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“Craquelure,” she said.
“Do you notice anything unusual about it?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. It looks exactly like Van Dyck’s craquelure should look. But now look at this one.” It was the face of the unknown woman, the version that Julian and Sarah had sold to Phillip Somerset. “The craquelure pattern is different.”
“It’s slight,” said Sarah. “But, yes, there’s a difference.”
“That’s because the forger is using a chemical hardening agent to artificially age the painting. It produces four centuries’ worth of craquelure in a matter of days. But it’s not the rightkindof craquelure.”
“Two separate reviews have declared ourPortrait of an Unknown Womanto be the work of Anthony van Dyck. Rome has spoken, Gabriel. The case is closed.”
“But both reviews were based on expert opinion rather than science.”
Sarah sighed in frustration. “Perhaps you’re looking at this the wrong way.”
“And what would be the right way?”
She gestured toward the portrait of Henrietta Maria. “Maybe that one is fake.”
“It isn’t.”
“Are you sure about that?” Sarah led him into an adjoining gallery. “And what about that landscape over there? Are you absolutely certain that Claude Lorrain painted it? Or are you merely inclined to believe that because it’s on display in the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
“Your point?”
“My point,” replied Sarah in a stage whisper, “is that no one really knows whether all the beautiful works of art hanging in the world’s great museums are genuine or fakes. Least of all the learned curators and conservators employed by institutions such as this one. It’s the dirty little secret they don’t like to talk about. Oh, they do their utmost to guarantee the integrity of their collections. But the truth is, they get fooled all the time. By one estimate, at least twenty percent of the paintings in the National Gallery in London are misattributed works or outright forgeries. And I can assure you, the statistics for the private art market are much worse.”
“Then perhaps we should do something about it.”
“By putting Galerie Georges Fleury out of business?” Sarah shook her head slowly. “Bad idea, Gabriel.”
“Why?”
“Because what starts in Paris won’t stay in Paris. It will spread through the rest of the art world like a contagion. It will infect the auction houses, the dealers, the collectors, and the ordinary patrons of museums like the Met. No one, not even the most virtuous among us, will be spared its ravages.”
“And if Aiden Gallagher tells us that the painting is a forgery?”
“We will pursue restitution quietly and then go our separate ways, never to speak of the matter again. Otherwise, we might shatter the illusion that all that glitters is actually gold.”
“Glisters,” said Gabriel.
Frowning, Sarah checked the time. “It is now officially afternoon.”
They returned to the Mandarin Oriental and settled into the last empty table in the hotel’s popular lobby bar. At two fifteen, as they were finishing their lunch, Sarah’s phone shivered with an incoming call. It was from Equus Analytics.
“Maybeyoushould answer that,” said Sarah.
Gabriel tapped theaccepticon and lifted the device to his ear. “Thank you,” he said after a moment. “But that won’t be necessary. We’re on our way now.”
Sarah reclaimed her phone. “Whatwon’t be necessary?”
“Additional chemical analysis of the pigment.”
“Why not?”
“Because Aiden Gallagher discovered several navy-blue polar fleece fibers embedded throughout the painting, including in places that had never been retouched. Since the fabric was invented in Massachusetts in 1979, it’s safe to assume that Aelbert Cuyp wasn’t wearing a fleece jacket or vest in the mid-seventeenth century. Which means—”
“Georges Fleury owes me a million euros.”
Sarah switched their flights, then hurried upstairs to fetch her luggage. They would settle the matter quietly, she thought, and never speak of it again.
