Work Text:
It starts with a chance encounter.
In truth, the chain of events had started years earlier when Mycroft had been nothing but a young operative. But he only came to realise that much later.
The chance encounter takes place at a rather unremarkable society event, celebrating the arts and its (rich) benefactors. Mycroft seldom mixes with those circles, but it happens that the organiser is an old Oxbridge acquaintance of his who insists that Mycroft must come and see a painting that has recently been restored.
The evening promises to be as tedious as expected when Mycroft is intercepted by his friend and willingly dragged off to the first-floor gallery. His friend gushes over the remarkable restoration results, but as the man’s enthusiasm is rarely misplaced in matters of the art, Mycroft finds himself unexpectedly curious to see the oeuvre in question. He vaguely remembers it from a previous visit – an 18th-century intimate encounter by Fragonard, defaced by an ugly, yellowed varnish. The painting that is presented to him has little in common with his recollection – the pastel colours are no longer muted, the brushwork is delicate, and the (somewhat racy) scene between lovers is rendered altogether delightfully.
To Mycroft’s surprise, his host has also invited the person responsible for this feat of restoration (“l’artiste elle-même”) – they are introduced, and the pleasantly matter-of-fact woman gives him a detailed account of the process and its many challenges (her English has only the slightest French lilt). Mycroft had not known that his friend was so strapped for cash (he makes a mental note) – he must have negotiated something of a deal (the restoration work had by all accounts been long and expensive) in exchange for presenting the restorer to other prospective clients.
Mycroft does not judge (few relationships in his life are non-transactional), and, as a good opportunist, is rather pleased with the unsolicited introduction. He had all but given up on a portrait of his great-great-great-grandfather that had experienced some unfortunate damage that had been, in his view, quite poorly remedied in a past attempt. Perhaps a person with a more delicate touch might fare better.
The restorer is extremely passionate about her work, and Mycroft spends a delightful half an hour chatting with her on the principles of conservation and her work philosophy (or the pursuit of Truth and Beauty as she calls it – he can practically hear the capitals).
As Mycroft is not one to make hasty decisions, he reflects on the matter, taking another look at his ancestor and conducting a basic background check on the restorer. She apprenticed at a reputable studio in Paris and then one in London before setting up her own operation only recently (she had inherited a small amount of money). It seems that she is well-respected in the profession and that most of her clients have been extremely happy with her work. (Though apparently she does not hesitate to turn down a project when she feels that the client’s demands are contrary to her principles.)
His mind made up, Mycroft asks Anthea to arrange a meeting with the woman on her turf.
They meet one night after office hours at her studio - Mycroft brings the painting with him. She is still in her work clothes (a pair of jeans and a chemise) but has removed the full apron that usually covers them. He shows her the painting, and she inspects it, front and back, for some time, while taking notes. (Mycroft sits down at her invitation and waits.) Afterwards, she spends some time jotting down her conclusions, before rattling off the list of operations that are, in her view, required (a formal quote will take a few more days and may need to be adjusted should unforeseen complications appear).
Cost is not a concern, and Mycroft tells her so. The statement makes her right eyebrow arch, and she smiles, apparently delighted. He suspects that it has less to do with the money and more with the pursuit of Truth and Beauty - and proceeds to tell her so. Her laughter is even more delightful than her smile.
“Well then, I hope that I will be able to do your ancestor justice,” she concludes, still smiling.
She unexpectedly calls him a week into the restoration, telling him that she has run into an issue and would like to consult with him on the best way to proceed.
He finds himself agreeing to stop by at her studio at a convenient time. A couple of days later, he finds himself having dealt with all urgencies by early afternoon and, after her confirmation, asks his driver to take him to her studio again.
The portrait is laid out on a sturdy easel and looks nothing like he remembers; she explains that she has removed the old varnish as well as cleaned the painting thoroughly and removed the old layers of overpaint and fill-in material. The issue is that substantial portions of the subject’s face are now missing, with little indication as to how they might have originally looked.
This is a setback – obviously, there are no photographs of the sitter and no other paintings or drawings of the man that Mycroft knows of. The restorer is, however, first inspecting him and then the portrait, with a speculative look on her face.
“This is somewhat unorthodox, but I might actually be able to use your likeness to fill in the gaps,” she proposes. “Now that the old overpaint has been removed, your traits look rather similar.”
The resemblance is a rather remarkable (given the generations separating them), Mycroft must admit. Though he detests having his picture taken, he agrees to let her take a few photographs of him in the same ¾ pose.
Three days later, she lets him know that she has completed the restoration.
This time, Mycroft decides to invite her to his turf. His driver deposes her and the painting at his Hertfordshire home on a Friday evening, and he takes her up the staircase, passing the empty spot where the painting had hung, and onto his study, which is on the first floor (for security reasons).
The results of the restoration are better than he had dared to hope for (she seems rather giddy with excitement herself), though he finds the likeness somewhat unsettling. He might also be somewhat flattered, though he is not a vain man. She might possibly have intuited something of the matter, if her barely hidden smile is any hint.
To hide his embarrassment, he asks her for the invoice, offering to write her a cheque on the spot. She hands him an envelope and tells him there is no rush – she prefers that he has the opportunity to inspect the painting in detail and to refamiliarise himself with it before making the payment.
On Sunday, after having seen the painting in broad daylight, Mycroft is even more satisfied with the work than initially. All signs of damage and all the clumsiness of the previous restoration has been made disappear, and the restoration work blends seamlessly in with the original brushstrokes.
When he proceeds to open the invoice, he is astonished to discover that the total has been written out as nought. There is no mistake, as a handwritten note is attached: “No charge, please consider this a personal thank you on behalf of someone dear to me.”
At first, he is alarmed – the background check had clearly not been thorough enough. (At least the panic button had always been within reach.)
He dismisses the first idea that he should meet her again to hear her story - it is an unnecessary risk, though it is clear that had she wanted to harm him, she had had plenty of opportunity to try already. He therefore orders a second, more thorough background check.
It turns out that she is the daughter of a former head of a multinational crime syndicate – former, as he had been deposed personally by Mycroft during his days as a field agent. (She had spent her childhood in France - hence the accent - and had her mother’s surname.)
Mycroft suspects that it is unlikely that she holds any particular fondness for her father (there had barely been any contact, and he had had a history of violence with women, including her mother), but it is unclear as to who “the dear friend” she had referred to might be. The likeliest option would be her mother, but that does not explain how she would have known of Mycroft’s involvement in the assassination.
As Mycroft dislikes any loose ends (he might also be simply curious, though he is unlikely to admit to it), he drops in on her unannounced. She is surprised to see him standing at the door of her flat, but not surprised enough for his appearance to have been completely unexpected. She graciously invites him in and offers him a tisane.
“You’re aware that I am not hoping to avenge my father?” she asks him. “I’d prefer not to get shot.”
Though her tone is light, Mycroft can sense her fear. (So she does know that he is a dangerous man, though he doubts that she has any idea as to the full extent of his capabilities.)
He reassures her that she is in no danger and that he is merely curious as to her motivations.
She meets his eye, taking the time to choose her words. “One of my father’s bodyguards, a man called André, was very close to me. I spent much time in his company growing up.”
She continues: “He came to Paris to tell me of my father’s death. The person who’d killed my father had shot him as well – but instead of shooting to kill, had chosen to merely wound him.”
Mycroft hums non-committally. He can recall the events (the surprise on the bodyguard’s face). It had been foolish to spare the man’s life – he had apparently even known Mycroft’s name. (Another error of youth.)
“It was probably very foolish on my part to write that note,” she says. (She is surprisingly perceptive, but perhaps it is to be expected given her background.)
He chooses to bestow a rare smile on her: “Have no fear, I do appreciate the gesture. However, I would prefer that you let me write you a cheque.”
He hopes that she does not think that he is trying to buy her silence and adds, “It is the least I can do to compensate your admirable efforts in the search for Truth and Beauty.”
Her eyebrow arches, and she raises her teacup in salute: “To Truth, Beauty and Justice.”