Page 29 of Garden of Lies

It’s a fake, you know,” Slater said.

Ursula contemplated the statue of Venus. The nude goddess was portrayed in a graceful crouch, her head turned to look back over her right shoulder. There was a suggestion of surprise on her face, as though she had been startled by an intruder just as she was about to bathe. The sculptor had certainly gone out of his way to emphasize the lush, ripe contours of the female form. The sensuality of the figure was unmistakable, bordering on the erotic.

It was still early in the day. The gallery featuring the Pyne Collection of antiquities was only lightly crowded. Ursula was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was viewing the nude Venus in the company of the most fascinating man she had ever met. She was grateful for the veil that concealed her flushed cheeks.

“No,” she said. She made an effort to sound as if her interest was purely academic in nature. She was not about to let him see that she was flustered. “I did not know it was a fake. How can you tell?”

“The modeling of the hair is clumsy and the expression on the face is insipid,” Slater said, clearly impatient with spelling out the details of his analysis. He sounded very academic. “The proportions of the breasts and hips are exaggerated. It’s the sort of figure one would expect to see decorating the hallway of an exclusive bordello.”

“I see.” Ursula turned away from the Venus. “Well, I expect the Romans had their own houses of prostitution to furnish.”

“Certainly. But they usually installed a better grade of statuary. I can tell you that under no circumstances would they have decorated one of their establishments with this particular figure.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“Because it has all the hallmarks of one of Peacock’s statues.”

Ursula blinked. “Who is Peacock?”

“Belvedere Peacock. He’s been producing what he is pleased to callfaithful artistic reproductionsfor years. He has managed to pass his pieces off to some of the most noted collectors in the country. I shall have to drop by his workshop and congratulate him on having one of his statues on exhibit in this museum. Quite an accomplishment.”

Ursula moved a few steps away to inspect a handsome brass and wood chariot. The little card declared the piece to be Etruscan.

“Will you say anything to the museum staff about the Venus?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Slater said. He came to stand beside her. “I only deliver an opinion on such things when I am asked to consult. In this case, no one has requested my opinion of the Venus.” He studied the chariot for a moment and shook his head. “In any event, the task of identifying all the fakes and fraudulent pieces currently residing in museums and private collections would consume far too much of my time. The mania for collecting antiquities has produced a brisk trade infaithful artistic reproductions.”

Ursula raised her brows. “Are you going to tell me that this chariot is not Etruscan?”

Slater glanced dismissively at the chariot. “Looks like Albani’s work. He has a shop in Rome.”

Ursula smiled, briefly amused.

“I do believe that there is something to be said for keeping one’s opinions to oneself,” she said. “I would have taken considerably more enjoyment from this exhibition if you had not informed me that most of the pieces are fakes.”

Slater gave her a sharp, impatient look. “I didn’t bring you here to study the artifacts.”

“Right.” She moved on to a large urn painted with a number of male and female figures engaged in what appeared to be complicated gymnastic poses. “You said you had matters to discuss.”

Slater joined her in front of the urn. “The first is that I followed Fulbrook to a private club last night. The Olympus.”

“What of it? Most high-ranking men belong to a number of clubs.”

“This one is rather unusual in that there were several women present.”

“Good heavens.” Ursula turned quickly. “How very modern. I have never heard of a gentlemen’s club that admits ladies.”

“I don’t think the Olympus deserves any credit for advancing the cause of women’s rights. The females looked as fashionable and as expensively dressed as ladies at a Society ball but they were all employees of an exclusive brothel known as the Pavilion of Pleasure. The proprietor is a certain Mrs. Wyatt.”

“Oh, I see.” She hesitated, well aware that she should not follow up with the first question that came to mind. But she was unable to resist. “You are acquainted with this brothel and the madam in charge?”

“No. But I intend to make further inquiries.”

“Why?”

She had not intended to put an edge on the question but it came out in a singularly demanding manner. As if she had any right to ask him why he wanted to make further inquiries into an exclusive brothel, she thought. Really, it was none of her concern. Many men patronized brothels. It should come as no surprise to discover that Slater was among that number.

“Because we are investigating Fulbrook,” he said, as if she was not terribly bright. “His membership in the Olympus Club may be important.”

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