Free Death of an Old Master by David Dickinson Page A

only three to go. Any prospect of Francis putting in an appearance,
do you suppose?’
    ‘Too bad, too bad,’ chorused the other two sisters.
    Lady Lucy was not going to join the accusations against her husband. She would stand by him, whatever barbs were thrown. ‘I think we should just carry on,’ she said. ‘As if he
wasn’t here.’
    ‘That’s just the point.’ Eleanor was quick off the mark. ‘He isn’t here. Perhaps he’s been abducted by some villains.’
    ‘Don’t be absurd,’ said William Burke. ‘This is St James’s Square, not Shoreditch.’
    Stock trotted back into his office, a pile of borrowing slips in his hand. ‘Now then, Lord Powerscourt. This is what we’re looking for. And I think Garson here may be able to help
further.’ Garson was the young man Powerscourt had first talked to in the entrance hall.
    ‘Life of Giovanni Bellini. German author. Life of Giorgione. Another German author. Both translated. Life of Titian. Italian author. Vasari, On Technique. And there were two volumes
he asked us to obtain from a good Italian source in London. He collected those shortly before his death.’
    ‘Forgive me for asking for yet more information when you have been so helpful already,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but do you have dates for these borrowings?’
    Powerscourt was taking notes now. He saw that all the volumes had been taken out the day after the preview of the de Courcy and Piper Gallery’s exhibition of Italian Old Masters. He
inquired about the Italian books on order from another source. Had they been ordered on the same day?
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Garson the young assistant. ‘They were.’
    ‘And what,’ said Powerscourt eagerly, ‘were their titles?’
    ‘Roughly translated, they were called How to Make Your Own Old Masters ,’ said Garson, ‘and The Art of Forging Paintings. Both published in Rome in the eighteenth
century, believed to be contemporary manuals on how to forge Old Masters for English visitors on the Grand Tour, sir.’
    ‘Were they indeed?’ said Powerscourt, feeling pleased that a thin shaft of light had opened up on his investigation. ‘And what was the other intelligence you have, Mr Garson?
Not that you haven’t been very helpful already.’ He took another surreptitious look at his watch. Christ! They must be on the pudding by now.
    ‘Only this, my lord,’ said Garson nervously. ‘Mr Montague talked to me quite a lot when he was here. I used to help him find books and that sort of thing. He told me the
morning he took those books out,’ Garson shuddered slightly, ‘that he was going to be the co-founder of a new magazine. He wanted to know if the library would take out a
subscription.’
    ‘Did he tell you who the other founder was, Garson?’ Powerscourt was feeling rather hungry now. He wondered if Rosalind would have saved him any lunch.
    ‘He did not, my lord. I’m afraid I have no idea.’
    Powerscourt thanked the librarians and hurried across St James’s Square. It was almost half-past two.
    ‘How very nice of you to put in an appearance, Francis,’ said Lady Rosalind, surveying him severely from the top of the table, ‘only two hours late.’
    ‘Such a pity we have to leave in a moment,’ said Mary.
    ‘And to think that you used to lecture us when we were small about being punctual and the importance of good manners,’ said Eleanor. ‘You were always going on about being on
time and good manners.’
    Lady Lucy sensed a sudden wrath coming over her husband. Francis very seldom lost his temper, the last occasion about four years ago. She patted him affectionately on the knee. For a fraction of
a second Powerscourt wanted to shout at his three sisters. He was trying to find a murderer who might strike again. They were merely concerned with punctuality. Beyond the safety of their front
doors and the railings around the square there was a dangerous world where people put pieces of picture cord or piano wire round other