A Three Dog Problem
- Автор: Беннет Си Джей
- Серия: Her Majesty the Queen Investigates #2
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Zaffre - Bonnier Publishing Fiction
- ISBN: 978-1-83877-485-1
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «A Three Dog Problem». Краткое содержание книги:
When a body is found in the Palace swimming pool, she finds herself once again in the middle of an investigation which has more twists and turns than she could ever have suspected. With her trusted secretary Rozie by her side, the Queen is determined to solve the case. But will she be able to do it before the murderer strikes again?
‘I did wonder.’
‘To match the one on the other side. Then it became the chapel. But it got a direct hit during the war.’
‘Was anyone killed?’ Jennifer asked.
‘Miraculously, no. My mother said she was glad we’d been bombed, because now we could look the East End in the eye. It was rather alarming, though. She was at the Palace when it happened.’
Jennifer had always admired the Queen Mother. When the royal family were advised to shelter in Canada during the war, she had written: The children will not leave unless I do. I shall not leave unless their father does, and the king will not leave the country in any circumstances whatever. They were not just words, when bombs were falling. Another fifty feet to the right or left . . .
‘We were hit nine times. It was my husband’s idea to convert the chapel ruins,’ the Queen went on. ‘Now it’s all much grander than it used to be. Every monarch likes to make their mark, and this was mine. Do tell me how the exhibition will look.’
Jennifer was surprised. The Queen wasn’t known for taking such an interest in the build-up to a show. But they discussed where various paintings would go in the three available rooms, and it was increasingly clear she had her personal favourites from her collection. She reminisced about her own visit to the Grand Canal, and how it contrasted with her Canalettos.
‘I suppose you’re an expert on the seventeenth century?’ the Queen asked in passing.
‘Yes, ma’am. I am. Baroque and Rococo.’
‘Oh, good. Are you interested in Gentileschi, by any chance?’
‘Of course! Which one?’
‘Artemisia,’ the Queen said. She had done her homework.
Jennifer smiled widely. ‘Absolutely! She’s one of my favourite artists of the period. We’ve got a self-portrait of her in the current show, actually.’
‘I thought so.’ The Queen had opened the exhibition, called ‘Portrait of the Artist’, a few days ago.
At Jennifer’s instigation, they walked over to look at the painting in question. Jennifer sighed in wonderment, as she always did with this one.
‘Remind me,’ the Queen said, ‘how did we come to have it?’
Jennifer was on home ground. ‘It was painted here, when she worked at the court of Charles I. He invited her over from Italy, where she was already famous.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. She became well known when she was still in her teens. Her father, Orazio Gentileschi, was already a court painter here for the king. A lot of their work was lost after his execution, including this one, but it was recovered after the Restoration. I think it’s one of the highlights of your collection, ma’am.’
They stood in front of it together. The Baroque was all about light and shade, bravura painting and new perspectives. In this self-portrait – which Jennifer assumed was an attempt to get new patrons and show off the artist’s skill – Artemisia captured herself brush in hand, gazing towards a blank canvas off to one side, on which she was about to start work. The bottom half of the painting was taken up with her elaborate green silk sleeve and her palette. Above, light fell on her corseted, lace-edged chest, highlighting her décolletage. But the head in the upper right-hand corner was not coquettishly posing, it was looking away from the viewer and concentrating on the job. Her dark hair was caught up loosely, with several messy strands escaping. Her eyes were hard to see. The viewer’s own eye was drawn instead to her muscular raised right arm, holding the brush, as she prepared to mark the canvas. The sleeve on this arm had fallen back to reveal the flesh, but the exposure wasn’t designed to be sexy – and this is what Jennifer so loved about it – it was just a casual result of her work. This was a woman saying what it feels like to be a woman, and getting on with things, and being bloody good at them. Watch her if you want to, but she’s got better things to do.
‘She reminds me a bit of Frida Kahlo,’ Jennifer said.
‘Oh, really?’
Jennifer sensed her remark hadn’t landed. ‘I don’t think you own anything by her, ma’am,’ she admitted. ‘Mexican. Twentieth century. She had the same bold approach to self-portraiture.’
‘I think this one’s rather marvellous.’
‘It is. Your ancestor had a good eye.’
‘Why an allegory, do you think?’ the Queen asked, peering at the label, which said it was called Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting.
‘Oh, I think she was having a joke at her male colleagues’ expense. In Italian it’s “La Pittura”. Painting is feminine. It was something the men couldn’t be.’
The Queen stepped back. ‘I remember the first time I saw her work and realised that a woman had painted so well in the seventeenth century. It was quite a shock.’
Jennifer nodded. ‘It can’t have been easy, though she wasn’t by any means the only one, or even the only great one. I’m sure it helped that her father taught her how. She wouldn’t have had access to the training otherwise.’
‘Ah. Training from one’s father.’ The Queen’s face lit up in a way that caught Jennifer quite by surprise. ‘I’m familiar with the concept. Are her paintings very valuable?’
‘Not as much as Orazio’s. History tended to ignore her and favour him. Although as you can see from this one, she was just as good. Much better, in my opinion. I think she’s finally reached the million-dollar mark. But she has her league of followers. She really was exceptional, and there aren’t that many examples of her paintings.’
‘Thank you,’ the Queen said. ‘A million dollars? How interesting. And I look forward to seeing the Venice scenes next year. Can I ask you a small favour?’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘Do keep this conversation between us private, if you would be so kind. Even among your colleagues. I’m afraid I can’t explain why, but it would help.’
Jennifer promised. At first, she was disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to savour every little detail with her fellow curators at the RCT, but on the walk back to St James’s Palace she considered that an air of mystery might be even better. Oh, we talked about her favourite paintings . . . Something vague like that.
Chapter 27
At her temporary desk in the Keeper’s outer office, Rozie looked up from her screen and was amazed to see that outside the light was fading. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly 5 p.m. The discrepancies in the finance spreadsheets had been tracked down to a couple of lines in the database: cross-checking with meeting notes from the relevant committees (Sir James Ellington was a stickler for record-keeping, for which Rozie silently saluted him), it was clear that certain cost projections didn’t tally with the real figures in the accounts.
If you were to illustrate the problem, a graph that should predict a steady rise in some fairly low-level maintenance requirements suddenly took off two years down the line in an almost exponential curve. Thanks to Mary, the Keeper already knew roughly where to look in the database; Rozie had simply helped him pinpoint the mistake. Apparently, Sir James had asked various underlings to fix the issue several days ago, but they had merely assured him it was all ‘under control’. He had found this, he said, infuriating – given that it so obviously wasn’t.
Anyway, armed with pages of printouts and a borrowed laptop, Rozie made her way to the property accounts department to get the problem fixed. It would have made sense for them to be in the South Wing, near Sir James himself, but it was in the nature of Buckingham Palace for the sensible thing to be completely different from what actually existed. For reasons nobody could remember, this particular team were buried in the basement, off a long corridor in the West Wing, opposite the kitchens. Rozie hurried down three flights of stairs, past the vast boiler room that fed the central heating, like something from an ocean liner, and on until she came to their unassuming office underground.