by Peter Corris
The Gulliver
Fortune
By Peter Corris
Copyright© Peter Corris, 1989
First published by Bantam Books, Australia, 1989
For Robert and Elizabeth Corris
and Robert and Beatrice Kennedy
—my immigrant grandparents
About the Author
PETER CORRIS was born in Stanwell, Victoria, in 1942. He has worked as a lecturer and researcher in history, as well as a freelance writer and journalist, specialising in sports writing. The author of eleven novels about Sydney-based private eye Cliff Hardy, he has also written six other thrillers, a social history of prizefighting in Australia, quiz books, and radio and television scripts. The Gulliver Fortune is his first historical novel.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank two men whose names he does not know—the visitor who told him the story of the emigrant family with thirteen members and the art expert who explained the difference between an unknown and a lost masterpiece.
Thanks also to Heather Falkner and to Lisa Baker, Ghersey Downie, Geoffrey Dutton, Michael Fitzjames, Daphne Gollan, Matthew Kelly, Jacqueline Kent, Stephen Scheding, Rafael Viscarra.
Contents
Prologue: The Cromwells & The Gullivers
Jack, Stephen, Georgia
Carl, Mikhail
Susannah, Margot
Edward, Juan
Leo, Kobi
'Harwich Seascape'
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
The Cromwells
&
The Gullivers
Tunbridge Wells, October 1835
John Gulliver, champion of all England, stared at his opponent through the curtain of blood and sweat that dripped from his lacerated forehead. Gettin' too old for this game, I am, he thought. But surely the bastard can't come up for another round, can he? The timekeeper shouted the dread word and Gulliver saw 'Jewboy' Jack Elias lever himself from his second's knee. The two men met in the centre of the roped square where the grass had been scraped away by their feet and the earth turned to mud by the water the seconds splashed over their bodies and their sweat and blood, shed in more than two hours' savage fighting.
Gulliver lashed out a right which Elias evaded. He was smaller and quicker than Gulliver. He crashed his left into the champion's ribs and felt the shock run up his arms. Christ, the man's got bones like an ox, Elias thought.
They stood and swapped punches for ten minutes, Elias landing more cleanly, but tiring as he fought to stay clear of Gulliver's arms. If the champion got him in a hug it would be the end of him. Gulliver, too, was tired. It was time to go down for a rest but the manoeuvre had to be done skilfully. If he fell without Elias landing a punch to cause the fall, he could lose on a foul. If he let the Jew land too heavily, he might never get up.
Elias' long left had no sting in it but it landed squarely on Gulliver's nose and brought blood.
"Claret!" came the shout from the members of the Fancy pushing and shoving at the ringside. Half of them were drunk and all were uneasy about their money. The fight could go either way. As he slid to the ground, John Gulliver's eyes swept across the crowd and he saw his brother, Tom, steal a watchchain from the brocaded vest of the youngest son of the Duke of Buckinghamshire.
Tom Gulliver, 'Tom the Gypsy' as he was known for his swarthy looks and devious ways, slipped through the crowd to his brother's corner. He squeezed out the vinegar-soaked sponge and handed it to his brother's second.
"Damn your eyes, Tom," Gulliver groaned. "I saw you lift that ticker. What in hell's bloody name am I goin' to do with 'ee?"
Tom the Gypsy grinned. "You'll take care 'a me, Jack, lad. You always have."
When time was called Gulliver strode to the centre of the ring. He brushed aside Elias' left lead and crashed a heavy right to the smaller man's jaw. Elias reeled back, milling, his hands instinctively flicking jabs into the air in front of him.
Gulliver walked through the punches as if they were fleabites. He smashed Elias' left ear to pulp with a deadly hook and his next punch, an uppercut, delivered from a crouch and with the full weight of his uncoiling body behind it, lifted him from his feet and dumped him senseless onto the muddy earth. John Gulliver was still the champion of England, and Tom the Gypsy was still his brother.
The brothers met later in the Dog & Bear, a sporting tavern, as was their custom after one of John Gulliver's fights.
The champion drained his second pint of ale. "I'm quittin' the ring, Tom."
"Wise," Tom the Gypsy said. He wiped beer froth from his face and confirmed his brother's impression that some of his swarthiness was due to dirt. Tom rubbed the now-dirty hand down his vest. "The Jewboy almost had you."
"And the runners'll have you one day. Mark my words."
"Not I. And what would it matter if they did catch me and turn me off? I've no one in the world but you. I'm not the marrying sort like yourself, Jack."
John Gulliver, married for twenty years with a large brood, the exact number of whom he was never quite positive about, smiled and laid a golden guinea on the bench. "See that you don't marry, Tom, for the poor woman'd lead a dog's life from the day she said yes."
"She'd have some fun though, along the way."
John looked at his brother indulgently. Tom had stolen and lied from the moment he could move his fingers and tongue. His only talent was painting and even that had got him into trouble, with his scandalous caricatures of prominent persons and copying of Old Masters, complete with signature. But he was never solemn and was no hypocrite. Tom cheered him up, and sobersides John loved him for it. He slid the guinea across. "Aye, Tom me lad, happen she would."
London, June 1986
Montague Cromwell gently applied the brakes and his Jaguar stopped a few centimetres short of the brick wall at the end of his garage. He was proud of never having touched the wall. He got out of the car, set the thief-proof device and unlocked the door that would admit him directly to his house. The house was in Chelsea and worth a lot of money, more every day. He took another look back at the car and remembered the time when his Jaguar, not this one, an earlier model, had touched the wall with some force. His son Ben had been the driver.
Montague Cromwell sighed. Will he do it? he thought. Will I be able to get the young bugger to do something useful? He went down the passage past the kitchen and dining room and one of the guest rooms to his den. He needed a drink and a cigarette. He never smoked in his car and he could hardly drink while driving through the London evening traffic, although God knew he often felt like it. He was five feet ten inches tall and bulky; his prosperity was displayed by his waistline. In his well-cut lightweight suit he looked solid rather than fat. He liked food and drink and money; he didn't always like his son.
"Hullo, Dad," Ben Cromwell said as his father came through the door. "Get you a whisky?"
"Thanks," the elder Cromwell said, although he didn't see why he should have to thank anyone for pouring him his own whisky. "You shouldn't be drinking."
Ben poured a large measure into a stemmed glass and added a few drops of water. He drank from his own glass before passing his father's drink across. Ben was an inch taller than his father; he shared certain movements and expressions with him, but there the similarity ended. He was slim with thick dark hair. His father's hair was a thin, grey thatch and his skin was pale and blotchy. Ben had favoured his mother; he had an olive complexion and dark eyes. He was wearing faded jeans, espadrilles and an old, collarless business shirt. The back of the shirt's long tail was tucked in but the front was hanging out over the jeans like an apron. There were dirty marks on it which indicated that Ben had used it to wipe his hands.
"You've got that a bit
wrong, Dad," Ben said. "I can't drink beer or sweet things. Scotch's all right. Cheers."
Montague Cromwell grunted; he sank into a leather armchair and drank. Ben leaned against the small teak-veneered bar. His father looked at him, thinking that he appeared to have aged considerably since he graduated with first-class honours in History from London University. A proud day for his mother. She'd come over from France for the occasion, the first time Montague had seen her since their divorce ten years before. Then Ben had gone to Sandhurst, full of hope and promise. He'd had an outstanding first year before being diagnosed as mildly diabetic. End of Sandhurst, end of promise.
Since then Ben had taken enthusiastically to drink. He started and quickly abandoned a PhD thesis. He secured work as a private tutor but had difficulty turning up in time for the lessons and keeping his hands off various things he found lying around in the affluent houses. Montague believed Ben for a time when he told him he was dabbling in the antique market. He arranged the sale of a few items and they made money. Then Montague got a scare: a snuffbox Ben claimed to have bought in the Portobello Road was recognized by its owner—the father of one of Ben's pupils. Restitution cost Montague money and Ben had lost that tutoring post and several others. Ben Cromwell was twenty-five and looked thirty.
"Got a job for you," Montague said. He repressed his irritation at being given his whisky in a stemmed glass. He liked it from the squat Swedish glasses he'd paid a fortune for. But he didn't want to get off on the wrong foot. "Interesting job. Up your street. Good money and there could be a bit of travel in it."
Ben grinned and finished his drink, his third in an hour. "What's in it for you?"
"Jesus, Ben! Is it quite impossible for you to be a bit pleasant?" Montague tossed off his whisky, heaved himself out of the chair and got another drink in a Swedish glass.
Whisky affected Ben Cromwell in erratic ways, which was one of the reasons he liked it. Under its influence his mood could change abruptly, without warning; he found the changes interesting. Just now, aggression gave way to a rare surge of affection for his shrewd, energetic, successful father. "Sorry, Dad. Didn't mean to be a shit."
"The diabetes troubling you?"
"No, not a bit. The quack's trying to control it by diet for the moment. It'll be a matter of taking some pills at the worst." Mention of diabetes sometimes dropped Ben into a bitter mood where he felt the army's rejection like a leg iron, but not now. The whisky helped. "A job. What sort of a job?"
"Research."
Ben groaned. "I thought you mentioned money. There's no money in research. What sort of research?"
Montague found this response very hopeful. Ben often communicated in grunts and shakings of the head recently. For him to follow a reaction with a question was very positive. He offered his cigarettes to Ben, who refused. He'd given up smoking when he'd entered Sandhurst and lost the urge. "Tell you what I'll do," Montague said, lighting up. "I'll take you out for a meal and tell you about it. You'll be interested, I guarantee."
Ben recognised what he called 'the selling note' in his father's voice, one of the things that had made him a successful art dealer, among other things. He nodded. "Okay."
"Ring up Jerry. Ask her along. My treat."
The Soho restaurant was Monty Cromwell's discovery. That was how he was known there, as Monty. It was Italian but without the corny checked tablecloths and Chianti bottles. The cooking was southern provincial.
"The real thing," Monty said, twirling pasta.
"It's great," Jerry Gallagher said and Monty, mellowed by the food and wine, beamed. He's been alarmed when Ben had first spoken of Jerry and wondered if his son had gone queer under pressure. ('Gay' was a word he'd had difficulty taking into his fluid and progressive vocabulary.) But Jerry had turned out to be a small, plump redheaded female. Montague found her very acceptable, never more so than now as she pressed Ben to let his father tell his story.
"Might spoil a good meal," Ben said. He'd enjoyed the food and the feeling of virtue derived from eating his pasta with plain sauce and limiting his bread and wine intake.
"Ignore him, Montague." Jerry tapped her plate with her fork. "Just talk. I'll stick my fork into him if he interrupts."
"Can we have a brandy when we finish?" Ben said. "I'm not allowed sweets, you see."
"One," Jerry said. "Go on, Montague."
"It starts with a man named John Gulliver," Montague Cromwell said. "He was . . ."
"Heavyweight champion of England. Bare knuckle." Ben sipped some wine. "Early nineteenth century."
"Right." Montague had known that his son would recognise the name. It was part of his strategy that he should. "Gulliver beat all comers for a few years, retired with the title and made a fortune in coal and on the turf, as they said in those days."
"Racing?" Jerry said.
Montague chewed hastily. "Mmm. He was MP for somewhere."
"Bristol," Ben said.
Montague swallowed. "Mmm, well, they bought the seats then, didn't they? Not so different now. Anyway, Gulliver did very well for himself. Left a fortune, but it had to be divided up amongst a heap of kids. A dozen or more. He'd married twice."
"Terrible," Ben said. "This isn't your way of breaking the news of your upcoming nuptials and my disinheritance, is it Dad?" He turned to Jerry. "The only reason I let the old bastard take me out to dinner is that I want to stay in his good books so I can come into the lolly."
"Ben!" Jerry protested.
"What?" Ben said. "Speaking the truth."
Jerry was accustomed to riding the waves of Ben's moods. She found him infuriating when the alcohol level reached a certain mark, but charming and fun up to that point. Sometimes she could divert him from his trip down the dark, destructive track. "I know you hate your father, like all normal boys," she said. "I was reacting to your saying 'upcoming'. Ugh."
Montague was off in a private world, not listening to the banter. "Don't be a fool, Ben," he said. "Marriage is something to do once and once only. And, as you very well know, I plan to spend all I make. You're welcome to any that's left."
"Don't let him sidetrack you," Jerry said. "He's a master at that."
Montague used the interruption to get some wine down. He'd have liked a cigarette but he knew both Ben and Jerry would protest. "John Gulliver had a brother named Tom. Tom the Gypsy they called him."
Ben frowned. "I thought I knew all the fighting families from that time. The Belchers and Cribbs and so on. I never heard of Tom the Gypsy."
"Shows you don't know everything." Jerry speared some salad and nodded to Montague to go on.
"Seems this Tom the Gypsy was a painter and a good-for-nothing. He didn't make any money at painting or anything else. Probably touched his brother for money a hundred times a year if I know painters. But I gather they were usually on good terms. Tom surprised everybody when he got married, but I don't suppose anyone was surprised when he named his son after his prosperous brother."
"Sounds like old John had enough kids to have a few Johns of his own," Ben said.
"There was one, but he died. Tom did the right thing at the right time. John Gulliver died in 1863, but not before Tom showed him the baby. Result was, John left his infant nephew something in his will."
"Got it," Ben said. "A painting. This is where you come in."
"That's right." Montague, cleaning his plate with bread, was gratified to see that Jerry had hung on his every word. She was a pleasant-looking rather than beautiful young woman; her eyes were large and grey and her hair was a rich auburn. She wore quite a lot of makeup because her skin wasn't perfect. She had good teeth and full lips which were slightly parted now as she listened. Wouldn't make a bad model, Montague thought. He knew several painters who could do a good job of a nude study. Might make a thoughtful wedding present, cheap too.
Ben signalled for the waiter. "I'll have a brandy," he said. "Dad?"
"Tartufo," Montague said.
"What about you, love?"
"I'll st
ick with the wine," Jerry said. "Coffee later. And I want to hear about the painting."
Ben scoffed. "An unknown Constable, no doubt."
Montague's head jerked up angrily. Asserting himself, he took out a cigarette and lit it. "If you knew anything about my business, Ben, if you'd ever shown any interest at all, you'd know how ignorant a remark that is."
The brandy came and Ben accepted it gratefully. The drink reminded him that his father was paying. "Okay, sorry. Go on."
"As it happens, the painting is a Turner. But an unknown Turner wouldn't be worth much. This is a known Turner. Ruskin mentions it in a letter. There are a couple of detailed contemporary descriptions of it. There's even a photograph."
"I've seen some Turners," Jerry said. "They're great. He did millions of drawings, didn't he?"
Montague nodded and blew the smoke away from her. "More's the pity. Kept the prices down and he gave most of them to the nation anyway. This is an oil painting. 'Harwich Seascape', it's called. It's a beauty."
Ben sipped brandy and stifled a yawn. "Worth a bit even then, I guess. Lucky Tom the Gypsy. I assume he flogged it and drank the proceeds?"
Montague put out his cigarette and took a large spoonful of ice cream. He slurped a little as he spoke. "Tom never saw it. He was hanged for counterfeiting. The story is that his execution helped speed John Gulliver to the grave. Anyway, one thing and another, bloody useless lawyers and a big, interfering family and the bequest to the nephew and, incidentally, to his heirs, it never saw the light of day."
"You mean the painting was lost?" Ben said, hoping to speed the narrative along.
"Not really. It's been hanging in a box room in a lawyer's office in Portsmouth all this time. Plenty of evidence of that. No one knew a damn thing about art, took no notice."
"No one noticed a Turner?" Jerry said. "For a hundred years?"
Montague nodded. "Room was a sort of closet, I gather. Scarcely any light. No traffic. Now here's the crux of it. The building was up for demolition and the lawyers had to move. They cleaned up the office and they found the old will. It was a codicil to Gulliver's main will, actually. And they found the painting. Some young spark who knew a thing or two got into the act and they started contacting today's Gullivers."
