CHAPTER SIX — THE GALLERY OF PERFECT COPIES
Vale’s private preview occupied the converted assembly hall of a former furniture factory across town.
A carpeted entrance concealed the cracked concrete steps, and a row of rented spotlights illuminated a temporary sign reading THE EASTMERE RETURN.
Daniel entered wearing black trousers and the plain white shirt Nessa had found in a storage cupboard.
He carried a tray of water glasses through the hall while Julian presented his invitation to a receptionist.
Carol remained outside in Nessa’s van, studying the entrance with binoculars she had borrowed from a birdwatching friend.
Daniel spotted Vale immediately.
He was a silver-haired man with a beautifully cut jacket and a habit of leaning toward every guest as if sharing private wisdom.
He stood beside the central display, where twelve limestone figures occupied polished platforms arranged in a flawless circle.
The pear seller stood fourth, just as she did in Bellweather’s old catalogue.
Daniel’s chest tightened when he saw her face.
She looked exactly like his damaged statue until he moved close enough to notice that the nose was a little sharper and the basket less uneven.
A glossy information card called the figure Autumn Vendor and attributed its expression to Ada’s melancholy vision of rural decline.
Daniel remembered Carol saying that Mabel Hart had spent half her life making people laugh.
He put the tray on a side table and examined the base.
The gallery staff had placed a mirror beneath each sculpture, allowing guests to admire the hidden number plate without kneeling.
The pear seller’s plate appeared to carry 04-17 and the tiny gate symbol.
The metal looked older than the stone around it.
Daniel sent Nessa a short message with the phrase she had suggested: THE BASKET IS TOO NEAT.
A woman in a green dress approached and asked whether he had any sparkling water.
He picked up the tray and almost collided with Kells, who was watching him from the edge of the room.
“Have we met?” Kells asked.
Daniel pretended to consider the question.
“You may have bought a picture frame from my sister’s shop,” he replied.
Kells did not smile.
“Which sister?”
Daniel realized his improvised story had been too specific.
“A sister of somebody I know,” he said, and continued walking before Kells could stop him.
At the far end of the hall, Julian was speaking with a collector who had flown in from Toronto.
The collector said Vale had privately promised that the collection had never left one secure location after its disappearance.
Julian asked how that could be reconciled with rumors of individual pieces appearing in gardens throughout the county.
The collector shrugged.
“Rumors are useful until the bill arrives.”
Daniel returned to the pear seller and noticed a thin film of wax trapped between the brass plate and its surrounding stone.
An authentic plate embedded decades earlier should have worn evenly against the limestone, but this one looked recently pressed into position.
He could not touch it without drawing attention, so he called Julian over with a fresh glass of water.
Julian glanced once at the underside and nodded.
Their silent exchange was interrupted by Vale,
who approached with his arms open.
“Mr. Marr, I thought you had retired from troublesome questions.”
“I couldn’t miss the return of something I spent years searching for,” Julian replied.
Vale studied Daniel’s face.
“Who is your companion?”
“One of the people keeping the water glasses full,” Julian said.
Vale smiled thinly.
“We can provide him a real glass if he wants to celebrate.”
Then he took Julian aside and spoke too quietly for Daniel to hear.
Daniel moved toward the service corridor, where an open door revealed stacks of transport crates with numbered labels.
Most crates were empty, waiting for the auction pieces to be loaded the following night.
One smaller crate bore the same open-gate symbol as the brass plates, but the stencil beneath it read MASTER CASTING.
Daniel leaned closer and saw a stone hand protruding from packing foam.
Its fingers held a loaf with a deliberately rough crust.
Unlike the baker on the display platform, this one bore Ada’s unmistakable thumbprint.
A staff member closed the door before Daniel could inspect it further.
He returned to the hall with his heart beating quickly.
Vale had twelve immaculate statues on display, but at least one genuine figure was hidden in the shipping area.
He understood now that the auction might not be a simple sale of replicas.
It might be a sale designed to conceal what Vale was doing with the actual originals.
CHAPTER SEVEN — THE CRATE THAT SHOULDN’T EXIST
Daniel left the hall through the staff exit after Kells informed the catering supervisor that an unauthorized worker had been seen near the crates.
He reached Nessa’s van carrying his tray, which he had forgotten to put down.
Carol took one look at his face and told Nessa to drive around the block rather than pull away immediately.
Daniel described the original baker inside the small crate.
Carol leaned forward from the rear seat.
“Are you certain?”
“Ada left her thumbprint on the bread,
didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“This one had it.”
Julian appeared at the van window a minute later, looking furious.
“Vale has offered me a consultancy contract if I agree to sign a statement praising the authenticity of the set.”
“Did you take it?” Daniel asked.
“Of course not.”
Carol tilted her head.
“You paused before answering.”
“I read the terms because I wanted to know what he was offering.”
Julian opened his briefcase and showed them a printed schedule he had collected at the desk.
The official auction was Saturday, but a freight departure had been booked for early Sunday morning.
Twelve crates would travel to a bonded storage facility near the airport.
The schedule listed an additional crate marked PRIVATE WORKSHOP MATERIAL.
Nessa recognized the receiving company’s name from invoices she had seen at the frame shop.
It belonged to a fabricator known for making exact replicas of historic architectural features.
A convincing imitation could be carved from photographs if the company had an original to study.
Carol said Kells had tried to hire her for such work years earlier.
She had declined, but other stoneworkers might not have recognized the deception.
Daniel asked whether the gallery was selling replicas to buyers who believed they were originals or displaying replicas while selling something more valuable out of sight.
“Possibly both,” Julian said.
Nessa parked beneath the orange glow of a streetlamp and tapped a pencil against the steering wheel.
“We need to know what is actually inside those other crates.”
Carol shook her head.
“Breaking into a gallery won’t fix anything.”
Daniel looked at the old woman who had smashed his statue that morning.
“That’s a remarkably sudden interest in respecting property.”
“I earned it,” she replied.
Their disagreement ended when Julian’s phone rang with a call from an unfamiliar number.
A woman introduced herself as Helena Park, a transport coordinator employed by Vale for the exhibition.
She said she had seen Julian arguing with Vale and wanted to talk somewhere they would not be overheard.
Julian asked why she trusted him.
“Because I asked about the extra crate and Mr. Kells told me the contents were none of my business.”
They arranged to meet her at a twenty-four-hour diner on the east side of town.
Helena arrived in a faded denim jacket and placed her employee pass face down on the table.
She had worked in museum shipping for twenty years and disliked being treated as a disposable driver.
She described how six pieces had been delivered to the gallery over the previous month in battered wooden cases.
Every piece had been photographed, removed from its crate,
and replaced with a cleaner version after a two-day visit to the fabrication workshop.
The remaining six replicas had arrived ready for display from the beginning.
Helena had questioned the changing crate weights because shipping damage was her professional responsibility.
Kells had ordered her to ignore the differences.
“Then where are the originals going?” Daniel asked.
Helena slid a restaurant napkin toward him with a simple sketch of the loading area.
“There’s a temporary storage building behind the gallery,” she said.
“Three heavy crates went there yesterday.”
Julian asked whether she would give a statement.
“I’ll explain what I saw to an appropriate investigator,” Helena answered.
“But I won’t let strangers use my name as a decoration in their argument.”
Daniel appreciated the distinction.
Carol asked if she had noticed a crate holding the pear seller.
Helena shook her head.
“Not yet, but Kells keeps asking whether the fourth original has been located.”
Carol pushed her coffee away.
“He’s short one,” she whispered.
“And that’s why he came straight to Daniel.”
Helena studied Carol’s face.
“Are you the woman who worked with Peter Mercer?”
Carol nodded.
Helena reached into her bag and produced a folded photograph of a young man unloading stone at the Eastmere yard.
“My father took that picture,” she said.
“He always told me those workers saved something important, but he wouldn’t say what.”
Carol held the photograph for a long moment before answering.
“Your father helped drive the truck,” she said.
“And I think I owe him an apology.”
