Page 38 of The Art of Theft
“So... eight hundred and sixty pounds? Done,” said Charlotte. “I will not take one penny more than what Monsieur has declared fair.”
Lieutenant Atwood scoffed. “I still think it’s highway robbery, but it was my idea to let the matter be settled by a professional, so I must abide by Monsieur’s price.”
“Deal!” said Charlotte.
“Deal,” said Lieutenant Atwood
They shook hands and thanked Monsieur Sauveterre for his help. The art dealer, in return, thanked them again for their earlier gift of wine. “My supplier ran out of his last bottle of this particular vintage five years ago. I shall lord it over him next time we meet.”
As they rose to take their leave, Charlotte asked, as if it were an afterthought, “Monsieur, although our little problem is solved, I can’t help but be curious about the prices at Château Vaudrieu. In general, do they skew high or low?”
“That is hard to say,” answered Monsieur Sauveterre, sounding cautious. “I have never been to Château Vaudrieu myself, and everything I hear is second-, sometimes thirdhand. I do not have the complete picture.”
“Nobody has the complete picture on anything,” Charlotte persisted. “We glean what information we can, and we make our judgment based on that. Given what you know, which is probably more than most, what do you think?”
Monsieur Sauveterre laughed dryly. “I think that the presence of unlimited champagne and beautiful women can muddle the thinking of otherwise clearheaded men. And that’s all I can say on the matter.”
So he did believe that prices there were inflated, but would not state so outright.
Charlotte turned to Lieutenant Atwood. “I say, old chap, we should get ourselves invited to the ball and see with our own eyes what kind of champagne and women make otherwise clearheaded fellows pay double for art.”
“Well, why not?” said Lieutenant Atwood. “We’ll be in town until after Christmas. When is the ball?”
They looked toward Monsieur Sauveterre, who said, with almost visible reluctance, “Oh, ten or twelve days from now, I believe.”
“I can find out the exact date,” said Charlotte. She patted Lieutenant Atwood on the back. “And you, Nariman, can get us into any gathering.”
Mr. Nariman inclined his head. “But of course, my friend.”
Monsieur Sauveterre saw them out, smiling. But it was the kind of smile that would turn into a frown as soon as the door closed behind them.
?Mrs. Watson, whose warmth belied her ferocity, did not let either Lord Ingram or Mr. Marbleton close their eyes until they’d reached Hôtel Papillon in Paris.
Lord Ingram was installed in an opulently appointed bedroom. Mrs. Watson repeatedly questioned him to make sure that he was lucid. After checking his hands and feet one last time, she gave him a cup of hot chocolate that was at least half whisky, packed him with three hot water bottles—proper vulcanized rubber ones—and at last allowed him to sleep.
He woke up to the sight of Holmes sitting in a chair, her head bent. He didn’t get too many opportunities to study her closely.Even when they found themselves in physical proximity, there was still the matter of her unnerving, sometimes all-seeing gaze.
With something of a shock he realized that after the near misadventure the night before, what he wanted was for her to raise her face and settle that exact unnerving, sometimes all-seeing gaze upon him.
He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He’d almost asked her what she was reading, but she wasn’t reading. She was knitting. He sat up to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“What are you knitting?”
The question he really wanted to ask wasYou knit?But that would probably net him only a blank stare, the thought of which made him smile on the inside.
She looked up, wearing her usual expression of utter serenity. “A cozy for a hot water bottle.”
A what?
He laughed. All at once he could see her as a plump, white-haired old woman with a half-finished muffler on her lap, her grandmotherly demeanor fooling all those who didn’t know her. Maybe he’d suffered too much last night and gone a little cracked, but he felt an extraordinary glee at the image in his head.
“I see you are well,” she said. “No lingering ill effects from your prolonged soaking at Château Vaudrieu.”
“I’m a little groggy but otherwise fine.”
She nodded, seeming not at all worried. But that she was here, waiting for him to wake up, was evidence enough of her concern. “Mrs. Watson has instructed me to be highly solicitous. Are you hungry?”
He was and said so. She left and returned with a large footed tray and set it down over his lap. Leaning her hip against the side of the bed, she poured him a cup of coffee.
