Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) by Shirley Wells Page B

I could have changed it.”
    “Perhaps she really believed it was too nice to wear. It’s cashmere, Maddie. It’s worth more than the entire contents of her wardrobe.”
    Maddie pushed it inside one of the bags. “It’s a sweater, that’s all. A stupid bloody sweater.”
    Dylan thought she was about to lose it, and he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had, but she merely gritted her teeth and grabbed two full bags. “I’ll go and put these in the car. It’ll give us more space to move.”
    After the wardrobe and drawers, there was a desk in Prue’s workroom to empty. It was crammed with papers. “I’ll take it all home and sort through it some other time,” Maddie said.
    By the time John Marshall arrived at two o’clock, they’d made good progress. Marshall was in his seventies, Dylan guessed, yet he was sprightly. He wore a suit that was a little old-fashioned perhaps, but well cared for. Shoes were highly polished.
    “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He sounded sincere as he shook Maddie’s hand.
    He inspected the few items of furniture and made pencil notes in a small book as he went from room to room.
    “I don’t want any money for it,” Maddie said. “I know it’s not worth anything. I’d be grateful if you could take it away though.”
    “I’ll give you a fair price,” he said.
    Maddie shook her head. “If you want to pay, I’d rather you gave the money to charity. Oxfam, Save the Children, Cancer Research—just pick one.”
    “Of course.” He nodded his understanding. “I can do that. I’ll make sure you get a receipt.”
    They were in Prue’s bedroom when he stopped in front of a tiny item on the wall. Dylan had paid it no attention but now he saw that it was a painting. The walls had been dotted with photos and colourful prints, but most had been torn down and thrown on the carpet. Presumably the intruder hadn’t noticed this one. Or he’d grown tired of tossing stuff to the floor. About three inches by three, it depicted an old-fashioned black phone and an airmail envelope. When you looked closely, you could see that the background was a fountain pen’s gold nib.
    Marshall took it from the wall, carried it to the window for the extra light and studied it closely.
    “This is interesting,” he said.
    “It’s yours if you want it,” Maddie said.
    “Oh, I couldn’t take this.” He studied it some more. “I’m only an amateur when it comes to modern art. My enthusiasm far outweighs my knowledge, I’m afraid. However, this—oh, my, this is very exciting.”
    “In what way?” Dylan asked.
    “Well, unless I’m very much mistaken—” his eyes sparkled with excitement as he looked at Dylan, “—I think there’s a possibility that this was painted by Jack McIntyre.”
    The name meant nothing to Dylan.
    “ The Jack McIntyre?” Maddie asked and, when he nodded, she laughed. It was a despairing sound. “Mr. Marshall, my sister was more likely to book a ticket to the moon than she was to own anything by McIntyre.”
    “Perhaps I’m wrong,” Marshall said.
    “You are,” Maddie said. “I’ve seen McIntyre’s paintings and they’re huge.”
    “Indeed they are.” Marshall didn’t look upset by her scornful tone. “He has dabbled in miniatures though. I’ve seen a picture of one and it’s very similar to this. Miniatures are fascinating, aren’t they? Some say it’s a dying art. Indeed, art historians say it’s already dead, that it died when we got the camera. It’s nonsense, of course. We’ve always had some wonderful artists who concentrate on the miniature. I find them really exciting. I know McIntyre isn’t noted for miniatures, but I also know he’s produced several and that collectors value them highly. I’d love to believe this is one of his.”
    “Who exactly is this McIntyre chap?” Dylan asked.
    “Dylan,” Maddie scoffed. “Which rock have you been living under? He’s one of the most famous painters alive.”
    “Actually,” Marshall