Pendergast considered this. "And that's what you talked about? His branding your de la Tour a forgery?"

"Yes, in the beginning. Then the conversation moved to Vilnius and his paintings. Grove reminded us of Vilnius's first big show, in SoHo in the early eighties. At the time, Grove wrote a legendarily scathing review. Suffice to say, Vilnius's career never recovered."

"An odd topic of conversation."

"Indeed. And then Grove brought up the subject of Lady Milbanke and the affair he'd had with her some years back."

"I imagine this was quite a lively dinner party."

"I have rarely seen its equal."

"And how did Lady Milbanke react?"

"How would you expect a lady to react? The affair broke up her marriage. And then Grove treated her abominably, left her for a boy ."

"It sounds as if each of you had reason to be mortal enemies of Grove."

Fosco sighed. "We were. We all hated him, including Frederick. I don't know the man at all, but I understand that some years ago, when he was editor of Art and Style , he had the temerity to write something nasty about Grove. Grove had friends in high places, and the next thing Frederick knew he'd been fired. The poor fellow couldn't find a job for years ."

"When did the dinner party break up?"

"After midnight."

"Who left first?"

"I was the first to stand and anounce my departure. I have always required a great deal of sleep. The others rose at the same time. Grove was most reluctant to see us go. He kept pressing after-dinner drinks on us, coffee. He was most anxious that we stay."

"Do you know why?"

"He seemed frightened of being alone."

"Do you recall his precise words?"

"To a certain extent." Fosco broke out into a high-pitched, upper-class drawl that was startling in its realism. "My friends! You're not going already? Why, it's just midnight! Come, let's toast our reconciliation and bid good riddance to my years of misguided pride. I have an excellent port that you must try, Fosco-and he plucked my sleeve-a Graham's Tawny, 1972 vintage." Fosco gave a sniff. "I was almost tempted to stay when I heard that."

"Did you all leave together?"

"More or less. We said our good-byes and straggled out across the lawn."

"And that was when? I'd like to know as precisely as possible, if you please."

"Twelve twenty-five." He looked at Pendergast for a moment and then said, "Mr. Pendergast, forgive me if I observe that, among all these questions, you haven't asked the most important one of all."

"And what question would that be, Count Fosco?"

"Why did Jeremy Grove ask us, his four mortal enemies, to be with him on the final night of his life?"

For a long time, Pendergast did not answer. He was carefully considering both the question and the man who had just posed it. Finally he said simply, "A good question. Consider it posed."

"It was the very question Grove himself asked when he gathered us around his table at the beginning of the dinner party. He repeated what his invitation said: that he invited us to his house that night because we were the four people he had most wronged. He wished to make amends."

"Do you have a copy of the invitation?"

With a smile, Fosco removed it from his shirt pocket and handed it over-a short, handwritten note.

"And he'd already begun to make amends. As with his reappraisal of Vilnius's work."

"A splendid review, don't you think? I understand Vilnius has just landed Gallery 10 to show his work, and they've doubled his prices."

"And Lady Milbanke? Jonathan Frederick? How did he make amends to them?"

"While Grove couldn't put Lady Milbanke's marriage back together, he did give her something in compensation. He passed her an exquisite emerald necklace across the table, more than enough to replace that dried-up old husk of a baron she lost. Forty carats of flawless Sri Lankan emeralds, worth a million dollars if a penny. She practically swooned. And Frederick? He was a long shot for the position of president of the Edsel Foundation, but Grove arranged the job for him."

"Extraordinary. And what did he do for you?"

"Surely you already know the answer to that."

Pendergast nodded. "The article he was writing for Burlington Magazine. 'A Reappraisal of Georges de la Tour’s The Education of the Virgin .'"

"Precisely. Proclaiming himself in error, making appropriately abject apologies, beating his breast and affirming the glorious authenticity of the painting. He read the article aloud to us over the dinner table."

"It remained beside his computer. Unsigned and unmailed."

"Only too true, Mr. Pendergast. Of the four of us, I was the only one cheated by his death." He spread his hands. "If the murderer had waited a day, I would be forty million richer."

"Forty million? I thought it had been put up for sale at fifteen."

"That was Sotheby's estimate twenty years ago. That painting would go for at least forty million today. But with Grove on record that it's one of the Delobre fakes .    " Fosco shrugged. "An unsigned article beside a dead man's computer means nothing. There is one good thing: I'll have the lovely painting to look at for the rest of my life. I know it's real, and you know it's real, even if no one else does."

"Yes," Pendergast said. "Ultimately that's all that matters."

"Well put."

"And the Vermeer that hangs beside it?"

"Real."

"Indeed?"

"It has been dated to 1671, between the period of Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid and The Allegory of Faith  "

"Where did it come from?"

"It's been in my family for several hundred years. The counts of Fosco never felt the need to trumpet their possessions."

"I'm truly astonished."

The count smiled, bowed. "Do you have time to see the rest of my collection?"

Pendergast hesitated for only a second. "As a matter of fact, I do."

The count rose and went to the door. Just before they exited, he turned to the mechanical cockatoo, still on his perch.

"Keep an eye on the place, Bucephalus, my pretty."

The bird gave a digitized squawk in reply.

{ 14 }

D'Agosta moved fast through the trees, seeking the darkest area of the park-a dense growth of trees and shrubs along an embankment leading down to the West Side Highway. He paused just long enough to glance back. Two figures were running after him, guns gleaming in their fists.

Staying low, weaving between the trees, D'Agosta unsnapped the holster of his Glock. He withdrew the weapon, racked the slide. It was the chosen weapon of most modern police departments, and D'Agosta hadn't been given a choice about carrying it, on duty or off. It didn't have the punch of his personal .45, but it was light and reliable, and best of all, it held fifteen rounds. He'd left his extra clip in his desk drawer that morning-who needed an extra clip for a day of interviews?

The men were already into the woods, moving fast. D'Agosta ran on, heedless of the noise he was making-the brush wasn't heavy enough to conceal him for more than a minute or two, at best. He headed south, twigs crackling underfoot. If he could lose them, even temporarily, maybe he could get back onto Riverside Drive and head toward Broadway. They wouldn't dare follow onto such a busy street. He quickly checked off his options. The nearest precinct house was located at 95th between Broadway and Amsterdam-that's where he'd head for.