Page 114 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

“The losses are rather extensive.”

“Thelosses,” replied Oliver, “are exactly what one would expect to find in a four-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Venetian School painting.”

“Who handled the restoration for you?”

“It came to me in this condition.”

“How fortunate,” she said, and switched off the ultraviolet torch.

Oliver allowed the darkness to linger for a moment before slowly bringing up the room lights. The woman was now holding a rectangular LED magnifier. She used it to examine the exposed flesh of Susanna’s neck and shoulder, followed by the vermilion-colored robe she was clutching to her breasts.

“The brushwork is quite visible,” she said. “Not only in the garments but the skin as well.”

“Veronese became more overtly painterly in his brushwork later in his career,” explained Oliver. “This work reflects the change from his earlier style.”

She returned the magnifier to her handbag and stepped away from the painting. A minute passed. Then another.

Oliver cleared his throat gently.

“I heard that,” she said.

“I don’t mean to rush things, but it’s rather late.”

“Do you have a moment to show me the provenance?”

Oliver ushered the woman back to his office. There he drew a copy of the provenance from a locked file drawer and laid it on the desk. The woman reviewed it with justifiable skepticism.

“An old European collection?”

“Very old,” replied Oliver. “And very private.”

The woman pushed the provenance across the desktop. “I must know the identity of the previous owner, Mr. Dimbleby.”

“The previous owner, like your client, insists on anonymity.”

“Are you in direct contact with him?”

“Her,” said Oliver. “And the answer is no. I deal with her representative.”

“A lawyer? A dealer?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t reveal the representative’s name or characterize his connection to the collection. Especially to a competitor.” Oliver lowered his voice. “Even one as attractive as you.”

She gave him a coquettish pout. “Is there really nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The woman sighed. “And if I were to offer you, say, thirty-five million pounds for your Veronese?”

“My answer would be the same.”

She tapped the provenance with the tip of her forefinger. “Are none of your other potential buyers concerned about the flimsiness of the painting’s chain of ownership?”

“Not at all.”

“How can that be?”

“Because it doesn’t matter where the painting came from. The work speaks for itself.”