Death of an Old Master lfp-3

by David Dickinson

  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.

  23

  Rarely in its long history had Number 25 Markham Square been such a whirl of social activity. The mornings brought a constant rush of visitors, nearly always female. Streams of post, delivered by postmen, footmen or by hand of bearer, poured through the letterbox. At lunchtime Lady Lucy would go out to a rendezvous with some more of her informants. By three thirty in the afternoon she was back At Home to receive another wave. In the early evening tea sometimes turned into early evening drinks. In the evenings she and Powerscourt would dine out with yet more of her relations, Powerscourt for once not complaining about anything at all. The auxiliaries, as Powerscourt referred to the outer ring of the vast regiment of relatives, were often the most productive of all in terms of information as they moved in different circles of London society. There were now three days left before the trial.

  The letters were divided into two piles, one for Bridge and one for Buckley. Lady Lucy had purchased a large black notebook, rapidly filling up with entries, the first half devoted to Bridge, the second to Buckley.

  Powerscourt read all the letters. He listened gravely to his wife’s account of her various conversations across the West End of London. Some of the reports came from places as far away as Hampstead or Richmond. Random pieces of information lodged themselves in Powerscourt’s brain. Alice Bridge was a most accomplished pianist, he read. There was confirmation that Rosalind Buckley was noted for her skill in archery.

  ‘What do you think, Lucy?’ he said to her late one evening. They had just returned from what he thought was one of the most boring evenings he had ever spent. The obituary columns or the lists of financial prices in the newspapers, he felt, would have been more entertaining. But he had smiled, he had kept the conversational ball in play, he had done his duty. ‘What do we have to show for all your magnificent efforts?’ He smiled at her and kicked off his shoes to lie full length on the sofa.

  ‘Two things, Francis. Alice Bridge has changed in the last month or two. There was definitely a romantic attachment. It seems to have ended. But nobody seems to know who it was. Nobody has heard of Christopher Montague. I think I shall be able to find out at the beginning of next week. Is that too late?’

  ‘My learned friend Mr Pugh,’ said Powerscourt, ‘said he doesn’t think the prosecution case will take very long. He could be on his feet for the defence as early as the second day of the trial.’

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘but my informant will only be back from the country late on Sunday night.’

  ‘And the second thing, my love?’ said Powerscourt, thinking that all this activity seemed to suit Lady Lucy.

  ‘When she was much younger, Rosalind Buckley, or Rosalind Chambers as she was then, lived in Rome. There was some terrible scandal, whether it was to do with the Romans or to do with the Chambers, I do not know. But three different people have mentioned it to me.’

  ‘Scandal in Rome,’ said Powerscourt happily, his imagination drifting away. ‘Poison in the College of Cardinals. Pope’s mistress murdered. Swiss Guard supposed to protect the Pontiff at all times engaged in vice and drugs trade.’

  ‘Come back, Francis,’ Lady Lucy smiled at him.

  ‘Probably all happened at one time or another, I shouldn’t wonder. Should I ask Johnny Fitzgerald to go to Rome?’ Johnny Fitz
gerald had returned to the porters of the art world he had met earlier, buying them drinks, subtly picking their brains.

  ‘Wouldn’t the Italian Ambassador be a bit easier, Francis? He lives only a couple of streets away from here.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Lucy. I shall write to the fellow immediately. I’m sure Johnny would have liked Rome, you know. So very different from Norfolk.’

  One resident of Markham Square was not taking part in the great round of socializing. Early every morning William McKenzie set off on private journeys of his own. Each day he was travelling further and further afield in quest of his prey. Each evening he reported another day of failure to Powerscourt. He would spread the net wider yet, he would say. Powerscourt thought he would soon end up far out of London. Maybe he would reach Guildford or even Winchester.

  Charles Augustus Pugh was writing furiously at his desk in Gray’s Inn very early the following morning.

  ‘Take a seat, Powerscourt, I won’t be a minute.’ Pugh had been entranced by the news that the forger was prepared to give evidence. He had risen from his chair and paced round the room, addressing perhaps an imaginary jury as he went. ‘A forger, a forger,’ he kept muttering to himself. ‘Did I hear you right, Lord Powerscourt, that you also have some of his forgeries in your possession? We could have a parade of bogus Titians or whatever the damned things are called? How simply splendid! It’ll be a sensation. Tell me, do you have a copy of the catalogue of the exhibition of Venetian paintings?’

  Powerscourt said he was sure he could lay a hand on one. And with that news Charles Augustus Pugh had thrown back his head and laughed a laugh of pure unadulterated joy. He was still writing furiously, the courtyard outside his windows very silent. Only the birds were at their business this morning.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said finally, leaning back and returning his shoes to their accustomed place on top of his desk. The suit was dark blue this morning, the shirt Italian silk. ‘I presume that so far you haven’t managed to find the Holy Grail?’