Silhouette in Scarlet

ELIZABETH PETERS
was born and brought up in Illinois. She is a prolific and successful novelist with over fifty novels to her credit and is
internationally renowned for her mystery stories. Mrs Peters lives in a historic farmhouse in Frederick, Maryland, with six cats and one dog.

New York Times Book Review

Maxim Jakubowski,
Guardian

Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

First published by Avon Books, 2000

This UK paperback edition published by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2007

Copyright © Elizabeth Peters, 2000, 2007

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-84529-531-8
eISBN: 978-1-78033-453-0

Printed and bound in the EU

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

To Paula and Jim

was more than music
,

And bread I broke with

you was more than bread

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter One

T
HIS TIME IT WASN’T MY FAULT.

On several previous occasions I have found myself up to my neck in trouble (and that’s pretty high up, because
I am almost six feet tall), -which might have been avoided if I had displayed a little ladylike discretion. This time, however, I was innocent of everything except stupidity. They say some people
attract trouble. I attract people who attract trouble.

Take Herr Professor Dr Schmidt, for instance. You wouldn’t think to look at him that he could be so dangerous. Physically he’s a combination of the Wizard of Oz and Santa Claus
– short, chubby, disgustingly cute. Intellectually he ranks as one of the world’s greatest historians, respected by all his peers. Emotionally . . . Ah, there’s the rub. The
non-professional parts of Schmidt’s brain are permanently frozen at fourteen years of age. He thinks of himself as D’Artagnan, James Bond, Rudolf Rassendyll, Clint Eastwood, and Cyrano
de Bergerac, all rolled into one. This mental disability of Schmidt has been partially responsible for propelling me into a number of sticky situations.

Yet Schmidt’s profession, which is also mine, sometimes requires its practitioners to enter a world far removed from the ivory towers of academia. He’s the director of the National
Museum in Munich; I work under him, specializing in art history. Nothing duller or more peaceful than a museum? Tell that to any museum director and listen to him giggle hysterically.

There is a flourishing black market in stolen art objects, from historic gems to great paintings. Murph the Surf, who lifted the Star of India from New York’s American Museum of Natural
History in 1964, was a veritable amateur compared to modern thieves, who have to contend with closed-circuit television, ultrasonic waves, photoelectric Systems, and other science-fiction-type
devices. They contend admirably. According to one estimate, seventy-five per cent of all museums suffer at least one major theft per year.

Sometimes the stolen masterpieces are held for ransom. Insurance companies don’t like to publicize the amounts they shell out for such purposes, but when you consider the prices even
second-rate Great Masters are bringing at auction these days, you can see that this branch of the trade pays very well. Other treasures simply vanish. It is believed that criminal organizations
such as the Mafia are investing heavily in ‘hot’ art, storing it up like gold and silver coins. And there are private collectors who like to sit in their hidden, air-conditioned vaults
gloating over beauty that is theirs alone.

It’s no wonder museum directors sleep badly, and worry a lot.

Which has nothing to do with the present case. It wasn’t my job, or my tendency to interfere in other people’s business that led me astray this time. It was one man. And I should
have known better.

It rains a lot in southern Germany. That’s why the Bavarian countryside is so lush and green. In bright sunshine Munich is one of the world’s gayest and most
charming cities. Under dull grey skies it is as dismal as any other town. This spring had been even wetter than usual. (They say that every spring.) As I stood waiting for the bus one evening in
late May, I felt that I had seen enough water to last me for a long while. My umbrella had a hole in it, and rain was trickling down the back of my neck. I had stepped in a puddle crossing
Tegernsee Allee, and my expensive new Italian sandals were soggy wrecks. A sea of bobbing, shiny-wet umbrellas hemmed me in. Since most Munichers, male and female, are shorter than I am, the
streaming hemispheres were almost all on my eye level, and every now and then a spoke raked painfully across the bridge of my nose. Italy, I thought. Capri, with a blue, blue sea splashing onto
white sand. My vacation wasn’t due until July. I decided to move it up.

Naturally, the package arrived that evening. Some people have a diabolical sense of timing. Even the weather cooperates with them.

The rest of the mail was the usual dull collection, plus the weekly letter from my mother, which I wasn’t exactly aching to read. It would contain the usual repetitive news about her
bridge club and her recipes, plus the usual veiled hints about how I ought to be settling down. My birthday was rapidly approaching – never mind which one – as far as Mom is concerned,
every birthday after the twenty-first is a step down the road to hopeless spinsterdom. I kept sending her carefully expurgated descriptions of my social life, but I couldn’t expect her to
understand why marriage was the last thing I wanted. She and Dad have been like Siamese twins for over forty years.

Before I could read the mail or divest myself of my wet clothes I had to deal with Caesar. He is a souvenir of a former misadventure of mine, in Rome, and there were times when I wished I had
brought back a rosary blessed by the Pope or a paper-weight shaped like the Colosseum, instead of an oversized, overly affectionate dog. Caesar is a Doberman – at least he looks like a
Doberman. Like Schmidt’s, his personality doesn’t match his appearance. He is slobberingly naive and simpleminded. He likes everybody, including burglars, and he dotes on me. He has
cost me a small fortune, not only in food, but in extras, such as housing. Even if I had the heart to confine a horse-sized dog to a small apartment, there wasn’t a landlord in the city inane
enough to rent to me. So I had a house in the suburbs. The bus ride took almost an hour twice a day.

I let Caesar out and let him in, and fed him, and let him out and dried him off. Then I settled down with the mail and a well-deserved glass of wine.

I opened the package first, noting, with only mild interest, that I was not the first to open it. German customs, I assumed. The stamps were Swedish, the address was in neat block printing, and
the return address, required on international parcels, was that of a hotel in Oslo.

Swedish stamps, Oslo address, anonymous printing – that should have warned me, if there were anything in this business of premonitions. There isn’t. I was still only mildly curious
when I opened the box. But when I saw the contents – one perfectly shaped crimson rose – my blood pressure soared.

It had been over a year since I had seen John – almost three years since the red rose had been mentioned. But I had good cause to remember it.

‘One red rose, once a year.’ He hadn’t said it, I had. At Leonardo da Vinci Airport, as I was leaving for Munich and John was leaving for parts unknown, with, as he quaintly
put it, the police of three countries after him. John was another souvenir of that Roman adventure, and he had turned out to be even more inconvenient than Caesar. I had seen him once in the
intervening time. We had spent three days together in Paris. On the third night he had departed out of the window of the hotel room while I slept, leaving behind a suitcase full of dirty clothes,
an unpaid hotel bill, and a tender, charming note of farewell. My fury was not mitigated when I learned, from a sympathetic but equally infuriated inspector of the Sûreté, of the
reason for his precipitate departure. They had waited until morning to close in on him, feeling sure – said the inspector, with a gallant Gallic bow – that he would be settled for the
night.