Death of an Old Master lfp-3

by David Dickinson

  Powerscourt thought of the de Courcy family as a train line, branching out all over England, red lines on his map connecting Nottinghamshire to Cumbria. Change at York, probably.

  ‘So where does he come from?’ he said. ‘And why should he lie about his origins?’

  ‘I can only guess about why he should lie,’ said Lady Lucy, trying to stick to the facts in the manner approved by her husband. ‘But he comes from Norfolk. The Norfolk de Courcys have lived for centuries in a huge house near the sea, not far from Cromer. But the family fortunes have collapsed. Edmund de Courcy’s father, Charles Windham de Courcy, ran away to the south of France to live with some Frenchwoman. He left three children behind in Norfolk, Edmund, who was the eldest, and his two sisters. Then this Charles de Courcy had another two children with the Frenchwoman. When he died they discovered that he had spent most of the family fortune. What was left was divided between the English branch, including Edmund’s mother, and the French family. But there wasn’t enough money to go round. The great house is closed up. Nobody lives there now. Edmund has entered the art world.’

  Lady Lucy looked sad, the bald facts of her narrative hiding so much private pain, a family torn apart.

  ‘And where are the mother and the two sisters now, Lucy?’

  ‘They’re living abroad. It’s so much cheaper over there.’

  Powerscourt asked the obvious question. ‘But why should Edmund lie about his family? There’s no shame attached to going to live abroad. People go to the south of France or Italy all the time. And would you suppose that the mother would be happy in France, fearing she might bump into her husband’s mistress at the bakery or the hairdresser’s or somewhere like that?’

  ‘It’s a pretty big place, the south of France,’ said Lady Lucy defensively. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of hairdressers, more than enough to go round.’

  ‘Suppose the family had plenty of pictures up there in Norfolk, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Edmund could have gone into the art world to get the best prices for them. When he’s got enough money, he’ll bring the rest of his family home.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why he lied about them,’ Lady Lucy replied.

  ‘Or,’ Powerscourt rushed on, his mind racing through the facts of his investigation since the death of Christopher Montague, ‘suppose the opposite. There are no pictures in the house in Norfolk. De Courcy employs a forger. Maybe the forger is in the same place as his family. Maybe one of his sisters is rather a star with the brushes and the impasto. Maybe it’s some embittered local artist, desperate for money. Every time de Courcy crosses the Channel to see his family he brings a lot of forgeries back with him, hidden in the bottom of a suitcase, wrapped up inside his fishing gear, God knows. Did nobody know exactly where they had gone, the mother and the sisters de Courcy?’

  Lady Lucy paused. She knew somebody had mentioned somewhere unusual to her.

  ‘Corsica,’ she said at last. ‘Northern Corsica. Place called Calvi, I think.’

  ‘Calvi?’ said Powerscourt, suddenly remembering Johnny Fitzgerald telling him about a great bundle of paintings arriving at the de Courcy and Piper Gallery. What were Johnny’s words? ‘It said on the front that it came from Calvi or Galvi, somewhere like that.’

  He picked up the atlas on the floor and began turning the pages furiously. Ireland, no. Scotland, no. Germany no. France, yes. Off the southern coast, its northern section pointing like a finger at the Italian Riviera, was Corsica. And in a bay at the northern end of the island sat Calvi.

  He showed Lady Lucy the map and smiled at her. ‘We’re going on a journey,’ he said. ‘What do you know of Corsica, Lucy?’

  Lady Lucy paused. ‘Mountains,’ she said, ‘huge mountains. Wild coastline, I think. And,’ she shuddered slightly as she thought of going to the granite island, ‘feuds, bandits, vendettas, murderers.’

  15

  ‘Premises secured,’ said the telegraph message. ‘Corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Sixth Street. Ample space for display of treasure.’

  William Alaric Piper rubbed his hands together with delight. At last, his agent in New York had secured a base for him, a base that would be converted into a gallery for the display of his paintings. The Venetians, currently on display on the floors above him to the ungrateful Londoners, who had bought in insufficient quantities in Piper’s view, the Venetians would cross the Atlantic. Surely, he reflected, America must have been discovered in Titian’s lifetime, if not that of Giorgione. Perhaps they had met Amerigo Vespucci on their travels. Now they could all be reunited in the plutocratic magnificence of Fifth Avenue. He read on.

  Another millionaire en route. Arrives tomorrow. Piccadilly Hotel. Name of Cornelius P. Stockman. Dime store money. Single. Not fond of religion. No Crucifixions. No Madonnas. No Annunciations. No dark pictures. No Rembrandts. No Caravaggios. Suggest women, possibly without clothes. Regards. Kempinski.

  William Alaric Piper was having trouble with his latest millionaire. He had taken Lewis B. Black on his normal introductory tour, the National Gallery, the weekend at a grand house in the country, the reverential tour round his own exhibition. William P. McCracken, Piper reflected bitterly, may have been overly susceptible to the views of the elders of the Third Presbyterian in Lincoln Street in his home town of Concord, Massachusetts. His wife might have had strong views about pictorial propriety. But at least he had talked. Lewis B. Black scarcely spoke at all. In the National Gallery on a visit lasting almost three hours he had uttered precisely two words in front of a Turner. ‘Nice sunset.’

  In Piper’s own gallery he had hummed and erred in front of various paintings. He seemed to be pregnant with speech. But no words came out. For a man of Piper’s temperament, volatile, mercurial, this was maddening. He wanted to pick up Mr Black, not a very large man, and shake him. After two or three hours in his company Piper would feel exhausted, emotionally worn out. He wondered if it was damaging his health. He would have to go to his doctor. Maybe there would be some pills he could prescribe.

  When William Alaric Piper tried to work out why Black spoke so little he could only guess. Maybe words were like money. The less you talked the richer you would become. After ten or fifteen years you would become a word millionaire, you would have a hoard, a treasure trove of unspoken thoughts. Maybe Black spent his life surrounded by people who wanted him to make decisions. Close down that factory. Invest in these bonds. Buy this mansion in Newport Rhode Island. Silence would torture his staff as surely as it tortured Piper. Surely, he felt, Cornelius P. Stockman could not be another of the silent plutocrats.

  Lord Francis Powerscourt felt like a pygmy, a dwarf, a midget. He was surrounded by other pygmies, dwarves and midgets, humans ranged in front of the west front of Lincoln Cathedral, a vast structure like a fortress guarding the glories of God within. Powerscourt had been in the city for two days now in search of the elusive Horace Aloysius Buckley and the sheer size, the weight, the massiveness of the ancient building still overpowered him. It makes Stonehenge look like something a group of children might put together if they were left with a heap of bricks in a garden, he thought. Maybe God had prefabricated it in heaven and dropped the whole edifice down on to this unlikely Lincolnshire hill. The later bits, he reminded himself, dated from somewhere about 1265, over six hundred years before.

  In the mornings Powerscourt waited in attendance at the railway station, looking at the passengers who decamped off the services from London or Peterborough or Ely. In his pocket he had the likeness of a scowling Horace Aloysius Buckley in cricket flannels and a white sweater, bat in his hand. No Buckley had appeared so far. Powerscourt carried his likeness from the lower section of the town up the aptly named Steep Hill. He carried Mr Buckley round the glories of the cathedral, the friezes showing Adam and Eve being expelled from the Garden of Eden, little stone people with little stone animals in a little stone boat leaving Noah’s Ark, the Harrowing of Hell where the monstrous jaws of hell itself are stuffed with the souls of tiny na
ked sinners, Lust, with a man and a woman having their private parts gnawed at by serpents. He took him along the nave, drenched with space and light, the stone vaults reaching up to heaven. He showed the likeness of Horace Aloysius Buckley the Lincoln Imp, frozen in stone up a pillar, a little devil complete with horns and claws, covered in feathers, unable to prey on humankind any more.

  Powerscourt would always remember the moment he found the living Horace Aloysius Buckley. Faintly from somewhere outside the cathedral, a house in the close perhaps, a choir was practising. And his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace. The voices soared upwards, the strings chasing them through the octaves to rise above the choir, knitting the sound together, driving it forwards, higher and higher. Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hall-el-uj-ah. The word echoed in Powerscourt’s brain all through his first conversation with the London lawyer, husband of the beautiful and enigmatic Rosalind Buckley, former lover of the late Christopher Montague.

  Buckley was sitting on a stone bench in front of the Angel Choir, messengers of God dispensing the justice of the Lord. He was wearing, not cricket flannels, but a nondescript suit of pale blue with a dark shirt and an undistinguished tie. His shoes were scuffed as if he had been walking a great deal.

  ‘Are you Mr Horace Buckley?’ said Powerscourt in his gentlest voice.

  Buckley stared at him in terror, his eyes bulging, his hands clutching at his watch chain as if it would deliver him from evil. ‘I am,’ he stammered, ‘and who on earth are you?’

  Powerscourt felt he could have announced himself as the Angel Gabriel or Moses recently returned from the mountain top and been believed.

  ‘My name is Powerscourt,’ he said softly. ‘I am investigating the deaths of Christopher Montague, art critic, and Thomas Jenkins, late of Emmanuel College, Oxford.’

  Buckley looked paler yet. His hands began a series of convulsive movements round the watch chain, like a nun with her rosary. ‘I see,’ he said finally, with the air of a man whose past has finally caught up with him, ‘I see.’

  ‘I don’t think we should talk in here,’ said Powerscourt, looking apprehensively at the various representatives of God’s purpose on the surrounding walls of the Angel Choir. ‘Come with me.’

  Powerscourt led him past the north choir aisle and along the north-east transept into the cloister. There was a feeble sun here, casting faint shadows across the cloisters. Hallelujah, Powerscourt heard in his head again, Hall-el-uj-ah. He realized suddenly that he had Buckley’s movements the wrong way round. He couldn’t have come from the south at all. He must be on his way back from the north, from Durham perhaps, last resting place of the Venerable Bede. Maybe Carlisle, though Powerscourt remembered from his train map with the red lines that connections were difficult.

  ‘How many cathedrals have you visited now? For Evensong, I mean?’

  Buckley looked at him in confusion. How on earth did the man know what he had been doing? ‘Eighteen, I think,’ he said finally, talking like a man in a dream. ‘I’ve got to go to Ely and Peterborough on the way back.’

  ‘I must ask you about the murder of Christopher Montague, Mr Buckley,’ said Powerscourt, passing, he noticed, the carving of The Man with the Toothache on the cloister wall. Poor fellow, Powerscourt thought, how long has the unfortunate man been suffering? Seven centuries of toothache? God in heaven.

  Buckley twitched at his tie. He pulled his jacket straight. He’s returning to being a lawyer, Powerscourt said to himself.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Horace Aloysius Buckley firmly. ‘It was terrible. The poor man looked so distraught, sitting in his chair with his neck that purple colour.’

  ‘God bless my soul, Mr Buckley! Did you see him when he was dead? In that flat in Brompton Square?’ asked an astonished Powerscourt.

  ‘Let me explain to you,’ said Buckley, looking furtively about him. Only the cold stones of Lincoln’s cloister were listening. ‘I had known about Rosalind’s friendship with Montague for some time. She’s very proficient at archery, you know. She used to tell me she was going to meetings all over the place. I suspect she was really going to see Montague.’ Powerscourt had a sudden vision of a Diana with her bow, clad in a skimpy pale pink shift, one breast exposed, a quiver full of arrows at her back, cursing the hunter Actaeon who is turned into a stag and torn into pieces by his own dogs. Was it Titian? Perhaps he could check with the President of the Royal Academy.

  ‘She used to go out at all kinds of strange times in the evenings,’ Buckley went on. ‘I followed her. She always went to the same place, to that flat in Brompton Square. I saw him come down one evening to say goodbye. They embraced on the doorstep. I was only twenty feet away, hiding behind a tree. It was terrible.’

  Buckley paused. Powerscourt waited. He said nothing. He observed that Buckley had stopped under the head of a lion, a rather fierce lion. ‘Forgive me, Powerscourt, for burdening you with my domestic troubles,’ Buckley went on, his fingers still describing strange arabesques around the watch chain, ‘it is strange if you marry late. I do not think I was ever very attractive to women. So, as the years pass, you think you may end your days as a bachelor, happy enough perhaps, but without the consolations of wife and children.’

  Powerscourt suddenly thought of Lucy standing beside him with his map on the floor, of Thomas rushing around the house, of Olivia snuggled up on the sofa next to her mother. Hall-el-uj-ah.

  ‘Then I met Rosalind,’ Buckley went on. ‘I lost my head over her. I could not believe it when she agreed to become my wife. I had to ask her to say yes three times when I proposed to her.’ He paused again and looked down at the worn stones at his feet. ‘I knew where she kept the keys to Montague’s flat. I had them copied. Four days before he died I went to see him. I offered him twenty thousand pounds to leave England, to go and live abroad, never to see Rosalind again.’

  ‘What did he say?’ said Powerscourt, suddenly very afraid. Once the police knew what Buckley had just told him they would have to arrest him. They would have no choice. He could see Buckley in the witness box, a hostile jury before him, a sombre judge fingering his black cap as Buckley fingered his watch chain.

  ‘He was very polite. He asked for four days to think about it. No doubt he talked to Rosalind about it. I was on my way to talk to him that night. Only he was dead when I got there.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about his flat?’ asked Powerscourt.

  ‘Some of the books had gone,’ said Buckley. ‘The desk was empty. I couldn’t help myself. I thought there might be letters in there, you see, from Rosalind. But it was completely empty. It must have been about eight o’clock.’

  A bell tolled very loudly somewhere above their heads. It went on tolling. Powerscourt thought you must be able to hear it ten miles away across the bleak Lincolnshire countryside. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Mr Buckley,’ he said quietly. ‘I find your story fascinating. But it would be a great pity if we both came all this way and missed Evensong.’ He led the way past a wooden Virgin and Child on the wall into the main body of the cathedral. They took their seats at the back of St Hugh’s Choir. A small congregation, the old and the mad of Lincoln, Powerscourt thought, were sitting upright in their pews.

  The choir was oval in shape, the stalls of dark brown wood. On the back of some of them were inscribed the names of the local livings attached to the holder of that particular office of the cathedral. The precentor, Powerscourt noticed, seemed to have had about eight livings attached to his position. Seated angels carved on the choir desks were playing a portable organ, harps, pipes, drums. And his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.

  The footsteps of the choir and the clergy echoed around the cathedral as they processed up the nave towards the high altar and turned to take up their positions. The senior choristers wore black capes edged with blue. The others wore blue cassocks with white surplices on top. A verger with a staff
preceded the Dean.

  ‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed,’ the Dean’s voice was a rich bass, sounding as though it was regularly lubricated with fine port, ‘and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.’

  The congregation knelt for the prayers. Powerscourt could feel Buckley whispering the words to himself as they proceeded. Man must be word perfect by now, said Powerscourt to himself, he’s on his nineteenth Evensong in as many days.

  They rose to their feet. The choir were singing now, faces solemn as they looked down at their music sheets or watched the conducting hands of the choirmaster.

  ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord: and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my saviour.’ The treble voices were rising towards the vaults above. The great organ looked on. The wider congregation of saints and sinners, bishops and precentors interred beneath the floor listened too as the Magnificat went on.

  ‘He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and he hath exalted the humble and meek.’ Buckley’s eyes were closed. Powerscourt wondered what happened to those treble voices when they had broken. Did they turn into fine tenors or altos, still able to sing on into their adult years? Or did the glory of their youth simply vanish for ever, replaced by a perfectly normal adult voice with no distinction at all? It seemed rather unfair.

  More prayers. Then, as prescribed in the order of service in the Book of Common Prayer, in Quires and Places where they sing, here followeth the Anthem, composed, the Dean’s fruity voice informed his worshippers, by the former master of the choir of this cathedral, William Byrd.