“Not a Rembrandt,” he said, “but a masterpiece nonetheless.” He smiled smugly and took the wrapped parcel from the coffee table. He carefully removed the brown paper and set it aside, then held the masterpiece out for me to see.
It was an ink wash painting. Will and Rob had introduced me to ink wash painting as part of a classroom project on Japan. I doubted that I would ever forget the evening we’d spent at the kitchen table, practicing brushstrokes and learning how to remove ink stains from hands and faces.
The painting Charles held was framed in black bamboo. A vertical line of delicately scribed Japanese calligraphy seemed to float in the empty space to the right of the central image, followed by a tiny red box enclosing yet another Japanese character. The red stamp was, I recalled, the artist’s personal seal or chop, used in lieu of or in addition to a signature. Will and Rob had made their own, slightly less elegant, chops by carving their initials into raw potatoes.
I studied the main image in silence, then said tentatively, “Is it a koi?”
“Very good!” Charles replied, nodding his approval. “It’s a koi—a Japanese carp—pirouetting through fronds of swaying seaweed. Moreover, it’s an original Asazuki”—his finger traced the line of calligraphy leading to the tiny red box—“signed and stamped by the great Asazuki herself.” When I looked blank, he explained, “Chiaki Asazuki is a contemporary artist who creates miniature homages to the magnificent koi artists of the late Edo and the early Meiji periods. A piece like the one you see before you can fetch hundreds of pounds at the right auction and Grant missed it!”
“It’s pretty small,” I said reasonably.
“Its diminutive size was Grant’s downfall,” said Charles. “It was jammed between a paint-by-number landscape and a stupendously malformed nude. I can’t fault Grant for skipping over them, but he’ll tear his hair out when I show him what was hidden between them!”
“Haven’t you shown it to him already?” I asked, surprised.
“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” said Charles, “preferably after one has established one’s facts. I spent yesterday evening telephoning collectors and double-checking the attribution online. I would have sprung the painting on him after breakfast, but he ran off to an estate sale in Cheltenham before I’d finished my toast. I’ve been dying to show my Asazuki to someone, but to whom could I show it? Who would recognize its beauty? Who?”
“I give up,” I said.
“Bill would, but I couldn’t interrupt him at work,” Charles continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Lilian Bunting was a possibility, but she’s busy with meals-on-wheels, and William and Amelia are off on one of their nature walks. The disposable artists”—his unkind but apt name for the Handmaidens—“were out of the question. They may take painting lessons, but the lessons they take haven’t taken. Finally, I thought of you! You, Lori, are neither a Philistine nor a pretender. You have a natural affinity for the finer things in life. And, of course, you were at home.”
“Thank you,” I said. Charles would have been horrified if I’d told him that I thought his precious Asazuki koi was a bug-eyed, flabby-lipped, overfed, and decidedly unattractive specimen, so I kept my opinion to myself. “And congratulations. Lady Luck has dealt you a winning hand.”
“To be perfectly honest,” said Charles, smiling coyly, “it wasn’t all luck.”
“Wasn’t it?” I said and the old wishing well rose before my mind’s eye like a genie emerging from a magic lantern.
“Lori,” Charles said, hunching forward and fixing me with a beady stare, “if you repeat a single syllable of what I’m about to tell you, I’ll deny saying it. What’s said between us, stays between us.”
“Understood,” I said. “But I’ll have to tell Bill. It’s a spousal requirement.”
“Allowed,” he said. He placed the painting on the table and hunched over even further, assuming a posture I associated with confidential disclosures. “You may think me foolish, but I spoke to the wishing well last week.”
“Did you speak to it at night?” I asked.
“Yes,” Charles replied, frowning slightly. “How did you know?”
“Jack heard noises in the back garden,” I explained. “Did you bump into anyone else while you were there?”
“I did not,” said Charles. “I went at night for the express purpose of avoiding other people and I succeeded. The well alone heard my wish. And the well made it come true. It gave me exactly what I needed to punish Grant for leaving all the dirty work to me.”
“You honestly believe that an old well made a valuable painting appear out of nowhere,” I said.
“What else can I believe?” said Charles. “I’ve been sorting Grant’s disposables for years, but it wasn’t until after the well heard my wish that I struck gold.” He drew back from me and said incredulously, “Don’t tell me you’re a skeptic. How can you doubt the well after it granted your wish for sunshine?”