Lorenzo Bellatus had been appearing frequently at these kinds of events over the past halfyear.

  Anger folded the newspaper neatly and slipped it away. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. But the Bellatus family is no ordinary clan. If you aren’t fully prepared, it might be best to wait… for a more opportune moment.”

  “Thank you for the advice, but time waits for no one.”

  “Take this—it might be of use. It’s an identity pass from an old friend of mine, an art critic. And one last thing: the Twin Moon alignment is approaching. The time is almost here, likely within the next two or three days. The best viewing location remains the village I mentioned last time.”

  Anger took the pass, offered his thanks, and departed for Scotland Yard.

  As the carriage drew near, a familiar figure emerged from the fog, jogging closer.

  “Sir!” Hendrick gasped, halting beside the carriage. “There’s news—Edwin Lyle might be making an unusual move tonight. He’s attending a ‘Gallery of Fakes’—”

  “I know,” Anger cut in, already stepping down.

  Hendrick blinked, surprised. “You knew?” He hadn’t expected the inspector to be ahead of him already.

  “Just found out. We need to get inside.”

  “Do we have an invitation?” Hendrick asked uneasily.

  “No.”

  “Then how do we get in?”

  “I have my ways. You’re with me—just assist and take notes.”

  The carriage stopped near White Elephant Street. After paying the fare, the two made their way toward the old printworksturnedgallery.

  The street was lined with converted warehouses and factories, most now serving as studios or small galleries. Number 3 was an older building; its original factory sign had been replaced with a simple black board reading: Not Open to the Public.

  Yet the heavy main door was slightly ajar. Light and the murmur of conversation spilled through the gap.

  Anger adjusted his coat collar and pushed the door open. Hendrick, unsure where to put his hands, finally straightened his posture and followed closely behind Inspector Hastings.

  Inside was a large hall laid with deep crimson carpet. Typical of these aristocrats—all show and pointless decoration, Anger thought dryly.

  At a glance, he saw about twenty paintings of varying sizes hung on the walls, each framed and labeled. Some thirtyodd men and women mingled in the space. These socalled artistic salons were little more than hunting grounds for nobles and merchants seeking connections or cheap thrills. Everyone knew it, yet the charade went on.

  Most guests huddled in murmuring clusters before the paintings, champagne glasses in hand. The air carried the scent of paint and perfume—a combination that grated on Anger’s nerves.

  Near the staircase, he spotted Lorenzo Bellatus conversing with a silverhaired gentleman. Four broadshouldered men in black waistcoats were stationed at the corners of the hall.

  Anger walked straight to the entrance, where a man was checking invitations.

  “Good evening. Your invitation, please.”

  “I don’t have one. A friend mentioned this salon—Lord Arthur Vinter. His late wife had a deep interest in art. We spoke a few times; he said such events help refine one’s taste.” He handed over the professor’s identity pass.

  The registrar glanced at the pass—marked Art Critic—then at the young man before him, whose clothing lacked any noble refinement. But the mention of the Viscount suggested another young lordling chasing clout.

  “How is His Lordship these days?” the man tested.

  “Still in mourning,” Anger replied. “But he believes the continuation of cultural life is the finest tribute to the departed.”

  After a brief pause, the registrar picked up his pen. “Name and profession?”

  “William Harrington. Independent art critic.” Anger supplied the alias. “This is my assistant, John.”

  Once recorded, the registrar handed Anger a badge.

  ******

  "Please wear it in a conspicuous position. The salon rules: you may freely view all paintings, but do not touch. At half past seven, the public authentication session will begin—participation is voluntary. The event concludes at ten; please depart promptly." Anger took the badge and pinned it to his coat lapel, then led Hendrick into the hall.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Having just entered, they first pretended to admire the paintings, waiting a while before observing the other attendees. Most present appeared to be of the upper classes, welldressed and polished. The gentlemen invariably sported a monocle on a delicate chain upon their chests, and pockets bulging with the outline of a watch.

  "Sir," Hendrick called nervously from behind Anger, using his eyes to gesture toward a portrait on the left wall.

  Anger followed his gaze. It was a typical Victorian portrait of a woman, roughly thirty years of age, dressed in a deep blue satin gown. Her hands were folded in her lap, her expression serene, yet the pigment used for her pupils was unnaturally vivid.

  He took a few steps closer, observing the eye area from a safe distance. The texture of the oil paint there differed from the rest of the canvas. Those eyes truly seemed to gaze back at the viewer.

  Quite ingenious.

  "The label card," Anger signaled to Hendrick. After all, as a critic with an assistant, it wouldn't do to engage in such menial tasks himself. He even tilted his chin up slightly, affecting an air of nearrude arrogance.

  Hendrick bent to read the card. Portrait of an Unknown Lady. Presumed date of creation: 18501860. Artist unknown. Donor: Anonymous.

  The two continued to move, Hendrick following closely. The paintings in the hall covered landscapes, portraits, and still lifes, ranging from classical to Romantic in style. Their common trait was a rather high level of technical skill. Hendrick's humble demeanor was the most convincing display of servility Anger had ever seen—as if he'd been a lifelong servant. Anger wondered if the lad was getting a bit too into the role.

  At the appointed time, Lorenzo Bellatus clapped his hands.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's Gallery of Fakes. I am Lorenzo Bellatus, your host for this evening. Before we begin, allow me to express our gratitude for the permission granted by the Parish Cultural Affairs Office and the support of the Londinium Society for Artistic Appreciation."

  "The authenticity of art has been a subject of endless debate among collectors and scholars since time immemorial. What is real? What is false? Does a perfect imitation lose its value if its technique surpasses the original? And how should we judge a work signed by a master, yet riddled with flaws?" He walked to the center of the hall, spreading his hands. "Tonight, we shall explore this metaphysical conundrum together."

  He then gestured to a row of draped paintings on the left wall. "Here we have eight works. Four are genuine, four are highquality contemporary forgeries. Your task is to identify all the fakes. The rules are simple: when you are certain a painting is false, approach it and declare aloud, 'I believe this one is false,' and briefly state your reasons. We shall record everyone's judgments."

  Polite applause and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  "And so, we begin. You have one hour to observe, analyse, and discuss. At half past eight, we shall reveal the answers and invite the three participants with the most accurate judgments to share their methods of discernment."

  ******

  The crowd began to disperse and surge anew towards the eight freshly unveiled paintings. Anger mingled within their flow.

  The eight paintings were hung sidebyside on a specially constructed display wall, each marked with a numbered plaque from 1 to 8 below. The subjects varied greatly.

  No. 1 was a knight's portrait.

  No. 2, a rustic wedding scene.

  No. 3, a floral still life.

  No. 4, a sacred subject.

  No. 5, a harbour landscape.

  No. 6, a child's portrait.

  No. 7, a hunting scene.

  No. 8, a city street scene.

  Anger began with No. 1. The figure wore 16thcentury armour and held a longsword, with a castle courtyard as the backdrop. The technique was solid, the rendering of metallic reflections on the armour quite masterful. However, the proportions of the knight's finger joints gripping the sword felt subtly... off.

  Moving to No. 2, the Rustic Wedding Scene. Sunshine bathed the cheerful figures in bright colours. It seemed the most normal of the lot, yet within the tree's shadow was a figure with its back to the viewer—the pigment there was thin, as if added as an afterthought.

  "Sir... the eyes in No. 6 are moving," Hendrick whispered fearfully, tugging at Anger's coat sleeve.

  Anger glanced discreetly at No. 6. It was a portrait of a boy about five years old, with blond hair and blue eyes, dressed in a white lace shirt. The frame was ordinary wood, the canvas normal. But when he stared at the boy's eyes... there was indeed an illusion, just as Hendrick said, of the eyeball shifting as if blinking.

  Illusion, or a property of the painting itself? Anger wasn't certain.

  He continued observing. The hall buzzed with the erudite commentary of connoisseurs.

  "Look at the continuity of brushstrokes—this is absolutely genuine. A painter of that era wouldn't handle the edges like this."

  "The colour gradation is problematic. A forgery, without a doubt."

  "The canvas aging is too uniform—it must be artificially distressed."

  Anger eventually withdrew to the periphery of the crowd. His goal, after all, wasn't to play authenticator.

  After roughly twenty minutes, the first person to make a public judgment stepped forward.

  A middleaged gentleman with a monocle approached No. 3, the floral still life, and turned to face the assembly.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, with thirty years of collecting experience, I declare this Spring in a Vase a forgery. Three reasons: First, the signature's penmanship doesn't match the artist's known genuine works. Second, the blue pigment is cobalt blue, which only became widespread in the late 19th century, while this painting is dated to 1840. Third, and most crucially, the genuine Spring in a Vase was purchased by a friend of mine at an auction last year and currently hangs in his Paris study. Therefore, the one before us can only be a copy."

  Polite applause and murmurs of admiration rippled through the crowd. Lorenzo Bellatus also clapped.

  "A brilliant deduction, Mr. Howard. Please record it," he instructed a servant, who hurried forward to note it down.

  This opening seemed to embolden others. Over the next ten minutes, three more judgments were made.

  A lady pointed out that the signature placement on No. 7, the hunting scene, didn't conform to the painter's habits. An elderly gentleman argued that the sky in No. 5, the harbour landscape, was painted in too modern a style. A young man claimed the heraldry on the armour in No. 1, the knight's portrait, contained a historical error.

  Anger continued watching.

  Before No. 4, a pale young man stared intently at the silver platter in Salome's hand, his lips moving soundlessly.

  This greenhorn, Anger thought with a hint of pity. Sacred subjects like this were why others dared not judge hastily. They were laden with metaphor and implication—forging them was a challenge in itself, let alone forging them convincingly. The Church wouldn't simply permit random copies, and even if one were made, what noble would dare display it so openly? It touched on religion, on the sacred—not something for ordinary people to judge, lest they invite the entire Church's scrutiny. That's why Anger felt sorry for the young man.

  Finally, the young man took a deep breath. "This one... this one is fake."

  All eyes turned to him.