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“What can I do for you?” She got up from her stool and waved the brush at the old sofa against the wall of her studio, indicating they should sit. He looked at it, his smile fading.

The sofa always reminded him of the Monty Python sketch when a man, about to be tortured in the Inquisition, was threatened with the “comfy chair.”

Dear God, he thought, not the sofa.

It was an unexpected, certainly unintended, torture, though Clara didn’t seem to see it. The springs had long since let go, so that you either hit the concrete floor or, worse, a spring.

He hovered over it for a moment, then, like a cliff diver, he committed. He felt his bottom hit the floor. It was, he admitted, the better option.

“The painting we found in the attic,” he began. “I have questions.”

She laughed. “So do I. You first.”

“Mine are technical, I think. It’s not framed, but it is on a frame. And it’s huge. How could it get up there?”

“That’s easy. The frame must’ve been assembled in the attic and the canvas tacked to it there. Look.”

She struggled to her feet, then grabbed one of her unused canvases. Turning it around, she showed him what he’d seen many times before. The canvas was folded over the wooden frame, then stapled there.

“That’s how they did it,” she said, with complete confidence. “I didn’t look at the back. Too consumed by the front, so I don’t know what they used. Staples are relatively new. Old canvases are nailed. The one in the attic, well…”

“Good, easy enough to check. The nails or staples, and the paint itself, can be dated.”

“As can the canvas. The Musée des beaux-arts in Montréal or Sherbrooke can do that for you.”

“How long would it take to paint?”

Clara smiled. “I’ve been trying to figure that out too. A canvas that size, with so much in it? So many objects and such detail? The original, the real Paston Treasure, must’ve taken many months.”

“But this isn’t the original, so whoever did it wouldn’t need to struggle with composition or details. At least, not much. Could ours be done in less time?”

“For sure. But how much less, I can’t say. Depends on the skill of the artist. From what I saw, there was considerable skill. There is another way it could’ve been done that would be even faster.”

“Go on.”

“If it’s a paint-by-number.”

Armand stared at her as though she’d gone mad. “Like what the grandchildren do?”

“Not exactly. I think if you have it examined, you’ll find a reproduction of the original Paston Treasure underneath. It’s not uncommon these days for artists to have high-resolution, digital copies made of their works. They’re called giclées.”

“Yes, I’ve seen them. They look like originals. But this is different, isn’t it?”

“In that it isn’t exactly the original, yes. I think it’s possible someone had a copy of the original printed onto an old canvas. Then they painted over it, adding new stuff, like the watch and poster. It would still take time and skill, but far less than if it was painted from scratch.”

“We think the items were put up there in the week that you and Myrna were in Charlevoix.”

Clara made a guttural sound. “I hate that thought. Must freak Myrna out too.”

Myrna was not easily freaked, but it was clearly unsettling.

Armand began rocking himself out of the sofa, but she stopped him. “Wait a minute. My turn. Why were the painting and that book Reine-Marie found and the other things put there, then sealed up? Were we meant to find that room? If you’re right, the stuff’s been there for more than a year, but the room was sealed up a hundred and sixty years ago. There must’ve been a reason back then to seal the room, and there must be a reason someone was there recently.”

Armand leaned back, lifted his legs, then in one mighty swing hoisted himself to his feet.

“I honestly don’t know why those things are there.”

“Were we meant to find them, Armand? It seems so. But if the caretaker hadn’t pointed out the roofline, we’d never have found it.”