The Flanders Panel

“Do you think someone could put a light on?” suggested Menchu. “I feel as if I’m slowly going blind.”

Cesar flicked the switch behind him, and the indirect light, reflected from the walls, returned life and colour to Roger de Arras and the Duke and Duchess of Ostenburg. Almost simultaneously the clock on the wall struck eight in time to the swing of the long brass pendulum. Julia turned her head, listening for the noise of non-existent footsteps on the stairs.

“Alvaro’s late,” she said, and saw Cesar grimace.

“However late that philistine arrives,” he murmured, “it’ll never be late enough for me.”

Julia gave him a reproachful look.

“You promised to behave. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t, Princess. I’ll suppress my homicidal impulses, but only out of devotion for you.”

“I’d be eternally grateful.”

“I should hope so.” He looked at his wristwatch as if he didn’t trust the clock on the wall, an old present of his. “But the swine isn’t exactly punctual, is he?”

“Cesar.”

“All right, my dear. I won’t say another word.”

“No, go on talking.” Julia indicated the painting. “You were saying it was something to do with a chess problem.”

Cesar nodded. He made a theatrical pause to moisten his lips with a sip of gin, then dry them on an immaculate white handkerchief he drew from his pocket.

“Let me explain” – he looked at Menchu and gave a slight sigh – “to both of you. There’s a detail in the inscription we haven’t noticed until now, or at least I hadn’t. Quis necavit equitem can indeed be translated as ‘Who killed the knight?” And that, according to the facts at our disposal, can be interpreted as a riddle about the death or murder of Roger de Arras. However, that phrase could be translated in another way.“ He looked thoughtfully at the painting, assessing the soundness of his argument. ”Reformulated in chess terms, perhaps the question is not ’Who killed the knight‘ but ’Who captured, or took, the knight?“ ”

No one spoke. At last Menchu broke the silence, her face betraying her disappointment.

“So much for all our high hopes. We’ve based this whole story on a piece of nonsense.”

Julia, who was looking hard at Cesar, was shaking her head.

“Not at all; the mystery’s still there. Isn’t that right, Cesar? Roger de Arras was murdered before the picture was painted.” She got up and pointed to the corner of the painting. “See? The date the painting was finished is here: Petrus Van Huys fecit me, anno MCDLXXI. Two years after Roger de Arras was murdered, Van Huys chose to employ an ingenious play on words in order to paint a picture in which both victim and executioner appear.” She paused, because another idea had just occurred to her. “And, possibly, the motive for the crime: Beatrice of Burgundy.”

Menchu was puzzled, but excited. She’d shifted to the edge of the sofa and was looking at the Flemish painting as if she were seeing it for the first time.

“Go on. I’m on tenterhooks.”

“According to what we know, there are several reasons why Roger de Arras could have been killed, and one of them would have been the supposed romance between him and the Duchess Beatrice, the woman dressed in black, sitting by the window reading.”

“Are you trying to say that the Duke killed him out of jealousy?”

Julia made an evasive gesture.

“I’m not trying to say anything. I’m simply suggesting a possibility.” She indicated the pile of books, documents and photocopies on the table. “Perhaps the painter wanted to call attention to the crime. Maybe that’s what made him decide to paint the picture, or perhaps he was commissioned to do it.” She shrugged. “We’ll never know for certain, but one thing is clear: the picture contains the key to Roger de Arras’s murder. The inscription proves it.”

“The hidden inscription,” Cesar corrected her.

“That gives further support to my argument.”

“What if the painter was simply afraid he’d been too explicit?” Menchu asked. “Even in the fifteenth century you couldn’t go around accusing people just like that.”

Julia looked at the picture.

“It might be that Van Huys was frightened he’d depicted the situation too clearly.”

“Or else someone painted it over at a later date,” Menchu suggested.

“No. I thought of that too and, as well as looking at it under ultraviolet light, I prepared a cross section of a tiny sample to study under the microscope.” She picked up a piece of paper. “There you are, layer by layer: oak base, a very thin preparation made from calcium carbonate and animal glue, white lead and oil as imprimatura, and three layers containing white lead, vermilion and ivory black, white lead and copper resinate, varnish, and so on. All identical to the rest: the same mixtures, the same pigments. It was Van Huys himself who painted over the inscription, shortly after having written it. There’s no doubt about that.”

“So?”