Read Online The Devil Inside Her by Catherine DeVore - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine DeVore
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“And lest you find yourself too concerned, let me reassure you, Daniel,” Whitmore said smoothly, folding his bony, white hands. “I am only a collector, nothing more.”
I considered, regarding the elderly man. The request was not the type I usually accepted, but Edmund Whitmore was a wealthy man and his initial offer had been more than enough to catch my attention. “Alright,” I said, sighing inwardly. “Tell me about the job.”
“ Lucifer’s Rise was painted in 1693 by a woman called Penelope Smythe with no previous painting experience,” Whitmore told me, steepling his skeletal fingers. “It was the only thing she ever painted. She was put on trial for witchcraft and executed shortly after its completion. The painting vanished during the trial and has not been seen since.”
“And you think I can find it? I’m not a magician, Whitmore,” I said, shaking my head.
“I don’t expect you to be. I have a lead in Istanbul,” Whitmore told him. “Word on the grapevine is a woman by the name of Heather Roman found the painting amidst her late grandfather’s possessions. It is my belief that she will sell the painting. I want you to track her down and make her an offer.”
“If she refuses?”
Whitmore’s grin was like a crust of ice on a riverbank. “You will see that she does not.”
My lips tightened slightly. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. “One more thing, then. How will I know it’s the right painting?” I asked. “You said it was lost in the 1600s. What does it even look like?”
“The subject matter is, simply put, Lucifer,” Whitmore said. “You will know it is Lucifer’s Rise because of three things. First, the signature in the lower right-hand corner, which should match Smythe’s from her confession to witchcraft. Second, the painting is said to have a specific seal from a rare version of the Goetic text The Lesser Key of Solomon embedded in the paint on the lower left-hand corner. This particular seal is very rarely seen even in authentic occult work.” Whitmore slid a sheet of paper and a metal coin over to me. The paper scrap, thick as flannel, bore the scrawled signature of one Penelope Smythe. The coin was stamped with a crude circular seal that inexplicably made my skin crawl. “Treat these well,” Whitmore cautioned. “They are both authentic relics and they are both irreplaceable.”
I arranged the papers neatly and slid them into my folio, taking great care to keep them unwrinkled. “And the third thing?”
“It is said that there is an unmistakable aura surrounding the painting,” Whitmore said solemnly. “The legend says that Penelope Smythe painted the devil’s portrait from life, and that he left his mark on it.”
“Sounds like superstition to me.”
“It may well be,” he agreed. “But who knows? In that case, the seal and the signature should be enough. Thank you, Daniel, here are your tickets, hotel vouchers, and all the information on Smythe’s trial. I hope to hear from you soon.”
####
I flew out to Istanbul the following morning, settling into my spacious first class seat thanks to Edmund Whitmore’s generous advance. Lowering the tray table over my lap, I opened Whitmore’s packet on Penelope Smythe’s trial. It was morbid stuff; it seemed to me that in the modern day, Miss Smythe would have been diagnosed with a mental illness. Instead, she had been burned alive for believing that the devil had come to her. There wasn’t much information pertaining to the painting itself, but I knew from experience that even seemingly useless details could be the difference between locating the painting or failing completely.
I was mulling over the testimonies from Smythe’s trial when somebody settled into the unoccupied seat next to me. Puzzled, I turned to see a stunning woman with pale blonde hair sitting beside me. Her face was so angular she almost seemed severe, but her beauty was remarkable. “Can I help you?” I asked,
I considered, regarding the elderly man. The request was not the type I usually accepted, but Edmund Whitmore was a wealthy man and his initial offer had been more than enough to catch my attention. “Alright,” I said, sighing inwardly. “Tell me about the job.”
“ Lucifer’s Rise was painted in 1693 by a woman called Penelope Smythe with no previous painting experience,” Whitmore told me, steepling his skeletal fingers. “It was the only thing she ever painted. She was put on trial for witchcraft and executed shortly after its completion. The painting vanished during the trial and has not been seen since.”
“And you think I can find it? I’m not a magician, Whitmore,” I said, shaking my head.
“I don’t expect you to be. I have a lead in Istanbul,” Whitmore told him. “Word on the grapevine is a woman by the name of Heather Roman found the painting amidst her late grandfather’s possessions. It is my belief that she will sell the painting. I want you to track her down and make her an offer.”
“If she refuses?”
Whitmore’s grin was like a crust of ice on a riverbank. “You will see that she does not.”
My lips tightened slightly. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. “One more thing, then. How will I know it’s the right painting?” I asked. “You said it was lost in the 1600s. What does it even look like?”
“The subject matter is, simply put, Lucifer,” Whitmore said. “You will know it is Lucifer’s Rise because of three things. First, the signature in the lower right-hand corner, which should match Smythe’s from her confession to witchcraft. Second, the painting is said to have a specific seal from a rare version of the Goetic text The Lesser Key of Solomon embedded in the paint on the lower left-hand corner. This particular seal is very rarely seen even in authentic occult work.” Whitmore slid a sheet of paper and a metal coin over to me. The paper scrap, thick as flannel, bore the scrawled signature of one Penelope Smythe. The coin was stamped with a crude circular seal that inexplicably made my skin crawl. “Treat these well,” Whitmore cautioned. “They are both authentic relics and they are both irreplaceable.”
I arranged the papers neatly and slid them into my folio, taking great care to keep them unwrinkled. “And the third thing?”
“It is said that there is an unmistakable aura surrounding the painting,” Whitmore said solemnly. “The legend says that Penelope Smythe painted the devil’s portrait from life, and that he left his mark on it.”
“Sounds like superstition to me.”
“It may well be,” he agreed. “But who knows? In that case, the seal and the signature should be enough. Thank you, Daniel, here are your tickets, hotel vouchers, and all the information on Smythe’s trial. I hope to hear from you soon.”
####
I flew out to Istanbul the following morning, settling into my spacious first class seat thanks to Edmund Whitmore’s generous advance. Lowering the tray table over my lap, I opened Whitmore’s packet on Penelope Smythe’s trial. It was morbid stuff; it seemed to me that in the modern day, Miss Smythe would have been diagnosed with a mental illness. Instead, she had been burned alive for believing that the devil had come to her. There wasn’t much information pertaining to the painting itself, but I knew from experience that even seemingly useless details could be the difference between locating the painting or failing completely.
I was mulling over the testimonies from Smythe’s trial when somebody settled into the unoccupied seat next to me. Puzzled, I turned to see a stunning woman with pale blonde hair sitting beside me. Her face was so angular she almost seemed severe, but her beauty was remarkable. “Can I help you?” I asked,
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