Death of an Old Master

21

Charles Augustus Pugh’s office was a temple to the existence of files. Files single, files in bundles, files with red ribbon, files with black marched in perfect order along a series of shelves that stretched up to the ceiling along three sides of the room. Two large windows looked out on to the perfectly manicured lawn of Gray’s Inn. At a large desk in the centre, also festooned with files, Pugh sat with his feet up on the desk, puffing happily at a small cheroot. His exquisite dark blue jacket was hanging languidly from the back of the chair. Across an equally exquisite waistcoat was a watch chain in very thin gold which he would finger from time to time. Pugh was about six feet tall with a Roman profile and a Roman nose that gave him a powerful air in court.

‘What have we got then,’ he asked cheerfully, ‘to smite the Philistines with? They didn’t say very much at the committal hearing, lot of stuff about motive, couple of witnesses who had seen him on the way to Montague’s flat and up the Banbury Road in Oxford. Can’t decide whether to call Buckley as a witness or not.’

‘There are any number of people who could have killed Montague,’ said Powerscourt. ‘My problem is that at the moment I don’t know which one of them did it. How long have we got before the trial?’

‘Bloody postponements,’ said Pugh. ‘You’d think when people get sent up to the Central Criminal Court, the prosecution would have sorted things out properly. But no. Two postponements in the past few days. Could be up there by the end of next week.’

‘Christ,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Right, Mr Pugh, here goes.’

‘List of suspects, then. Nothing like throwing mud in their eyes. Confuse the jury. Leave them thinking any conviction would be unsound.’

‘Number one,’ said Powerscourt, staring in amazement at the sheer number of the files. He wondered briefly if somewhere in a hot corner of the Egyptian temples some scribes had lived, surrounded with roll upon roll of papyrus, details of the construction of pyramids perhaps, carefully drawn up lists of what the current ruler wanted to take with them before they were incarcerated in their mausoleums in the sand.

‘Edmund de Courcy,’ he came back to the present, ‘possibly with the support of his partner William Alaric Piper, art dealers. Montague’s article was going to say that most of the works in their exhibition of Venetian Paintings were fakes, and some were recent forgeries. That would have been very bad for business. De Courcy may have also tried to kill me.’

He told Pugh the details of the flight down the hill from Aregno, the story of the Traitor’s Run. Pugh was writing with deceptive speed in a notebook in front of him.

‘Must be an interesting life, being an investigator, Powerscourt. Bloody sight more interesting than a monk’s life here with all these damned files, punctuated by occasional outings in front of the judge.’

‘Number two,’ Powerscourt went on.

‘Pardon me a moment, pray,’ said Pugh. ‘You don’t know if there is any evidence that de Courcy or Piper was seen in Brompton Square?’

‘No,’ said Powerscourt sadly, ‘but de Courcy did employ a Corsican at his gallery. You’ll be amazed to hear that the man has recently gone home. Family bereavement, I think. Corsicans go in for garrotting, as you know.’

Powerscourt noticed that Charles Augustus Pugh had just drawn the outline of the mountainous island on the page in front of him.

‘Pity he’s gone home,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose the Corsican authorities would be very keen on sending him back to us. Tighter than those criminal families in the East End, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Number two,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘Roderick Johnston, senior curator of Renaissance paintings at the National Gallery. There is a growing demand for people to authenticate paintings, Americans wanting to be certain they’re taking a genuine Corregio back to Cincinnati, that sort of thing. Montague’s article would have confirmed that he, Montague, was now the leading authority in Britain, if not in Europe, on the attribution of Italian paintings. End of the line for Johnston. The man’s been living above his means for years. Harridan of a wife, keen to acquire pretty houses in the Cotswolds or grand villas in the hills above Florence. Johnston had a very strong motive for wanting Montague out of the way.’

‘What sorts of sums are we talking about?’ asked Pugh. ‘Quick fifty pounds in notes? Envelopes stuffed with five hundred in cash?’

Pugh’s voice was a rich deep bass. It sounded very quiet, here in his chambers. Powerscourt imagined it could be a potent weapon in the courtroom, rising to intimidate the opposition witnesses, rising and falling as he made his final appeal to the jury.

‘Think thousands, Mr Pugh, maybe tens of thousands.’

Pugh whistled at the size of the sums.

‘Suppose you have an artist of the highest class,’ said Powerscourt, ‘a Derby winner of an artist. Let’s take Raphael. You are a dealer, Mr Pugh. This Raphael comes into your possession. You have a rich American client, keen on building up the best collection in the United States. He has a very suspicious mind – he didn’t get all his millions in steel or railroads by believing everything he’s told. You prove to me that it really is a Raphael, he says. If it’s real, remember, it might be worth seventy or eighty thousand pounds. If it’s not real, it’s virtually worthless. Enter Roderick Johnston. Or enter Christopher Montague. You, the dealer, are at their mercy, unless you already have them on the payroll. Even then, they can name their percentage of the final price. Could be ten or fifteen. I believe it has been known to go up to twenty-five for the authentication. But once you, the dealer, have it, you have the sale.’

‘And they say,’ said Pugh, ‘that lawyers are overpaid. Perish the thought. And, presumably, once you are accepted as the best authenticator around, dealers will be queuing up for your services? The money will just keep on rolling in?’

‘Exactly so,’ said Powerscourt.

Charles Augustus Pugh took his perfectly polished black boots off his desk.

‘Any more?’ he said. ‘I think we could make quite a lot of mud with those two. I just don’t know if it’s enough to get him off.’

‘There is,’ said Powerscourt. ‘There is one other candidate but I do not feel sufficiently confident to give you the details at this stage. It’s only a hunch.’

‘Would you be able to tell me in confidence? No notes in my book, no mention of it anywhere.’

Powerscourt told him. Pugh leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘God in heaven, Powerscourt, ‘he said. ‘I can see perfectly clearly why you might think that. God knows how you prove it.’

Orlando Blane and Imogen Foxe were eating their last supper. Orlando was so nervous that his hand shook as he tried to cut into the thick sausages their captors had provided. Imogen kicked him under the table. First of all they talked about horses, horses that had won the Oaks or the Derby in happier times gone by. Imogen found the potato frightfully hard to swallow – it was as if her body was refusing to do what she told it.

Imogen told him about the terrible war in South Africa, the endless sieges, beleaguered little communities of soldiers and civilians trying to eke out their rations before starvation finished them off, the British relief expeditions forever delayed by the skill of the elusive Boers who never lost a battle. They simply got back on their horses and rode away into the veldt.

Tonight Orlando and Imogen were going to escape. For days now they had never altered their routine, Imogen walking in the morning while Orlando worked at his easel, the two of them walking in the late afternoon, supper watched by their captors, then early to bed. That was particularly important in their minds. For four successive nights they had retired just as the guard came on his final patrol shortly after nine o’clock.

Their plan was to wait a couple of hours after that until the guards too had gone to sleep. Then they were going to swing themselves out of the window on a rope improvised from the stout sheets on the bed, and head for where they thought Cromer was. There must be trains, Imogen had said, early morning trains going south to Norwich. Once they reached Norwich they could head for London. Then they would be safe. So intent were they on the immediate details of their flight that they had given no thought at all to what they would do when they arrived in the capital.

Back in the Long Gallery Orlando changed into the fresh clothes Imogen had brought him from Blandford. Imogen noted with pride that they fitted him like a glove. They packed one bag between them. They peered anxiously into the wild night outside. Imogen began to make the rope of sheets that would lead them to freedom.

Johnny Fitzgerald had brought Powerscourt on a great loop of a ride that took them on to the long drive that led up to de Courcy Hall. ‘God help sailors on a night like this,’ Johnny muttered to himself as the wind rose and turned into a storm. It was whistling through the trees, their upper branches bent into fantastic arabesques by the speed of its passing. Ahead of them in the great woods at the back of the house they could hear cracks like pistol shots as branches were severed from the trunks that bore them.

‘Look, Francis,’ whispered Fitzgerald, ‘two hundred yards away you can see the stable block. I think we should leave the horses here in case they make a noise.’

They abandoned the horses and tiptoed forward, bent almost double into the wind. Snow was falling fast now, the stable block and house scarcely visible. Then they froze in their tracks. A bell was ringing, not from the church two hundred yards to their left, but from inside the ghostly features of de Courcy Hall itself. They pressed forward.

‘What, in God’s name, is that bell for, Francis? It’s well after eleven at night,’ muttered Johnny, taking shelter behind a tree.

‘I doubt very much if it’s for evening prayers in this place, Johnny. Let’s get further forward. Sounds like a general alert to me. Place isn’t on fire, is it?’ whispered Powerscourt.

Fitzgerald led them forward at a rush to the walled garden. They could just see the side of the house. Lights had been turned on. There was a lot of confused shouting of orders. Then they saw a party of four men, some with rifles, come running at the double from the front of the house and then turn left towards the woods that led to Cromer.

‘Where are the forger’s quarters, Johnny?’ whispered Powerscourt. ‘I think they must have tried to escape.’ He wondered suddenly what instructions the jailers had in case of flight. Recapture, certainly. But an escaped forger might be able to tell the tale of his endeavours with brush and glaze, locked away in de Courcy Hall. That could be very embarrassing for somebody in London. Would they rather he was dead? Like Christopher Montague? Powerscourt wondered macabrely if they had brought the garrotting wire with them, those men who had just rushed up the hill, tucked into an inside pocket. Or would they shoot the forger dead, another shooting accident in Norfolk? So unfortunate, officer, he should never have been wandering about in the field of fire.

Johnny Fitzgerald led him round to the back of the house. There were no lights on in the Long Gallery, only the snow driven in against the windows. Powerscourt thought you could see ten yards in front of your face, no more.

‘Look, Francis.’ Fitzgerald was pointing to the end window. It was still half open. An improvised rope could just be seen, dangling to the ground, the white of the sheets almost invisible in the swirling snow.

‘My God, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The birds have flown. But what a night to choose. We’d better get after them.’

Powerscourt and Fitzgerald set off up the hill. Neither had any clear idea what to do if they encountered the guards. Powerscourt suddenly remembered what Lady Lucy had said to Fitzgerald before he left for Norfolk: ‘Please check in the local guidebooks before you go, Johnny,’ she had said. ‘Make sure there aren’t strange local customs up there at this time of year. Shooting strangers for instance. I’d hate to think there’s an East Anglian version of the Traitor’s Run.’

Now they were right in the middle of it.

The first stages of the escape had gone very well. Orlando shinned down the improvised rope and laughed when his feet touched the ground. Imogen had thrown down their bag and shot down the sheets to join him. She put her finger to her lips. Hand in hand they set off up the hill, their bodies swaying together sometimes in the wind.

The snow exhilarated them at first. Imogen darted off and threw a couple of crisp snowballs at Orlando. Then they realized they couldn’t see very far. Then they felt they might be lost. The route had seemed very clear when surveyed in the daylight on afternoon walks or from the windows of the Long Gallery. Up the hill, following the line of the path. If they kept going straight after that they should reach a boundary wall. As long as they continued in the same direction they should come to the sea, they should come to Cromer, they should reach freedom. But you couldn’t see where you were going in the blizzard. They might be going back to the house itself for all they knew.

Then they heard the bell. ‘My God,’ whispered Orlando, ‘that can only mean one thing. They’re coming after us. Let’s hurry.’

Imogen wondered if their pursuers would be able to navigate any better than they could. They had reached the top of the hill. The woods were less dense on the far side. She held Orlando’s hand very tight and pressed forward into the snowstorm.

Powerscourt noticed that the four men in front had spread out in a V formation, each man no more than fifteen paces from his neighbour. He pointed it out to Fitzgerald who raised his hand in a mock salute. ‘Sergeant Major,’ muttered Johnny, ‘advance according to the drill book.’ They were deep in the woods now, the snow covering the tracks behind them. The mud rose up their boots. The snow got into their eyes, making visibility yet more difficult.

‘What’s ahead, Johnny?’ whispered Powerscourt, fearful of the fate of the escapees.

‘More woods,’ replied Fitzgerald, ‘then a wall. Trees stop just past the wall. Open country for a bit. Then over a hill and Cromer’s on the far side.’

Then the whirling of the gale was interrupted. Two shots rang out into the night. They were immediately followed by a parade ground bellow. ‘Cease firing! Bloody fool!’

One bullet caught Orlando in the thigh. It was only a flesh wound but the blood poured out of it, lying in scarlet drops that turned dark against the snow. He limped into the shelter of the last clump of trees before the open ground.

‘My love,’ whispered Imogen, ‘how bad is it? Can you walk?’

Orlando had turned as pale as the falling snow. Instinctively he held on to his wounded leg.

‘I think we should tie something round it,’ said Imogen, remembering an article she had read recently on good nursing practice. She tore one of Orlando’s new shirts into strips, as she had torn the sheet into strips a few happier hours before. They huddled together into the trees scarce daring to breathe. Thirty feet away they could hear a man floundering towards them.

Powerscourt and Fitzgerald had flung themselves to the ground when they heard the shot. Years of military training made it instinctive. They heard the order to cease fire.

Then they rose very slowly to their feet and set off up the hill. Powerscourt felt in his pocket.

‘Do you have a gun, Johnny?’ he whispered. Fitzgerald nodded. Even at six feet away he had to squint to see the nod. The snow was now lying nearly an inch thick on the ground. Some of the trees, not in direct line of the blast, were covered in snow from head to toe. Then they heard the Sergeant Major once more.

‘Twenty paces to the right,’ he shouted. ‘Twenty paces to the right. Now!’

Imogen held Orlando’s hand very tight as the man stumbled away from them towards the boundary wall. The snow was easing now, but the wind kept up its ferocious battering against the woods of de Courcy Hall.

‘They’re ahead of us now, Orlando,’ Imogen whispered into her lover’s ear, ‘they’re heading for Cromer. Can you walk?’

Orlando managed a brief hobble out of their clump of trees. He nearly fell over. He reached out for Imogen’s shoulder. The flow of blood had eased. It was now seeping slowly out of his thigh and dripping down his new trousers.

‘Christ,’ said Orlando. ‘It’s bloody painful. Maybe you could rub some snow into it. That might ease it. But I don’t think I could get as far as Cromer, not with our four friends up ahead.’ He staggered a few paces more. Imogen bent down to rub snow on to his leg. The babes in the wood were wounded now, the prospect of escape lost to a rifle shot in the dark.

‘What do you think we should do?’ asked Imogen, struck by the terrible thought that Orlando might bleed to death up here in the woods, and she would be left to drag his corpse back to the house for ignominious burial.

‘I know it’s hard, my love,’ said Orlando, wincing with the pain. ‘I think we’ve got to go back. If I can get that far.’

Limping, hobbling, tottering, staggering, occasionally falling, Orlando and Imogen set off on their return journey to de Courcy Hall.

Powerscourt and Fitzgerald halted at the boundary wall. The snow had almost stopped. The surrounding carpet of white meant you could see much further once you were out of the woods. Against this ghostly landscape they watched as the four guards made their way in regular order across the fields. They waited for about five minutes. There was no sound from up ahead, only the relentless lashing of the wind.

‘What do you think, Johnny? Should we go after them?’ said Powerscourt.

‘Why not?’ replied Fitzgerald, always eager for the chase.

‘It’s only this. If the forger and his lady had been crossing this field, we would have seen them. Or we would have heard shouts of capture.’

‘Do you think they’re dead, Francis? One bullet each?’ said Fitzgerald.

‘I don’t think so. It would be fantastic shooting to hit two people in this light. Look, why don’t we do it like this. You carry on following our four friends up there. I’ll go back to the house and get the horses. If I find the forger, well and good.’

‘Fine,’ said Fitzgerald.

Powerscourt watched his friend jump over the boundary wall and set off across the open country. He turned and began to make his way back through the woods. When he came out he noticed that he must have gone way over to the right as he was at the edge of the lake. Then he started running at full speed towards the front door. For in the snow there were footprints, two sets of them incredibly close together. The footprints made an irregular path, reeling like a pair of drunks going home, across the garden towards the main entrance. There were dark marks beside and between them. Powerscourt followed the trail that led past the Long Gallery and into the front of the house.

A trail of blood.