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  Murder at the Gardner

  A Homer Kelly Mystery

  Jane Langton

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media Ebook

  Contents

  The Procession

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  Afterword

  Illustrated Works of Art

  Preview: The Dante Game

  Copyright Page

  FOR BETTY AND ALVIN

  THE PROCESSION

  TITUS MOON met Catherine Rule on the back stairway of the Gardner Museum. They were both trying to do a little work before the meeting with Homer Kelly and the trustees at ten o’clock.

  “Good morning, Titus,” said Catherine. She looked at him brightly with one of her old yellow eyes, but as usual the other gazed past his head at things he could not see—islands in southern seas, landscapes of frozen tundra, monumental sandstone pharaohs towering out of the desert. “You’re about to say your prayers?”

  “That’s right, Catherine. What do you suggest for this morning?”

  Catherine started up the stairs to the room where she spent all her working hours repairing tapestries. “Pesellino,” she said. “You’ll never go wrong with Pesellino.”

  “Good,” said Titus. “Pesellino it is.” Nodding to the guard at the watch desk, he walked swiftly through the door into the west cloister.

  Titus Moon was the new director of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. As a public institution, his domain was much smaller than the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, its great neighbor along the Fenway to the northeast, and it was different in other ways as well.

  At the Boston Museum there were hundreds of acquisitions every year; there were new galleries, whole new wings, and successions of new exhibitions—the prints of Degas, the art of Pompeii, the paintings of Renoir, of Thomas Eakins, of Pissaro. All this growth and vitality were unknown at the Gardner Museum, where the collection never changed, where acquisitions were unheard of. From one decade to the next, Titian’s Rape of Europa hung on the east wall of the Titian Room on the third floor, and the youthful Rembrandt in his feathered cap looked out from the north wall of the Dutch Room. Titus knew that if he were to come back in a hundred years, he would find Botticelli’s Chigi Madonna still hanging over the same Florentine sideboard.

  This everlasting sameness was no whim of Titus Moon’s. Mrs. Gardner had insisted on it in her last will and testament. All was to be dismantled “if the Trustees shall place for exhibition any pictures or works of art other than such as I own … or if they shall at any time change the general disposition or arrangement …”

  But Titus had invented a cure for the problem of excessive familiarity. He had taught himself to find freshness in the never-changing exhibitions by spending ten minutes every day with a single work of art—a carved wooden altar from Germany, a stained glass window from the Cathedral of Milan, a drawing by Raphael—gazing at it, sinking himself down into it, trying to absorb into himself the intent of its creator.

  Today the very thought of Mrs. Gardner’s will gave Titus a headache. Unfortunate things had been happening in the galleries, strange eruptions of whimsicality by a person or persons unknown, threatening the continued existence of the museum. The terms of the will were very clear. This sort of bizarre indignity must have been exactly what the founder of the museum had had in mind when she had directed the trustees, in such a case, to “sell the said land, Museum, pictures, statuary, works of art and bric-a-brac, furniture, books and papers, and procure the dissolution of the said Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum …”

  The trustees had been struggling with the problem for months, and so had the museum’s security chief, Charlie Tibby, but so far without result. Therefore this morning they were trying a new tack. They were meeting with a former lieutenant-detective for Middlesex County, one Professor Homer Kelly.

  Inviting Kelly to the trustees’ meeting had been Titus Moon’s idea. Titus had met Homer at a party for new members, and had pleaded with him to give the trustees the benefit of his advice. Homer had responded with a good-natured groan, but then he had agreed to come to the meeting and hear what was going on.

  Titus looked at his watch. It was only quarter past nine. He would have plenty of time to devote himself to something in the collection. This morning in obedience to the suggestion of Catherine Rule, he walked upstairs to the Early Italian Room.

  Of all the galleries in the museum, it was his favorite. Unlike many of the others, it was full of golden light. Four tall windows looked out on Palace Road and the Fenway, and another opened on the courtyard. But it was not only the windows that made the room bright. The Early Italian Room glowed from within with the gold of altarpieces and panel paintings, with gold leaf beaten over gesso, polished until it shone on halos and wings and gilded skies. The Early Italian Room was hung with the dreams of the artists of the stony city-states of Italy. On the labels beside the pictures there were sonorous names ending in a and i and o, ringing Italian names that had resounded along the narrow streets of Siena and Florence, Ferrara and Venice and Mantua during the early Renaissance—Masaccio, Piero della Fran-cesca, Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Gentile Bellini, Andrea Mantegna, Fra Angelico.

  Pesellino’s two panel paintings of The Triumphs of Petrarch hung on the east wall on either side of the door. They had been painted in the fifteenth century to adorn a pair of marriage chests. Rolling across them was a procession of triumphal chariots, each victorious over the one before, as described in terza rima by the poet Petrarch.

  Titus took up a position in front of the first panel and examined it with his usual care. At the far left was the chariot of Love, carrying a naked youth with bow and arrow, surrounded by pairs of lovers. The subject was mythological, but Pesellino had succumbed to the charms of daily life, and his lovers were young aristocrats of Florence, magnificently attired.

  Next in the procession came the chariot of Chastity, who had subdued and taken prisoner the passionate youth. Chastity was a matron, modestly draped. Beside her the naked boy cowered in chains.

  At the far right, squeezed into a narrow space (Pesellino had not planned ahead) was a skeletal hag whose chariot was a coffin. She was Death, cruel Death, who alone could conquer Chastity.

  Moving to the other side of the doorway, Titus found the chariot of dea
th-conquering Fame, a splendid woman in royal robes. Around her were assembled the great men of the past.

  But Fame was overwhelmed in her turn, unable to resist the slow depredations of Time. There he was, Father Time, a bearded old man carried swiftly forward by a pair of stags.

  Last of all, Eternity superseded Time in final perfection and everlasting serenity, as God the Father lifted his hand to bless a new heaven and a new earth.

  Titus walked up close to savor all the elegant little figures, then backed away, reflecting that Petrarch had merely been constructing another of those lists by which people had brought order to the chaos of the world. They had set up rosters of saints and levels of heaven and hell; they had enumerated the virtues and vices and sorted out the humors of the flesh; they had divided the human body into physical and spiritual halves. As long as something could be itemized, it was under some kind of control, in an age when very little else was under control, when death was random and capricious, disease a series of ungovernable plagues.

  Then Titus winced, aware that it wasn’t just the men and women of the fifteenth century who had divided their lives into segments and subdivisions. Right here and now he, too, Titus Moon, had arranged his existence in separate parts, balancing them in the same spirit of order. Walking back downstairs, he amused himself by wondering just where he was on Petrarch’s chart, at which of the six stages. Chastity had not grasped him, but neither had Love. He was triumphant nowhere. He certainly wasn’t dead, nor was he exalted by Fame. In Pesellino’s beautiful procession there was no place for him at all.

  In the east cloister, an important reception for the benefactors of the museum was just getting under way. Well-dressed people smiled at one another with expressions of tortured good humor, as the light falling from the high windows over the courtyard made chalices of their glasses of cranberry juice. Flutelike tones fell upon the director’s ear, and Boston umlauts whiffled at him, hew-hah, hew-hew, hah-hah. Titus stood among the benefactors and made a little speech, expressing his pleasure in meeting them here, outlining the entertainments of the morning.

  Then he escaped to his office to look over the resumes of a couple of candidates for new assistantships, unaware that before the day was out he was to be struck down by a flaming shaft from the bow of the naked boy on the chariot of Love.

  I

  THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE

  Four steeds I saw, whiter than whitest snow,

  And on a fiery car a cruel youth

  With bow in hand and arrows at his side …

  For this is he whom the world calleth Love:

  Bitter, thou see’st …

  —PETRARCH

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BULRUSHES beside the water in the Back Bay Fens were like a jungle. Wandering among them looking for a lover, Edward Fallfold amused himself by envisioning tigers and elephants trampling the tall reeds, and livid green parrots flapping up into the gray Boston air.

  But there were no tigers, no elephants, no parrots, and no lovers either, even though the weather on this day in late March was springlike and mild. The bulrushes were ten feet tall, with dry stalks that creaked and swayed as Fallfold parted them, trying this pathway and that. Bulrushes here, bulrushes there. The bulrushes reminded him of Titian’s painting of The Rape of Europa in the museum, and he made a mental pun. The bull rushes at Europa and carries her off. But Edward Fallfold didn’t want Europa, that portly wench with the heavy thighs. He wanted someone like the young man approaching him now.

  “Hello,” Fallfold said, giving the boy his charming smile, putting an arm around his broad shoulders. “What’s your name? Look, why don’t we go across the street to my room?”

  Later he discovered that his young friend was looking for a job and a place to live. The boy was blond, strong, and tall, and Fallfold was immensely taken with him. “I think I can help you,” he said, trying not to sound too eager. “Speak to Mrs. Garboyle. She’s got an empty room. Another kid just moved out. And I’ll bet I can get you a job as a guard in the museum.”

  “The museum? What museum?”

  “The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. It’s just down the road along the Fenway. I’m a trustee.” Fallfold didn’t bother to explain that he had very nearly been named director of the museum. Last year when the former director had been called to Yale, Fallfold had applied to become his successor, and he had come very close. There had been interview after interview. But at last, to his disgust, they had set him aside and chosen young Titus Moon instead. Fallfold had been offered the consolation prize of a place on the unpaid board of trustees.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said to his new young friend, whose name was Robbie Crowlie, “there’s a meeting of the trustees this morning. Come on, I’m on my way there now. I’ll introduce you to the security chief. He can always use a new guard.”

  “Well, okay,” said Robbie Crowlie cautiously, “thanks a lot.”

  Fallfold beamed, and they went off together down the street, strolling along the Fenway past the dorms of Northeastern University, past the Forsyth School for Dental Hygienists and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, in the direction of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

  In the jungle of the bulrushes Edward Fallfold had found a new love.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HOMER KELLY was on his way to the meeting with the Gardner trustees. The truth was, Homer was in the dark about the history of painting and sculpture. But it was this very ignorance that was taking him there this morning.

  It was all his wife’s fault. If Mary Kelly had not thought her husband an ignoramus about art, she wouldn’t have given him a membership in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum before she went off to New York City to take a course at Columbia.

  If she hadn’t given him a membership, he wouldn’t have gone to the reception for new members. And if he hadn’t attended the reception, Homer would never have met Titus Moon, the director of the Gardner Museum. And then he would never have been asked to go to the next meeting of the trustees, to discuss the museum’s peculiar troubles and harassments.

  But Mary Kelly did think her husband an ignoramus about art, and therefore she had set in motion the train of events that propelled him now, on this warm misty morning in March, in the direction of the Gardner to meet with the director and the seven trustees.

  As Homer strode along the drive from a distant parking place, a fog hung over the Fenway, curling among the feathery fronds of the giant bulrushes on the shores of the sluggish little stream, draping itself over the dead stalks of the brussels sprouts and tomato vines in the public garden plots, wreathing over the curving road. Homer bowed his head against the blowing grit, and scattered the pigeons waddling across his path. The grit, he knew, was not important grit, not grit that counted for something. The pigeons were insignificant pigeons. In a way they were symbols of the neighborhood itself. Back at the turn of the century when Mrs. Jack Gardner had bought the land for her Venetian palace, Frederick Law Olmsted’s emerald necklace of parkland was only beginning to emerge from hundreds of acres of heaped-up muck along Stony Brook and Muddy River. Mrs. Jack had expected fashionable Boston to follow her from Beacon Street with new ranks of lofty marble town houses. But fashionable Boston had gone elsewhere, and now the elaborate dwelling she called Fenway Court stood by itself.

  Other public buildings had sprung up along the Fenway—the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Simmons College and Wheelock and Emmanuel—and eventually the vacuum around them had been filled with blocks of houses. But they were not the sumptuous residences Mrs. Gardner had surely foreseen. Instead this whole sweep of road had a seedy and neglected air. Around the corner at the end of Avenue Louis Pasteur, the hospital complex was a choked mass of looming buildings, narrow streets, bumper-to-bumper traffic, and teeming pedestrians. And beyond the hospitals spread the ruined streets of Roxbury, thick with suffering life. But along the meandering artery called the Fenway, from one end, where you could hear the crack of a bat in Fenway Park, to the other, wh
ere the massive tower of Sears, Roebuck dominated a tormented intersection, the sidewalks were nearly empty. Homer was alone.

  The Gardner Museum was a tall monument of pale brick with a tile roof like that of a villa on the Mediterranean. Homer walked in the front door and introduced himself to the girl at the desk.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Kelly. The trustees are meeting in the Dutch Room. Go to the right around the courtyard, then up the stairs, and right again. They’ll be expecting you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE PARTY for the benefactors was in progress in the east cloister as Homer made his way around the flowering courtyard. Hungrily he glanced at the plates of tidbits on the white tablecloths, the little cakes, the carafes of coffee, the pineapples impaled with morsels of fruit on toothpicks. But Homer had been invited to a meeting, not a party. Regretfully he climbed the stairs.

  The reception in the east cloister was only the beginning of a festive day for the benefactors of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. After their coffee and snacks, they would attend a lecture in the Tapestry Room and tour the greenhouses, then sit down to a grand luncheon in the Spanish Cloister.

  All the benefactors were wealthy men and women, but in the Renaissance mind of Titus Moon, they fitted into categories. Some of them were cultivated lovers of art whose appetite could only be fed by looking at monuments of ageless splendor, by gazing at the green faces of fourteenth-century saints, or the marble folds of Greek and Roman draperies, or the painted skies of eighteenth-century landscapes. And of course there were scholars among the benefactors, learned men and women lost in their own specialties, with strong opinions about Flemish tapestries, or new theories about the cinerary urns of ancient Rome.

  But many of the benefactors were rich women who favored the museum because it was a safe and attractive charity, worthwhile but not upsetting, unlike welfare associations or pressure groups for civil rights. In a casual way they admired the sculpture and the paintings, but best of all they loved dropping in with their friends to exclaim at the blossoming courtyard and eat lunch in the café.