A Three Dog Problem

by S. J. Bennett

  These men must have believed, as their flaming machines plunged towards Earth, that their time had come. How many might have guessed they would live to their hundredth year, and some beyond it?

  Sir Simon and Sir James arrived, to talk her through the Reservicing Programme proposal for the last time before it was submitted. The Keeper happened to mention that Rozie was busy sorting out a last-minute issue with the numbers.

  The Queen smiled. ‘She’s a woman of many parts, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sir Simon gruffly admitted. ‘And she offered to help – she didn’t have to.’

  This pleased the Queen even more. She liked people who pitched in and got on with things. One of her pet hates were the other kind: the prissy ones who stood on their dignity and watched chaos swirl around their ankles while they did nothing to avoid it. But it was awkward not to have Rozie here just now. She would have understood the following request and obeyed it without question. Sir Simon, on the other hand . . . Oh, well. One was the Boss, after all.

  ‘Simon, before you go, I’d like you to find the young woman who’s curating the Canaletto exhibition for the Queen’s Gallery next year. I particularly want to speak to her.’

  ‘Today, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her look was firm. His half-raised eyebrow descended obediently to its natural plane.

  ‘Of course. But I’m sure Neil Hudson would be more than happy to come over if you wanted to discuss anything. He’s in overall control and he—’

  ‘There’s no need to disturb my Surveyor.’ Neil Hudson’s name was on Rozie’s handwritten list, which was folded in the top drawer of her desk. ‘The curator will do perfectly well. You know my schedule. If you could fit in half an hour this afternoon, that would be very kind.’

  Sir Simon nodded. That would be very kind translated as Shut up and get on with it. He had learned this early, and did both.

  Chapter 26

  B

  y sheer luck, the Queen’s next appointment quite naturally provided plenty of opportunity to talk about what was on her mind. With her page in attendance, she made her way to the Yellow Drawing Room again, where plastic sheeting had been liberally spread out on the carpet and Lavinia Hawthorne-Hopwood was waiting for her, along with the documentary crew. Over the summer, Lavinia had created a clay bust from her drawings. Unlike many other portrait artists, Lavinia didn’t like to work from photographs. ‘They kill the image for me,’ she explained the first time they worked together. ‘If I can’t capture it with my hand in the moment, then it doesn’t feel part of the process.’

  This part of the process was something the Queen always marvelled at. A damp clay sculpture, built around a metal armature, had been somehow manhandled from Lavinia’s studio in Surrey to this room in the Palace, where it stood on a rotating modelling stand, draped in wet muslin. Nearby, a velvet-lined box displayed the Girls of Great Britain and Ireland tiara, ready for the dresser to help her put it on. She had chosen this particular piece for the portrait because it somehow managed to be delicate and dazzling at the same time. This was ‘Granny’s tiara’. Her beloved grandmother, Queen Mary, had given it to her as a wedding gift and she had worn it so often since that it was an old friend. It had not escaped her notice that she thought of her tiaras the way other women might think of their hats or – what? in these more modern times – their favourite handbags, perhaps.

  Lavinia chatted as the Queen applied the diamonds, checked herself briefly in a mirror and made herself comfortable in the designated chair. When she was ready, the artist carefully unveiled the work in progress and the Queen was delighted to see that, once again, Lavinia had done a splendid job. One looked like oneself, but ten years younger. She had indeed captured some sort of sparkle about the eyes, as she had promised, and how she could do that in rough clay the Queen couldn’t begin to understand.

  Now, with a couple of precious hours ahead of them, Lavinia worked directly into the sculpture, pausing occasionally to check the dimensions against the original flesh and bone with callipers, talking as she went. The Queen had requested that the camera crew only stay for the first hour, so the second hour was much more relaxed. They discussed the Olympics, the garden, the racing on Channel 4. The Queen said she had recently seen a fascinating programme about art forgery and fakes. (She had, but it was about five years ago.)

  ‘I had no idea there were so many. I hope I don’t own any!’

  The artist pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes with putty-smeared hands. ‘I hate to say it, but you probably do. It’s endemic. Most galleries have the odd fake or two, whether they know it or not. Of course, they’d never admit it.’

  ‘But how do they manage it?’ the Queen wondered. ‘The forgers, I mean. There are all these techniques for examining paintings these days, aren’t there? X-rays, I mean. And that thing they do with colours, to test what they’re made of.’

  ‘Mass spectrometry? Yes, you’re absolutely right. Technology’s come on in leaps and bounds. Forgers have to be so much cleverer today.’

  ‘Oh? Since when?’

  Lavinia didn’t answer for a moment. She was busy with the slope of the nose and needed to concentrate. When she was happy with the line she said, ‘The science gets better with every decade. But when I was an art student – and I used to love this sort of stuff – you would hear tales to make your hair curl. Back in the seventies the experts did it mostly by eye. They used to check the materials, of course. I mean, if you did a Botticelli portrait on canvas, when everyone knew he used wood panels for portraiture, then you were in trouble. Or if you were stupid enough to use titanium white, which only came in in the twentieth century. But a lot of it was around provenance and whether a painting had the right “feel”.’

  ‘That’s so interesting.’ The Queen looked and sounded distantly composed. In fact, her mind raced and her nose itched, but her hands remained loosely clasped in her lap. A lady did not touch her face in public; Queen Mary had taught her that, as well as giving her this tiara. And a queen did not look unduly fascinated by crime. ‘So if you wanted to forge a painting, back in those days, how would you do it?’

  ‘Really, ma’am?’

  The Queen glanced over at Lavinia, who was smiling. Her cheeks and forehead were smudged with wet clay, her hands busy as she sculpted the face. She was working hard, but a lot of it was about looking and muscle memory. It left her free to consider the Queen’s suggestion.

  ‘I often wondered. It would be a nice way to make your fortune – as long as you didn’t get caught and go to jail. So many forgers did. But I secretly admired a lot of them. They were really good painters and craftsmen in their own right. The detail of getting it perfect: that’s a challenge in itself.’

  ‘What sort of detail? Let’s say it was a Rembrandt.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Lavinia grinned. ‘Wow, that’s a toughie. Well, let’s assume I’m a genius-level copyist, to start with. We’re talking the golden age of Baroque. First of all, I’d get hold of a painted canvas from the period. That’s pretty important. It’s got to be the right linen, the right weave, the right wood in the stretchers – even the right nails. I’d scrape off the oil paint until I got to the ground – that’s how the canvas is prepared. It’s got to be authentic, so I’d leave that in. I’d research what Rembrandt’s paints were made of and make my own with the same ingredients. I’d use his method of drawing, and practise his style until I could do it in my sleep. But the painting itself is half of it, really. The rest is the provenance side, and often that’s harder to fake. Has it been in a collection? You’d need the right inventory numbers, and they’d need to match the records. Faking a painting from your collection would be hard, ma’am, because it would be so easy to cross-check. Often the back tells you as much as the front. Is it stamped? How was the canvas attached? What kind of frame has it been in?’

  ‘I suppose if you had the original to work off, that would make it much easier?’

  ‘Infinitely,�
� Lavinia agreed.

  ‘But if you wanted to move a painting secretly, how would you go about it? I saw a film once where a man put it in a briefcase, but that didn’t seem very realistic.’

  ‘Oh, The Thomas Crown Affair,’ Lavinia said with another grin. ‘I loved that film, and no, you can’t hide a Monet in a briefcase. But if you were really desperate you could always take the canvas off the stretcher, roll it up and take the stretcher apart. You’d have to put it all back together of course, with the original nails. Fiddly job.’

  ‘Can you really roll a canvas? A painted one?’

  ‘Absolutely, if you’re careful. You keep the painting facing out and do it like a carpet. It’s not ideal, but I’m guessing your forger is a desperate criminal.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘We had to do it for a painting my mother bought at auction once.’ Lavinia applied some clay to an eyebrow and smoothed it, stood back and judged the effect. ‘All quite legitimate, but the only way of getting it to her was in my 2CV, and it was six foot square. Dismantling the frame was heartbreaking, but by the time we’d put it all back together and touched up the dodgy bits, you’d never have known. There! I think I need a bit of a stretch myself.’

  *

  Later, Dr Jennifer Sutherland was amazed to find herself in the Queen’s Gallery, beside the South Wing of the Palace, waiting to be joined by Her Majesty. They had met a couple of times, briefly, when the Queen had come to St James’s Palace to inspect preparations for an exhibition. She had never been alone with the Queen before. And she was still regretting her trousers.

  She looked down at them now. Three days in a row she’d worn them, because they were the comfiest ones she owned. They were expensive when bought, designer stretch jersey, black and figure-hugging, but overstretched and slightly baggy now, and still bearing the traces of yesterday morning’s boiled egg, though she’d tried to wash the mark off in the loos.

  Jennifer had pictured a moment like this, of course, up close with Her Majesty, but in her dream she’d been about to collect her MBE (or perhaps even her damehood), and was wearing Vivienne Westwood pinstripes and vertiginous Louboutins, her hair recently coloured and her mum in the audience. Not at three thirty on a Friday afternoon, in work clothes, and for no obvious reason. Neil Hudson had said the Queen didn’t notice what you were wearing, but Jennifer didn’t believe him. She was a woman, and women noticed. She might not care, but that was another matter.

  The one thing Jennifer wasn’t at all nervous about, though, was telling the Queen anything she wanted to know about the upcoming Venice exhibition, for which she was the senior curator. She had done her PhD on Grand Tour city views, or ‘vedute’ as they were called in Italian, and Canaletto was the most famous artist to produce them. In fact, it was a treat to have this opportunity to talk about her favourite subject with its most famous collector.

  And there was the owner herself, suddenly, short and sturdy, in a skirt and cardigan and sensible heels, with a page hovering in the background and a couple of low-slung dogs for company, looking cheerful and relaxed.

  ‘Did you know, this room used to be a conservatory?’ she asked, after Jennifer had been introduced.

  ‘I did wonder.’

  ‘To match the one on the other side. Then it became the chapel. But it got a direct hit during the war.’

  ‘Was anyone killed?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘Miraculously, no. My mother said she was glad we’d been bombed, because now we could look the East End in the eye. It was rather alarming, though. She was at the Palace when it happened.’

  Jennifer had always admired the Queen Mother. When the royal family were advised to shelter in Canada during the war, she had written: The children will not leave unless I do. I shall not leave unless their father does, and the king will not leave the country in any circumstances whatever. They were not just words, when bombs were falling. Another fifty feet to the right or left . . .

  ‘We were hit nine times. It was my husband’s idea to convert the chapel ruins,’ the Queen went on. ‘Now it’s all much grander than it used to be. Every monarch likes to make their mark, and this was mine. Do tell me how the exhibition will look.’

  Jennifer was surprised. The Queen wasn’t known for taking such an interest in the build-up to a show. But they discussed where various paintings would go in the three available rooms, and it was increasingly clear she had her personal favourites from her collection. She reminisced about her own visit to the Grand Canal, and how it contrasted with her Canalettos.

  ‘I suppose you’re an expert on the seventeenth century?’ the Queen asked in passing.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I am. Baroque and Rococo.’

  ‘Oh, good. Are you interested in Gentileschi, by any chance?’

  ‘Of course! Which one?’

  ‘Artemisia,’ the Queen said. She had done her homework.

  Jennifer smiled widely. ‘Absolutely! She’s one of my favourite artists of the period. We’ve got a self-portrait of her in the current show, actually.’

  ‘I thought so.’ The Queen had opened the exhibition, called ‘Portrait of the Artist’, a few days ago.

  At Jennifer’s instigation, they walked over to look at the painting in question. Jennifer sighed in wonderment, as she always did with this one.

  ‘Remind me,’ the Queen said, ‘how did we come to have it?’

  Jennifer was on home ground. ‘It was painted here, when she worked at the court of Charles I. He invited her over from Italy, where she was already famous.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. She became well known when she was still in her teens. Her father, Orazio Gentileschi, was already a court painter here for the king. A lot of their work was lost after his execution, including this one, but it was recovered after the Restoration. I think it’s one of the highlights of your collection, ma’am.’

  They stood in front of it together. The Baroque was all about light and shade, bravura painting and new perspectives. In this self-portrait – which Jennifer assumed was an attempt to get new patrons and show off the artist’s skill – Artemisia captured herself brush in hand, gazing towards a blank canvas off to one side, on which she was about to start work. The bottom half of the painting was taken up with her elaborate green silk sleeve and her palette. Above, light fell on her corseted, lace-edged chest, highlighting her décolletage. But the head in the upper right-hand corner was not coquettishly posing, it was looking away from the viewer and concentrating on the job. Her dark hair was caught up loosely, with several messy strands escaping. Her eyes were hard to see. The viewer’s own eye was drawn instead to her muscular raised right arm, holding the brush, as she prepared to mark the canvas. The sleeve on this arm had fallen back to reveal the flesh, but the exposure wasn’t designed to be sexy – and this is what Jennifer so loved about it – it was just a casual result of her work. This was a woman saying what it feels like to be a woman, and getting on with things, and being bloody good at them. Watch her if you want to, but she’s got better things to do.

  ‘She reminds me a bit of Frida Kahlo,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  Jennifer sensed her remark hadn’t landed. ‘I don’t think you own anything by her, ma’am,’ she admitted. ‘Mexican. Twentieth century. She had the same bold approach to self-portraiture.’

  ‘I think this one’s rather marvellous.’

  ‘It is. Your ancestor had a good eye.’

  ‘Why an allegory, do you think?’ the Queen asked, peering at the label, which said it was called Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting.

  ‘Oh, I think she was having a joke at her male colleagues’ expense. In Italian it’s “La Pittura”. Painting is feminine. It was something the men couldn’t be.’

  The Queen stepped back. ‘I remember the first time I saw her work and realised that a woman had painted so well in the seventeenth century. It was quite a shock.’

  Jennifer nodded. ‘It can’t have been easy, though
she wasn’t by any means the only one, or even the only great one. I’m sure it helped that her father taught her how. She wouldn’t have had access to the training otherwise.’

  ‘Ah. Training from one’s father.’ The Queen’s face lit up in a way that caught Jennifer quite by surprise. ‘I’m familiar with the concept. Are her paintings very valuable?’

  ‘Not as much as Orazio’s. History tended to ignore her and favour him. Although as you can see from this one, she was just as good. Much better, in my opinion. I think she’s finally reached the million-dollar mark. But she has her league of followers. She really was exceptional, and there aren’t that many examples of her paintings.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the Queen said. ‘A million dollars? How interesting. And I look forward to seeing the Venice scenes next year. Can I ask you a small favour?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’

  ‘Do keep this conversation between us private, if you would be so kind. Even among your colleagues. I’m afraid I can’t explain why, but it would help.’

  Jennifer promised. At first, she was disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to savour every little detail with her fellow curators at the RCT, but on the walk back to St James’s Palace she considered that an air of mystery might be even better. Oh, we talked about her favourite paintings . . . Something vague like that.

  Chapter 27

  A

  t her temporary desk in the Keeper’s outer office, Rozie looked up from her screen and was amazed to see that outside the light was fading. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly 5 p.m. The discrepancies in the finance spreadsheets had been tracked down to a couple of lines in the database: cross-checking with meeting notes from the relevant committees (Sir James Ellington was a stickler for record-keeping, for which Rozie silently saluted him), it was clear that certain cost projections didn’t tally with the real figures in the accounts.