Free The Flanders Panel by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page B

the crime: Beatrice of Burgundy.”
    Menchu was puzzled, but excited. She’d shifted to the edge of the sofa and was looking at the Flemish painting as if she were seeing it for the first time.
    “Go on. I’m on tenterhooks.”
    “According to what we know, there are several reasons why Roger de Arras could have been killed, and one of them would have been the supposed romance between him and the Duchess Beatrice, the woman dressed in black, sitting by the window reading.”
    “Are you trying to say that the Duke killed him out of jealousy?”
    Julia made an evasive gesture.
    “I’m not trying to say anything. I’m simply suggesting a possibility.” She indicated the pile of books, documents and photocopies on the table. “Perhaps the painter wanted to call attention to the crime. Maybe that’s what made him decide to paint the picture, or perhaps he was commissioned to do it.” She shrugged. “We’ll never know for certain, but one thing is clear: the picture contains the key to Roger de Arras’s murder. The inscription proves it.”
    “The
hidden
inscription,” Cesar corrected her.
    “That gives further support to my argument.”
    “What if the painter was simply afraid he’d been too explicit?” Menchu asked. “Even in the fifteenth century you couldn’t go around accusing people just like that.”
    Julia looked at the picture.
    “It might be that Van Huys was frightened he’d depicted the situation
too
clearly.”
    “Or else someone painted it over at a later date,” Menchu suggested.
    “No. I thought of that too and, as well as looking at it under ultraviolet light, I prepared a cross section of a tiny sample to study under the microscope.” She picked up a piece of paper. “There you are, layer by layer: oak base, a very thin preparation made from calcium carbonate and animal glue, white lead and oil as imprimatura, and three layers containing white lead, vermilion and ivory black, white lead and copper resinate, varnish, and so on. All identical to the rest: the same mixtures, the same pigments. It was Van Huys himself who painted over the inscription, shortly after having written it. There’s no doubt about that.”
    “So?”
    “Bearing in mind that we’re walking a tightrope of five centuries, I agree with Cesar. It’s very likely that the key does lie in the chess game. As for
‘necavit’
meaning ‘took’ as well as ‘killed’, that never occurred to me.” She looked at Cesar. “What do you think?”
    Cesar sat down at the other end of the sofa, and, after taking a small sip of gin, crossed his legs.
    “I think the same as you, love. I think that by directing our attention from the human knight to the chess knight, the painter is giving us the first clue.” He delicately drank the contents of his glass and placed it, tinkling with ice, on the small table at his side. “By asking who took the knight, he forces us to study the game. That devious old man, Van Huys, who I’m beginning to think had a distinctly odd sense of humour, is inviting us to play chess.”
    Julia’s eyes lit up.
    “Let’s play, then,” she exclaimed, turning to the painting. Those words elicited another sigh from Cesar.
    “I’d love to, but I’m afraid that’s beyond my capabilities.”
    “Come on, Cesar, you must know how to play chess.”
    “A frivolous supposition on your part, my dear. Have you ever actually seen me play?”
    “Never. But everyone has a vague idea how to play.”
    “In this case, you need something more than a vague idea about how to move the pieces. Have you had a good look at the board? The positions are very complicated.” He sat back melodramatically, as if exhausted. “Even I have certain rather irritating limitations, love. No one’s perfect.”
    At that moment someone rang her bell.
    “It must be Alvaro,” said Julia, and ran to the door.
    It wasn’t Alvaro. She came back with an envelope delivered by a messenger. It contained several photocopies and a