The Bernini Bust
couldn’t bring himself to say, was that, in the past, he had found his employer and benefactor’s judgement in artistic matters to be a little shaky. An alarming number of pictures in the museum were there partly because Mr. Moresby was convinced he could spot a masterwork which the dealers, curators and historians of several dozen countries had unaccountably overlooked. And partly for other reasons. There was one picture, and Thanet shuddered involuntarily every time he thought of it, which had almost certainly been painted in the 1920s, probably in London.
    But Mr. Moresby had been persuaded it was by Frans Hals when he bought it eighteen months previously, and Frans Hals it was still labelled. Thanet couldn’t think of it without remembering the occasion he was walking through the gallery, past a little knot of visitors, and had heard one of them snickering as he read the description. Nor could he forget the awful row that erupted when a junior curator produced proof that the thing was a dud. The Frans Hals was still there; the junior curator wasn’t.
    “In both of your cases,” he said, pushing such thoughts aside, “I’m afraid museum procedure was bypassed. It’s no good, you know. Not professional. I shall have to talk to Mr. Moresby - again - when he comes this evening.”
    Commercial instincts pricked up their metaphorical ears here. This was the first mention of an impending visit by Moresby himself, a figure legendary in equal parts for his excessive wealth, prodigality in art collecting and singular unpleasantness.
    “He’s coming here?” They said almost in unison. Thanet looked at them, knowing exactly what was passing at high speed through their minds.
    “Yes. We’re having to arrange a party at short notice. You’re both invited, I suppose. You can make up numbers.”
    A bit graceless, but the man was under pressure. Argyll ignored it.
    “Panic in the ranks, eh?”
    Thanet nodded sombrely. “That’s it, I’m afraid. He likes surprising us with this sort of thing. I’m told he’s constantly dropping in at short notice at his factories to see how things are run. Always fires someone, pour encourager les autres. So I suppose we can count ourselves lucky we have some warning, even if only a few hours.” He sniffled once more, and the two visitors took a step backwards to avoid being caught in the blast. After dithering for some time, Thanet decided not to sneeze after all, and wiped his teary eyes instead. He sighed in a rheumy fashion and sniffed heavily. “I do hate this time of year,” he said confidentially.
    “It could be worse,” he went on. “We’re just going to give him a reception, then a tour of the museum. And I think there will be an important announcement to justify our efforts.” He looked suddenly smug as he said it, very much like someone nursing a delightful secret.
    “I should be delighted to come, thank you,” said Argyll. Not that he liked parties particularly, but if the room was going to be positively strewn with billionaires, he couldn’t afford to miss it. Even a measly multi-millionaire would satisfy. Doesn’t do to be fussy.
    He was about to make careful enquiries about the guest list when he was interrupted by a semi-sniffle of alarm from Thanet, who whipped out his handkerchief once more and gave a convincing impression of trying to hide behind it.
    The focus of his anxiety was a small, brown-haired woman whose immaculately constructed elegance was marred only by a face of steadfast and determined hardness. Early middle-age, but fighting back with the best technology money could buy. She had driven up to the museum in a vast car and was now heading their way.
    “Damnation,” said Thanet, turning to confront the menace.
    “Samuel Thanet. I want a word with you,” she called as she marched across the lawn, giving the luckless gardener a nasty look as he started to protest once more.
    Her eyes swept across the assembled company with all the warmth of a

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