Fifteen minutes later, all that was left of the hearty loaf of brown bread was a few crumbs on the wooden serving platter. Before Veronica would try it, she looked up its alcohol content online. Satisfied that there was no alcohol in the bread in spite of its grain being initially used to make beer, she ate nearly as heartily as Brixton, Ethan, and Harry.
“When did you learn how to bake bread, Nicolas?” Brixton asked as he licked strawberry preserves from his thumb.
“That’s gross, Brix.” Veronica kicked him under the table as she looked at his sticky hand.
Ethan handed Brixton a linen napkin. Brixton rolled his eyes at both of them, but wiped away the strawberry preserves with the bright white napkin.
“Perenelle and I used to live in the countryside,” Nicolas answered. “The middle of nowhere, you’d call it. It was the kind of place where you would never waste ingredients.”
“What can we do to help with this historical mystery you’re working on?” Harry asked as he carried empty plates to the sink.
The lanky young man wasn’t just being polite. Harry had grown up at the Oregon Gold History Museum that his parents ran, and he’d been interested in history since he was a young child. The interest was solidified when, at twelve years old, he was playing with a metal detector and discovered a prospector’s tools that were 150 years old.
I didn’t know Harry Cabot nearly as well as Brixton, Veronica, and Ethan. The three friends had met him last year when Harry’s family was embroiled in a mystery that began during the Gold Rush and ended with a present-day crime. At seventeen, Harry was one year older than the others. He also went to a different high school, but he and Ethan had been dating, so he could often be found with the group of friends.
Harry didn’t know Dorian was a gargoyle, but I wasn’t worried about anyone at the dining table revealing his secret. Both because Gwendolyn was there and because in case anyone slipped up and referenced Dorian being a gargoyle, Harry would rationally think they were being insensitive jerks by describing a physical deformity so crassly.
“Yeah,” said Veronica, speaking to Gwendolyn. “Tell us more about Hayden. We promise we won’t reveal anything about her being a woman until you publish your findings.”
The others added their agreement as Gwendolyn beamed at them. They’d moved her three banker’s boxes filled with research to the side of the table while they ate their afternoon snack.
“I still don’t understand how getting Zoe’s painting and an old notebook back can prove something from hundreds of years ago,” Brixton said. “I mean, won’t people just refuse to believe it?”
“It’s a good question,” said Gwendolyn. “Let me share an example with you. Judith Lester was a famous artist who lived in the Netherlands in the 1600s. She was an accomplished painter who was part of what’s known as the Dutch Golden Age, known for artists who painted realistic oil paintings of average people and settings, using dark, rich colors. Judith Leyster’s work was equal to that of the men around her.”
“But they didn’t like her work?” Brixton asked.
“Worse,” said Gwendolyn. “She painted many works of art that people loved, but after her death, her work was often attributed to either prominent artist Frans Hals or to her artist husband, Jan Miense Molenaer. But there was purposeful misattribution of her work for more than two centuries after she died.”
“How’d they find out the truth after two hundred years?” Ethan asked.
“We only know the truth,” said Gwendolyn, “because of a scandal from 1892. For historical context, Grover Cleveland was the US president that year. You probably haven’t thought of that name since you had to learn it in the fifth grade. Over in England, where this scandal takes place, it was the year Arthur Conan Doyle published The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, collecting his famous stories that had appeared in The Strand Magazine into a single collected volume.”
The professor knew how to capture the attention of young minds. None of them had reached for their phones to get a faster answer to what fate had befallen Judith Leyster.
“That year, a painting known as The Happy Couple was sold to a British art dealer. But this was no ordinary painting. It had the signature of renowned artist Frans Hals. His work was similar in style to that of Judith Leyster, but not indistinguishable. The subject matter was the first clue that something was amiss. On closer inspection, Hals’ signature in the newly sold painting looked suspicious. Yes, there was definitely something suspicious about this painting.”
Gwendolyn shifted in her seat, and everyone at the table followed the small movement with rapt attention. “When the painting was tested, it was revealed that a forged Hals signature had been added on top of Judith Leyster’s own signature. A distinctive monogram that could not be disputed. As you can imagine, a court case ensued. But here’s what I’m sure you’ll agree is the most interesting part. The art dealer who’d been tricked went to court not because of the forged signature itself, but rather, his argument was that the painting was now worthless.”
“Because it was painted by Judith instead of Frans?” Veronica asked.
Gwendolyn gave a single nod. “That ‘worthless’ painting now hangs in the Louvre.”
Veronica’s face took on the wistful expression it did whenever Paris was mentioned. “Brix, did you see it when you were in Paris?” she asked him.
“I, uh, wasn’t really sightseeing.” He fidgeted in the dining chair.
I knew Brixton wanted to forget about his ordeal in the catacombs underneath Paris, so I prompted Gwendolyn, “Don’t forget to tell them what else happened after that court case.”
The professor smiled. “The scandal forced the art world to look more critically at paintings that were most likely hers. A year later, several more paintings of hers were correctly attributed, and she’s now taken her rightful place in art history. Which is what we’re hoping to do for Philippe Hayden, who we believe chose to pretend to be a man for the opportunity to be a painter in the Court of Rudolf II in Prague.”
“That’s amazing,” said Veronica. “I mean, it’s so messed up what happened to these women, but amazing you’re going to prove the truth.”
“If following clues gives us enough of the truth,” Gwendolyn said. “We know that women in the late 1500s didn’t have the same access, the subjects and puzzles in many of Hayden’s paintings have been documented, and we have subtle clues from historical accounts of Hayden in Rudolfine Prague. But we need definitive proof first. None of it is definitive on its own, which is why we’re putting the puzzle pieces together and also looking for key pieces of evidence that prove she taught apprentices who continued to create color with her recipes and learned to paint in her style under her tutelage.”
Gwendolyn was in her element explaining what she knew. I could tell she’d been a great teacher. Whatever she’d done wrong as a young woman, she’d done so much good for the world since then.
While the kids were asking more questions, I slipped outside to let Max and Dorian know what was happening.
I sent Max a text message, because I knew if I spoke with him he’d try to talk me out of it.
I called Dorian, both because he didn’t have a cell phone and because he would never try to talk me out of investigating. On the contrary, he might convince me to do something more ridiculous than going in search of a secret society at sunset on the night of the full moon.
“But you cannot trust her!” Dorian insisted after I told him what we were doing.
“You don’t seriously think Professor Graves murdered Betty Kubiak,” I replied as calmly as I could.
“She has a hefty cane that could be used as a weapon,” he replied. “But no, I agree it is unlikely. There is also April’s death, supposedly of cardiac arrest. We must find out the true cause.”
“Max asked Detective Vega to look into if there were any suspicions about April’s death. He—” I broke off abruptly as the red and yellow leaves of a nearby Bigleaf maple tree shifted in the breeze and sunlight hit my face. The sun was lower in the sky than I thought.
“Zoe! Zoe? Mon dieu. Are you being attacked? I will call for assistance!”
“No, I—”
“I beg you,” Dorian pleaded. “Tell me what is happening.”
“I’m trying. If you’d let me talk, I’m fine. I’m worried that it’s later in the afternoon than I thought. I need to get to the museum.”