Death of an Old Master

22

Orlando Blane was lying on the sofa in the Long Gallery. Imogen knelt beside him, washing the blood from his leg, a new bandage ready to wrap round his thigh. On the easel behind him, the outlines of his Giovanni Bellini stood perfectly still. There was a pale light, reflected from the snow outside.

‘Imogen, I’m so sorry,’ said Orlando. ‘If I hadn’t got shot we might have made it to Cromer.’

‘Don’t worry about that.’ Imogen stopped work on his leg to wipe the sweat from Orlando’s brow. The tottering journey down from the woods had left him exhausted. His face was pale, his skin totally white.

‘The worst thing is this,’ he said, ‘you were only allowed to come because they were pleased with me. Now they won’t be pleased with me at all. They’ll send you away first thing in the morning.’ Tears began rolling slowly down the pallor of his face.

‘Don’t cry, my love, please don’t cry.’ Imogen stroked his hand, wondering what would happen to him if he didn’t see a doctor very soon.

‘I wonder what they’ll do to me,’ said Orlando very quietly, taking Imogen’s hand into his own, ‘what the punishment will be for trying to escape. Maybe I’ll be locked up here for years and years. Maybe I’ll never see you again.’

This was more than Imogen could bear. She busied herself with the new bandage on Orlando’s thigh, her tears dropping softly on the floorboards. Overhead they could hear the rats on night patrol, scurrying round on the floor above.

Then they heard footsteps coming along the corridor.

‘Maybe we have to say goodbye now,’ said Orlando. He leant forward, grimacing with the pain, and kissed Imogen on the lips. The footsteps were half-way along the corridor.

‘I shall always love you, Imogen,’ said Orlando.

The door was flung open. A tall man with curly brown hair and deep blue eyes stood in front of them. They had never seen him before.

‘Good morning to you both. You,’ the figure strode over to inspect Orlando’s wound, ‘must be Orlando Blane. And you,’ he smiled at Imogen, ‘must be his friend. We must get out of here at once. I have a couple of horses up by the stable block. My name is Powerscourt.’

Johnny Fitzgerald watched the four men disappear over the brow of the hill. He had served for years with Powerscourt as intelligence officers of the Crown. They had saved each other’s lives in battle. One of the main jobs of intelligence, Powerscourt had often said, was to try to anticipate not only what the enemy were going to do next, but what they were going to do after that. Johnny could go back to de Courcy Hall and help Powerscourt with whatever was happening there. Or he could move ahead and find out what the Sergeant Major and his three friends would do once they reached Cromer. At least one, Johnny suspected, would be sent to watch the railway station. But the others? The wind was still howling through the trees behind him as Johnny made his decision. He set off at a loping run across the snow-covered fields. It was twenty minutes after midnight.

Powerscourt took in the easel, the canvases stacked up by the door, the art books lining the walls. Now is not the time to ask questions, he said to himself. Later, later.

‘Can you walk?’ he said to Orlando Blane. ‘Perhaps if you lean on me it would be easier.’

Orlando struggled to his feet and put his arm around Powerscourt’s shoulder. ‘I can manage,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how long I can hold out. Imogen, do you remember seeing a stick by that little table in the hall?’

Imogen shot off down the corridor, past the stags’ heads with the dusty antlers, and returned with a stout walking stick. The journey was very difficult. Twice Orlando fell, dragging Powerscourt down with him into the snow. The blood had started flowing from his wound again, Imogen dabbing at it with the remains of the sheets from the bed. On their left the storm still rampaged through the woods, leaves and small branches occasionally flying through the air. When they reached the walled garden Powerscourt leant Orlando Blane against the gate and ran to find the horses. Could Orlando manage on a horse? Should they just throw him across it like a wounded man being brought back from battle?

Imogen had the answer. ‘I have some experience with horses,’ she said to Powerscourt. ‘Put him across the saddle and I will ride behind him. I’ve done it before.’

Powerscourt was on the verge of asking where she had learnt this technique, now proving invaluable in a snowstorm in the middle of a Norfolk night, when she told him.

‘My sister fell off once miles from anywhere and injured her back. I had to bring her home.’

‘I wish it would start to snow again,’ said Powerscourt, staring up at what he could see of the sky. ‘Then it would cover our tracks. If it doesn’t we’re going to leave a route map behind us for any of our friends to follow.’

Very slowly the tiny cavalcade set off from de Courcy Hall. Imogen had the reins in one hand, the other trying to anchor Orlando in his position. She wondered if they should have tied him on. Powerscourt brought up the rear, casting nervous glances behind. Fifteen minutes later they reached the main lodge, twin cottages on either side of the road. Both were empty, broken panes of glass and swinging doors bearing witness to the desolation of the estate.

‘Left here,’ whispered Powerscourt. ‘We turn right in a hundred yards or so, then right again. That’s the main road to Cromer. God knows what we’ll find when we get there.’

Five minutes later a man materialized out of a line of trees. He held out his hand, requesting them to stop. Imogen looked round desperately at Powerscourt. Was this the end of their escape? Had they come this far only to be recaptured so near their destination? Powerscourt dismounted and shook the stranger by the hand. Bizarre introductions were made as the snow began to fall again.

‘Johnny Fitzgerald, this is Imogen. And this is Orlando Blane, shot in the leg. Johnny Fitzgerald. What’s the score up there, Johnny?’

‘It’s not good, Francis.’ Fitzgerald was panting heavily. ‘There’s two of them watching this road about half a mile further up. Another two have gone off to the railway station.’

‘Let’s try putting ourselves in their shoes for a minute, Johnny.’ Powerscourt was stroking his horse’s head very gently, as if the animal knew the answers. ‘Those four ruffians know these two have escaped. They don’t know Orlando is wounded. They don’t know either of us from Adam. At some point they’re going to return to the Hall to see if Orlando and Imogen have gone back there. The ruffians probably think they’re hiding until the first train in the morning. They won’t go back until they’ve seen who boards it. In a perfect world we’d just wait until the middle of the morning and go into Cromer then. But we can’t. This young man needs a doctor.’

‘Maybe we need a diversion, Francis.’ Johnny Fitzgerald looked as though he was enjoying himself. ‘Wait here for about ten minutes or so. I’m going to draw those two fellows away from the road. When you hear a scream, press on with full speed.’ Johnny disappeared into the woods to their right. Imogen was stroking Orlando’s head and whispering into his ear. Powerscourt watched the softly falling snow, erasing the tracks behind them.

Then there was a scream. One very loud scream. Powerscourt led the way, urging Imogen to make all speed. They heard sounds of people crashing through the bushes on their right. Then there was another scream. Powerscourt thought he could hear the two guards shouting to each other in confusion. But they were through. They had passed the point where the sentries had been on guard. Powerscourt led them on a little track which led along the sea front to the hotel. They were almost invisible from the clifftop above. Twenty minutes later Orlando was stretched out on Johnny Fitzgerald’s bed. The night porter had been sent to bring the doctor.

Johnny Fitzgerald had secured a bottle of brandy and was inspecting its label with extreme scepticism. ‘Don’t think they’d serve this stuff in the better London clubs,’ he said to Powerscourt, ‘but you can’t be particular after a night like that.’

‘Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I’ve just had a daft idea.’

‘For God’s sake, Francis,’ Johnny Fitzgerald was pouring himself a giant refill already, ‘it’s half-past two in the morning. We’ve just spent an idyllic few hours wandering about in a snowstorm with Romeo next door nearly killed by one of those characters. And you start talking about daft ideas.’ He took a giant’s mouthful. ‘What is it?’

Powerscourt smiled at his friend. ‘It’s those pictures, Johnny. I think they might be really useful in the court case. Do you think you could get them out of the house?’

Fitzgerald looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Could one man carry them? From that big room upstairs with all those windows?’

‘I think it would need two people, Johnny. I’d come with you but I want to see Romeo and Juliet safe in Rokesley It might be too late by the time I got back.’

Johnny Fitzgerald laughed suddenly. ‘Once a Sergeant Major, always a Sergeant Major, that’s what I say, Francis. Where do you want the bloody things delivered to?’

‘The paintings,’ said Powerscourt, guessing suddenly how Johnny was going to manage it, ‘should be reunited with their maker, Orlando Blane. I’ve always felt the need of some really first rate pictures in my country house at Rokesley.’

‘Dear Lucy . . .’ Powerscourt was writing again to his wife from the sitting room of his house in Northamptonshire. Rokesley Hall was host not just to its owner but to a pair of refugees, Orlando Blane, lying on a sofa by the window of the drawing room, and Imogen Foxe, currently reading aloud to Orlando from a book of romantic poetry.

I hope you and the children are well and that you received my earlier letters. This one is more prosaic, I fear, than the last two. The doctors say I will be able to question Orlando the forger this afternoon. Even then I must not tire his strength. He is going to make a full recovery, but his condition was made much worse by all those hours in the snow. I hope to be home by tomorrow morning at the latest.

Lucy, I would like to ask you an enormous favour, which comes ill from one who has complained for so long about your relations! Alice Bridge. Mrs Rosalind Buckley. Could you put the tribe on full and instant alert to discover as much as they possibly can about these two young women, their families, their education, their romantic entanglements. And as quickly as possible.

Tell Thomas and Olivia that I have been riding round on a great many trains,

All love,

Semper Fidelis,

Francis.

Thirty-six hours after the lovers’ flight Johnny Fitzgerald was making another visit to de Courcy Hall. He was travelling in some style, in a large enclosed carriage with an officious-looking man at the reins. Great carpets of snow covered the long drive from the main road. The roof of the little dovecot inside the walled garden had turned from red to white. The sun was shining brightly although it was bitterly cold. Johnny knew that his plan depended on two things. First, the Sergeant Major must not have reported the flight to his masters in London. Earlier that morning Johnny had checked the railway station. One of the ruffians was still watching. Another one had gone to Norwich by an earlier train. He had passed a third patrolling the road into Cromer, looking rather dejected. The Sergeant Major should be on his own in the house. The second factor depended on the ingrained habit of obedience to superior officers drilled for years into the brains of every single Sergeant Major in Her Majesty’s Army. Johnny took a quick swig from his hip flask as the coach drew up outside de Courcy Hall. He strode through the main door, shouting loudly.

‘Sergeant Major! Sergeant Major!’

A bleary-eyed man approached him in the Great Hall. Fitzgerald put on his loudest voice.

‘Sergeant Major!’

‘Sir!’ said the man, springing to attention.

So far so good, thought Johnny. ‘Major Fitzgerald, Connaught Rangers. Stand at ease, Sergeant Major.’

‘Sergeant Major Fitzgibbon, Royal Artillery, sir!’

Fitzgerald shook the Sergeant Major by the hand. ‘I was in India most of the time,’ he said, ushering Fitzgibbon to a chair. ‘And yourself?’

‘South Africa, sir. Zulu wars. Majuba, that sort of thing.’

‘Very good, Sergeant Major. Now there seems to have been something of a cock-up with the orders here. Wouldn’t be the first time, as we both know only too well. The girl was sent here to encourage him to escape. We knew the date, we knew the time, we knew the place. We’ve got them safe. They’ve been moved. Some people in London were getting suspicious. They should be in another remote location by now, somewhere in West Yorkshire, I believe. God knows why our lords and masters wanted it done like that, but they did. You can recall your men, Sergeant Major. We’ve taken over. Thing is, my orders are to collect the paintings and bring them too. Do you think you could give me a hand with them? I’ve got a carriage outside.’

‘Sir!’ said the Sergeant Major. Majors, even in civilian clothes, demand obedience. Ours not to reason why.

Speed, Johnny Fitzgerald knew, speed was vital. If the man stopped to think for one minute all could be lost. The coach driver came in to give further assistance. In twenty-five minutes all of Orlando’s work was safely in the back of the carriage. The delicate work of wrapping them carefully could wait until later.

‘Drive like the wind,’ Fitzgerald said to the coachman. ‘We need to get out of here.’

As they rattled back towards the main road, the carriage swinging wildly across the rutted road, Fitzgerald could see Sergeant Major Fitzgibbon scratching his head in the doorway. The whole business had happened so fast. As they passed the church on their right, invisible in the snow, a faint cry reached them, almost lost in the wind.

‘Major Fitzgerald! Come back a moment, sir. Come back!’

Powerscourt had already talked at length to Imogen about her trip to Norfolk. She told him about the meeting at the hotel in London, the trip by train and carriage with her eyes bound so tightly she could not see a thing. ‘I was some kind of reward, don’t you see, Lord Powerscourt? I was a prize for good behaviour. Orlando had been asking for months if he could see me or write to me. Finally they gave in. Maybe they thought I would give him a new lease of life, up there in that strange gallery with the rats prowling overhead. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound of those rats in the night.’

She had told him about the gambling at Monte Carlo, about Orlando’s drinking, about the promise that he would be free once he had earned enough to pay off his debts. She told him about her loveless marriage.

‘I expect Orlando and I will have to go and live abroad once all this is settled. I shouldn’t mind at all.’

Powerscourt’s housekeeper, Mrs Warry, had made a great fuss of young Mr and Mrs Blane, as Powerscourt had introduced them. She had decided that what they needed was a touch of good old-fashioned English cooking, not those scraps and army rations they’d been fed up there in Norfolk. So after an enormous meal of roast beef with all the trimmings, Mrs Warry’s best apple pie, and some good local cheese, Powerscourt sat down by the side of Orlando’s sofa in the drawing room. Mrs Warry kept a splendid fire going. Outside more snow was falling on the Powerscourt lawns. Imogen was sitting behind Powerscourt where she could see Orlando.

‘Mr Blane, there are many things I would wish to ask you. Some of them will have to wait. Let me say first of all that you are both welcome to remain here as long as you wish. Mrs Warry will be delighted to look after you. What interests me this afternoon is how the commissioning process worked, how you received your orders, if you see what I mean.’

Orlando paused for a moment before he replied. ‘There were different kinds of instructions,’ he began, ‘but they were all delivered in the same way. Mournful – that’s what I called the Sergeant Major person because he was always down in the dumps – would come and see me with a letter in his hand. He never showed me the letter – I never saw the heading on the paper, or where it came from. Tell Orlando, Mournful would say, reading it, that we wish him to do such and such.’

‘You said there were different kinds of instructions,’ said Powerscourt gently. ‘Perhaps you could give me an indication of what they were.’

‘Of course,’ said Orlando. He paused again. ‘Basically, there were three sorts of orders, if you like. Sometimes they would send me up an original, a Titian or a Giorgione, for me to copy.’

‘Do you know,’ asked Powerscourt, ‘what happened to the copies?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Orlando. ‘When they were finished, the two paintings were sent back to wherever they came from. If you pushed me, I should say that the most likely explanation is that they had sold the original at an exhibition. Then they told the new owner it had been sent away for cleaning. Then they would swap them over.’

‘And the second sort of order?’ Powerscourt was looking at Orlando’s hands. They moved sometimes as he talked, drawing some imaginary masterpiece all on their own.

‘The second sort was the smartest,’ Orlando laughed suddenly. ‘They would send me illustrations from the American magazines of a particular family. I was to create an English portrait, a Gainsborough or a Reynolds, with the wife or the children reproduced in my painting.’

‘Would the point have been that the American father was coming to London? And that he would be bowled over by this extraordinary likeness? Bowled over to the extent of lots of dollars?’

‘You have it, Lord Powerscourt. Americans often buy paintings that remind them of places or people they know. This just took it a stage further.’

‘And the last sort?’ Powerscourt knew Orlando would not be able to speak for very much longer. Lines of strain were beginning to appear on his forehead.

‘Straight forgeries. Lost masterpieces suddenly rediscovered. It happens all the time. I was working on a lost Giovanni Bellini at the end.’

‘And did they send back any comments, the people we presume were in London?’

‘They did,’ said Orlando. ‘Mournful would appear after the post arrived and read out messages. They were very pleased with me most of the time.’

‘But nobody ever came to see you in person? If you met the man behind the enterprise this afternoon you would have no idea who he was?’

‘Correct,’ said Orlando. Imogen was beginning to move about on her chaise longue.

‘I have only one more question,’ said Powerscourt. ‘But first I have to tell you a story.’

He told them about the murder of Christopher Montague, about the article he was writing before his death about fakes and forgeries in the exhibition of Venetian paintings at the de Courcy and Piper Gallery. He told them about the subsequent murder of Thomas Jenkins. He told them about Mrs Buckley planning to elope to Italy with Christopher Montague. He told them about Horace Aloysius Buckley, arrested after Evensong in Lincoln Cathedral. He mentioned that the trial was to start very shortly.

‘You don’t think this Mr Buckley is guilty, do you, Lord Powerscourt?’ asked Imogen.

‘No, I don’t. I do not at present know exactly who the murderer is. All we can do at the trial is to point out that other people might have good reason to kill Montague. Like Messrs de Courcy and Piper, who probably employed their very own forger, hidden away in Norfolk. If that was known, it would ruin their business, destroy their livelihood. This is my last question, Orlando.’ Powerscourt knew how difficult this could be. ‘If I have not found the real murderer before the trial starts, would you be prepared to give evidence about what went on in Norfolk? Let me tell you what it could mean before you answer. Your name would be splashed all over the newspapers. Journalists would want to come and interview you. You would be famous or infamous for about three days, but everybody would remember that you had worked as a forger. It would mean that a future career in the world of art in England would be very difficult, if not impossible for you.’

Imogen had gone to sit beside Orlando on the sofa. She was stroking his hand.

‘Take your time,’ said Powerscourt. ‘You don’t have to give me a reply now if you don’t want to.’

‘But if I don’t give evidence, Lord Powerscourt,’ Orlando said, ‘then this poor man may be hanged for something he didn’t do?’

‘That is correct,’ said Powerscourt gravely.

‘Let me tell you, Lord Powerscourt,’ Orlando was sitting up straight now, his eyes blazing, ‘we have received nothing but kindness at your hands. I might be dead if you hadn’t come along. There is honour, even among forgers. The profession is as old as art itself. I could not bear to think of that poor man losing his life just because I kept quiet. If you wish me to do so, I shall gladly give evidence.’

‘Well done, Orlando, well done,’ said Imogen.

Then they heard a voice shouting through the house. ‘Old Masters for sale!’ it said. ‘Buy your very own Old Master now! Titians for sale! Giorgione going cheap today! Reynolds and Gainsborough! Old Masters for sale.’

Johnny Fitzgerald walked through the door, a couple of canvases under his arm. Orlando Blane and his forgeries were reunited in Powerscourt’s Rokesley Hall.