The Painting in the Crate. A Pounds & Sterling Short Story

By Ethan Stratmore

This short story is the first in the "Pounds & Sterling" series.
A famous art history professor had been murdered in his studio. His doctoral student, art historian Samantha Pounds, is questioned by the police, then takes up her own investigations. Soon she finds a useful clue, and presents it to medical examiner Dr. Oliver Sterling. Together they find out the background of this strange murder case, in which international smugglers and foreign trading companies are involved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ethan Stratmore
• Release date: Apr 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311897237

Ethan Stratmore

Ethan Stratmore, author and journalist, lives and works in New Guinea.

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The Painting in the Crate

A Pounds & Sterling Short Story

Ethan Stratmore

Copyright 2014 Ethan Stratmore

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The Painting in the Crate

The whole story began when those policemen called upon the art historian Samantha Pounds to inform her that Le Professeur had been killed in his studio. Of course, they didn’t just inform her out of sheer kindness, for she wasn’t next of kin to Le Professeur, nor even as closely related as, let’s say, his housekeeper. But it seemed she’d been the last person to see him alive. And that’s how Miss Pounds got to make the acquaintance of Dr. Oliver Sterling.

The uniforms took Samantha to the studio in Walter Street she knew so well, having had oh so many vivid discussions there with Le Professeur, that’s how all of his students used to call Professor Henri Dubonnet, the renowned expert on French Impressionists. Not that he hadn’t had any knowledge besides that, on the contrary. He had been one of those old-fashioned polymaths who are not only excellent in their own subject, in his case, art history, but he also had been a great resource of knowledge also in general and cultural histories, even natural history, then, of course, philosophy, geography, linguistics, and what not. So, as you may assume, Samantha was trembling when she and the police entered the suburban cottage where Le Professeur had conducted his studies, where he lived, worked and unfortunately, where he also had been killed.

There he half sat, half lay in an awkward position in the rear corner of the room, his head bent to his right shoulder and all covered in blood, even his long white beard was full of it. Samantha had to quickly turn away her head, dutifully nodding a brief yes of recognition to the officers, then silently letting her tears flow.

The walls in this studio, although bathed in sunlight, seemed to be dark and sombre to her now, the paintings Le Professeur worked on, to evaluate their authenticity, or to inspect and restore them - all those merry impressionist colours seemed to blur and fade away, seemed to mourn themselves, having lost one of their greatest admirers. All over the room was an unusual gloom she had never encountered in Le Professeur’s lifetime, every time she had been here before the room was alive with joyful chatter and intellectual debate. Now all sounds were muffled, she was not quite sure if it were her own senses that had been numbed by this new experience of losing a dear professor, or if the room itself was mourning.

Well then, what do we have here? Her musings were suddenly interrupted by a melodious male voice, belonging to a gentleman who had just arrived through the studio’s small side door, half hidden behind a very good copy of a Seurat. The guy was tall and dark-haired, and had something of a dandy, but also an air of professionalism, a somewhat impeccable manner, in his immaculate bluish-black pinstripe suit, off-white shirt and perfectly matching tie. Even through the veil of her tears she could see