The Item E-Book

Hendrik Hoitinga

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 910

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Widowed Sam Price inherited the journals of his great-grandfather, and his great-grandfather's love of art. On a visit to a Parisian auction house, Sam sees a painting his great-grandfather once owned and questions its authenticity. This leads to the auction house offering him a job valuing artworks and establishing their provenance. When "the Item" is stolen, Sam helps to find it, but is it actually a forgery? While Sam researches its provenance, the story jumps from present to past to follow the lives it has touched. In the course of his research Sam comes into contact with four different women. Will one these become his new love? And what secrets do his great-grandfather's journals contain which may help to find the missing artworks and solve the crimes?

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All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2023 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99131-869-9

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99131-870-5

Editor: René Nel

Cover images: Elena Schweitzer, Andreykuzmin, Tennesseewitney | Dreamstime.com

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

BOOK 1 – Two Trails

DEDICATION & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In memory of Klaas

(19-8-1954 – 5-8-2015)

Adventures on rooftops and alleys, playing in the street

Summertime journeys on trains and the girls we would meet

Canoeing on rivers and lakes we did too

And our friendship just grew and grew.

Across the seas we sailed, new challenges ahead

Brick laying, painting and carpentry in a shed

Motorcycles you tinkered with, a Matchless comes to mind, bringing to some a frown

For with an engine so loud and distinctive, it could be heard right across town.

In time, as we grew and different paths we followed, no worries, no bother

For the bond we forged, was truly like no other

You were the best friend.

Thanks to;

Gilly, my loving wife for over 42 years.

Daughter Suzy, for her valuable input,

assistance, guidance and research.

Margaret Alison for her encouragement

and prayerful support

Author’s favourite passage of Scripture;

‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart,

and lean not on your own understanding.

In all your ways acknowledge Him,

and He shall direct your paths’.

Proverbs 3: 5-6

And finally a big thank you to NOVUM Publishing.

PROLOGUE; Paris, France

Monday 19th January 2015

When he saw it he recognised it immediately, and when he did, he also knew straight-away, that something just wasn’t right.

He stopped walking, tried to focus, tried to recollect what it was that had made him stop.

Some moments passed and once again he realised that his mind had wandered. Pictures and scenes, flashing around in his mind, faces, people, events, all jumbled together.

Why couldn’t he just focus? Why couldn’t he just breathe and make sense of it all?

Lost in thought, lost and unsure, feeling emotional, yet suppressing those feelings. Through the mists of his mind, he sensed someone approaching.

Letting out a deep sigh, he briefly closed his eyes, then opened them once more and stared at the painting that was hung on the wall before him. One of many that were lined along the wall.

But this one had drawn his attention.

A voice, a man’s voice, spoke to him, in French.

‘Sorry, my French is not great,’ he said in English, turning to face a smartly dressed gentleman wearing a shiny gold name badge that said he was the director of the Paris Fine Arts Auction House, Emmanuel Sauvonne.

‘Is Monsieur interested in the Gauguin?’

He looked again at the painting, his mind seemingly, at least for the moment, showing signs of clarity, ‘It caught my eye, but for the wrong reason. There is something about it’ he answered.

Again turning to face the director, he said, ‘But I can’t put my finger on it. A feeling, a hunch if you like, but it seems … wrong. Does it have good provenance?’

Less than two minutes later he stood in the director’s office. The director, who had picked up the phone and was speaking in rapid French, had opened a filing cabinet.

He stood and waited. His mind losing focus once more and drifting away.

Sonja had died.

Acknowledge it. Accept it.

Her words came to him, slicing through the mist in his mind, pushing aside all else that was around him, the opening of the office door, the presence of someone else, the quick conversation, …

… her words so soft, and yet so clear.

His mind suddenly bringing the scene to the forefront taking him back, back to earlier in the day …

She was holding his hand; her face was a picture of confidence. Her eyes were bright, and despite the tears in his eyes, he saw her so very clearly.

‘Go and find someone to love,’ she had said, her eyes totally engaging his, ‘You have so much more to give, and thank you so very much, for all the love you have given me …’

‘Go and find someone to love …’ Well, he thought, back in the present time, it certainly wasn’t going to be the woman who had entered the office and now stood before him, looking up into his face and berating him in strongly accented English. Her fiery French temper had brought a red blush to both her cheekbones.

She had asked him what expertise he had in judging the painting, but before he could even begin to formulate some sort of response through the confusion in his mind, she had gone on to say that she had studied at Atelier 115,School of Arts, had been the curator of a well-known Parisian Art Gallery for five years, the first woman and the youngest to ever hold that post, before joining the Paris Fine Arts Auction House in 2009.

Finally, taking a breath, still looking at him intently, she asked again, ‘and why do you think the Gauguin is not genuine? What expertise do you have?’

Finding his voice, he held her gaze, ‘I just walked in. The painting, well, just caught my attention, I’m sure I’ve seen it before, but I just have a sense that it’s not right. I merely question its provenance, but if you are satisfied, well, all is good. Sorry to have taken up your time.’ His voice, surprisingly calm and firm, ‘Good day to you.’ Nodding to them both, he turned and left the room.

Strangely, his mind was suddenly clear and sharp.

He headed back to the room which housed the paintings that were to be auctioned later in the day, made a note of the Gauguin’s lot number, checked the brochure he had picked up for the auction time and left the building.

Ten minutes later he sat in a sidewalk cafe, a black coffee within reach and looked up at the grey sky which threatened to produce some rain sooner rather than later.

He thought back, though with more clarity now, more in control of his senses and his emotions.

He had left the hospital in tears. It was only just starting to get light. She had called him to come in. He had called a taxi, had showered and dressed and was by her hospital bedside twenty-five minutes later.

This moment had been expected.

But how do you prepare for it.

His wife had, after speaking to him so softly, so sweetly and with such confidence, simple closed her eyes and slipped away.

He needed air, he needed to walk, to take it all in. He needed to breathe.

After walking in somewhat of a daze, he realised he had entered the grand Rotterdam central railway station.

He studied the electronic departure board, made up his mind, purchased a return ticket, and boarded the high-speed train to Paris eighteen minutes later.

Sipping his coffee and beginning to accept the events of the day, he checked the time and headed back to the auction house which, earlier, he had stumbled upon just walking through the streets of the French capital.

He registered for the auction and wondered why it had been that the Gauguin painting had brought that reaction in him.

He nodded to the director, who watched him and who, after he had sat down, had checked his registration form.

THE PRESENT; Four years later – Baarn, The Netherlands

11am Tuesday 5th March 2019

She pressed the doorbell. Almost immediately the door opened.

‘Miss Price I take it?’ please, come in. said the man, stepping aside.

‘Thank you.’

The woman entered, waited while he closed the door, then followed him along the hallway, the clicking of her heels on the wooden floor echoing all around.

He entered a large room, the front lounge. It was nicely furnished, a couple of couches, two armchairs that looked invitingly comfortable to sit in, several casual tables, two standard lamps and, against one wall, a large, solid oak, bookcase.

There were several paintings adorning the walls and, above the chimney, a large flat-screen television. The room was fully carpeted, and the man strode through to the dining area and kitchen beyond.

She followed, glancing all around, taking in her surroundings. The carpet ended, another wooden floor began, and her heels, briefly muffled on the carpet, once again clicked audibly.

He walked around a large dining table, gesturing for her to come around as well. She did and watched as he proceeded to unfold a cloth that lay on the table, revealing what lay tucked beneath.

The man stood back. The woman placed her handbag on the table, her eyes fixed on the item. She admired it for a moment, then, opening her bag, she took out a pair of white cotton gloves. These she put on, then looked at the man, who nodded.

Carefully she took the item, lifted it from the table, looked at it closely, from all angles, then placed it back on the table. She reached for the camera that was slung across her left shoulder then took several pictures, front and back, before focusing her attention on the piece of paper that lay next to it.

It was an old document, a very old document. It was faded, a little torn, had a couple of stains upon it and several creases.

She looked at both sides, then also took photos of it.

She turned to the man, ‘Thank you.’

The woman took the gloves off, flung the camera back across her shoulder, then, putting the gloves away, said, ‘That’s fine.’

‘So, you’ll be in touch then?’ the man asked, putting the cloth back over the items.

‘I’ll get the paperwork sorted. Your suggestion of two million seems valid. We will add it to your existing policy, I will send it by registered mail tomorrow, with the amended premium costs, sign the relevant pages, and send it back in the prepaid envelope. Then you’ll have peace of mind.’

‘Excellent’ he replied and set off to escort the woman back to the front door.

‘Here’s my card,’ she said, handing it to him as he opened the door, ‘any queries, just give me a call.’ She smiled at him. He nodded as she walked past him and down the three steps to street level where she turned left towards her car, parked only yards away.

Three hours later

He pressed the doorbell and waited. It was an overcast day and it was cold. He heard footsteps and the door opened.

‘Mr Price is it?’ the woman asked,’ Please, come in’

‘Thank you’

The man entered, waited whilst she closed the door, then followed her along the hallway.

The heels of her shoes clicking on the hardwood floor and resounding through the passageway.

She entered the lounge. He followed as she led him across a deep pile carpet towards the dining room and kitchen area beyond. He took in the furnishings as he followed, particularly drawn to a couple of fine paintings on the wall.

Her footsteps hushed until she once more clicked and clacked on a wooden floor and walked around a large dining table.

He joined her as she bent forward to reveal what lay beneath the cloth on the table.

‘Wow’ he said, peering at the object, then looking around and up at her asked, ‘may I?’

She nodded and he, just using his forefinger and thumb, carefully lifted the item and studied it from all angles.

Then, after just as carefully replacing the item, he took hold of the old document. This too he studied closely before laying it back down on the table. The man then reached into his jacket pocket, took out a small digital camera and, again being very careful handling both the item and the document, took several pictures.

Standing back, he turned to the woman and said, ‘Okay, yes, we will put it into the catalogue at a suggested price of between two and two point two million euros, with a fixed reserve of two. If that is still okay with you then I’ll go ahead and prepare it, in readiness for our next auction, which is seven weeks tomorrow. Now, remind me, I was told that this was an inheritance, in a box of items you recently decided to go through and found?’

‘Eh, yes, my husband’s uncle,’ she replied, offering no further information.

Then, covering the object again with the cloth, she led the way back to the front door, saying, ‘and that price is fine. Thank you for coming so promptly.’

‘No problem’ he answered, smiling at her as she opened the front door.

Handing her his card, said, ‘Any queries, or any other information you might find regarding this item, please call me. The more history we can attach to this piece, the more it may raise at auction.’

‘Yes, of course, thank you’ she said as he walked past her, down the three steps to street level and turned right to head for his car.

The woman closed the door, walked back towards the kitchen.

Her husband, having heard the front door close, came down the stairs and followed her.

They both stopped by the kitchen table, looking down at the item and document that lay on the cloth.

His phone rang, he answered.

THE PAST; Period 1

February 1578

It was just after midday on a bright but cold day. The two horses, still breathing heavily, were unhitched from the wagon and taken to a nearby stable block for watering and a rubbing down. Meanwhile inside the stone and wooden building that lay adjacent to the long and wide wooden pier, a woman was showing two men her documents.

Viana Vanetti was a striking young woman, twenty-four years of age.

She had very long dark hair and very vivid blue eyes, was around five foot ten inches in height, and stood much taller than both of the men she was talking to. Whether they were impressed with her documents, her stature, or her calm and self-assured manner wasn’t clear, but they bowed and hustled and scurried away to accommodate her.

She arched her back a little, rolled her shoulders to ease her body as she felt a stiffness setting in after her journey. She brushed the dust from her long skirt and walked over to a rectangular window.

Of the eight panes of glass, set in two rows of four, several were cracked, and most needed a good clean, but she peered out to view the twin-masted schooner that was tied right outside, noticing the many men busy with the loading of the vessel.

She glanced behind her where she had placed her own luggage, two large and one small leather and cloth bags, on the dusty wooden floor.

Standing by the window, she took a pouch from somewhere within her clothing, a black, soft leather pouch with a cord tie.

Viana opened it and slid out the item it contained. This she placed on the wooden windowsill, looking at it intently whilst managing, with the pouch in her hand, to re-arrange her wind-blown hair somewhat.

It was a thing of beauty; she adored it.

Retrieving the item, she kissed it lightly, then returned it into the pouch and tucked it away.

She looked at her surroundings.

It was late in the month of February.

She was in Port Civitavecchia.

About fifty miles or so from Rome.

Viana had set off before dawn had even begun to break. A maid helped her dress and get ready; a manservant had brought the wagon and horses around to the front door and had put her luggage inside.

Then two young men who would drive her to the port arrived on the scene.

She had embraced her mother, then turned and climbed into the wagon. A basic carriage, one seat high up front for the drivers with two seats behind, facing each other.

Viana did not look back as they set off. Little did she know that she would never see her mother again.

Now, all alone in the old port building, she reflected on the events of the past month and wondered what might lie ahead as she was about to set off on her journey.

Giulio Clovio had died.

A very fine and renowned artist that specialised in painting miniatures.

As a little girl she, Viana, had often watched him at work, being one of very few who were ever allowed into his studio area.

Many other artists had also been there, coming and going over the years as they stayed with the Farnese household, where her mother was in charge of all the servants and a confidante of the Cardinal himself.

There had been one, among those visiting artists, one, who was a good friend of Giulio. One who had stayed for some considerable time. One who had a special relationship with her mother, resulting in her being in this world today.

When she was in her teens, her mother had told her about him.

Often, when she had spent some time watching Giulio at work, watching some of the other artists that still called regularly, she wondered about her father. Trying to imagine him at work at one of the easels, but, obeying her mother’s wishes, had never asked Giulio or any of the other visiting artists about him.

All she knew was what her mother had told her, which, sadly, was very little.

Viana had been schooled by the best and took to learning very well.

At the age of sixteen she could speak Italian and French fluently, as well as Latin and knew a fair amount about poetry, art and philosophy.

The Cardinal also enjoyed her being around as she was an excellent hostess to the many visitors who came calling.

Giulio had died.

He had written a will and among the items listed were six pieces attributed to the artist and friend who had been in that relationship with her mother. When the will was read, these items were to be given to Viana. This brought a little smile from the Cardinal and made her mother blush.

Over the past few weeks she had looked at and thought about these pieces of art, which had been brought to her. She had never seen them before. Giulio must have stored them some place. One item in particular had drawn her attention.

It was this item that brought her to the decision to find him. To find the man who had so beautifully painted it, to the man who, according to her mother, was her father, a fact surely supported by Giulio himself as he had purposefully desired for this item and the other five to be given to her in his will.

She spoke to her mother about her idea. Seeing the determination in her daughters eyes, and knowing that if Viana was set on doing something, there was no stopping her, she agreed with her wishes.

She did, however, strongly advise her daughter to be careful in revealing who she was, as, firstly, this might cause upset within his family and secondly, he actually did not know Viana existed.

The following day they had together spoken to the Cardinal who had initially not been too pleased at the idea of a young woman travelling such distances, a journey that could be fraught with danger.

After realising his concerns were not going to put her off, he recommended someone should travel with her.

Viana had been resolute. This was her quest, her intentions, she would do so alone.

The Cardinal had looked at her mother. They had then shrugged, both knowing there was no stopping this young lady. He told her he would prepare a number of documents that would provide her with passage and accommodation, told her he would miss her greatly, then gave her a huge hug.

The two men came back into the old building. After some more bowing and scurrying, one of them handed back her documents, then they picked up her luggage and gestured for her to follow them.

They exited the building, stepped onto the wide wooden pier, the air brisk, and for a moment, it seemed all the work stopped, like a moment frozen in time, as the men working the dock and the cargo watched the young woman walking along the pier, then up a narrow wooden ramp onto the ship.

It wasn’t until she was gone from view that work continued as they hustled and bustled the last of the cargo aboard.

The captain of the ship, a rotund man in his fifties whose jacket could no longer be done up, greeted her cordially. She smiled at him, sensing he was a little uncomfortable with the situation, then followed the now three men to her cabin. It was small, but tidy. She wondered who had been tossed out to make room for her as her luggage was placed on the floor. She thanked the men, then, turning to the captain, asked what time they would sail.

Within two hours, was his reply and he turned and left her to it.

Just under two hours later Viana stood on the deck as the schooner sailed out of the harbour into the Tyrrhenian Sea, making sure she kept out of the way of the men who were attending to the sails.

A light breeze filled the four sails and Port Civitavecchia was soon in the distance as they headed for Genoa.

It was only early afternoon but already beginning to get dark.

The sea had a gentle swell, and as the wind caressed her face, Viana felt both calm and excited.

Calm because she felt comfortable and relaxed, and, as she had never been on the sea before, she enjoyed the experience.

Excited, because she wondered what might lie ahead.

The Farnese household was well known and respected. The documents she had with her carried a lot of weight. Genoa, an independent state at this time, had been chosen as Viana’s first stop as they had strong connections, including with the Grimaldi household, who held much power there.

Late in the afternoon of the following day, having had good weather and a favourable wind, they sailed into port.

Several hours later Viana sat on a low stool in front of her dressing table. Brush in hand, her eyes staring in the mirror at her own reflection.

Behind her, a few steps away, a young girl quietly stood, waiting.

She had been taken from the ship to a house not far away from the port.

A man, second cousin of the Cardinal, and his wife had greeted her warmly. The woman had taken her upstairs where she was given a room and a maidservant was summoned to help her bathe and change. She was informed of the time for dinner and just to ask if there was anything she required.

Viana was tired. The maid, a young girl really, was helpful, obviously pleased to be meeting someone new, and was totally in awe of the visitor, though a little nervous.

She chatted practically the whole time about everything and nothing, all the while either brushing clothes, tidying them into drawers or seeing to any other of her new mistress’ needs.

Despite the chatter, Viana enjoyed her company and came down to dinner feeling quite refreshed.

Dinner had been quiet at first. Numerous candles lit the dark wood-panelled room. A fire was burning in the hearth.

A square dining table stood on a bare wooden floor, there were two sideboards in the room, and above the wood panels several paintings adorned the walls.

The food smelled good when it came.

There were just the three of them. After a little while, Viana opened up the conversation, which had been virtually non-existent till then.

She spoke about her plans, related how things were in Rome, expressed her gratitude to them for hosting her and listened as the lady of the house told of how things were in Genoa.

Finally, the man, rather shy and retiring, spoke. Obviously, he had been listening to Viana’s plans and gave her some bad news.

She listened thoughtfully as he spoke.

Now she sat at her dressing table, deep in thought.

The young maid sensed the mood of her new mistress and remained quiet, waiting for instructions.

The room was warm. Whilst she’d been at dinner someone had lit the fire and had drawn the curtains. The maid had lit three candles that stood upon a chest of drawers and a further candle on a small table by the bed. Outside it was now raining.

Viana suddenly noticed her maid in the mirror. Holding up her brush she caught her eye and said ‘please.’

The young girl immediately responded, took the silver and pearl handled brush that matched the hand mirror that lay on the table and began to brush the long dark hair, still not speaking.

She brushed softly and carefully.

Smiling into the mirror, Viana said, ‘You can brush a little harder, I won’t break.’

‘Yes Miss, ‘the girl answered, smiling back.

Viana returned to her thoughts about what her host had said at dinner. She had hoped to obtain passage from Genoa to either Antwerp or Amsterdam, however, he informed her that the Spanish were at war with the low countries, in what would become the eighty-year war. It had started some ten years ago, and there were over seven thousand casualties so far. The war had recently intensified, with a siege on Antwerp that had resulted in the destruction of at least eight hundred houses.

To travel by sea into that region would be too dangerous at this time and an overland journey would be equally fraught with danger.

He told her he now had a responsibility for her and could not allow her to travel under these circumstances.

Briefly she had wondered if the Cardinal had been instrumental in this decision, but then realised, looking him in the eye, that he was genuinely concerned for her well-being.

The lady of the house spoke up at that point, saying that she would be more than welcome to stay as long as she liked. An offer that was generous and genuine.

Viana sighed.

‘That will be all for now, thank you.’

The maid handed back the brush, folded the bedclothes back ready, then, saying goodnight, left the room.

February ended and rolled into March, then into April.

A letter came from another of the Cardinal’s widespread cousins with an offer to come and stay with them in Monaco.

An offer she accepted.

She thanked her hosts and gave her tearful maid a hug goodbye when the day came to leave.

Viana once more stood on the deck of a ship. This was a similar schooner, and she stood on the starboard side watching as they approached and sailed into Port Hercule, Monaco.

In her hand she held the leather pouch, having moments earlier taken it out to admire again.

She gripped the pouch tightly and wondered if she would ever meet the artist who created it. The man who had loved her mother. The man, who had no idea of her existence.

A step closer, she told herself, and watched as the vessel docked, and then prepared herself to disembark.

She was greeted warmly by the Cardinal’s cousin and his young and curious daughters, ten-year old twins.

Little did she imagine that her journey would end here.

THE PRESENT; Baarn

10am Sunday 10th March

Wouter and Mies Wagenaar sat on the same side of the dining table. A police detective from the Amersfoort Branch, sat opposite them.

The couple were both in their late fifties. He was a now retired company director of a small shoe factory, of which he was still the owner.

She was a retired legal secretary.

‘So, you didn’t notice anything last night?’ the detective asked, going over his notes again.

The call had come into the Baarn Division a little after eight this morning.

Being Sunday, there weren’t many personnel around, so the case was put through to the larger Amersfoort Division once it had been established that no-one had been hurt.

‘No,’ Mr Wagenaar replied, ‘we had been out, to see a show in Utrecht. When we came home we did notice that the alarm system didn’t beep when we entered, I figured that I must not have set it in the first place.

We went up to bed, but, as we said, this morning, we came down for breakfast and noticed the back door’, looking at the door on the other side of the kitchen, ‘the handle was down, was out of place.’

‘So, then you realised someone had broken in?’ the detective said, writing down a few more notes.

‘Yes, I suddenly noticed that it was gone. It was right here, on this table.’

‘And why was it just here, on the table?’ the policeman asked.

Again, it was Mr Wagenaar who spoke. His wife was very quiet and pale.

‘We kept it wrapped up in a cloth as we had just added it to our insurance last Tuesday. Our insurance agent came over to view it, as it was such an expensive item, in order for it to be added to our policy.’

After a brief pause and glancing at his wife then back at the detective, he continued, ‘We also had an auction valuer come, because we wanted to sell it.

As I have said, we have only recently discovered it amongst some bits and pieces that were in a box of items we inherited.

We found out it’s possible worth, didn’t want such a valuable item in the house. The cards I gave you,’ he said, referring to the business cards on the table beside the detective’s notepad, ‘are from the two people who visited here last Tuesday.’

The detective briefly looked at the cards, then once again looking at Mr Wagenaar, asked, ‘And how many others knew of this item that you describe as an oil painting on ivory, a miniature?’

Glancing down at his notes, he went on, ‘What about family, children, anyone?’

It was Mrs Wagenaar croaked, ‘We have two children,’ she cleared her throat then continued, ‘our son, Erik, well, eh, when he was younger he got into some trouble with the police, but, about ten years ago, he moved out. Went, we believe, to Mexico, we don’t know, we have not heard from him since,’ she paused. ‘Our daughter, Elsa, she is a lecturer at the university of Leiden, but she is away in Greece at the moment, for a couple of months, doing research for her lectures.’

‘So, neither are around,’ the detective confirmed, ‘and your daughter, does she know of this item?’

‘No’ Mr Wagenaar replied, ‘when we found it, we did some research ourselves, found out its value and decided it was best to sell it.’

The detective, a man in his late thirties, looked at them both, down at his notes, and said, ‘So, these two,’ picking up the business cards, ‘you said they both viewed the item, and took pictures. You don’t have any yourself?’

‘No’ answered Wouter.

‘Very well, ‘the detective said, standing up. ‘I have checked the door. It was definitely tampered with, but I will send someone to check for prints and so on, so, in the meantime, please don’t touch it or the alarm box. I’ll write this up and send you the paperwork. You’ll need that for your insurance claim.’

‘Yes, of course. Well, thank you, detective,’ Wouter said, also standing up. ‘Let me show you out.’

Mrs Wagenaar remained seated. Still rather pale, the detective noted as he nodded a goodbye.

Rotterdam, The Netherlands; The following day

‘Are you related to Samantha Price?’ The question puzzled him. He was pouring out two cups of coffee. The Dutch, as fifth ranked coffee drinkers in the world after the Scandinavian countries, would be unlikely to refuse an offer of the beverage.

The detective, a man who stood as tall as Samuel but was at least ten years younger, had said yes to the offer of a coffee, as expected, after introducing himself and given a reason for his visit.

Though puzzled by the question, he brought the drinks out of the kitchen, placing them on the low table.

‘No. Well certainly not a close relation. Why do you ask?’ He went back into the kitchen area to fetch the sugar, then sat down opposite the detective.

‘It’s a name that popped up,’ the detective, the same man who had interviewed the Wagenaars the previous day, said, ‘Not important. So, as I mentioned, there was a break in, on Saturday evening at some point. Now, you were at the house, last Tuesday, right?’

Sam helped himself to one teaspoon of sugar and stirred his coffee. Pushing the sugar across the table, he answered, ‘That’s right. They had contacted the company I work for. Wanted to place an item in our fine arts auction.’

The detective shovelled a couple of spoons of sugar into his mug, stirred it for a bit and asked, ‘This auction house is in Paris, I gather?’

‘Aha. We specialise in fine arts, paintings, sculptures, pottery, china, glass, also antique books and maps.

I was contacted to visit the Wagenaars, see the item, check it out, photograph it for the catalogue.

I then send the info to Paris. They send correspondence to the owners to sign, company policy, transit insurance cover and an exclusivity form, so that they will not sell it through another auction house or dealer.

Closer to the auction I would arrange for collection of the item or items.’

‘So, you have photos of this item?’ the detective asked, taking a sip from his mug.

Sam got up, crossed to the other side of the room and pulled out a sheet of paper from a small writing desk, walked back and handed it to the detective.

‘This is the format for the catalogue, the description, history, photos and so on.

This is what I have prepared so far with the information I have. Should I or the team in Paris come up with further relevant details, these will be added. The catalogue is due for printing in three weeks’ time, then it’s another three and a half weeks before the auction.

Head office have a copy of this, so, please, have that. I have the details on my laptop and can easily print another.’

‘I take it, then,’ Sam continued, sitting down again and reaching for his coffee, ‘that this item is among things that were stolen. I mean, you did say there had been a break in?’

‘Yes,’ the man answered, studying the photographs on the sheet of paper he had been given. He took another sip, looked up at Sam and asked, ‘Are you an expert then, on this sort of stuff? Is this item really that valuable?’

‘I have a wide knowledge of art, but I’m not an expert. I’m an assessor. I cover an area from Brussels all the way up to the Scandinavian countries, even been to Estonia and Latvia. I’m given an address, then check out what the people have for auction, check its provenance where possible, get a feel for the articles as well as the people selling them.

I take pictures, then draft a catalogue page. I will do some research myself on the pieces of art, as will the team in Paris. The better or more information we can have on the art, the better price we can achieve at auction.

Also, provenance is very important. We cannot offer an item as a genuine, say Vermeer or Rembrandt, Gauguin or whatever, if we don’t have conclusive proof.‘

‘Mm, and this item?’

‘Not sure, Sam answered, ‘the bill of sale that was with it looks the real thing, but the item itself is not signed and it’s on ivory, which is hard to date just by looking at it, or by feel, but it could be, yes.’

‘And if it is, it would be that valuable?’

‘Absolutely, if we can track it back, find out more about its history, then yes, it would be worth two and half million, maybe more.’

‘Would it be hard to sell on the black market?’ was the next question.

‘This is a rare piece. A piece of art deemed lost. You say the house was burgled. The Wagenaars have some lovely pieces in their home, from what I saw when I was there, I noticed nice vases and some good paintings.

This item, wouldn’t seem at all special, unless you knew what it was, so, as a piece of art, yes, it could easily be sold, but for very little of its true worth.’

The detective drank some more of his coffee and thought for a moment.

Then, seemingly having made up his mind as to how much to reveal, said to Samuel, ‘Nothing else was stolen … this,’ again referring to the sheet in his hand, ‘is the only thing missing, and, according to them, they had only recently come into possession of it. Not many people knew it was even there. You, of course, are one of those people.’

Samuel thought about this for a moment, frowned, then looking at the detective, said, ‘Mmm, now that’s interesting.’

‘In what way?’

‘It could add weight to the fact that this item is the real thing. If it was the only thing stolen, then someone knew what it was, and possibly stole to order. With items like these, rare pieces, more people know about them than you would think.

Mrs Wagenaar, who I dealt with, had said that her husband had researched the item, realising its potential value, hence the suggested auction price. Believe me, in the world of art, this kind of information gets around.’

‘Well, that’s very helpful Mr Price, thank you. We’ll circulate this around the antique shops in the area and in the big cities. You never know, we might get lucky.’

The detective finished his coffee, stood up and headed for the door. Then, turned and said, ‘As this is an on-going investigation, please do not contact the Wagenaars yourself. Any questions, or suggestions or thoughts, please call me,’ handing over one of his business cards.

‘I will continue research the item. If anything relevant pops up, I’ll be in touch,’ Samuel promised, taking the card as he let the detective out.

Closing the door, he walked over to the coffee table, picked up his mug and finished his drink.

Taking both mugs into the kitchen, Sam walked over to the desk and opened up his laptop. An interesting twist, he thought to himself, and for some reason memories of all those years ago, when he left the auction house in Paris, came to mind, a day he would never forget for it was the day his wife had passed away …

He was already on board the train back to Rotterdam that day when his phone rang.

‘Monsieur Price?’ it was the director of the Auction House.

‘I have taken a look at the provenance of the Gauguin. As you know, it did not sell today, in fact, it did not come close to its reserve.

But I find, that the painting was purchased in 1898, in Copenhagen and sold in 1908 in Paris, by a Monsieur Samuel Price?’

Of course! Sam thought, as the train sped through the flat Dutch countryside. His great-grandfather was a diplomat, an ambassador, travelled far and wide, and, was an art lover.

‘My great-grandfather,’ Sam explained on the phone. ‘He wrote comprehensive journals, and had a collection of paintings of which he had photo’s. That’s how I know the painting. I didn’t realise the connection, I will go through his journals, find the pictures, and I’ll get back to you.’

‘Tres bien, thank you,’ answered the director.

A conversation and a discovery that had led to him working as an assessor for the company now …

He fired up his laptop, then reprinted the copy of the brochure layout of the item and looked at it.

An interesting turn of events, he thought.

Meanwhile at around the same time; Antwerp Belgium

In an office of the ‘Zwart-Wit Verzekeringen’ an insurance company situated in central Antwerp just beyond the cathedral, Samantha Price thumbed through a folder, then pulled out and handed a form over to the woman who sat opposite her and said, ‘This is it.’

The female detective, also from the Amersfoort Division, and having liaised with the Belgian authorities as a matter of courtesy, took the form, ‘So, this is the updated policy, including the item you saw last Tuesday? Ah, yes, I see it here. Is it really worth that much?’

‘Apparently, it is a rare find, an item that was deemed lost for centuries. I did a little investigation on it. If it is indeed the real thing, then yes, it would be worth at least that much,’ Samantha answered.

Only moments earlier, Samantha’s boss had knocked and entered her office, asking her to get the Wagenaar file and see a detective who had been placed in one of the other offices. She had grabbed the file, followed her boss out and was introduced to the detective.

‘You dealt with the Wagenaars? How did they seem?’ asked the detective as she looked up from the form.

‘I didn’t see Mrs Wagenaar. I dealt with her husband. He was not very talkative, more business-like, but he seemed fine. Why, what is all this about?’

‘He wanted this item,’ looking at the form, ‘put on his insurance schedule, is that why you went there?’ the detective asked, ignoring Samantha’s question for the moment.

‘Yes, we had a call. They wanted a valuable item added to their existing policy. It was something they acquired recently and wanted insured.’

‘This couldn’t be done by phone? Or online?’

‘Not with such a high value item. I wanted to check it out, see it physically, photograph and document it, and determine whether or not the valuation was reasonable.’

‘It was stolen,’ the detective said, watching Samantha for any reaction.

‘Goodness, did they have a break in? Are they alright? As far as I’m aware, we have not been notified, when did this happen, was much taken?’

The detective absorbed the barrage of questions, then, looking down at the form still in her hand, said, ‘The only thing stolen, was this item.’

‘That’s …’ Samantha began …

‘Suspicious?’ filled in the detective, ‘I agree.’

‘Strange, I was going to say, but, suspicious, yes. As you can see, we are talking a high value item. Still, strange as well. They are a valued customer, have been with us, for,’ Samantha flicking through the file, ‘over nine years.’

‘Have they ever claimed for anything?’

‘No, never. I’m guessing they will be claiming for this, and, you say nothing else was stolen? They have only recently obtained it, that is suspicious.’

‘Indeed, and only a few people knew this, you included, of course,’ the detective said, again, watching for any reaction.

It was Samantha’s turn to sidestep the inference, ‘We will need a full police report. We will also do our own investigation. Company policy when it comes to such large claims.’

‘Who will be in charge of that?’

‘That will be me,’ Samantha answered, taking the form back from the detective.

‘Are you related to a Samuel Price?’ was the next question, as Samantha put the form back into the file from whence it came.

‘No, not that I’m aware of, why?’

The detective stood up, ‘I’ll make sure you get a full report Miss Price. Thank you for your time, and, whatever you might find in your investigation, make sure you keep us informed, and, oh, until we tell you otherwise, you cannot directly contact the Wagenaars. Standard procedure with ongoing investigations.’

‘Of course,’ Samantha answered, also standing up and opening the door of the office to let the detective out.

‘Good’ she said as she left the room. Both women looked each other in the eye briefly, each with a clear message that suggested, ‘Don’t get in my way.’

THE PAST; Period 2

December 1612

Pietro Esposito sat upright on the single bunk bed in the officer’s quarters, one of two, on the old three-master. A Spanish built galleon.

He could see and hear the rain lashing against the porthole. One moment all he could see was water as the ship went down into a trough, then, as she rose, he could make out the sky, barely a different shade to that of the sea, briefly before the ship went down into another trough.

The swell was high, but nothing the old ship couldn’t handle. They were on the Atlantic Ocean, not far from the French coast, heading north for Amsterdam. Normally Pietro wouldn’t mind being on deck, in fact he loved it, especially in fairly rough conditions as it was now. But this wasn’t his ship. He wasn’t part of the crew on this occasion, so, when the wind increased and the rain came, he decided to retreat to his appointed quarters.

The galleon belonged to his uncle, the brother of his father. He was also the master of the ship, and from him Pietro had learned practically all he knew about shipping, trade, cargo distribution, navigation and a host of other marine-related skills over the past twelve years. Pietro was now thirty-two.

He was considered a handsome man, standing a little under six foot. His skin was tanned, his brown eyes set in a chiselled face, clean shaven, with prominent cheekbones, a Roman nose and a square jawline. He was a contented man and almost always smiled. Though he had had several romantic relationships, he had not, as yet, he kept telling his mother, met the right one.

The ship rose out of another trough, and through the porthole Pietro noticed the sky was getting brighter. The rain began to ease.

His father had passed away just three years ago. As the eldest son, Pietro had received a substantial legacy, including the family house and estate. Though the family owned vineyards, and were one of the main wine producers in Monaco, his heart belonged to the sea.

He wanted to be the master of his own ship one day, and that day was nearing.

He achieved his master’s ticket, a little over a year ago. Using some of his legacy, together with his earnings over many years, he had set about to purchase his own galleon. He’d looked to the Dutch. Not just because of the connections he and his family had, but they were also considered to be the best shipbuilders at that time.

He was now on his way to Amsterdam, to take possession. The ship, a three-masted galleon, at least a quarter bigger than the ship he was now on, was nearing completion.

The seas calmed, the swells reduced, and the sky became brighter. More light poured into the cabin and Pietro walked over to where a three-drawer cabinet was secured to the wall. He opened the top drawer. A stack of papers and documents filled the space. These were navigational charts, mainly sourced from the Portuguese, upon which were various trade routes to the Far East, the Philippines, Indonesia, Java, Central Persia, as well as a few to the West Indies and South America.

Once in Amsterdam, Pietro hoped to secure a few more maps from the Dutch.

He closed the drawer again, stood by the porthole, dug deep into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a black soft leather pouch. Undoing the cord, he opened it, slipped the item into his hand and looked at it in the light from the porthole.

He admired the artistry, loved the feel of the object, such a fine item, and very dear to him. He thought back to only a few months ago when he had first seen it when it had been given to him.

His mother, Viana, had arrived in Monaco in early April of the year 1578. Before the end of that year, she had been courted, had fallen deeply in love, and had married. She gave birth to her firstborn, a son, in the year 1580. Pietro.

Her quest of finding her father had already come to an end, for it hadn’t been long after her arrival in Monaco that she found out that he had died some years earlier, in 1569, even before she had set out from Rome that February morning.

Pietro recalled his mother telling of this quest, this story, several times, but then, recently, when he was at home after nearly a month at sea, she asked him to come with her to the garden pavilion.

A rectangular building set in the grounds of their estate, it was made of mainly glass panels.

Inside were several white painted wooden benches, a few cast iron round tables, a bunch of chairs and many rows of shelves upon which were a huge variety of plants, some of which he had brought home from his travels.

He liked this place, loved the smell, a humid, hot and musty smell, a bit like being in Java, a place that he loved.

When he was home, which wasn’t often, this was the place he would go to the most, just being in there, looking at the plants, drinking in the atmosphere, reflecting on the memories that came to him.

As he walked beside her that warm and sunny day, late in the month of August, he wondered what was on her mind. She was quiet as they strolled along. Still a very striking woman, almost as tall as he was. He was very fond of her; she had been the one who had taught him to speak fluently in Italian and adequately in English.

They arrived at the pavilion and, upon entering, Pietro noticed several items spread out upon two tables.

Viana explained. This was an inheritance, given to her by the artist Giulio, and they were all pieces of art painted by a man who had been her mother’s lover, a man who was, according to her mother, her father, therefore his grandfather.

There were three sketches, each signed, that had, by the look them, been rolled up for some time. There was a wide red ribbon by the side of each of them. Then there was a painted miniature depicting the Colosseum, this one not signed, a larger oil painting on a wood panel, which was again signed, and, finally, his mother pulled from her pocket a leather pouch containing the most precious piece, a miniature oil painted on ivory. It was not signed. She showed it to him. He too thought this was very special.

‘They are for you’ she had said, ‘all of them. Take them with you when you go to Amsterdam. Then they will at least have travelled the journey I was going to make. Do as you please with them. Sell them, you’ll probably need extra funds to hire a crew.’

Pietro had taken his time to look at all the pieces, especially his mother’s favourite. Hugging her, he said, ‘Thank you mother. I will sell them, all except this one. This one I will keep with me always.’

Pietro broke from his reverie. He took another look at the precious miniature, then slid it back into the pouch and into his pocket.

They would be sailing into Amsterdam the following day.

On board with him were four men, four trusted men, four capable men. These were his officers. Their responsibility would be to hire the crew, to thoroughly check out the new ship, to organise obtaining the sails and, once ready, to purchase and load provisions. Pietro himself would negotiate cargoes and deal with all the necessary documentation needed to take possession of the galleon.

Amsterdam

It was cold and frosty. But the sky was clear and blue. Pietro and his men disembarked, having said their goodbyes to the master and crew.

As they walked along the dock, heading for an assortment of buildings that housed the customs people and dock operators, they were a little taken aback.

Whilst they had all been to ports in France, Italy, Spain and the Far East, never had they been here in Amsterdam, and they were in awe of the immense hustle and bustle of the place. It was exciting. Many ships berthed, and were being loaded or unloaded, horses and carts were moving about, dogs barking, men shouting, laughing and even singing. What an atmosphere! Pietro felt it and was wrapped in its intensity. He loved it.

They would be staying here for a little while. Although their ship was nearly ready for them to take possession, much still had to be done before they could set off on their maiden voyage.

The five men entered one of the port buildings. Pietro sorted out their registration and then the group set about to find lodgings, from several options they’d been given.

They made their way along narrow cobbled streets, each carrying their own personal belongings in tote bags, and settled on the second address on their list. Pietro, not only their natural leader but also the only one who spoke a number of languages, including a smattering of Dutch, secured their accommodation for the next couple of months.

Stashing their belongings, the five then went along to the dry dock and shipyard to see their new ship. They had a rudimentary map of the city and only took one wrong turn before they reached their destination.

Again, they were amazed at all the activity.

By the look of it, three ships were currently under construction and a further two were undergoing repairs.

Pietro led the way and reached their new vessel. After showing some papers to a man in a small wooden shack, they proceeded along the dock and stopped by the bow with ‘Serenus Venti’ painted in white and gold near the tip. The name, meaning ‘calm winds’ had been chosen by Pietro.

They all stood and looked up together. The galleon looked absolutely splendid in the afternoon sunlight.

It was dark by the time the excited men returned to their lodgings.

The Weeskamer was an auction house, a reputable one, run with efficiency and by men experienced in all manner of goods, including fine arts. One such person looked over the five items that Pietro brought in to sell.

It was by now the middle of January, and much had already been sourced in the way of provisions, crew and sails for the three-master.

It was time to sell the items given him by his mother, all, of course, except one.

The goods were accepted, and a good response was expected, with the auctioneer very happy with the pieces on offer. The next auction was to be held early February.

THE PRESENT; Amsterdam

11.30am Wednesday 13th March

Samuel Price had been searching through the relevant archives at the Maritime Museum for just under half an hour when he found what he was looking for.

He was in an office not accessible to the general public. He had the files that he had asked for around him on a table. Furthermore, he had been supplied with coffee and biscuits and was left to it.

For a little over three and a half years now, Sam had worked for the Paris Fine Arts Auction House.

Over the years he had built up a detailed list of museums and private collectors so that if he should come across paintings by certain masters, sculptures of Greek mythology, or anything relating to maritime, or animals, or royal connections, or a host of other specialities, then he would contact the relevant interested party.

This had a dual benefit for Sam. Firstly, it increased the probability of obtaining a better price at the auction, which, in turn, meant a better financial reward for him for he had, from the very beginning, negotiated a contract whereby he would receive one percent of the total sale of any item or items that he was involved in, either through referrals from the Paris office, as was the case for the Wagenaars, or ones he had secured personally. Though perhaps a seemingly low return, in the first year alone the sale of thirteen items he had secured, reached over five million euros, bringing in over fifty thousand for him.

Secondly, it had gained him the gratitude of those interested parties for keeping them informed about what had surfaced, and what was about to be auctioned.

Sam had in this way informed the Maritime Museum, as well as quite a few others, of several items of interest over the years. This was usually reciprocated with comments that went along the lines of, ‘Thank you Sam, I owe you one.’

Hence, when he called yesterday he was assured of access to whatever he needed. The coffee and the biscuits were a lovely bonus.

From the archive, he read the top, or first, copy, the one retained by the auction house, checking this against the photograph he had taken showing the second copy, the one retained by the customer.

The date, February 1613, was clear, but the actual day was illegible on both copies, so a check for that.

The item listed, an oil painted miniature, Rome, check, the seller, Pietro Esposito, Rome, check, the buyer, Nicholas v Struyten, Leiden, check. The price paid was smudged too much to be read on both copies.

Studying both copies very carefully, Sam determined that the bill of sale belonging to the Wagenaars, at least, was the real deal.

Did it really pertained to the item they had shown him? Of that he wasn’t convinced.

Deciding he wanted to know more about the seller, Pietro Esposito, he delved more into the archives and searched the internet for further information.

Who was this chap? How did he come by the item, which, if it was the genuine article, would have been painted, according to Sam’s research, some sixty years earlier, around 1553?

After some time, and after a kind member of staff brought a replacement flask of coffee, he had found several entries.

First he had found two more sales documents showing Pietro as the seller, one for three sketches signed by the artist and authenticated by the auction house, and another for an oil painted on a wood panel with the inscription, ‘Scene of Italy’, this one also signed and authenticated.

Samuel took pictures of both these documents and put them back in the files.

Second, the name Esposito came up again, though in a different area altogether. Sam found out that Pietro had purchased a Galleon. He found documentation about this ship, the builders and the launch date, which was shown as March 1613.

This all tied together the presence of this, obviously quite wealthy person, in Amsterdam at that time, and, the likelihood that the items he had brought to auction, were indeed the real thing.

However, he discovered an interesting anomaly.

On the documents relating to the purchased galleon, Esposito was listed as being from Monaco, whereas on the auction room documents he was shown as being from Rome.

Finally, Sam put the archive folders back where he had found them, made a few more notes on his laptop, then shut it down.

Though he had found that first document within half an hour, it was now four hours later.

He was hungry, despite having eaten half a dozen biscuits.

Further research needed to be done.

Samuel Price left the room, and the building after saying his goodbyes and thank yous, and headed for the railway station.

On the way as he was running through all that he had found in his mind, one thing in particular puzzled him.

He had studied many of the sales documents from the auction house the Weeskamer, and noticed that there were certainly people working there who were quite knowledgeable about art and artists, hence their ability to authenticate the paintings that Pietro had brought in, yet, the item that had been unsigned and described as an oil painted miniature, Rome, wasn’t Rome at all, nor was there any mention that it was painted on ivory.

It was pretty clear to Sam that the bill of sale shown him by the Wagenaars did not relate to the item that had been with it.

Something wasn’t right.

Later that day; 3.30pm Leiden, around fifty kilometres south of Amsterdam

Samantha Price, armed with her file on Mr and Mrs Wagenaar, including the photographs she had taken at their house, had travelled up by train from Antwerp to Leiden, changing at Rotterdam. She also had with her a copy of the police report about the break in. She reread this on the train.

The report stated that the house had been entered via the back door. This was only accessible through the back garden. A gate opened up to an alleyway that ran behind the row of houses.

A door-to-door enquiry had not been fruitful. No one had seen a thing, and no one in that row of houses in that block had ever been burgled. The report also stated that the alarm system had been rendered inactive, and the word, ‘professionally’, was highlighted.

No prints were found anywhere.