Death of an Old Master

8

Lord Francis Powerscourt stared in disbelief at the paintings on the walls of Sir Frederick Lambert’s office. They had been changed around since his last visit. Powerscourt found himself wondering if Lady Lucy had a secret contract to rearrange the furniture here too, popping over from Markham Square to switch round the paintings in the President’s office. Hector being dragged round the walls of Troy had disappeared. It had been replaced by an even vaster canvas. In the courtyard of a huge palace servants were rushing towards the centre and placing household objects on a pyre. A magnificent bed was being brought out of a courtyard towards it. Hiding behind a pillar upstairs a distraught Queen stared down below. A courtier was whispering in her ear. In the bottom left a huge man, clad only in a loincloth, his dark skin glistening with oil, was carrying a flaming torch towards the pyre. Dido, one-time lover of Aeneas, reigning Queen of Carthage, was preparing her own immolation.

‘Happens every month, Powerscourt.’ Sir Frederick had observed Powerscourt looking at the walls with amused interest. ‘We change the paintings round. Get fed up with looking at the same thing, even if you’ve painted it yourself. Maybe especially if you’ve painted it yourself.’

‘A very dramatic work, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt politely.

Sir Frederick looked rather ill. His huge frame seemed to be collapsing inwards. The suit was now several sizes too large. The great moustache was still perfectly trimmed but it was drooping. He looked at Powerscourt’s letter on his desk.

‘Let me begin with these art dealers you asked about, Lord Powerscourt.’ He paused and looked up at the pyre on the opposite wall, wondering perhaps about his own more peaceful obsequies. ‘What you must realize about these art dealers is that they are in a permanent state of conflict and competition with each other. Clarke’s and Capaldi’s have been around a long time, of course. De Courcy and Piper are new. I believe de Courcy spends most of his time wandering round the great country houses looking for people who are almost bankrupt but could be saved by selling some of the Old Masters on their walls.’ Sir Frederick shook his head sadly. ‘Capaldi’s have a member of staff whose main job is to read the obituaries in all the major newspapers looking for families who may have to sell up.’

‘What about the people who work in these places?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘What manner of people are they?’

‘I wish I could say that they were all devoted lovers of art, Powerscourt. Some of the people at the top are very knowledgeable, of course. For the rest they are just salesmen, but salesmen disguised beneath the finest suits and shirts of Jermyn Street. Younger sons who failed the army examinations – can you imagine? – are quite prevalent. They sound convincing. They look good. They learn the patter and the patois. One of Capaldi’s most successful operatives used to sell central heating systems to the aristocracy. But often, the porters who carry the pictures in and out of the building know more than the salesmen.’

‘What about the Americans?’ asked Powerscourt, surprised at the cynicism of such a leading artistic figure as the President of the Royal Academy. He supposed it came with experience.

‘The Americans, my dear Powerscourt, may be starting the biggest change in the art market in living memory.’ Sir Frederick paused as he was racked by a terrible coughing fit. His face turned red. He was obviously in considerable discomfort. Powerscourt wondered how long he had left to live. Lambert waved away his sympathy.

‘Sorry, Powerscourt. It’s part of my illness. Now then, these Americans. They bring enormous amounts of money. I suspect we may be at the very beginning of the biggest buying spree in history. The New World is returning to carry off the artistic heritage of the Old. For the dealers, the opportunities are huge.’

Sir Frederick’s face had faded now. The red had turned into a chalky white, the eyes sinking into his head.

‘Two last things, Sir Frederick, before I take my leave,’ said Powerscourt. ‘This magazine that Christopher Montague was going to found with Jason Lockhart of Clarke’s. What would the purpose be?’

Sir Frederick laughed. It sounded as if another coughing fit might overcome him. ‘War, in Clausewitz’ words, is merely the continuation of politics by other means. The magazine would be the same sort of thing, a vehicle for Clarke’s to rubbish their opponents, the genuineness of their paintings, the reliability of their attributions. No doubt the other two dealers would shortly have to start magazines of their own. Very good for the printers, no doubt, but unlikely to advance the cause of art.’

‘My last question concerns the private affairs of Christopher Montague, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I now know the Christian name of the woman concerned. She was called Rosalind. But I have no surname. Would you, by any chance, have a letter written by Montague? A signature perhaps? An example of his handwriting would be very helpful.’

Sir Frederick looked closely at Powerscourt. He looked as though he might be about to ask how the handwriting could help. But he didn’t. He rummaged about in the drawers of his enormous desk.

‘This should serve, I think.’ He handed over an envelope addressed to himself. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is Montague’s hand. I presume you would like to keep it.’

Suddenly Powerscourt felt absolutely certain that Sir Frederick Lambert knew the full name of the mysterious Rosalind. But, for reasons of honour or personal loyalty, he was not prepared to say.

‘Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘forgive me if I sound arrogant when I say that it should only take me a couple of days to discover the surname of this unfortunate lady. I know that you feel bound by honour and human decency to guard the secrets of your colleagues. I respect you for that.’ Powerscourt was trying to cut off Lambert’s escape routes. ‘But we are dealing with murder here. Garrotting may be the work of a professional assassin, hired by a person or persons unknown. The killer or killers may strike again. If, by any chance, you know the surname of this Rosalind, I beg you to tell me. I know it may have unfortunate consequences for the lady in question, but there are more important considerations than the manners and conventions of society. It may save lives.’

Powerscourt stopped. Then he went on quite suddenly, ‘I do not need to tell you, Sir Frederick, that the name would be treated with the utmost discretion.’

Sir Frederick Lambert looked sadly at Dido’s palace, shortly to be engulfed by the flames. He did not look Powerscourt in the eye but stared at his painting, as if he wanted to improve it.

‘Mrs Rosalind Buckley,’ he said very quietly. Powerscourt had to strain to catch the address. ‘64 Flood Street, Chelsea.’

William Alaric Piper was waiting for the American millionaire William P. McCracken in his office in Old Bond Street. Piper was wearing a dark blue pinstripe today over a cream silk shirt with a single rose in his buttonhole. The black shoes were polished to perfection. Eight days had passed since McCracken had offered him eighty thousand pounds for the Raphael Madonna. Piper had told McCracken that he had another buyer with the first refusal on the painting, that McCracken would have to wait.

And what a wait it had been. The American had grown increasingly impatient. At first the letters to Piper from the Piccadilly Hotel had come only twice a day. Then they turned into a flood, four, five, six, or even seven. Piper did not reply to any of them. McCracken began to call at the gallery in person. Mr Piper was not available. Mr Piper was at a meeting on the other side of town. Mr Piper was in the country. Mr Piper was at the National Gallery.

William Alaric Piper had indeed been to the National Gallery, in his brown check suit, three days before. The gallery were most flattered that de Courcy and Piper were prepared to give them the first refusal on Raphael’s Holy Family. They regretted that they were unable to offer more than seventy thousand pounds. The claims on the public purse, Mr Piper must understand, were many and various. The gallery director did not mention that an election was in the offing. Politicians were always reluctant to spend large sums on paintings before the voters went to the polls. It left them open to charges of extravagance, of wasting taxpayers’ money on foreign fripperies, sometimes scantily clad. The director wondered if the dealers would ever work out that the best time to tempt the National Gallery was in the period immediately following an election. Any purchases then would be forgotten by the time of the next one.

So Piper had resolved to put McCracken out of his misery. He knew the American was hooked. Once McCracken felt this overwhelming need, this passion for purchasing the Raphael, he could be lured into other purchases in years to come. McCracken looked perfectly healthy to Piper. Suppose he sold him two or three paintings a year at these sort of prices. A quarter of a million pounds a year. Two and a half million over ten. Five million pounds over twenty years. Piper would have to get hold of the paintings, of course, but two and a half million pounds profit out of one client over twenty years sounded rather good to Piper. And McCracken must have friends. Rich friends whose social jealousy might be aroused by the beautiful paintings on McCracken’s walls. Maybe McCracken would build a little gallery as an extension to his vast mansion.

Now William Alaric Piper faced a dilemma. McCracken had offered him eighty thousand pounds, cash, not stock, he remembered. Piper was always doubtful about American stock. Cash was safer. He felt sure that McCracken would go to a hundred thousand, maybe even a hundred and twenty, to secure the Holy Family. He could say his other potential client had raised his offer. Tempting, very tempting.

There was a knock on the door. William P. McCracken, in a blue check suit, shook Piper warmly by the hand. ‘Why, Mr Piper,’ he said, ‘I reckon it would be easier to get to see the President of the United States than it is to see you!’

‘Do you see your President often, Mr McCracken?’ said Piper with a smile.

‘Sometimes I have to see him when I feel my competitors are being unreasonable, Mr Piper,’ said McCracken, taking out a gigantic cigar. ‘And I usually see him six months before an election in case he needs any help with his campaign funds. But what of the Raphael, Mr Piper? I don’t mind telling you that I’ve lost more sleep about that painting than I ever did over the purchase of the Boston to Hartford railroad three years ago. And that could have left me a broken man!’

‘The Raphael is yours, Mr McCracken. I managed, not without some difficulty, to persuade my other client to withdraw. I have had to promise him something very special in return. And I had to agree a slight increase in the purchase price, unlikely to trouble a serious collector like yourself. For eighty-five thousand pounds in cash, Mr McCracken, one of the world’s most beautiful paintings is yours. I must say I envy you. The thought of being able to look at that Raphael every day for the rest of my life, in the morning sunlight, in the heat of the day, in the afternoon shadows, would fill me with such joy.’

William P. McCracken pumped Piper’s hand in a vigorous embrace. ‘From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Mr Piper,’ he said. ‘Why, we should celebrate. Let me take you out for a bottle of champagne!’

Piper pleaded the press of business. But he did agree to dinner at the Beaufort Club that evening. ‘Looking to the future,’ said Piper, ‘I cannot promise, Mr McCracken. But I believe I may shortly have something which would interest you. It may come to nothing, but the work is divine.’

‘I’d be very interested in any future propositions, Mr Piper.’

William Alaric Piper leaned back in his chair. ‘Let me offer a word of advice, now you have joined the ranks of the great collectors, Mr McCracken. As you know, there is no possible parallel between the world of business and the world of art. But a great businessman, a great industrialist such as yourself, will have a balanced portfolio of investments, not only railroads but steel, not only steel but mining and exploration, not only mining and exploration but banking and property and so on. When one goes down, the other goes up. In the same way the great collectors hold a wide variety of the great Masters in their portfolios. Not only Raphaels but perhaps Giovanni Bellinis from the great days of Venice, Gainsboroughs maybe, Holbeins, Van Dycks, some of the great Rembrandts.’

Piper did not mention that he had two Rembrandts in his basement which Mr McCracken’s compatriots refused to buy because they were too dark.

‘What might you get your hands on soon?’ asked McCracken.

‘It is a Gainsborough, Mr McCracken. A Gainsborough of the very highest quality.’

McCracken searched his memory. He found it hard to remember the names of the painters. ‘Gainsborough the guy who did all those aristocrats in their country parks? Lots of real estate behind them?’

‘How right you are, Mr McCracken,’ Piper smiled. ‘Absolutely correct.’ And, he said to himself, I shall certainly drink a glass of champagne with you this evening. The Gainsborough, after all, was something very special.

Lady Lucy intercepted her husband as he was hanging up his coat in Markham Square. ‘Francis,’ she whispered, ‘that young man from the gallery is here. He’s waiting for you upstairs.’

‘Is he a nice young man, Lucy?’ asked Powerscourt with a smile. ‘Why are you whispering?’ Powerscourt was at the bottom of the stairs now. Lady Lucy put her hand on his arm.

‘It’s Christopher Montague, Francis.’

‘What about him?’ said her husband, his mind already engaged with Jason Lockhart of Clarke’s Gallery, presumably sitting peacefully in the Powerscourt drawing room.

‘It’s this.’ Lady Lucy’s whisper was even quieter now. ‘Somebody left Christopher Montague a great deal of money about six months before he died.’

‘Did they indeed?’ said Powerscourt, fresh avenues of investigation opening up before him. ‘How do you know?’

‘I bumped into a cousin of mine coming out of the shops in Sloane Square. I’d been buying clothes for the children. Sarah, you know Sarah, Francis, you met her at Jonathan’s wedding a couple of years ago, she said everybody in the family knew about it.’

Jason Lockhart of Clarke’s Gallery was sitting nervously on the sofa. He was about thirty-five years old, wearing a dark blue suit with a white shirt and a discreet tie. ‘Lord Powerscourt,’ he said, ‘I came as soon as I could when I received your note. My apologies to your wife for arriving before you had returned. How can I help you in your inquiries?’

‘You were going to start a magazine, I believe,’ said Powerscourt, thinking about Lockhart’s voice. He sounded very like most of the other inhabitants of Old Bond Street but there was something wrong about the vowels. ‘With Christopher Montague. What can you tell me about it?’

‘It was going to be called The Rembrandt,’ said Lockhart, ‘a magazine for the art connoisseur.’

‘And what about the article by Christopher Montague, Mr Lockhart? Did you read it?’

‘I did not,’ said Jason Lockhart, ‘but I knew what it was going to say.’ Powerscourt waited. ‘The article was going to be called “Fakes and Forgeries in Venetian Painting”. It was based on the exhibition that recently opened at the de Courcy and Piper Gallery. There are something like thirty-two paintings supposed to be by Titian. Christopher thought only two, maybe three, were genuine. Fifteen Giorgiones, only four by the master. Twelve Giovanni Bellinis, only one by the hand of Bellini himself.’

Master, thought Powerscourt, returning to Lockhart’s voice, master spoken with a very short a. Somewhere in the north of England? Yorkshire perhaps?

‘Forgive me,’ said Powerscourt with a smile, ‘forgive me for asking such a stupid question. But how does a gallery like yours or de Courcy and Piper know whether a painting is genuine or not?’

Jason Lockhart laughed. ‘That’s just the point, Lord Powerscourt. The gallery finds as many works of Titian or Giorgione as it can. It arranges with the owners to lend them to the exhibition, to be returned or sold afterwards. The gallery always accepts the attribution of the lenders. If the Duke of Tewkesbury says his Titian is a Titian, then the gallery accepts that it is, indeed, a Titian. There’s always a clause in the small print of the catalogue that all attributions are the owners’ not the gallery’s. That lets the gallery off the hook.’

Powerscourt had decided that the original accent, now heavily overladen with the upper crust of Mayfair, was definitely Yorkshire. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So the Christopher Montague article would have been a bombshell. It would have offended everybody, the owners, the galleries, the dealers, the purchasers who would not have known whether they had bought the real thing or a fake.’

‘Exactly,’ said Lockhart. ‘There was absolutely nothing else that could have offended so many people so deeply.’

‘Would de Courcy and Piper have been hardest hit,’ asked Powerscourt, ‘seeing that it was their exhibition that was being torn to pieces?’

‘Initially, yes,’ admitted Lockhart. ‘They would have been very hard hit. But it wouldn’t have taken long for it to emerge that every other gallery behaved in exactly the same way.’

‘And what of your position in your own gallery?’ said Powerscourt, his mind racing. ‘Would your employers have been pleased that you were associated with such a venture?’

‘They knew all about it,’ said Lockhart. ‘I suspect they thought it might be enough to force de Courcy and Piper out of business altogether. All’s fair in love and war in Old Bond Street, Lord Powerscourt, believe me.’

Powerscourt remembered the Italian books Christopher Montague had taken out of the London Library or ordered from elsewhere. ‘What did the article say about the false Titians, Mr Lockhart? That they were bought on the Grand Tour, and the buyers were deceived by unscrupulous dealers?’

Lockhart looked at a painting of the lower Himalayas on Powerscourt’s wall, purchased since his return from India. Powerscourt wondered if he was going to pronounce it a forgery.

‘Christopher thought that was where most of them had come from,’ he said. ‘But there was something else. Christopher intended to say that at least three, if not four, of the paintings on display were very recent forgeries. That would have caused a sensation.’

‘And what of these Americans, the very rich ones who have been buying works of art at a fairly rapid rate lately? Have they all been taken in? Have they spent their thousands of dollars on junk?’

‘God knows, Lord Powerscourt, God only knows.’

One thing struck Powerscourt with absolute certainty as he showed Jason Lockhart out of his house. The real beneficiary, the absolute winner out of the whole affair would have been Christopher Montague himself. His second book was about to come out. His article destroyed the provenance of most of the Venetian masterpieces in England. Who could a poor purchaser turn to in order to be sure that his Veronese was genuine? That his Tintoretto wasn’t a forgery? That his Giorgione wasn’t a fake? Why, the expert was at hand. Christopher Montague is your man. Powerscourt wondered how much he would charge for verifying the attribution of the masterpieces. Ten per cent? Fifteen? Twenty-five? He might have inherited a large sum in the past six months, but he was about to become richer yet. Much richer. Was there somebody else in the London art world who enjoyed this position of Attributer in Chief at present? Would such a somebody want Montague dead?