provenance by using Chinese papers to contain the powder. I got the perfect mix from a monk, of all people, whom I met one day on the bridge of San Francesco in Subiaco . . .”
Blume stopped reading, as he spotted the spines of two more notebooks of the same type among the novels and Giunti art books. Foolscap-size notebooks. Impossible to find in Italy. He had ones just like them at home. They had belonged to his father, one of whose nostrums to his unlistening son had been never to commit anything to loose-leaf paper. Well, maybe he had been listening despite himself if he remembered it now. Always use a hardback expensive lined notebook, his father had said. He had them sent over from New York, and this in the days before the internet made it easy. Then he had got himself killed in a bank raid and left half a shelf of them, unused and new then, unused and yellowing now.
The notebook on the desk was half full and seemed to be dedicated entirely to technical advice on oils, grinding, canvases. It contained some interesting illustrations in light pencil, including three versions of Dürer’s hare and a page of practice signatures, such as Blume used to do when he needed to sign his own lousy school reports in his father’s name. The other two notebooks were full of entries, some of which seemed to have double dates, others none.
Every so often, Treacy had whited out the ruled lines and sketched on the page. Most of the sketches were of single body parts. A hand, a foot, the curve of a neck.
Caterina had picked up one of the first notebooks and was staring at it.
“It seems to be a manual for painters,” said Blume. “It’s full of recipes . . .” he flicked forward a few pages. “How to age paper . . . convincing spots. Freehand composition . . . We’re getting to the point where we should wait for instructions from the investigating magistrate. Still, I think we should take the notebooks.”
Blume found three plastic bags for the notebooks, packaged them, and was about to drop them into his bag when he noticed Caterina’s shoulder bag.
“What’s in your bag?”
“This?” said Caterina, giving it a pat and blushing slightly. “Nothing. It’s empty. I didn’t know what sort of bag would be best for working at a crime scene.”
Blume nodded sympathetically. “I’ve never worked it out either. I often use a bag, sometimes an old flat leather one that belonged to my father. But you can also use one of the official reinforced briefcases, they’re bulky, though. So you’ve nothing in that bag?”
“My wallet, a pen, phone. That’s it.”
“Here. Drop these notebooks in.”
Caterina lifted the flap of her bag, and angled in the notebooks. They were just too big to allow her to close the flap over them.
“Gives you the look of a student,” said Blume. “Suits you.”
“I’m too old to be a student.”
“We need to log the items we remove from here,” said Blume.
“Do we need to take these paintings, too? They must be valuable.”
“I’m not sure that they are,” said Blume. “I need to take another look at them. I think we might put a guard on this place. Someone to stand outside in the sun for hours making sure no one comes in here. Grattapaglia springs to mind.”
Blume’s phone rang.
“I’m taking this. You call Grattapaglia, order him to come here. You had better tell him where to find the door.”
Caterina shook her head. “I don’t want to be the one.”
“Do it,” snapped Blume.
Caterina took out her phone.
“Sorry,” Blume said into his phone. “What? Oh, I see. Good, thanks, yes . . .” He pulled out his notebook, and jotted a few notes.
“Treacy part owned a private art gallery called . . .” he checked his notes, “Galleria Orpiment S.n.c. just off Via Giulia. The Rome Chamber of Commerce database has it registered as a limited company. Treacy held fifty percent and a certain John Nightingale the other fifty percent. Apparently the gallery is
Blume stopped reading, as he spotted the spines of two more notebooks of the same type among the novels and Giunti art books. Foolscap-size notebooks. Impossible to find in Italy. He had ones just like them at home. They had belonged to his father, one of whose nostrums to his unlistening son had been never to commit anything to loose-leaf paper. Well, maybe he had been listening despite himself if he remembered it now. Always use a hardback expensive lined notebook, his father had said. He had them sent over from New York, and this in the days before the internet made it easy. Then he had got himself killed in a bank raid and left half a shelf of them, unused and new then, unused and yellowing now.
The notebook on the desk was half full and seemed to be dedicated entirely to technical advice on oils, grinding, canvases. It contained some interesting illustrations in light pencil, including three versions of Dürer’s hare and a page of practice signatures, such as Blume used to do when he needed to sign his own lousy school reports in his father’s name. The other two notebooks were full of entries, some of which seemed to have double dates, others none.
Every so often, Treacy had whited out the ruled lines and sketched on the page. Most of the sketches were of single body parts. A hand, a foot, the curve of a neck.
Caterina had picked up one of the first notebooks and was staring at it.
“It seems to be a manual for painters,” said Blume. “It’s full of recipes . . .” he flicked forward a few pages. “How to age paper . . . convincing spots. Freehand composition . . . We’re getting to the point where we should wait for instructions from the investigating magistrate. Still, I think we should take the notebooks.”
Blume found three plastic bags for the notebooks, packaged them, and was about to drop them into his bag when he noticed Caterina’s shoulder bag.
“What’s in your bag?”
“This?” said Caterina, giving it a pat and blushing slightly. “Nothing. It’s empty. I didn’t know what sort of bag would be best for working at a crime scene.”
Blume nodded sympathetically. “I’ve never worked it out either. I often use a bag, sometimes an old flat leather one that belonged to my father. But you can also use one of the official reinforced briefcases, they’re bulky, though. So you’ve nothing in that bag?”
“My wallet, a pen, phone. That’s it.”
“Here. Drop these notebooks in.”
Caterina lifted the flap of her bag, and angled in the notebooks. They were just too big to allow her to close the flap over them.
“Gives you the look of a student,” said Blume. “Suits you.”
“I’m too old to be a student.”
“We need to log the items we remove from here,” said Blume.
“Do we need to take these paintings, too? They must be valuable.”
“I’m not sure that they are,” said Blume. “I need to take another look at them. I think we might put a guard on this place. Someone to stand outside in the sun for hours making sure no one comes in here. Grattapaglia springs to mind.”
Blume’s phone rang.
“I’m taking this. You call Grattapaglia, order him to come here. You had better tell him where to find the door.”
Caterina shook her head. “I don’t want to be the one.”
“Do it,” snapped Blume.
Caterina took out her phone.
“Sorry,” Blume said into his phone. “What? Oh, I see. Good, thanks, yes . . .” He pulled out his notebook, and jotted a few notes.
“Treacy part owned a private art gallery called . . .” he checked his notes, “Galleria Orpiment S.n.c. just off Via Giulia. The Rome Chamber of Commerce database has it registered as a limited company. Treacy held fifty percent and a certain John Nightingale the other fifty percent. Apparently the gallery is
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