“Very lovely,” the shopkeeper murmured. “You have a good eye, sir.”
“Tell me about it,” Gideon asked.
“It’s from a Flemish book of hours dating to around 1440—a very fine one indeed. Very fine,” the man repeated, his voice hushed with veneration. “It is believed to be by the workshop of the Master of the Privileges of Ghent and Flanders.”
“I see,” said Gideon. “Nice.”
“It depicts the Annunciation, of course,” the dealer added.
“And how much is it?”
“We have a price of four thousand six hundred pounds on that very rare page.” The man’s voice became pinched, as if discussing sums of money were distasteful to him.
“What’s that, about eight grand?” said Gideon. He peered closely at it.
“Would you like to examine it with a loupe?”
“A what? Oh, thank you.”
As Gideon examined it, the dealer went on, hands clasped, his buttery accent filling the small shop. “As you probably know,” he said, his tone implying that Gideon certainly did not know, “the medieval book of hours came from the monastic cycle of prayer, simplified for private devotions. They represent some of the finest works of medieval art in existence. They were incredibly expensive — the cost of a book of hours in the fifteenth century was about the same as buying a good farm, buildings and all. Only royalty, nobility, and the very wealthy could afford one of these books. Just look at the detail! And the color. I especially direct your attention to the blue in the sky — a pigment made with crushed lapis lazuli, which in the Middle Ages was more expensive than gold. The only source of lapis at the time was Afghanistan.”
“I see.”
“Are you a collector?” the dealer asked.
“Oh, no. I’m just looking for an anniversary present for my wife. She’s religious.” Gideon gave an indulgent laugh, signaling that he himself was not.
“May I introduce myself?” the dealer said. “I am Sir Colin Griggs.”
Gideon glanced up at the fellow extending a small white hand, his chin thrust slightly forward, his back straight. He was about as much a “sir” as Gideon was a lord. He took the hand and shook it enthusiastically. “I’m Gideon Crew. From Texas. Sorry, you can’t put any ‘sir’ in front of my name, I’m hardly even a mister.” He gave a belly laugh.
“Ah, Texas, the Lone Star State. You have excellent taste, Mr. Crew. Can I answer any other questions about the item?”
“How do I know it’s real?”
“I can assure you it’s real beyond all doubt. We stand behind everything we sell. You would be welcome to have it examined by an expert after your purchase, and if there were any doubts we’d immediately refund your money.”
“That’s good. But…well, I have to say this four thousand six hundred pounds is a lot of money…how about making it four thousand, even-steven?”
Sir Colin gathered himself up into a ramrod of disapproval. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crew, but at Griggs and Wellington we don’t negotiate.”
Gideon bestowed a genial, Texas smile on the snobby Brit. “Aw, don’t play that game. Everything’s negotiable.” He took out his credit card. “Four thousand or I’m outta here.”
Sir Colin allowed the disapproval on his face to ease somewhat. “I suppose — for someone who appreciates it as much as you do — we could make an exception and lower the price to four thousand four.”
“Four thousand two.”
The expression on Sir Colin’s face indicated that this was a painful and unpleasant discussion. “Four thousand three.”
“Sold.”
5
After a quick trip back to his hotel room for a change of clothes, Gideon set off with the precious page for the London offices of Sotheby’s, where the final test of his scheme would take place. It was a stiff three-mile walk that took Gideon through some fascinating byways, as well as Hyde Park. It was a splendid late-summer day, and in the park the ancient trees were in full leaf, cumulus clouds drifting overhead like sailing ships, the greensward alive with people. London was an extraordinary city, and he told himself he really should spend more time there — maybe even live there.
And then he remembered his terminal medical condition, and such thoughts were quickly forced from his head.
The Sotheby’s building was an unpretentious, nineteenth-century edifice of four stories, newly whitewashed. The staff were most solicitous when they saw the little illuminated manuscript page he wanted to place with them at auction, and he was ushered into a neat little office on the third floor, where he was greeted by a charming, roly-poly man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a huge shock of Einsteinian hair, dressed in an old-fashioned tweed suit with a vest and gold watch chain, looking like a man out of a Dickens novel. He was considered to be — Gideon had done the research — one of the world’s greatest experts on illuminated manuscripts.
“Well, well!” the man said, smelling of tobacco and perhaps even a hint of whiskey. “What have we here, eh?” He held out a fat hand. “Brian MacKilda, at your service!” He spoke as if always out of breath, punctuating his phrases with a huff-huff as if catching his wind.
“I’ve got an illuminated manuscript I’d like to place in auction.” Gideon held out the small leather portfolio.
“Excellent! Let’s take a look.” MacKilda came around the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a loupe, which he pressed into one voluminous, winking eye. Adjusting a special lamp — which threw a pool of white light onto a smooth black tray — he picked up the portfolio, took out the plastic-covered page Gideon had just purchased, slipped it out, and stared at it with a few nods, which set his fluffy hair a-wagging, accompanied by grunts of approval.
He then put it under the light. Several minutes went by while he examined it with the loupe, making more animal noises, all of which sounded positive. After that, MacKilda switched off the bright light, reached down into his desk, and removed a small, peculiar-looking flashlight with a square face. He held it close to the page and turned it on. It cast a deep ultraviolet light. MacKilda shone it here and there, lingering only briefly, and then switched off the light. The noises suddenly turned into negative snorts.
“Oh, dear,” the man said finally. “Dear, dear, dear.” This was followed by some huffing and puffing.
“Is there a problem?”
MacKilda shook his head sorrowfully. “Fake.”
“What? How can it be? I paid four thousand pounds for it!”
The man turned a pair of sad eyes on him. “Our business, sir, is sadly rife with fakes. Rife!” He rolled the r with particular emphasis.
“But how can shining a light on it for five seconds be definitive? Don’t you have other tests?”
A long sigh. “We have many tests, many, many tests. Raman spectroscopy, X-ray fluorescence, carbon 14. But in this case there’s no need to do other tests.”
“I don’t get it. One five-second test?”
“Allow me to explain.” MacKilda took a deep breath, followed by several huff-huffs and a general throat clearing. “The illuminators of yore used mostly mineral pigments in their inks. The blues are from ground lapis lazuli, the vermilion from cinnabar and sulfur. Green came from ground malachite or copper verdigris. And the whites were usually made from lead, often in combination with gypsum or calcite.”