Christmas at Candleshoe

by Michael Innes

  ‘Surely those Titians are insured?’ Arthur halted his father’s irrelevance by asking this question abruptly. ‘If they are, this outrage at least isn’t dead loss.’

  ‘A very interesting point.’ Benignly smiling, Dr Rosenwald shook a richly experienced head. ‘Let us hope, by all means, that they are insured. But, you know, the insurance people will fight.’

  ‘Why the dickens should they fight?’

  ‘My dear Lord Arthur, they will fight because of the magnitude of the sum involved. They will take you to – what do you call it? – the House of Lords. They will take you to – am I right? – the Judicial Committee of your Privy Council. If, that is to say, it is necessary to fight in more than one court.’

  Arthur frowned. ‘I don’t see that they’d have a leg to stand on.’

  ‘On the contrary. Your father, I fear, may have great difficulty in establishing that he has ever been the owner of two authentic Titians. For an unknown length of time, two modern paintings have been hanging in Benison Court; and it has been represented – and of course believed – by the Marquess of Scattergood that these were authentic works. We cannot explain, or put an exact date to, the supposed substitution. The position, believe me, my dear Lord Arthur, is a difficult and delicate one.’ Dr Rosenwald drained his glass. ‘And now, milord, we had better return to the octagon room.’

  ‘Certainly – if you think it any good.’ Lord Scattergood was impressed by something businesslike that either the whisky, or the present exigency, or both, had begun to induce in the deplorable visitor from Rome. He moved to the door and looked at his watch. ‘My librarian and curator, Mr Archdeacon, should be here in half-an-hour. I sent a car. Perhaps I should tell you’ – and Lord Scattergood looked at his guest with some severity – ‘that in addition to being extremely learned, and everything of that sort, he is a very old friend of the family.’

  Dr Rosenwald made a graceful motion with a hand that had somehow managed to get hold of another cigar. ‘Mr Archdeacon’, he said suavely, ‘is a scholar whom I have long been anxious to meet.’

  Attended only by Brown, the three men returned in silence through the long empty corridors. And presently they were once more facing the spurious progeny of Tiziano Vecellio. Dr Rosenwald, who had so edified Mrs L’Estrange by his ecstasies before them half an hour ago, shook an unblushing head. ‘So-so,’ he said. ‘Decidedly so-so. It surprises me that no moderately-informed visitor – But no matter. I think we will have the Leda, if you please, down from the wall.’

  ‘Is that the one with the swan?’ Lord Scattergood looked at the picture with a distaste only intensified by his new knowledge. ‘I’ve never had any notion of what it’s about, and I wouldn’t like to mention the idea it puts in my head. Had we better have a man up to help?’

  ‘Much better not. Lord Arthur and I will have no difficulty.’ Dr Rosenwald was a monument of discretion. ‘These little troubles, believe me, are sometimes best kept in the family.’

  Arthur, remarking his father compress his lips at the promotion which this smooth old rascal was thus according himself, made haste to get to work on the canvas. They lowered it to the floor. Dr Rosenwald, producing a magnifying glass and an instrument like a scalpel, took on an air of professional intentness that was undeniably impressive. He might have been a plastic surgeon in fashionable practice, and about to address himself to Leda’s rotundities in the interest of a modern couture. Or he might have been a poulterer, minded to prepare her web-footed friend for some traditional feast. His actual proceedings, however, amounted to no more than first taking a glance at the back of the canvas and then doing a certain amount of scratching and scraping of its painted surface. Lord Scattergood watched him uneasily. There had come into his head the alarming idea that Dr Rosenwald might be either a madman or a monstrous practical joker, and the work he was thus chipping at an authentic masterpiece of the sixteenth century after all.

  But any such notion as this evaporated before the brisk conviction with which the eminent Roman connoisseur presently straightened himself and spoke. ‘There is no question of what you would call a fake. The work has been done on a new canvas, not an old one. And the pigments and processes are palpably modern. This is not a forgery. There has been no attempt to deceive an expert.’ Dr Rosenwald spoke as one frankly disappointed that the higher levels of his science need not be called into play. ‘This is a straightforward copy, and nothing else.’

  ‘The sort of thing you see old ladies doing in the National Gallery and all those places abroad?’ Lord Scattergood seemed mildly surprised at the reach of his own artistic information.

  ‘Precisely that sort of thing. And I see no need for a more particular examination of the other painting at present.’

  ‘You’re quite sure that it’s all right about Velasquez?’ Lord Scattergood exchanged an uneasy glance with King Philip and the Infanta. It appeared altogether shocking to him to have to ask such a question in their presence. But his anxiety forbade him to wait until he was once more out of their view. ‘Hadn’t you better vet them a little more thoroughly?’

  Dr Rosenwald shook his head. ‘Your Velasquez portraits are authentic. On Velasquez, milord, I could not be deceived in the dark. On Velasquez’ – and Dr Rosenwald brilliantly but modestly smiled – ‘I am the first authority in Europe.’

  The arrival of Mr Archdeacon in the smoking-room some fifteen minutes later was distinguished by a demonstration on the part of Brown. The high regard which the Spendlove family in general felt for their librarian was clearly shared by this severer judge. He and Mr Archdeacon, in fact, embraced cordially; and as Mr Archdeacon was a venerable person with flowing white hair, abundant eyebrows, and a bushy beard the visual effect was striking. It was some moments before Lord Scattergood could provide the new arrival with whisky and introduce Dr Rosenwald. He then explained the state of the case. Listening in silence, Mr Archdeacon occupied himself with stuffing an enormous pipe.

  ‘So you see, my dear Archdeacon, here is a shocking thing. I can’t imagine anything more disgraceful. We have been showing these pictures to the public as being by Titian, and it turns out that they are by somebody quite different – a school-mistress perhaps, or a new sort of burglar.’

  Mr Archdeacon nodded through a cloud of smoke. ‘It is very deplorable, to be sure. But beauty, after all, is in the eye of the beholder.’

  ‘Is that so? I hadn’t heard.’ Lord Scattergood received this mysterious intelligence respectfully. ‘And that makes a difference?’

  ‘Assuredly. Let us conclude that each man largely creates the beauty he experiences, and our position is morally a strong one. Let me be very clear, very simple. By “Titian” – or shall we say rather by “Titianness”? – we mean a class of experiences, preponderantly emotional but in part intellectual, varying from individual to individual within limits which I shall presently endeavour to define. “Titianness”, in fact, is a term only applicable with any philosophical strictness to phenomena of a purely subjective character. Whether that in the outer world whereby the response of “Titianness” is occasioned has or has not any objective and verifiable connexion with the man Tiziano Vecellio is a circumstance altogether immaterial.’ Mr Archdeacon emitted a further cloud of smoke, which had perhaps the effect of a little obscuring his train of thought. ‘So, you see, we need not really worry on the score of having been parties to a deception.’

  ‘I’m extremely glad to hear it.’ Lord Scattergood’s gratitude to the family sage for this clarification of his ethical position was unaffected. ‘I was afraid, you see, that we hadn’t been giving people their money’s worth. Forgeries, after all, are not at all a nice thing to have about.’

  ‘My dear Marquess, we are all forgeries.’

  ‘You don’t say so!’

  ‘Certainly – even Brown.’ From behind his now impenetrable cloud Mr Archdeacon gave a Jehovah-like chuckle. ‘Brown himself is but a counterfeit, a feeble copy of the real Brown – whom we should find, you know, on
ly in the kennels of Heaven. And were Titian – or shall we say the late Sir Edwin Landseer? – to execute a painting of our Brown, what would this be but a copy of a copy, a shadow of a shadow? Now, suppose further that a forger gets to work on Landseer’s painting. His work will be at but one further remove from the real Brown – the shadow, we may say, of a shadow’s shadow. There is here a field for abundant reflection.’

  ‘That’s extremely true.’ Lord Scattergood hesitated before descending from these edifying and Platonic heights. ‘But the plain fact, my dear fellow, is this: that people who collect art and so forth don’t manage to take your profound sort of views. They have matter-of-fact minds, Archdeacon – damned matter-of-fact minds. And the disappearance of these things means that I stand to lose the deuce of a lot of money. To tell you the truth, Dr Rosenwald here was going to find a millionaire or two to take the Titians off my hands for an uncommonly large sum.’

  ‘That’s another matter.’ Abruptly Mr Archdeacon rose to his feet and emerged from the layers of smoke wherein he had been enshrouded. ‘The paintings must be recovered.’ He turned to Dr Rosenwald. ‘When, pray, would the copies have been executed?’

  ‘Judging from the state of the pigment, they are not less than three years old, and not more than ten.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’

  ‘My good sir, with me these are matters of professional knowledge.’ Dr Rosenwald was gracefully magistral. ‘I have no doubt of it whatever.’

  ‘Very good.’ Mr Archdeacon, who had taken upon himself with surprising suddenness the role of practical investigator, paused to give Brown an amiable cuff on the nose. ‘And now be so good, Dr Rosenwald, as to tell me this: is it possible, in your judgement, that these copies could have been made other than direct from the originals? I may remind you that the Marquess many years ago gave permission for the preparation and sale of colour prints of a superior sort, and that the paintings have further been photographed in considerable detail.’

  Dr Rosenwald considered. ‘The copies are not very good copies. But they have been executed with much care, and almost certainly from the originals. And that would involve access to the originals covering a period of many weeks – probably, indeed, of many months.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mr Archdeacon, accompanied by Brown, took a turn about the room. Both Lord Scattergood and his son watched the family oracle respectfully. Dr Rosenwald benefited by their absorption to the extent of a further glass of whisky and a third cigar. ‘There can be no doubt as to how the matter stands.’ Mr Archdeacon came to a halt again before his employer. ‘Unfortunately it can only be described as in a posture of some delicacy.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Lord Scattergood was dismayed. ‘And you don’t see quite what to do?’

  ‘I by no means make that asseveration.’ Having delivered himself of this mild rebuke, Mr Archdeacon briefly resumed his perambulation. For a moment he halted in a far corner – seemingly for the purpose of conferring with Brown. And presently he returned. ‘You will recall that at the outbreak of war we sent a good many of the things away. With so important a Ministry proposing to move in, it looked as if we might well be singled out as a target for aerial attack.’

  ‘To be sure.’ Lord Scattergood nodded intelligently. ‘I remember that you advised sending the muniments to Corbies.’

  ‘They were, of course, the objects of our chief concern.’ Mr Archdeacon turned to Dr Rosenwald. ‘Paintings and so forth are one thing. But family documents, I am sure you will agree, are quite another.’

  Whether the eminent connoisseur indeed concurred in the view that charters and title-deeds must enjoy priority over the achievements of Cima da Conegliano and Alessio Baldovinetti – let alone of Titian and Velasquez – was highly doubtful. Dr Rosenwald however had by this time advanced so far in independent research into the territorial origins of Lord Scattergood’s whisky as to be indisposed to argument on the subject; so that Mr Archdeacon presently resumed his observations to the room in general.

  ‘But we did at the same time disperse a considerable number of the works of fine art – the major Italian and Spanish paintings included. It was not easy, however, to arrange transport to Scotland on a large scale. I bethought myself, therefore, of invoking the courtesy of our more retired neighbours. That Benison should be bombed appeared not improbable. But who would wish, for example, to blow up old Colonel Riskey?’

  Lord Scattergood nodded. ‘Very true. Unless one knew him, that is to say. And he had probably never run up against Goering and those fellows personally.’

  ‘Or what likelihood was there of enemy action being directed upon an edifice so inconsiderable as Kerpen House?’ Mr Archdeacon paused. ‘So I sent the better ceramics and bronzes to Sir Richard, and the Colonel was good enough to house the prints and drawings.’

  ‘And the paintings?’ Lord Scattergood was all anxiety. ‘It was in them, after all, that the hard cash lay.’

  ‘Precisely. The point had by no means escaped me.’ For a moment or two Mr Archdeacon applied himself once more to his pipe. ‘I therefore arranged that the paintings should go to the most retired and insignificant spot of all. Or insignificant, I should say, but for the accident of its early association with the family. In short…’

  ‘Candleshoe!’ Understanding flashed upon Lord Scattergood. ‘The paintings went there?’

  ‘The most important paintings certainly did. And at Candleshoe, clearly, the substitution must have been effected.’

  ‘Then we must go and find out. I’ll order round a car this minute.’ And Lord Scattergood firmly rang a bell for the second time that evening. ‘But – by Jove! – isn’t the old lady said to be a bit hard to handle?’

  ‘There is not a doubt of it. Only the high vein of patriotic feeling current at that time disposed her, if I recollect rightly, to admit anything at all from Benison. And she charged a good round figure, too.’ Lord Scattergood’s philosophic librarian took another puff at his pipe. ‘Fortunately it occurred to me to send on the bill to the Ministry. They paid, without demur.’

  Arthur Spendlove was looking doubtful. ‘Ought we really to go over there at this hour? We can’t ring up and make a civil inquiry about its being convenient. Candleshoe is certainly not on the telephone.’

  ‘It might be described as only very uncertainly on the map.’ Mr Archdeacon was on the point of indulging himself in a laugh on the strength of this witticism, but was dissuaded by an evidently disapproving gesture on the part of Brown. ‘It makes, that is to say, no great figure in the world at present. I doubt whether there be anybody there except Miss Candleshoe herself – unless, indeed, she still has poor Armigel.’ And Mr Archdeacon shook his venerable locks. ‘The dear old boy must be getting on.’

  Lord Scattergood looked at his watch. ‘Perhaps, after all, it would be better to wait till the morning? A spinster of advanced years, don’t you know, living in a tumbledown place like that, might be a bit alarmed–’

  ‘I think we’d better go now.’ Arthur had changed his mind. ‘If there is really some danger of the old lady’s being unco-operative, something in the way of shock tactics may be the best start.’

  ‘Very true, my dear boy – very true, indeed.’ With some dexterity, Lord Scattergood moved the whisky decanter out of Dr Rosenwald’s immediate reach. ‘Not that I’d want to do anything to upset old Miss Candleshoe. We’ve none of us seen her for years, you know; and I have an idea that she has a bit of a bee in her bonnet in the matter of the family history. Absurd – but there it is. And I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s in difficulties. I think it very possible that she’s hard up. Shocking to think of – eh?’ Lord Scattergood was genuinely distressed at the notion of indigence among the upper classes. ‘But we’d better be off at once. Arthur, will you drive? No need to drag out Ball. Archdeacon, my dear fellow, I rely on you to come along. Fortunately it’s a mild night, and there will be a bit of a moon.’ Lord Scattergood’s eye, as he spoke, fell upon Dr Rosenwald. ‘Good lord – is that f
ellow asleep?’

  Arthur gave the connoisseur an unceremonious prod – without discernible effect. ‘Heavily, it seems. Perhaps he’s unused to whisky – eh?’

  ‘Had we better rouse him and take him along?’ Lord Scattergood consulted his librarian. ‘Would he be useful with the old girl?’

  The sage nodded. ‘Not perhaps with the old girl – but conceivably with the Old Master.’

  ‘What’s that? James Candleshoe died years ago.’

  ‘You misapprehend me, my dear Marquess. I refer to Titian.’

  ‘To be sure. And what a deuced mysterious business this is! But I believe, my dear Archdeacon, that you already see some light in it.’

  The librarian, who was re-enveloping himself in an ancient Inverness cape, paused to consider this. ‘I think I may say that I see some possibility of presently advancing upon a working hypothesis.’

  ‘By jove! is that so?’ Lord Scattergood was impressed. ‘Had I better bring a gun?’

  ‘My dear Marquess, all we need take is authority and a clear head. It is a situation in which we ought to have no difficulty in effecting a convenient division of labour.’

  12

  Candleshoe has ample cellarage, and parts of this are distinguishably of far greater antiquity than is the house. It is supposed that when Robert Candleshoe built his ambitious new dwelling he incorporated in its foundations the substructure of some immemorial building acquired by the family upon its first coming to prosperity. It is here only that the ghosts walk – a circumstance which would seem to argue the very high antiquity of these apparitions. There can be little doubt that the ghosts look upon Candleshoe as Candleshoes look upon Spendloves. When these spirits were incarnate, William of Normandy had not yet come to England.

  It is at this lower level that Grant Feather and the boy Robin have been readmitted to the beleaguered house. The children themselves are as pale as ghosts. But Jay, who leads them, is less like a ghost than a flame. Crisis has come, and he has kindled to it.