainly known to the household—to you and your family. Unless you know any avid collectors of High Renaissance art?”
She shook her head.
“Then the most likely scenario of what happened to the Albertinelli is that whoever stole it sold it to an avid and unscrupulous collector.”
“But why would such a person give us back our painting? Presumably, they’ll have paid the thief and consider the painting theirs.”
He nodded. “But you hold provenance that is undeniable. The painting was yours, and unless whoever holds it now can produce a legitimate bill of sale that transfers the painting from your hands to theirs…legally, they will have to hand it over.” His smile growing more edged, he met her gaze. “And trust me—having a title and the connections that go with it can be extremely useful in certain situations.”