The meeting room at the National Gallery looked temporary and expensive, the way pop-up rooms do. Mercer stood when I walked in. The woman beside him didn't. She had a folder and a pen and a way of not smiling that said she worked with problems, not people.
“Head of Collections,” she said. No name. Just the job.
I sat. “You wanted my ear.” “We want your eye,” she said. “We're mounting a show on Victoria's early reign. One centrepiece has a pause in the paperwork — 1838 to 1840. It's not fatal, but it's a weakness. Our lenders and counsel will sleep better if that seam is stitched.”
“Type of object?” “A court portrait.” She glanced at the folder. “Attribution is sound. Movement in the early years is not. There's a family note — useless. A dealer ledger — partial. Then nothing. The first solid record is later than we'd like.”
“And you need it closed before the press view,” I said. “Before the facility reports start circulating,” she said. “Rumours travel faster than trucks.”
“What have you tried?” “The formal routes,” she said. “Auction archives, dealer archives, Art Loss register, family papers, two county records offices, three private curators, and a junior who can read six kinds of Victorian hand and hates us for it.”
“Scope?” “Eight weeks,” she said. “Earlier if you can. Written updates every fortnight. Paper trails only — no heroics.”
I nodded and let the room go quiet. “I need forty-eight hours,” I said. “To map the route and price the risk.”
She closed the folder. “You have it. And Mr Breidenthal — no shopping lists. We don't want to know how you work, only what you find.”