Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 4

February 8, 2020 Saturday

The painting by Sir Alfred Munnings of his wife, Violet, standing with a dappled gray, Isaac, is so beautiful, so perfect that the vision of it has passed into national consciousness in the British Isles and North America. Even people who are not horsemen would recognize it if they saw it, given that it represents an eternal bond between woman and horse. Violet, painted in 1923, wears a black sidesaddle habit, her hair folded in a bun, hairnet over that, her top hat glistening. Her left hand rests on her hip, her right hand holds Isaac’s reins. His head is dipped slightly, a moment of quiet understanding between horse and rider. The size of the stolen painting, fifty inches by forty, meant the thief or thieves must have been prepared. Certainly they wouldn’t risk a work of art worth millions to rough handling in transport.

Sister sat with Crawford Howard and his wife, Marty, in their huge den, the empty space where the painting hung underscoring their loss.

Crawford, although restoring Old Paradise across from Tattenhall Station, lived in a grand house, Beasley Hall, that he had built when first moving to Albermarle County ten years ago. The entrance to the place, guarded by two huge bronze boars, each atop a stone pillar to which the wrought-iron gates were affixed, also announced if not his intentions at least his interests. They were replicas of Richard Neville’s insignia, the boar. The Duke of Warwick, confidant and adviser to Edward IV, proved brilliant, filled with high courage, high ambition. He was ultimately disenchanted with the young man he helped place on England’s throne. He was Warwick the kingmaker but he underestimated Edward’s sexual impulsiveness. Elizabeth Woodville, a young widow, was and is considered even today to be one of the most beautiful women to have ever lived. She upset Warwick’s applecart, as he had planned a marriage with the daughter of the king of France, politically useful but not as beautiful as Elizabeth.

Crawford felt he, too, carried Warwick’s intelligence, ability to see ahead, and high courage. He wasn’t afraid to take chances, which set him apart from most Virginians, who are sluggish about risks. He branched out from strip malls, turning everything he touched to gold. But like his hero he often neglected to consider how irrational the human animal can be. Not that he was ever irrational. Just ask him.

Sister was still in hunt gear, for she had driven directly over while Betty and Gray carried the horses back to the farm. Today’s hunt had been erratic. You just never know about scent. She pulled off her boots on the big bootjack placed by the front door for just such an occasion.

Marty kept the house to perfection. Sister’s stockinged feet glided across the floor.

Facing the two as she sat by the fireplace she gratefully sipped a hot Assam tea. Sister and Marty got along famously. Not so much with Crawford, as he was loath to forgive her for not selecting him joint master years back. Instead she had picked Walter Lungrun, M.D., who by Crawford’s standards was a pauper. Walter was Big Ray’s outside child, which Sister suspected even while Ray was alive. Walter’s father, the man considered his father, accepted his wife’s transgression and raised Walter as his own. It was never discussed. The young man rode as a child. Sister had known him all his life. There was no need to trumpet his genetics. But Walter touched her heart and he was great with people. Crawford barked orders. Not a good idea. Money can buy you everything but respect. He would have been an economic godsend as a joint master, but a disaster in every other fashion.

Sister and Crawford managed a truce over the years, working together on those boards on which they served.

“I spent a fortune on that security system,” he fumed.

“You always have the best but criminals study what they do as we study what we do. The smartest can figure things out. Crawford, if people can hack the Pentagon they can get into anything.”

Marty put a plate of scones on the coffee table, poured herself tea, and sat down. “That was my fiftieth birthday present. Has any woman ever received anything better?” She smiled at her husband.

“I doubt it.” Sister smiled back. “I am so very sorry. You owned and protected a national, I mean international, treasure.”

“Sheriff Sidell said it would not appear on the open market. It would be sold privately and the buyer may have instigated the theft.” Crawford was calming down, thanks to the praise, which he did deserve.

Sister shook her head slightly. “It’s hard to believe. For one thing, sooner or later whoever has it will feel compelled for friends to know about it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Crawford put his cup in the saucer. “But if the buyer is, shall I say, a crazy, rich Asian, the lawsuits will drag on for years.”

Sister nodded. “One doesn’t have to be a crazy, rich Asian; I suspect you are right about ego finally trumping good sense.”

Marty crossed her legs. “Did you know the Chinese are building a horse city? They want to attract world-class riders for five-star events. Honey, where is that?”

“Tianjin, near Beijing. I hear they may be having flu problems. No matter. We aren’t taking horses there.”

“I was reading in my London Times.” She then added, “China is so big there’s bound to be winter bugs. The government says they aren’t worried. But they sure are competitive. They want five-star equine events in China.”

“Fair Hills won the competition for the second five-star location in our country. Much as I wish Morven Park had secured the win,” Sister named a wonderful equine setting in Northern Virginia, “Fair Hills sits right where Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware plus Maryland itself, come together, or almost come together. Will Dupont created it. Well, the Duponts also saved Montpelier, then Will’s sister, Alice, took it over. Same color scheme, dark hunter green with white trim on the old buildings. Stunning, really. Now, if a venue like that had bought the painting, we could understand—not that you would sell it.”

“I would never ever sell a Munnings, any Munnings, nor would I sell a Stubbs.”

“Yes.”

“How was today’s hunt? Mousehold Heath? Right?” Marty inquired.

“So-so. A few bursts, but that was it. And Thursday we had our best hunt of the year. You never know.”

“About anything,” Marty agreed. “Sister, you are an amateur enthusiast of sporting art. Have you any thoughts on what might have happened to our painting?”

“No, but if you will allow me, I will call the Sporting Library and Museum in Middleburg, as well as the Museum of Hounds and Hunting at Morven Park. Given their training and contacts, they might be able to think of something. You know Sheriff Ben Sidell will do a good job, but the art world, the museum world, like any other, contains people who know one another or know about one another.”

“What about the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts?” Marty asked.

“I’m sure our sheriff has already called them. As the museum has the Paul Mellon collection of equine art, you know they know the painting’s history…or provenance, as it is called. And I will call Ben to remind him, if the VMFA doesn’t, that Yale’s museum has some of Mr. Mellon’s collection. He was a Yale man.”

“So was Cole Porter.” Crawford sighed.

“Honey, the day will come when Indiana University touts you as one of their outstanding graduates.” Marty smiled.

“I suppose if I built a new football stadium, they would.” He shrugged. “Sister, I have to get that Munnings back.”

“I hope you do. I will make those calls.” Sister sipped the last of her tea. “Thank you for allowing me in here, as I reek of eau de cheval.”

“Best perfume on earth.” Marty smiled. “You were kind to come.”

“Violet Munnings with Isaac is one of the great paintings of the twentieth century. We have never discussed art but I do think Sargent, Whistler, and Munnings to be outstanding. When so-called modern art came along they were overshadowed, but that is shifting. Good work is good work and fashions in art are like hemlines.”

“An awful thought, really,” Marty chipped in. “Human nature, I expect.”

“Ever really think about what humans want no matter the century?” Crawford sat up a bit straighter. “Power over others. Greed. Doing whatever they please without consequences. Think of the Greek gods.”

Sister knew they, too, paid consequences, but arguing with Crawford, or offering any form of correction, was never well received. “At least the Greek gods had good taste.” She half laughed then added, “And so did your thieves.”

Marty thought a moment. “Well, I guess they did.”

“Time and the tides. We’ll see.” Sister rose to leave.

Driving out of the too showy estate, Sister really felt sorry for Crawford. His need to be the center of attention, to run the show, would never change but he had learned what money could and couldn’t buy in central Virginia. His labors to restore a historically important home and grounds, Old Paradise, brought him some of the respect he had squandered when first moving to the area. He hired a historian and archaeologists who, using the latest technology, uncovered graves grown over by trees, decades of growth since the second decade of the nineteenth century. Many of the graves contained slaves but some may have been graves of Monacan Indians, the humans who preceded African Americans and Europeans. Irritating as he could be, Crawford did good things, things few could afford to do.

As she turned off the two-lane state road to her farm, she thanked the powers-that-be that her late husband, Ray, left her comfortable but not disgustingly rich. Too much of anything isn’t good. Then again, some people have to be king. Crawford was one of them. What was the man like who took that extraordinary painting?