Foreboding Foretelling at Ficklehouse Felling by PJ Fitzsimmons

Author:PJ Fitzsimmons [Fitzsimmons, PJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Indefensible Publishing
Published: 2023-11-08T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Impressions, Transgressions, and Successions in France’s Most Dangerous Professions

Ivor, I believe, went off to re-interview the suspects in light of the realisation that one of them, at least, was quite possibly scheduled for early departure. I, on the other hand, rekindled my interest in the arts.

“What ho, Penders.” I found Pendurby’s shock of shocking red locks above a canary waistcoat in the gallery. He was carefully examining the back of the Jacques Staque.

“I was just having a look at this painting.”

“So I see,” I acknowledged. “When you’ve been in my service long enough, Pendurby, you’ll likely pick up on subtle, cultural conventions. Paintings, taking an example to hand, are typically observed from the front. You’re thinking of sculpture. Easy mistake for the uninitiated.”

“I mean I was looking at this security mechanism that your cousin was on about,” claimed Pendurby. “He’s right, you know, sir — the thing’s practically part of the house.”

“Yes, so I understand.” I wandered the clutter of paintings and sundry objets d’art. “And this is interesting because?”

“I understood that it was priceless.”

“Yes, so it is.” I regarded the painting. What was it Eppings had said about it? ‘An early morning of a late night seen from the underside of a bistro table.’ An uncannily canny description, I thought in the moment, of the blurry pale moon firing weary, wary winces at the blurrier, simmering, shimmering sun over a team of faceless and yet highly judgmental hospitality staff.

“No accounting for taste,” clichéd Pendurby.

“No, that’s true, but the value of this work is not related to taste, at least not to anywhere near the degree it is to racing.”

“Racing, sir?”

“In that Jacques Staque, in art terms, finished first and finished best,” I clarified, I think, magnificently. “Should you ever have the slightest inspiration, Pendrick, to compose papier maché models of the saints or pastel-on-giftwrap sketches of things that frightened you as a child, be guided by me and don’t hesitate. Seize the moment.”

“I don’t think that’s really where my talents lie.” Pendurby was casting a suspicious eye over a canvas of geometric impressionism on an easel, as though he’d seen it before, associating with known villains.

“That’s probably for the best,” I consoled. “Because phase two of the plan is mainly posthumous. Monsieur Staque, until his unfortunate encounter with the array of altitude options offered by the observation deck at the Eiffel Tower, was merely a very promising also-ran.”

“I know it.” Pendurby took up a brochure from the mantelpiece. “It’s all in here.”

“In where?”

“Here.” Pendurby handed over a book. “It’s an auction catalogue. I found it under that chair.” He gestured to what was, in fact, the only chair in the room.

It was indeed a catalogue for an auction, scheduled for the following month and composed loosely around the decidedly cynical theme of ‘Investment opportunities in recently or soon-to-be deceased French impressionists’.

It was, as these things invariably are, a drably but resolutely insincere publication, filled to spilling with all the platitudes that compose the entire postgraduate education of auction

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