Murder While I Smile Read Free Page B

swathed in some sort of winding cloth, drinking from a goblet, while assorted people stood around looking morose. The Death of Socrates, of course.
    Yarrow gazed at it and sighed in pleasure. “The Death of Socrates,” he announced in solemn tones. “From Poussin’s more mature period, between 1640 and 1650, I should think.”
    “Yes, certainly,” Prance agreed. “At that time he painted heroes facing a moral dilemma. You can see the traces of the French Royal Academy. Classical lines,” he said vaguely.
    Yarrow’s eyebrows rose in approval. “I see you know something about art, Prance.”
    “Un petit peu,” Prance replied.
    What Corinne saw was an extremely tedious, old-fashioned picture. The colors, borrowed from the Venetians, had faded with age. The composition, borrowed from Rubens, was stilted by the dull classical elegance the French Royal Academy insisted on. The workmanship, however, was more than capable. As an investment it might be worthwhile. Yarrow was extremely knowledgeable about such things. He often acted on the Prince Regent’s behalf at auctions and sales.
    “What do you think, Coffen?” she asked, making no effort to conceal her own lack of interest.
    “Now, that is what I call a picture!” he exclaimed. “Socrates! It would be the last picture ever painted of him. Mean to say, he’s downing the hemlock even as the artist painted.”
    Yarrow’s jaw fell open in astonishment. “It was not painted from life, Pattle!” he said.
    “No, it couldn’t be, come to think of it. But you could never tell to look at it. What are you asking for it, milady?”
    “A thousand pounds.”
    “A bargain!” Yarrow exclaimed.
    Coffen said, “Yes, by the living jingo, I’ll —”
    Corinne darted a warning look to Prance, who had fallen into a trance as he gazed at la comtesse. “He’ll think about it,” she inserted hastily.
    “Don’t dally too long, or it will be snapped up,” Yarrow warned, gazing fondly at the picture. “There is a wine merchant coming to look at it tomorrow.”
    They finished their wine, and Yarrow said to Lady Chamaude, “I know you are going out as soon as you change, madam, so I shall not detain you. I think the deep red gown will do very well for the portrait, but you will want to consult with the artist first. It depends on what background he has in mind. If he chooses to use nature for the setting, then perhaps he will want something less formal than silk and diamonds.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow at the other callers, who were obliged to rise as well.
    “When will you let me know about the Poussin, Mr. Pattle?” Lady Chamaude inquired, not eagerly, but in a businesslike way.
    ‘Tomorrow. I’ll sleep on it. Not on the picture itself! I’ll think about it, is what I meant.”
    The comtesse smiled sweetly. “Of course.”
    The four callers left together.
    “A fine lady,” Lord Yarrow said, as they walked toward their waiting carriages. “It is a boon to England that so much of the Chamaude collection is ending up here—and at such reasonable prices. I cannot tell you how many masterpieces I have managed to get hold of for Prinney. You must drop around to Carlton House tomorrow evening and have a look for yourself. I shall arrange it with Prinney for you to receive invitations. He is having a few connoisseurs in to see his latest acquisitions.”
    “I don’t call myself a connoisseur,” Pattle said, though he had no objection to others calling him one.
    Prance, who assumed that “connoisseur” was directed at him, and was in any case determined to be included in any invitation to Carlton House, said, “We would be honored, Lord Yarrow.”
    Yarrow then turned a sharp eye on Lady deCoventry, who had said nothing. “I sense you are not smitten with the Poussin, milady.”
    “It is not in my style. That Watteau in Madam’s hallway, however, is quite another matter.”
    “A charming thing. Lady Chamaude is particularly fond of it herself and has no