The Kill Artist

The first thing he noticed was that the stranger was using the drawing room as a bedroom.

He quickly climbed the stairs. A chill ran over him.

Most of the walls had been knocked down to create a spacious open room. In the center was a large white table. Mounted on the side was a microscope with a long retractable arm. On another table were clear flasks of chemicals, which Peel reckoned were the source of the strange odor, and two strange visors with powerful magnifying glasses built into them. Atop a tall, adjustable stand was a bank of fluorescent lights, the source of the cottage’s peculiar glow.

There were other instruments Peel could not identify, but these things were not the source of his alarm. Mounted on a pair of heavy wooden easels were two paintings. One was large, very old looking, a religious scene of some sort. Parts had flaked away. On the second easel was a painting of an old man, a young woman, and a child. Peel examined the signature in the bottom right-hand corner: Rembrandt.

He turned to leave and found himself face-to-face with the stranger.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m‘s-s-sorry,” Peel stammered. “I thought you were here.”

“No you didn’t. You knew I was away, because you were watching me from your bedroom window when I left. In fact, you’ve been watching me since the summer.”

“I thought you might be a smuggler.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“The boat,” Peel lied.

The stranger smiled briefly. “Now you know the truth.”

“Not really,” said Peel.

“I’m an art restorer. Paintings are old objects. Sometimes they need a little fixing up, like a cottage, for example.”

“Or a boat,” said Peel.

“Exactly. Some paintings, like these, are very valuable.”

“More than a sailboat?”

“Much more. But now that you know what’s in here, we have a problem.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Peel pleaded. “Honest.”

The stranger ran a hand over his short, brittle hair. “I could use a helper,” he said softly. “Someone to keep an eye on the place while I’m away. Would you like a job like that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going sailing. Would you like to join me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to ask your parents?”

“He’s not my father, and my mum won’t care.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Peel. What’s yours?”

But the stranger just looked around the room to make certain Peel hadn’t disturbed any of his things.

TWO

Paris

The stranger’s restless Cornish quarantine might have gone undisturbed if Emily Parker had not met a man called René at a drunken di

Emily met Leila in mid-October at the Musée de Montmartre. She was a student at the Sorbo

It happened at Leila’s di

“He’s here, you know, Emily-the man you’re going to fall in love with.”

René. René from the south somewhere, a village Emily had never heard of, somewhere in the hills above Nice. René who had a bit of family money and had never had the time, or the inclination, to work. René who traveled. René who read many books. René who disdained politics-“Politics is an exercise for the feebleminded, Emily. Politics has nothing to do with real life.” René who had a face you might pass in a crowd and never notice, but if you looked carefully was rather good looking. René whose eyes were lit by some secret source of heat that Emily could not fathom. René who took her to bed the night of Leila’s di

He was already slipping away; she could feel him growing slightly more distant every day. He was spending more time on his own, disappearing for several hours each day, reappearing with no warning. When she asked him where he had been, his answers were vague. She feared he was seeing another woman. A ski

That afternoon Emily wound her way through the narrow streets of Montmartre to the rue Norvins. She stood beneath the crimson awning of a bistro and peered through the window. René was seated at a table near the door. Fu

She asked, “Who was that man?”

“Just someone I used to know.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jean,” he said. “Would you like-”

“Your friend left his backpack.”

“It’s mine,” René said, putting a hand on it.

“Really? I’ve never seen you carry it before.”

“Trust me, Emily. It’s mine. Are you hungry?”

And you’re changing the subject again. She said, “I’m famished, actually. I’ve been walking around in the cold all afternoon.”

“Have you really? Whatever for?”

“Just doing some thinking. Nothing serious.”

He removed the backpack from the chair and placed it on the floor at his feet. “What have you been thinking about?”

“Really, René-it was nothing important.”

“You used to tell me all your secrets.”

“Yes, but you’ve never really told me yours.”