The Stolen Painting – Part 2: What the Varnish Hid

The lamp came back on a minute later, and Dario was already at the foot of the scaffold, holding a small torch between his teeth.

"Power cut," he said, around it. "This church has a generator from 1950. It sulks."

"Do you have a spare?"

He took the torch out of his mouth. "I have you."

They worked by torchlight for the next hour, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor beneath the altarpiece while the bells of the city chimed midnight in the distance. Clara's swab moved in tiny, careful circles. Dario held the light steady and didn't speak unless she asked him to.

At last the varnish gave way beneath her fingers, and a small, perfect signature emerged in faded gold leaf: Giorgio Tessari.

"Not Vasari," Clara breathed. "Tessari. He was a copyist, wasn't he? A student who trained in the same workshop?"

"Yes," said Dario, and his voice sounded hoarse. "And he was the last man to see the original before it vanished in 1964. This painting is the copy. The real one has been in a private collection for sixty years."

"Whose collection?"

Dario looked at her for a long moment in the torchlight.

"Mine," he said quietly. "My grandfather's. The man who hired you is his grandson. I'm the one who's been trying to get the painting back for my family without a scandal."

Clara sat very still. Her heart was racing. "You lied to me."

"I didn't lie. I left things out." He set down the torch. "I wanted to know if you were honest before I told you the rest. And you were. Every single time, even when it cost you."

"That's not a reason," said Clara.

"No," Dario agreed. "It's a confession."

She looked at him. He looked back, unflinching, his face softened by the glow.

"Why are you telling me this now?" she asked.

"Because someone's just locked the front doors of this church," said Dario, very calmly. "From the outside. And I think they know we found the signature."

They both turned at the same moment towards the nave, where the great wooden doors stood far away at the end of the aisle. The iron bar outside rattled, once, twice, then went silent.

Clara's breath hitched. "Dario. Is there another way out?"

"The sacristy door. It's old, and it sticks, but it opens onto the bell tower stairs." He reached for her hand. "Are you ready to run?"

"Yes," she said, gripping his fingers. "Yes. Go."

They ran. Behind them, in the dark, the faint sound of footsteps followed, quick and deliberate, and the lamp on the altarpiece went out again.