by Gigi Pandian
“Pretty much,” Tobias said.
“Regardless of what we think she has done,” Dorian said, “we must seek for her to get answers. She, and whatever it is she is hiding. For she is certainly hiding something.”
“Of course she is,” I snapped. “She was an intelligent woman trying to be an alchemist and a painter in a time when women were property. Of course she used deception.”
“The question,” Tobias said, “is how far she went.”
“Yes, Monsieur Freeman. Has Perenelle Flamel been living her long life as a murderess? Is it she who has been in search of the painting containing her husband? Did she murder Logan Magnus when she found it in his possession and then abscond with his phoenix pendant, which I discovered while f … while … um … ”
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Of course. Why would I not be?”
“You stumbled over your words.”
Dorian smiled. “You are worried the Elixir of Life is fading for me, as a gargoyle who is an untested subject for alchemical science. Non. I can assure you I am perfectly healthy. Even a gargoyle has a slip of the tongue now and again.”
“We’re getting off track,” Tobias said. “Why would Perenelle kill Logan Magnus?”
“She wouldn’t,” I said. Unless she’d lost her humanity …
“So … ” Tobias said. “What do we do now?”
We looked at each other in silence.
“Bon,” Dorian said quietly. “Zoe has had a breakthrough. You can see it on our benefactor’s porcelain, heart-shaped face.”
“She has?” Tobias whispered as he studied my face.
“It’s not really a breakthrough,” I said. “Dorian has been telling me about all the books he’s been reading. The Gothic novels are without value—”
“Bite your tongue,” Dorian said.
“—but the detective novels suggest that when stuck, it’s helpful to compile a list of what we know. Poisonous pigments, an artist in disguise, an imprisoned alchemist, and an art forger. Logan Magnus and Perenelle Flamel, two artists centuries apart, are the two threads connecting everything. Only I don’t see how they’re intertwined.”
“Logan Magnus is no more,” Dorian said. “Alors, we must find Perenelle.”
“I wish I’d taken the time to get to know her better,” I said softly. “I was so young at the time. I didn’t make the effort to find out why Perenelle acted as she did.”
thirty-seven
1597, Prague, Bohemia
There had always been fire in her. For her necessary male alias, Perenelle had chosen the given name Philippe so she could sign her name with the P flourish she’d always loved. And Hayden because, like Flamel, it meant fire.
When she’d married Nicolas more than two hundred years before, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world, in every way. Her whole life had clicked and fallen into place. Even when he told her about alchemy, it was as if she’d known it all along and was simply waiting for someone to teach her this particular language.
Before their marriage, her language had been paint. But she’d never been respected as much as her male contemporaries even though she was far more talented than most, and her paintings had been relegated to the farthest reaches of the ancestral home of her first husband. She was lucky he’d cared for her and indulged her interests, from books to art. He gave her the means to obtain the minerals to create her paints. She ground and added an egg base to the pigments herself, and contentedly settled into a studio on his estate, transforming raw materials into paints and performing what to her at the time was the greatest magic she knew: giving new life to a dying world by documenting it with pigments. She painted a portrait of her first husband before he died, and he told her she had a true gift. She made him look as he did, but at the same time more vibrant, less sickly. She’d captured his essence.
Grieving her first husband, Perenelle hung his portrait in the main hall. His sister immediately ordered it taken down, unwilling to have the ancestral home defiled by an amateur painting done by a woman.
That was the day Philippe was born. Perenelle packed her art supplies and took her substantial inheritance to Paris, where she sold her “invalid brother Philippe’s” paintings through an intermediary, signed with an ornate P.
It was Paris where she met Nicolas, while sketching Notre Dame. Nicolas later told her that as soon as he saw the stains on her hands, he knew she was destined to be an alchemist.
“Why me?” she had asked.
“The minerals you chose to work with,” he’d answered. “You sense the essences that represent life. That’s why you’re drawn to these substances. And why they respond to your touch.”
He smiled so warmly and with such understanding that Perenelle knew that from that day forward she would do anything in the world for this man. She proposed marriage the following week. She feared if she didn’t do it herself, Nicolas would be too proper to cross their differences in class.
Working with Nicolas, she found the Elixir of Life more quickly than most, because her own experiments with color had prepared her for the concentration, intent, and stages required in alchemy. She used mineral extracts and salts from stones milled from the village where she was born to form the Philosopher’s Stone, and she was superb at creating gold from graphite.
The two lived happily in Paris for many years, giving generously to charity with the true gold they both created. Nicolas wasn’t close to the few alchemists they knew because the others weren’t as accepting of Perenelle. She didn’t mind. It gave her more time to paint.
After leaving Paris for the countryside, Nicolas built an alchemy lab and took on worthy apprentices who would go on to do good for the world, and Perenelle’s painting flourished. “Philippe” began to gain recognition.
But Perenelle was restless. She wished not only to live up to her full potential but also to bring alchemy to a broader worthy audience through her art, reaching more people than Nicolas could through the pupils he found. And she had a wild theory of alchemical painting, which had never worked in her solitary laboratory workshop, but perhaps with the energy of more alchemists and artists it might be possible.
Nicolas brought word that Rudolf II’s court was offering patronages to both alchemists and painters, and he encouraged her to go. They were already good at hiding, so he wasn’t worried that his wife would be recognized as a woman, or as Perenelle Flamel. He cut her beautiful orange curls short himself.
If only she hadn’t been restless … Nicolas never would have suggested it otherwise. And she wouldn’t be in this mess now. It was as if fate were taunting her. Showing her what might have been, but making the achievement of it impossible. She knew she would never let another woman repeat her mistakes if she had any power to prevent it.
thirty-eight
“I will not make the mistake of leaving us unfed,” Dorian said. “It is scientifically proven that the mind cannot focus at full capacity if one’s body is starving. Zoe, would you pick a pint of blackberries from the backyard? I wish to make another dessert papillote to accompany a stuffed sweet potato as a late lunch.”
“You want me to pick the blackberries instead?” Tobias asked. “Those brambles look a bit treacherous for that ankle, Zoe.”
I put my foot up in the living room while Dorian and Tobias cooked, thinking about finding Perenelle’s painting of Nicolas. Now that I knew Perenelle Flamel was Philippe Hayden, I was even more confused about the theory of a forger at work here. Perenelle lived a long life, so her artwork would span a longer period than art historians would accept as legitimate. The paintings that experts thought too modern to be painted by Hayden could easily be hers. But what did that have to do with the modern-day Portland art forger Neo, Logan Magnus’s strange death, and the theft of Nicolas’s painting?
If we were to believe Isabella, Logan Magnus had found proof
of the identity of the forger. Had Isabella been telling the truth about Logan’s discovery? And how was it related to the painting of Nicolas that experts thought was a forgery? Thanks to Dorian’s research I knew someone who was knowledgeable about forgeries—and quite concerned about them, because he’d been swindled himself.
Ward Talbot emailed me back immediately and agreed to meet at the teashop. A nice, crowded space. But I’d never get there if I told Dorian and Tobias what I was up to. As I crept silently across the living room floor towards the door, I smiled at the sound of the gargoyle and former slave singing folk songs in the kitchen.
I waited with a mug of chai and a mini loaf of cran-apple nut bread at my favorite tree-ring table in the corner, with a perfect view of the weeping fig tree and Heather’s paintings. When Ward walked in, Cleo was with him. They were both dressed stylishly in black, as they’d been when I’d seen them before.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. “I ordered a pot of chai and this cran-apple loaf we can share, or I can get something else.”
“Chai and nut bread are perfect,” Ward said, pouring two cups for himself and Cleo. His British accent and the tea service made me feel like I was back in England. “And I know what you’re thinking. You wish I hadn’t brought Cleo. Oh, I know you like her. But I bet you’re worried I won’t reveal my art purchase blunders in front of her.”
Cleo laughed. “I know more about it than he does, so he knew he’d better bring me … ” She spun her head around.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“These paintings. This is the artist who got my dad interested in the art of alchemy.”
“Have you met Heather?” I glanced at my favorite painting, which depicted a tree transforming into a person.
“I haven’t had the pleasure. She doesn’t do many shows.”
“She works here.” I nodded toward the counter. “If you’d like to meet her, she’s at the counter right now.”
“Really? A talent like this shouldn’t be behind a checkout counter. But I know how it is to be an unrecognized artist.”
I introduced them. Heather squealed and hugged Cleo, and the two were immediately immersed in conversation. Blue shook her head but took over the register, and I sat back down with Ward.
“I’m glad she’s so happy with a kindred spirit,” he said, looking fondly at Cleo. “She needs all the distractions she can get. She’s already quite upset about her father’s death, and now that the painting he loved has been stolen, that’s made it even worse.”
“No word on it?”
Ward shook his head. “But you wanted to ask me about my experience of being swindled by an art forger. I know you didn’t put it quite as crassly as that, but when you asked about a potential forgery in an antique painting you had acquired, I knew it was why you asked me in particular. Tell me, how much do you know about this business?”
“A little bit, because of the antique books I sell through my business. I’ve encountered a few questionable items, and I know to look for provenance so I can have proof of an object’s history to show the buyer. But I haven’t encountered many forgeries.”
I knew in theory how to look for provenance, though in truth I’d had little opportunity to put that theoretical knowledge into practice. Most of the items I sold had been new when I bought them. Put a Victorian canned food trading card in a box for a hundred years, save the original packaging, and it takes on new value. But it also meant I didn’t have a lot of experience sleuthing for provenance.
“Forgers,” Ward said, “often want to be caught. They do it for their egos, after being rejected by the art establishment.”
“Isn’t that an oversimplification? Van Meegeren didn’t want to be caught.”
“Didn’t he? Look at how many risks he took. In the end, he loved the fame. But he’s an outlier anyway.” Ward ignored his tea and leaned across the table. “Forgers like Tom Keating and Shaun Greenhalgh purposefully painted anachronisms into their paintings, and used modern synthetic paints. Those two were screaming to be caught, to show up the art world snobs who’d rejected them as untalented. They wanted money, certainly, but that was secondary. And Lothar Malskat wanted to be found out so badly that he sued himself so people would believe him.”
“You sound like you approve.”
“If I hadn’t been a victim myself, I’d say it was a victimless crime. Because it usually only harms the very rich or the very corrupt. The biggest problem is that it taints the way conservators view art. It plants the seed of doubt even when the art is authentic.”
I refreshed our tea from the china teapot in the center of the table. “What happened in your case?”
Ward cringed. “I’m afraid it was my own ego that got me. A successful forger paints not what an original painting would have looked like, but what their current audience wants to see—subjects a modern audience has fantasized about seeing their favorite Renaissance painter portray, and that the artist theoretically could have painted during a period of unrecorded years while he was finding his style.” He shook his head. “An added layer of the con is what convinced me: the seller. The man who gave me a ‘great deal’ was an elderly chap in a wheelchair who was downsizing and having his family estate in Lancashire cleared out. In the attic, low and behold, the house cleaner found a forgotten Philippe Hayden.”
“Yours was a Hayden?”
“That’s why I was so keen on attending the auction where The Alchemist was being sold. What’s the situation in your case?” he asked me.
“Antique show find. Red flags from a similar story from the elderly saleswoman.”
“That’s a rather vague answer.” Ward paused and appraised me. After a few moments, he laughed. “I didn’t take you for a busybody. But apparently I’ve been swindled again. Why did you really invite me here?”
“I messed up the police investigation,” I said truthfully, “by finding the pendant Isabella made for Logan. I want to help make it right.”
“Ah. Guilt. A strong motivator. This all makes more sense now. Well, what I can tell you is this—Cleo’s mom is hiding something.”
“You don’t think—”
“No, of course not. She loved Cleo’s father passionately. But there’s something making me uneasy … ”
I was surprised by the emotion that covered his face. Fear.
“Hi you two,” Cleo said, sitting back down at the table. “What did I miss?”
Ward leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Nothing more than an art forgery history lesson. You would have done a much better job, but it looks like you made a new friend.” He ran his hand around her ear, where a fall flower was now braided into her hair.
“Isabella has a—” I began.
“Yes,” Ward cut me off. “You were saying how much you loved her metal sculptures.”
So Cleo didn’t know of her husband’s suspicions about dear old mom.
“Cleo,” I said, “I really am sorry to have caused your family further grief by finding the pendant your mom made for your dad.”
“Mom would have found something to obsess about, if it hadn’t been you. She’s like that. At least this way we’ll get the charm back. Otherwise it might have been lost forever. Like Dad’s painting.”
“I don’t know why the police won’t return the pendant to her,” Ward said. “It clearly has nothing to do with the case—if there is one.”
“So you believe he could have killed himself?” I asked.
“What else? He had the most terrible mood swings.”
“Mom doesn’t want it to be true,” Cleo said softly. “I just want to be able to mourn properly. Ward, I don’t feel like anything sweet right now. Could you get me a black tea with lemon?”
“Of course.” He popped a piece of nut bread in his mouth and headed for the counter.
“Did you want to tell me something?”
I asked Cleo.
“That obvious?”
“Not to him. He adores you.”
“He’s a wonderful man, but he has his blind spots. That’s why I wanted to tell you this alone. I’m not sure the theft of Dad’s painting was really a theft.”
“You’re not?”
“Mom hasn’t been herself since Dad died. Now that I don’t believe Archer stole the painting, I wonder if Mom did something to the painting herself. Not on purpose. Just … ”
“What would she have done to the painting?”
“I don’t know. She’s just not herself.” Cleo shook her head. “I guess it’ll take her time to get back to normal. I can’t imagine anything being normal ever again.”
And I was keenly aware how far I was from the normal life I wanted here in Portland. In order to give myself that life, I had to rescue Nicolas, stop the police from looking into Tobias’s past, and finally tell the truth to Max. Right. I could use the help of some little gray cells to figure out how exactly to rise to the impossible challenge.
thirty-nine
Walking home, I was slower than usual with my injury, but I still took the long way, along the waterfront by the Logan Magnus gallery. The walk provided a mix of trees along one side of the popular waterfront path, and industrial warehouses and homeless tents on the other. My ankle gave a twinge when I turned sharply, but walking on flat ground wasn’t too bad.
Frustration threatened to overtake my emotions, but I reminded myself that he’d been in the painting for years, if not centuries. A few more days wouldn’t make much difference. Normally, walking in nature would clear my head, but not that afternoon. I couldn’t understand why I felt so nervous … What was that noise?
I whirled around, wincing as my ankle objected to the unplanned movement.
There was no one behind me. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I decided the noise that had made me feel uneasy must have been just another crash of thunder, below my conscious awareness.