Sir Frederick paused again. Powerscourt felt that the proud old man would not welcome sympathy. ‘There must be a number of people who would have lost money if Christopher Montague had lived. He would have become the foremost authority on Italian paintings in Britain. Some people would have lost. A couple of the people at the National Gallery are said to go in for it. Or you can go to Germany. For some reason, Lord Powerscourt, people feel that German authentications are the last word, that they are bound to be right. If only they knew.’
A pale ghost of a smile passed across the sunken features.
‘There’s an elderly professor in Berlin,’ he began. Powerscourt remembered from his first visit how much the old man enjoyed telling his stories. ‘Wife dead, that sort of thing. Professor’s word is at least as good as the Pope’s in saying what’s true and what’s not true. A leading firm of art dealers in Berlin, no, the leading firm of art dealers in Berlin, employ two very pretty girls for one purpose only. Girls can hardly spell, let alone write, let alone compile a catalogue. They are sent, one at a time, with the attribution neatly written out, only waiting for a signature. God knows what they do with the old professor when they see him, but it always works. If the blonde doesn’t get it, the brunette will. Sort of Scylla and Charybdis of the Prussian art world. The dealers, Powerscourt, whether in Germany or here, will do anything to get what they want.’
The old man smiled as he thought of the irresistible frauleins on the Unter den Linden. Powerscourt wondered if the same tricks were current in London.
‘But in fact, Sir Frederick, as we both know, the article never appeared. The exhibition goes on. Those paintings may yet sell. Somebody has got what they wanted from the death of Christopher Montague, is that not so?’
‘Of course you are right, Lord Powerscourt. I suspect that may be very important for you in your investigation.’
‘Just one last question. We have talked about these Americans, flocking here like the sheep in your painting on the wall, to be fleeced by the greedy and the unscrupulous. Should they be warned? That they might be buying rubbish?’
Another coughing fit paralysed Sir Frederick Lambert. ‘Damned doctors,’ he muttered, ‘they said that new medicine would stop these fits. Doesn’t bloody well work. Forgive me.’ Another handkerchief appeared. More blood than last time, Powerscourt noticed as it vanished from sight.
‘I have written to my counterpart in New York, Lord Powerscourt, warning him of the possible dangers to his compatriots. He has not seen fit to reply. I do not know whether it would be wise to warn them from another quarter, business, perhaps, or politics. You may know those worlds better than I do.’
Sir Frederick looked very pale and frail all of a sudden. Powerscourt thought he should have been at home in bed. ‘Please believe me, Lord Powerscourt, when I say this. I know I am ill. I apologize to you for my spasms. But I would not want you to stop coming here with your questions. I am as anxious as you are that the murderer of Christopher Montague should be brought to justice. Even if we have to hold our last conversation on my death-bed, I still want you to come.’
Over a hundred miles away to the north-west the senior curator of Renaissance paintings at the National Gallery decided the hour had come. It was just after three o’clock in the afternoon. Roderick Johnston had spent three days in the house and in the company of James Hammond-Burke at Truscott Park in Warwickshire. He had completed his catalogue of the pictures in the main body of the house the day before. The previous day he had spent in the outhouses and the attics, climbing through dusty trapdoors into even dustier lofts in search of forgotten paintings. He had assembled them all in rows in a top-floor room, looking out over the river and the deer park. He could hear the shouts of the workmen above him, repairing the roof of Truscott Park.
Had Mr James Hammond-Burke been a more agreeable man Johnston might have stayed for a day or two longer. But he was not a good companion. His conversation was limited to complaints about the costs of the restoration work and the possible value of any paintings Johnston might discover in the bowels of his mansion.
Roderick Johnston placed one picture against a Regency chair where it would catch the afternoon light. The subject matter of the painting was slightly obscured by a thin film of dust it had accumulated over the recent days, resting paint side upwards in the dustiest attic Johnston could discover. It showed a man and a woman with their two daughters seated on a bench in the English countryside, a dog at their feet. Ordered fields stretched all around them. To their left a long avenue, flanked by trees, disappeared towards the horizon, and, presumably, towards the large house that lay at the end of the drive, property of the family in the foreground. Johnston knew the picture well. He had brought it with him in one of his long tubes.
The curator set off at a rapid pace down the stairs, through the drawing room with its fake Van Dycks, through the dining room with the Knellers. He was almost out of breath when he found James Hammond-Burke staring ruefully at one of the new windows in the morning room.
‘Bloody thing’s not straight,’ he said bitterly, his dark eyes flashing. ‘You’d think those bloody builders could manage to put a bloody window in straight, wouldn’t you?’ He stared accusingly at Johnston as if he were the foreman responsible. ‘Whole damned thing will have to come out again. Damned if I’m going to pay for that.’ He paused as if he had just realized who Johnston was.
‘What do you want?’ he said roughly. ‘Have you finished your damned catalogue or whatever it is?’
Johnston remembered the advice of William Alaric Piper. Don’t tell him all at once. Draw it out as long as you can. Make him wait before you tell him it might be a Gainsborough. Only might. Suspense makes them keener.
‘I think you should come with me, Mr Hammond-Burke,’ said Johnston firmly. ‘I’ve got something I want to show you.’
‘What?’ said Hammond-Burke. ‘What the devil is it? Is it worth anything?’
‘I think you should see for yourself, Mr Hammond-Burke,’ said Johnston, leading the muttering owner back through the house and up to the room on the top floor.
‘There!’ said Johnston at the doorway, pointing dramatically towards the painting by the chair.
James Hammond-Burke walked across the room and peered at the painting.
‘What do you think it is? Where did you find it?’
Roderick Johnston took a feather duster from a table and began to brush very lightly at the surface of the picture. He thought the dust should come off quite easily. It had only been in the attic for a few days.
‘I found it in an attic,’ he said. ‘Looks as if it has been there for some time. It might, it just might, be a Gainsborough.’ The duster had reached half-way down the painting by now. The four figures were clearly visible, and the avenue behind them. ‘I shall have to take it away, of course. And I shall have to look at this bundle of documents I found beside it.’ Johnston pointed to a pile of papers on the chair, mostly written with eighteenth-century ink on eighteenth-century paper. ‘These may give us some more information. It is too soon to say for now.’
‘A Gainsborough,’ said Hammond-Burke, rubbing his hand through his black hair.
‘A Gainsborough, by God. How much is that worth?’
12
Powerscourt found his brother-in-law William Burke sitting in his study with the floor covered in sheet after sheet of paper, a snowstorm of paper. A curly-haired nephew greeted his uncle with delight.
‘Good evening, Uncle Francis, have you come to see Papa?’ asked nine-year-old Edward Burke with an air of innocence. Powerscourt looked quickly at the childish scribblings on the carpet. All of them seemed to contain versions and variants of the seven times table. Not all of them were as Powerscourt remembered. Surely seven times eight wasn’t sixty-three? Was seven times nine really one hundred and seventy-four?
He smiled happily at his nephew. ‘Good evening to you, Edward,’ he said. ‘You’ve been helping your father with his arithmetic, I see. V
ery kind of you.’ There was a loud grunt from Edward’s father in his chair by the fire.
Edward Burke picked up his best pencil from the floor. ‘I expect you’ll want to talk business,’ he said with a worldly air that belied his years but promised well for his future. ‘May I go now, Papa?’
Powerscourt realized that his arrival had been a gift from the gods for Master Edward, now released from the torture of tables and arithmetical calculations.
‘Yes, Edward, you may go,’ said his father wearily, going down on his knees to collect the pieces of paper and throw them vigorously on to the fire.
‘Honestly, Francis.’ William Burke was married to Powerscourt’s second sister, Mary, and was becoming a mighty force in the City of London. Multiplication and division on an enormous scale were his daily bread and butter. ‘It’s hopeless. Completely hopeless. Edward has no more idea of the seven times table than I have of Sanskrit,’ he said. ‘What’s going to become of him? When I was that age I knew all those damned tables, right up to twelve times twelve. They’re not very difficult, are they?’
‘I’m sure it will come good in time,’ said Powerscourt diplomatically.
‘I wish I shared your confidence,’ said the anxious father. ‘Even when you explain to him that you can keep adding sevens, it’s no good. Three times seven is just seven plus seven plus seven. And so on. Total waste of time.’
Powerscourt felt that he too might become confused if confronted by seven plus seven plus seven. Better change the subject.
‘William,’ he said, ‘I need your advice. It’s about American millionaires.’
Burke cheered up and lit a large cigar to erase the memory of his son’s arithmetical failings. ‘Fire ahead, Francis,’ he said happily. This was safer ground.
‘I’m investigating the death of an art critic called Christopher Montague,’ Powerscourt began, knowing that his brother-in-law was as discreet as he was rich. ‘He was writing an article about that exhibition of Venetian paintings that has opened recently in London. He was going to say that most of them were fakes or recent forgeries. Ninety per cent or so.’ Powerscourt thought the percentage figure would appeal to Burke’s brain.
‘My goodness me,’ said Burke. ‘Is that the thing at the de Courcy and Piper place in Old Bond Street? Mary dragged me round it the other day. Can’t say I enjoyed it very much. All look the same to me, cheerful Virgins for the Annunciation, holy-looking Madonnas with their infants, sad Christs on the Cross. Always some bloody Italian landscape in the background, full of horseflies and mosquitoes, no doubt. What have the Americans got to do with it?’
‘The Americans, as you well know, William,’ said Powerscourt, ‘are just beginning to buy this sort of stuff. Montague’s article was never published. Nobody knows most of the things are fakes or forgeries. Should somebody warn them?’
Burke found a final piece of paper by the side of his chair. Seven times four, said the childish hand, forty-seven. Seven times seven, seventy-seven. He took another draw on his cigar.
‘Very public-spirited of you, Francis, I should say. I think, however, that unless Anglo-American relations are at a very low ebb, possibly on the verge of armed conflict, that the answer is no.’
‘Why do you say that?’ said Powerscourt.
‘If everybody in London and New York spent their time warning the other side of the Atlantic about fakes and doubtful products, Francis, the telegraph lines would be permanently jammed.’
Powerscourt looked confused.
‘Sorry, let me explain.’ William Burke leant forward in his chair and stared into his fire. The last relics of the mental arithmetic were curling into ashes.
‘Think of the two great stock markets in London and New York,’ he went on. ‘Each one is permanently trying to interest the other in its latest products. It’s like a game of tennis, except the balls are liable to explode when they hit the ground. We try to interest them in some doubtful loan to Latin America, unlikely to be repaid. They send back share offerings in Rhode Island Steel, unlikely to pay any dividends. We hit back with an unrepeatable offer in a mining company in some remote part of Borneo most of the promoters couldn’t even find on the map. They reply with watered stock in American railroads. None of those would be a safe home for anybody’s savings, but they’re traded just the same.’
‘Watered stock?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘How on earth do you dilute a share?’
‘I had a beautiful example only yesterday. This is how it works. As an example of becoming even richer than you already are, it’s almost perfect. Say you buy the New York central railroad for ten million dollars. You stop all the stealing that went on under the previous man. You improve it, newer, faster engines, that sort of thing. Then you buy the Hudson railroad for another ten million dollars, which complements the New York Central in its freight transport and its passenger lines. Now, wait for it, Francis, here comes the masterstroke. You form a new company to amalgamate the two lines. You call it the New York, Hudson and Central Railroad. You float it on the New York Stock Exchange. You say this new line is worth fifty million dollars. You’ve spent twenty million on the original two. Now you award yourself thirty million dollars of new stock. You make sure the thing pays a high dividend, think how many shares you have in it, after all. Sit back and count the money. That’s watered stock, Francis. These millionaires have been at it for years, coal, steel, railroads, banks. And they have the nerve to offer the stock over here as well as in New York.’
Powerscourt smiled. ‘What you’re saying, William, is that there isn’t much difference between dubious stocks and fake paintings?’
‘Exactly,’ said William Burke. ‘In the City the doubtful stock is all dressed up in fancy language, open markets, free flow of goods and capital across international boundaries, the right of individuals and companies to make free choices. I’m sure it’s the same in the art world. There was a right load of rubbish in the catalogue of those Venetian paintings, delicate brushwork, sfumato, whatever the hell that is, sounds like something you might keep your cigars in, tonal balance. What, in God’s name, is tonal balance? Looked like a lot of hot air to me.’
‘Thank you very much, William. I shall take your advice. I shall not tell the Americans about the forgeries. And now, if you will forgive me, I must go home and make plans about Thomas’s mental arithmetic.’
Orlando Blane was looking very closely at the reproduction of Mr and Mrs Lewis B. Black in an American magazine. Orlando had no idea who Mr Black was or why he had been sent this page from the publication. All he knew was that he had to produce a painting of the Blacks, singular or plural, in the manner of a great English portrait painter. Orlando wished he knew what colour Mrs Black’s dress was – it swept round her slim figure in a beguiling fashion. On her head was a small hat composed almost entirely of feathers. Orlando liked the hat. Especially he liked the feathers. Plenty of people had appeared with vaguely similar hats in the past.
He was walking slowly up his Long Gallery. The rain was beating on the windows. Orlando noticed that the plaster was beginning to rot away underneath the pane. He kicked it gently with his right boot. There was a small white cloud and tiny fragments of plaster, dirty white and grey, settled slowly on the floor. Maybe the rats would like to have them for their afternoon tea.
Gainsborough? he said to himself. No, he’d just delivered one of those. Sir Thomas Lawrence? Orlando always felt close to Lawrence – the man had earned many fortunes and never managed to hold on to any of them. Hoppner, bit further away in time? The splendidly named Zoffany who Orlando felt should have been a Greek philosopher, forever arguing with Socrates in the public squares of Athens? None of those, he decided. Sir Joshua Reynolds was the man, grander than Gainsborough, the man who brought Italian techniques back into English painting. Mr and Mrs Black? Double or single? He wondered briefly if the price would be less today for a single portrait as it was when Reynolds was in his pomp. Probably not.
Orlando turned and looked at
one of the messages on his wall. He had dozens of these, pinned all around the Long Gallery, extracts from works of art history or quotations about Old Masters. This was one of his favourites:
On the lowest tier were arranged false beards, masks and carnival disguises; above came volumes of the Latin and Italian poets, among others Boccaccio, the Morgante of Pulci, and Petrarch, partly in the form of valuable printed parchments and illuminated manuscripts; then women’s ornaments and toilet articles, scents, mirrors, veils and false hair; higher up, lutes, harps, chessboards, playing cards; and finally, on the two uppermost tiers, paintings only, especially of female beauties . . .
The words came from Jacob Burckhardt’s book on The Civilisation of the Renaissance in Italy, published some forty years before, sitting happily in a first edition on Orlando’s bookshelves. It described the precise order in which objects were placed on the Bonfire of the Vanities in Florence in 1497, the Dominican friar Savonarola no doubt supervising the arrangements in person. Orlando always felt proud of his profession. Above, and therefore more important than the books, above the masks, above the devices to enhance women’s beauty, above the musical instruments, came the paintings, especially of female beauties. Orlando would make Mrs Lewis B. Black a beauty, fit for any bonfire.
He thought of his own beauty, cast into a different sort of bonfire, a bonfire of a marriage to a man she did not love. Orlando suddenly remembered the night he had fallen in love with Imogen, three weeks after he met her. He let the memories wash over him as he walked back to one of the great windows and stared out at the rain falling on the ruined gardens. It had been at a ball, a ball in one of the most romantic houses in England. The house itself was quite small, surrounded by a moat, and boasting three priest’s holes inside where the persecuted Jesuits were said to have hidden from the agents of the Elizabethan state. Imogen had been very excited by those, climbing into one and demanding that Orlando close the secret door for at least ten minutes so she could understand what it must have been like.
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