Page 53 of The Chase
She rose and leaned over the desk and began rewrapping the canvas.
I stepped forward, throwing a smile at Elena. “Don’t you just hate rules?”
Harriet paused and curled her fingers into her chest, her expression now hopeful.
Rules be damned...
Especially when they come from sexy, controlling Americans.
I refocused on the canvas.
Elena’s face flushed with mischief. “Shall I get the X-ray? The one you’d use if you were going to appraise it?” She winked at me.
“Good idea.” I rolled a chair out of the way and moved closer.
Elena stepped out and quietly closed the door behind her.
“Laurence Stephen Lowry.” I leaned in. “Matchstick men and women.”
Upon the canvas was Lowry’s distinctive style of painting stick people scattered within an urban industrial landscape. This piece was titledGoing to Work on a Sunday, and as I peered closer I ran through my checklist.
“Ms. Leighton,” said Harriet nervously. “I’m afraid we can’t proceed. We can’t afford it.”
“Totally understand,” I said. “Perhaps if you change your minds and agree to Huntly Pierre’s terms, I’ll share with you what I find.”
She gazed at the canvas lovingly. “I found it hidden in between several other paintings.”
“Well, that would explain the fact that the paint itself is so vibrant. Daylight ages the colors.” I lifted it and turned it over. “Love the frame. Is it yours?”
Harriet looked to her husband. “The painting didn’t have one. We thought it best to place it in one. We really weren’t trying to trick anyone.”
“Lowry never varnished.” I retrieved a magnifier from the side table and peered through it. “See this, the discoloration in his figures. The solitude. The clarity despite the thick texture. Looks simple to replicate but it’s not. He trained for years and his technical skills are hard to copy.”
“Looks easy to copy to me,” said Stewart. “Can’t see the appeal.” He earned a nudge in his ribs from Harriet.
“Lowry’s the most faked painter on the market,” I told them. “He only used five pigments. He dabbled in a different white but that was in his earlier works. You should only see five here. Look, there’s my favorite, Prussian blue.” I hovered the magnifier close again.
“How much do you think it might be worth if it’s real?” said Stewart.
“If real, possibly millions.”
Stewart cleared his throat. “Pounds?”
I set the magnifier down. “Quite possibly.”
“My mom looked after Elizabeth, his mom, when she became poorly,” said Harriet. “She was very hard on her son. My mom told me Lowry would wait for his mom to fall asleep and then go paint.”
“Your mom really knew Lowry?” I said.
“They lived in the same town. He wrote her a lovely note after his mom died and gifted her this.” She gazed at the painting.
My back straightened. “Do you still have it? The letter?”
Harriet rifled through her handbag and withdrew the plastic sandwich bag and removed a folded letter.
It was impossible not to smile. “This counts as provenance.”
“I’m not sure I know what that means?” said Harriet.
