I do find record of the sale and purchase of “an allegory of the Tree of Life believed to have once been displayed in the museum of Athanasius Kircher, SJ, in Rome.” Could this be the image the de Clermonts are seeking?
“Who bought it?” I whispered, hardly daring to breathe.
“Sylvia wouldn’t tell me,” Phoebe said, pointing to the final lines of the e-mail. “The sale was recent, and the details are confidential. She revealed the purchase price: sixteen hundred and fifty pounds.”
“That’s all?” I exclaimed. Most of the books Phoebe had purchased for me cost far more than that.
“The possible Kircher provenance wasn’t firm enough to convince potential buyers to spend more,”
she said.
“Is there really no way to discover the buyer’s identity?” I began to imagine how I might use magic to find the out more.
“Sotheby’s can’t afford to tell their clients’ secrets.” Phoebe shook her head. “Imagine how Ysabeau would react if her privacy was violated.”
“Did you call me, Phoebe?” My mother-in-law was standing in the arched doorway before the seed of my plan could put out its first shoots.
“Phoebe’s discovered that a recent sale at Sotheby’s describes a picture very like the one I’m looking for,” I explained to Ysabeau. “They won’t tell us who bought it.”
“I know where the sales records are kept,” Phoebe said. “When I go to Sotheby’s to hand in my keys, I could take a look.”
“No, Phoebe. It’s too risky. If you can tell me exactly where they are, I may be able to figure out a way to get access to them.” Some combination of my magic and Hubbard’s gang of thieves and lost boys could manage it. But my mother-in-law had her own ideas.
“Ysabeau de Clermont calling for Lord Sutton.” The clear voice echoed against the room’s high ceilings.
Phoebe looked shocked. “You can’t just call the director of Sotheby’s and expect him to do your bidding.”
Apparently Ysabeau could—and did.
“Charles. It’s been too long.” Ysabeau draped herself over a chair and let her pearls fall through her fingers. “You’ve been so busy, I’ve had to rely on Matthew for news. And the refinancing he helped you arrange—did it achieve what you had hoped?”
Ysabeau made soft, encouraging sounds of interest and expressions of appreciation at his cleverness. If I had to describe her behavior, I would be tempted to call it kittenish—provided the kitten were a baby Bengal tiger.
“Oh, I am so glad, Charles. Matthew felt sure it would work.” Ysabeau ran a delicate finger over her lips. “I was wondering if you could help with a little situation. Marcus is getting married, you see— to one of your employees. They met when Marcus picked up those miniatures you were so kind as to procure for me in January.”
Lord Sutton’s precise reply was inaudible, but the warm hum of contentment in his voice was unmistakable.
“The art of matchmaking.” Ysabeau’s laugh was crystalline. “How witty you are, Charles. Marcus has his heart set on buying Phoebe a special gift, something he remembers seeing long ago—a picture of a family tree.”
My eyes widened. “Psst!” I waved. “It’s not a family tree. It’s—”
Ysabeau’s hand made a dismissive gesture as the murmurs on the other end of the line turned eager.
“I believe Sylvia was able to track the item down to a recent sale. But of course she is too discreet to tell me who bought it.” Ysabeau nodded through the apologetic response for a few moments. Then the kitten pounced. “You will contact the owner for me, Charles. I cannot bear to see my grandson disappointed at such a happy time.”
Lord Sutton was reduced to utter silence.
“The de Clermonts are fortunate to have such a long and happy relationship with Sotheby’s.
Matthew’s tower would have collapsed under the weight of his books if not for meeting Samuel Baker.”
“Good Lord.” Phoebe’s jaw dropped.
“And you managed to clear out most of Matthew’s house in Amsterdam. I never liked that fellow or his pictures. You know the one I mean. What was his name? The one whose paintings all look unfinished?”
“Frans Hals,” Phoebe whispered, eyes round.
“Frans Hals.” Ysabeau nodded approvingly at her future daughter-in-law. “Now you and I must convince him to let go of the portrait of that gloomy minister he has hanging over the fireplace in the upstairs parlor.”
Phoebe squeaked. I suspected that a trip to Amsterdam would be included in one of her upcoming cataloging adventures.
Lord Sutton made some assurances, but Ysabeau was having none of it.