Holland sighed. “What is it this time?”
Gabriel handed over his phone. “Do you recognize her?”
“Yes, of course. That’s Penelope Radcliff. She was a graduate student at the institute. A real superstar.”
“Art history?”
“Conservation, actually. She specialized in the painters of the Florentine School.”
“Where is she now?”
“I believe she’s in Rome.”
“Doing what?”
“Serving an apprenticeship.”
“The Borghese Gallery? The Doria Pamphili?”
“Neither.”
“Where, Geoffrey?”
Holland returned Gabriel’s phone. “The Vatican.”
8
London–Rome
Penelope Radcliff had served her first apprenticeship in the restoration lab of the Courtauld Gallery, and her mobile phone number was still on file. Gabriel dialed it for the first time while standing on the busy pavement of the Strand. The call went straight to voicemail, as did the next three. It was possible she had switched off the device or allowed the battery to expire. The more likely explanation, he thought, was that the phone was resting on the bottom of the Venetian Lagoon.
He placed his next call to Chiara and gave her an update on his findings.
“Small world,” she observed. “Where do you suppose she made this startling discovery of hers?”
“She refused to say in her emails to Amelia. But we should assume it was made at the Vatican.”
“And now she’s dead?”
“That’s a matter for Colonel Baggio to determine.”
“When are you planning to tell him?”
“The minute we hang up.”
“Might I suggest an alternative course of action?”
“By all means.”
“You should go to Rome and warn your friend that the Vatican is about to be engulfed in yet another scandal.”
“What makes you think I can get to him?”
“You’re one of his most trusted friends in the world. Besides, he wouldn’t be pope if it wasn’t for you.”
“All the more reason why he might refuse to see me.”
“Be that as it may, you need to tell him that he has yet another problem on his hands.”
