“That means someone who buys a painting and then owns it,” Shawn muttered to Gus. “I can’t believe he missed the opportunity to explain that concept for us.”

“Sssh!” Gus hissed.

“-and there it stayed for the next one hundred and fifty years,” Kitteredge continued. “The owner, whose will continues to demand his complete anonymity, refused to allow anyone to see this picture, or even to acknowledge that it existed. And believe me, many scholars over the years tried to get a glimpse of the piece-no one harder than me, by the way. But the painting was handed down through the generations, and apparently each new heir was more fanatical about keeping it hidden than the last.”

As Kitteredge spoke he moved out into the center of the room as if he were taking over a lecture hall.

Shawn took the opportunity to whisper to Gus. “Why does he keep doing that?”

“Doing what?” Gus said.

“Throwing in little pieces of information that have nothing to do with what he’s saying, but just clutter up his speech and make it impossible to follow his point.”

“He’s brilliant,” Gus said. “That’s how geniuses talk.”

“That’s how the homeless guy who sits outside the Macy’s on State Street talks,” Shawn said. “If I’d known he was a genius, I might have dropped another quarter into his can.”

Gus redirected his attention to Kitteredge, who was preparing to launch himself back onto that sea of knowledge.

“The painting’s subject, as I’m sure you know, is a scene from a poem by Rossetti’s friend and fellow member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, William Morris,” Kitteredge said. “It takes the form of a speech by the queen to the assembled knights of Camelot in which she explains and justifies her adulterous relationship with Lancelot while she-”

During this speech Lassiter had been walking the perimeter of the room, minutely examining the scene. Now he was back in front of the curtain. “You may be here for a painting, Professor, but we are here to investigate a murder.”