Enter Pale Death by Barbara Cleverly Page A

Joe was confident that the show he was about to put on would raise eyebrows and be the talk of St. James’s before lunch.Christie’s would not be pleased, but there was little they could do about it.
    He smiled to himself with mischief. Truelove’s brief had been short on information and shorter on tactics, but the required outcome was very clear. Joe would have his hands, by fair means or foul, on that pretty pair by the sale’s end the next day. Yes, having committed himself to Truelove’s mad scheme, he thought he might even begin to enjoy himself.
    T HE ELEGANT YOUNG man on reception was astonished. At the sight of Joe, he took a step back. He adjusted his lilac tie. He began to stammer. “Um … er … I beg your pardon, sir … but are we expecting you this morning? I mean, should you be here? Is anyone aware?”
    “Well, my mother knows I’m out,” Joe said genially.
    He stood before the assistant in the entrance hall, holding his catalogue, his face alight with anticipation. He was aware of the reaction his appearance in full Assistant Commissioner’s dress uniform was causing. The navy suiting, the excess of silver braid, the smart peaked cap were all in place. He’d even gone as far as hunting out a medal or two. The DSO and the ribbon of the Légion d’honneur still caught attention, even in these weary-of-war times. Joe wore this eye-popping gear with the straight shoulders and aplomb of the professional soldier he had been some years ago.
    “Don’t worry! Not here on police business. Just dropping in between fixtures to take a look at a pair of pictures that have taken my fancy. No time to slip into civvies.” He handed his card over. “Perhaps it would be polite to advise your director that there’s a friendly Scotland Yard presence in the room?” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile and suggested, “He may want to rush out with a screen.”
    The assistant gulped, took the card and excused himself, hurrying off to find a higher authority to deal with this nuisance.
    While his back was turned, Joe took the opportunity to nip into the viewing hall.
    He stood in the doorway to the Great Room to get his bearings and assess the crowd. A second or two’s pause was long enough to absorb the atmosphere which never failed to excite him. He breathed in the warm scents of wood, leather, oil paint and polish and caught a passing high note of Penhaligon’s Hammam cologne. The room was well lit by natural light, and Joe raised his eyes to the high ceiling, as he’d always done, to watch in fascination the golden motes dancing upwards in the shafts of sunlight. His child’s imagination had made them out to be a precious mixture of slivers of gilding, specks of gold and silver and oil paint, but with his present knowledge of forensic science, he was ready to believe this fairy dust was in reality no more than flakes of human skin and possibly dandruff.
    He glanced at the assembled company. Dapper city gents, suits from Savile Row, ties from Jermyn Street, haircuts from Raoul at Trumpers. No, perhaps no dandruff. Raoul didn’t permit dandruff.
    Joe strode forward to the centre of the room and stood, taking in the scene. He slapped his gloves against his thigh and wished he’d had his officer’s swagger stick to hand. A thin crowd of no more than a dozen here, he decided, but enough to get the handle of the rumour-mill turning. And, at least, they were all looking at him. Conversation had stopped and speculative glances were being exchanged. He referred to his catalogue, checked the sale numbers of the miniatures he was interested in and made straight for them. All eyes followed him.
    The portraits did not disappoint. He was instantly absorbed by them. Joe checked that his identification of the young officer’s uniform had been correct, nodding with relief to see the rich red colour of the velvet coat with its contrasting blue and gold flash. A fine young fellow.
    Only then did he allow