60 Senen Cove

60 Senen Cove

The cottage stood at the end of Maria's Lane in the hamlet of Senen Cove. It had four bedrooms, a modern kitchen, and a spacious

sitting room that Gabriel, after a painstaking survey of the alternatives, claimed as his studio. The favorable publicity

surrounding his recent appearance at the Courtauld Gallery had resulted in an avalanche of lucrative requests for his services.

Regrettably, a financially lopsided prior commitment, made under duress during a boozy lunch at Claridge's, required his attention

first.

The work in question, Madonna and Child , oil on canvas, 94 by 76 centimeters, by Orazio Gentileschi, arrived at the cottage in the back of a Mercedes transit van.

Gabriel extracted the painting from its shipping crate and secured it to a large studio easel. A cool sea breeze, blowing

through the open windows, vented the noxious fumes of his solvents. Nevertheless, at Chiara's insistence, he agreed to wear

a protective mask for the first time in his long career.

He rose at dawn each morning and worked without a break until midday. The children, after gamely sampling the local pub fare, prevailed on their mother to prepare proper Venetian lunches instead. Afterward Gabriel would hike along the South West Coast Path to the tiny port of Mousehole, where he had stashed the ketch. The dangerous rip currents and swift tides of the Cornish coast posed a welcome challenge to his seamanship. The long walks back to the cottage in Senen Cove shed five pounds from his already slender physique.

Returning home late one afternoon, he was surprised to see Nicholas Lovegrove sitting on the terrace with Chiara, a glass

of wine in hand. He had traveled all the way to Cornwall, he claimed, to check on the status of the Gentileschi. The true

purpose of the visit, though, was to interrogate Gabriel about the Picasso Papers scandal. Gabriel told Lovegrove as much

as he could, which was next to nothing.

"Come on, Allon. Show a little leg."

"Suffice to say, Nicky, you played a small but vital role in preventing Hugh Graves from becoming prime minister."

"I gathered that. But how?"

"One thing led to another. That's all I can say."

"And the Picasso?"

"The flight data on Harris Weber's executive jet would suggest that the painting is in the British Virgin Islands. The authorities

there are searching for it now."

"Kicking down doors, are they?"

"Hardly."

"It's a shame the painting slipped through our fingers," said Lovegrove. "Still, I have to admit, I rather enjoyed our little

escapade. Especially the time I spent with Anna Rolfe." He turned to Chiara. "She really is quite extraordinary, don't you

think?"

Gabriel interjected before his wife could answer. "Perhaps we should discuss the Gentileschi instead."

"How soon can you have it ready?"

"Unless I can squeeze it into my carry-on luggage, it will have to be finished before we leave for Venice."

"The sooner the better."

"Where's the fire, Nicky?"

"Isherwood Fine Arts."

"Come again?"

"It seems your dear friend Sarah Bancroft has a buyer. Very hush-hush. Anonymous shell company. That sort of thing."

"How much did she get for it?"

"Eight figures."

"Plus dealer's commission, I suppose."

"But of course."

"So you and my dear friend Sarah Bancroft will each earn in excess of a million pounds on the sale," said Gabriel. "And I

will make a lousy fifty thousand."

"You're not trying to renege on our arrangement, are you?"

"A deal's a deal, Nicky."

Lovegrove smiled. "How refreshing."

***

The geography of the west Cornish coast was such that twice each afternoon Gabriel walked through a crime scene. The car park at Land's End where Charlotte Blake had left her Vauxhall Astra. The overgrown hedgerow where her body had been found. The stately stone manor where her lover, Leonard Bradley, lived with his wife and three children. It was inevitable, then, that Gabriel and Bradley should meet. It happened late one afternoon near the Tater-du Lighthouse. Gabriel was headed back to the cottage after leaving the ketch in Mousehole Harbor. Bradley was mulling over a particularly profitable day of trading.

"Allon," he called out. "I was hoping I might bump into you."

The remark caught Gabriel by surprise. "How did you know I was in the neighborhood?" he asked.

"I heard the rumor at the chippy in Senen Cove."

"I would be grateful if you didn't repeat it."

"It's rather too late for that, I'm afraid. It seems you're the talk of Cornwall." They set off together along the coast path.

Bradley walked with his hands clasped behind his back. His pace and manner were deliberative. Finally, he said, "You misled

me the afternoon you and that detective came to my home."

"Did I?"

"You said it was your first visit to Cornwall. But I have it on the highest authority that you and your wife lived for a time

in Gunwalloe, of all places. But you also deceived me about the nature of your investigation. You already knew the truth about

OOC Group, Limited, when you came to see me."

"I knew most of the truth," admitted Gabriel. "But not all of it. You gave me the final piece of the puzzle."

"Lucinda?"

Gabriel nodded.

"Is she responsible for Charlotte's death?"

"She played no role in her murder. But, yes, Lucinda is to blame for what happened."

"Which means I am as well."

Gabriel was silent.

"I have a right to know, Allon."

"You sent Charlotte to Lucinda Graves with the best of intentions. You mustn't blame yourself for her murder. It was just..."

"Bad luck?"

"Yes."

Bradley slowed to a stop at Boscawen Cliff. "Magical, isn't it?"

"I've always thought so."

"There's a lovely cottage on the market near Gwennap Head. They're asking two for it, but I know for a fact it can be had

for one and a half."

"I'm not in the market at the moment. But thank you for thinking of me."

"Will you and your family at least join us for dinner one evening? Cordelia is a wonderful cook."

"It might be a bit awkward, don't you think?"

"We're British, Allon. We specialize in awkward dinner parties."

"In that case, we'd love to."

"How about Saturday night?"

"See you then," said Gabriel, and set off along the footpath.

***

He arrived at the cottage thirty minutes later to discover that Irene had locked herself in her bedroom and was refusing to

come out. It seemed she had heard a report on Radio Cornwall about the most recent murder and had put two and two together.

The child's mother, already at her wit's end, seemed pleased by the development. She was reading a tattered copy of The Thin Man outside on the terrace. Gabriel told her about his encounter with Leonard Bradley—and about the dinner invitation. His wife

informed him that they had other plans.

"No," he said. "No, no, no, no."

"I'm sorry, darling, but all the arrangements have been made. Besides, it's the least you can do." Chiara shook her head slowly with reproach. "You were so very rude to them."

And so it happened that on a warm and windy evening Gabriel found himself behind the wheel of a rented Volkswagen estate car,

headed in a southwesterly direction across the Lizard Peninsula. Irene, convinced they would soon come upon a madman armed

with a bloody hatchet, was apoplectic. Raphael, his nose in an advanced mathematics textbook, was oblivious to her ravings.

Their mother, in the passenger seat, was serene and ravishing.

"You will behave, won't you?" she asked.

"I promise to be my usual charming self."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

They arrived in Gunwalloe to find the Lamb and Flag ablaze with light. Gabriel eased into the last remaining space in the

car park and killed the engine. "At least there are no photographers this time."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," said Chiara, and climbed quickly out. Flanked by his children, Gabriel followed her into

the pub, where most of Gunwalloe's two hundred residents cheered his arrival. Not surprisingly, it was the organizer of the

party, the irrepressible Vera Hobbs, who confronted him first.

"I knew it from the moment I laid I eyes on you," she said with a mischievous wink. "You were hiding something. It was plain

as day."

Dottie Cox from the Corner Market was next. "It was those beautiful green eyes of yours that gave you away. Always moving,

they were. Like a pair of searchlights."

Duncan Reynolds wasted no time on pleasantries. "Quite possibly the rudest man I've ever met."

"It wasn't me, Duncan. It was only a role I was playing at the time."

The old railman swallowed some of his beer. "I suppose you heard about poor Professor Blake."

"I read about it in the papers."

"Know her?"

"Didn't, actually."

"Wonderful woman. And quite beautiful, if you ask me. Reminded me of one of those women—"

Vera Hobbs cut him off. "That's quite enough, Duncan, dear. Otherwise, Mr. Allon will never come back again."

He consented to deliver a few remarks, which concluded with a heartfelt if uproariously funny apology for his past conduct.

Afterward they feasted on traditional Cornish fare, including pasties fresh from Vera's oven. When the party finally ended

at midnight, several men insisted on escorting the Allon family to their car because of the threat posed by the Chopper. This

sent Irene into another spasm of panic. Gabriel found it a welcome reprieve from her usual fretting about melting ice caps

and submerged cities.

"Was it my imagination," said Chiara when the children had fallen asleep, "or did you enjoy that immensely?"

"I have to admit, I did."

"Irene and Raphael love it here, you know."

"What's not to love? It's very special."

"It's the perfect place to spend the summer, don't you think?"

"We can always rent a cottage for a few weeks."

"But wouldn't you prefer to have something of your own?"

"We can't afford it."

Chiara didn't bother with a retort. "There's a lovely cottage near Gwennap Head that just came on the market."

"Leonard Bradley says it can be had for a million and a half."

"Actually, I was able to talk them down to one point four."

"Chiara..."

"The cottage is extraordinary, and there's a separate building where you can set up your studio."

"And work my fingers to the bone to pay for everything."

"Please say yes, Gabriel."

He glanced over his shoulder at his daughter. "What about the Chopper?"

"You'll think of something," said Chiara. "You always do."