Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [21]
The chalice was in a separate case in the middle of the room. My dreaming mind had an excellent visual memory; it had reproduced the major features. The shallow bowl and the wide foot were joined by a band of heavy gold overlaid with exquisitely coiled filigree. A band of the same material encircled the bowl just below the rim. This band and the twin handles were inlaid with garnets and scarlet enamel, set off by the gold strips of the cloisonné in which the enamel was set. The intricacy of the design was incredible. It was hard to imagine how it could have been done without a magnifying glass. Two of these relatively modern devices had been set up inside the case in order to enlarge portions of the filigree.
Colour photography is superb these days, but nothing can capture the true wonder of work like that. You have to see it. As I bent over the lovely thing, I heard the bearded man walk out. The woman was moving methodically around the room, stopping at every exhibit.
The catalogue contained a long paragraph on the chalice. Discovered in 1889, one of the first objects presented by Karl Hansson when he contributed his collection to the city.
Footsteps moved towards me. Without looking up from the catalogue I stepped to one side to give the newcomer a better view. It was her perfume that caught my attention – divine. I couldn’t identify it, probably because it smelled like money as well as musk, the kind of money I’ve never possessed.
Golden locks tumbled over her face as she bent to look more closely at the chalice. I caught only a glimpse of a tanned cheek, but that was all I needed. He heard my breath catch, and that was all he needed. Before I could express myself with the eloquence the situation demanded, he said in a hideous falsetto, ‘Aren’t you the clever little thing! I felt sure you would figure it out.’
I ejected one word – ‘You – ’ before he cut off the noun. ‘I beg, dear girl, that you won’t shout. I believe I’ve lost him, but one can never take too many precautions.’
‘Who is “him”?’ I inquired. I spoke softly. I didn’t want to attract ‘his’ attention either.
A less subtle comedian might have made some stupid joke about grammar. John just brushed the voluminous hair back from his face and grinned. I understood the necessity for the fluffy blouse; he was no weight lifter, but his biceps could never have passed for a woman’s, and his shoulders were broad enough to require camouflage. And, as I studied his pensive profile, I also understood the dark makeup.
‘I see you’ve already had a little set-to with him,’ I said.
Wincingly John touched the bruise on his jaw. There were others around his throat, almost hidden by the ruffles.
‘You needn’t sound so pleased. He caught me off guard. It won’t happen again.’
‘I’ll bet. Who is “him”?’
‘No one you’d care to meet, and no one you need worry about. It’s a private matter. Nothing to do with the present – er – ’
‘Swindle,’ I suggested.
‘Matter. Affair?’ He turned an inquiring, amused blue eye in my direction.
‘You’re not my type,’ I said. ‘Particularly not in that outfit. How you’d have the gall to think I’d fall for your machinations again, after – ’
‘Keep your voice down. I admit I owe you an explanation about Paris – ’
‘And a lot of other things.’
‘And a lot of other things. But this isn’t the time or the place. Though I’m ninety-nine per cent certain that my friend doesn’t want to kill anyone except me – ’
‘There is that one per cent,’ I said apprehensively.
‘There is. And where you are concerned, my heart’s dearest,