“And you did ... study her, I mean?”
“As it happens, I did my thesis on Pompadour’s contribution to the French arts of the eighteenth century. It was a pretty massive contribution, too. Mitch, my stepfather, had to fly down to New York on some land deal around that time, and I persuaded him to take me along. They’ve got a marvellous collection of Sèvres at the Metropolitan Museum, and it got me really hooked.”
Ben had spread the four prints in a line in front of him. “So what do you deduce from these photographs, Tess?”
“The ground colour pins it down, doesn’t it? Rose Pompadour was first introduced round about 1755, and I don’t think it was ever used after the Marquise died in 1764.”
“But what is it - any ideas about that?” There was a curious intensity to his voice.
I shook my head. “It could be any number of things. The trouble is there’s nothing to give a clue to its size, being photographed against a plain background. A wine cooler, say, or a tureen, but my guess is that it’s a much smaller piece. A pot-pourri jar, maybe, or part of a toilet set... but it’s most likely to be a pot à sucre.”
The sharp way he reacted to that made me catch my breath, though he didn’t say anything. For several moments he sat looking down at the four prints, though I had a feeling he wasn’t really seeing them. Rather, he was deciding what to say. When he glanced up at me again I couldn’t read his eyes. Hesitant, uncertain, wary-all those things. But a sort of burning excitement, too, way down beneath the surface.
“You suggested a sugar box, Tess. Have you any special reason for picking on that?”
“Like I said, I’m no expert. I guess I must have seen something vaguely like this ... maybe an illustration somewhere, I don’t really know.”
He went on looking at me very intently until I began to feel uncomfortable. And irritated, too. Did he imagine I was up to something tricky? I was about to make a sour remark to that effect when Ben asked abruptly, “Have you ever heard of the Romanov Cabarets?”
“I don’t think so. A cabaret is what they call a sort of breakfast set, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, a porcelain tray with two cups and saucers, teapot, cream jug and sugar box ... sometimes a tea caddy, as well. There aren’t too many still around, not complete ones.”
“And you think what’s photographed there might be from these Romanov Cabarets, is that what you’re saying?”
Again I sensed him holding back. “You really are in the dark about all this, aren’t you?”
“For heaven’s sake,” I flared, “why do you think I’m asking you?”
“Okay, I’m sorry. Not that I’m all that sure myself, but this certainly looks like a double-headed eagle.”
“Where? I didn’t see that.”
He showed me what I’d taken to be just a part of the scrolled design. “The Imperial Russian cipher,” he said. “If this piece is what I think it might be, there’s quite a story attached to it.”
“Oh? So tell me.”
He smiled faintly. “The only reason I know much about the Romanov Cabarets is because I struck a reference to them recently—I was checking the authenticity of some Sèvres porcelain prior to a sale. You’ll have no trouble with the background, not with your knowledge of French history. It was the time of the Seven Years’ War, after France had switched alliances.”
“The renversement des alliances,” I said. “Madame de Pompadour got blamed for that—unfairly, in my opinion.”
“Well, whoever was to blame, France found herself fighting against Prussia and England, with Austria and Russia as her allies. Right?”
“Right.”
“So La Pompadour conceived the idea of a magnificent gift for Tsarina Elizabeth of Russia, and what better than something from her particular pride and joy, the Sèvres porcelain factory? Whether to dazzle the cloddish Russians with the superiority of French civilisation or as a genuine gesture from one ally to another isn’t clear, but the result was the Romanov Cabarets... a dozen sets, some of the finest pieces ever produced at Sevres, all in her own beloved rose Pompadour and thickly ornamented with burnished gold, the paintings in the reserve panels by leading artists. The complete collection was called Les Douze Mois de l’Annèe. A cabaret set to represent each month.”
“What a fantastic collection they must have made,” I said. “So what happened to them, Ben? You said there was quite a story?”
“They were carefully packed up and despatched across war-torn Europe. But by the time they finally arrived, Elizabeth had died and the new Tsar was her nephew, Peter...just about as pro-Prussian as he could be. At the very moment when Frederick the Great seemed on the point of total defeat, Peter let the side down by making a separate peace with him. It must have enraged La Pompadour that her precious cabarets were delivered into the hands of a man like that. And doubtless she took great satisfaction from the fact that he lasted a few months only before getting knocked off by pals of his scheming little wife, who fancied the throne for herself.”
“I’m surprised,” I said, “that I didn’t strike anything about these Romanov Cabarets in my reading. But maybe Madame de Pompadour preferred to draw a veil over a grand gesture that went so badly wrong.”
“Could be. I do know this ... forever afterwards the Romanov Cabarets were said to be cursed with bad luck. And the Romanovs undoubtedly had their ups and downs.”
“Don’t we all? So what happened to the cabarets?”
“The story goes that they were all destroyed during the fighting at the time of the Communist Revolution.”
I was silent while Ben toyed with his coffee cup, twisting it round and round in the saucer. At length he said, “Maybe this isn’t part of the Romanov collection, after all.”
I gave him a searching look. “But you’re pretty sure that it is, aren’t you?”
“What I think can’t be better than a stab in the dark, Tess. A crazy hunch, if you like. I’d probably be laughed out of court by the real experts.”
Something behind me caught Ben’s attention, and he exclaimed under his breath, “Damn, what does he want?” Frowning, he swept the photographs together in a single movement and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Then he was smiling and rising to his feet as an elegant middle-aged man wearing a velvet dinner jacket came up to our table.
“Ben. I didn’t know you used this place. Top rate, isn’t it, since these new people took over the management?”
“Good evening, Sir Denzil.” Ben looked slightly edgy, I thought. “We’re just finishing … having coffee. But if you’re alone, would you care to ... ?”
“Good God, man, I’m not that insensitive.” He looked down at me, the charm of his smile inviting me to share the joke. “I don’t seem to know the young lady, Ben.”
“This is Tess Pennicott. Tess, meet Sir Denzil Boyd-Ashby.”
He took my hand, and surprised me by bending to press his lips to it. Few Englishmen could make the courtly gesture without a touch of absurdity, but he managed it. He was about sixty, I guessed, but lean and lithe, still a man that women might call sexy. His hair, though grey, was plentiful, his eyes, beneath a noble brow, sparked with appreciation as they met mine.
“I am charmed, my dear... quite charmed. What good taste you have, Ben.” He paused momentarily and mused, “Pennicott... an uncommon name. You aren’t, by any chance, related to that poor fellow Maynard Pennicott who had a little antique shop in Meeting House Lane?”
“He was my uncle.”
“Well, fancy that. Do I detect something of a Canadian accent?”
I smiled. “I expect so. It kind of rubs off on you. My father was sent to Montreal by his firm six years ago, and that’s where I’ve been living ever since. I’m over here now because I was my uncle’s next of kin, so I’ve inherited from him.”
“What a sad business that was. It came as a shock to all of us who knew Maynard, eh Ben? He always struck me as such a vital sort of fellow, full of energy and good spirits.”
“Only as a collector, my dear. Ben knows me quite well, I’m often at Wyland’s sales. And several times I made purchases from your uncle when something in his shop caught my fancy.”
“Sir Denzil has a fantastic collection,” Ben told me. “Paintings and tapestries, silver and glass, jade and ceramics ... you name it.”
Sir Denzil laughed. “You make me sound too catholic in my tastes, Ben. Perhaps that’s true... a dilettante. Still, where would you chaps be without collectors like me? You must bring Miss Pennicott to Kelmscott Manor one day. It would give me great pleasure to show her round.”
“Thank you.” It was the sort of casually thrown-out invitation that wasn’t meant to be taken up, but I felt flattered all the same. Then he added to me with a smile, “Make it as soon as you like. I don’t expect you plan to remain in England for long once your uncle’s affairs are settled up.”
“Oh, but I intend to stay here permanently, Sir Denzil. I’m going to take over the running of the shop.”
As I spoke, I realised with hollow dismay that here was someone else who thought I was being hopelessly optimistic. He said in gentle admonition, “I trust you realise what a formidable task you are taking on, my dear. Ben, have you not tried to dissuade her?”
“Certainly. But Tess has a mind of her own.”
Sir Denzil shook his head doubtfully. “If you take my advice, Miss Pennicott...” Then he broke off, and said with a deprecating laugh, “No, you mustn’t listen to me. I have no right to interfere.”
“But you think that I’m very stupid?”
“I think that you’re a very attractive young woman,” he countered. “Ben, is this something you’ve dropped?”
He reached to the floor and came up with one of the photographs in his hand. Ben went pale, and I saw an anxious expression in his eyes as he watched the older man study the picture, holding it at arm’s length. Then Sir Denzil laughed.
“Shame on you, Ben. Don’t tell me you’ve brought this delightful girl out to dinner merely to discuss antiques? I thought better of you. Put this away at once.”
He laid the photo down on the table, and I saw that it wasn’t one of the four prints of the Sèvres sugar box, but of a little scissor’s case in Battersea enamel. I sensed rather than heard Ben’s sigh of relief. He picked it up and grinned lazily at Sir Denzil.
“Tess was asking my opinion of this piece of hers,” he explained. “Rather nice, isn’t it?”
Sir Denzil shook his head, mildly regretful. “I should say the enamel is too badly chipped for most collectors. Sorry, my dear, but it still ought to fetch a few pounds for you. Well, goodbye for the present. Enjoy yourselves. And don’t forget, Miss Pennicott, whenever you feel like coming to Kelmscott Manor, just give me a ring. With or without Ben, you’ll be equally welcome.”
As he walked away across the restaurant with easy strides, I said to Ben, “Why were you so anxious in case it was one of the Sèvres photos he picked up? If Sir Denzil is so knowledgeable, he might have been able to tell us something more about the sugar box.”
Ben had been checking to see that he now had all the prints safely together. He glanced across at me with a worried look.
“We don’t want anyone else in on this, Tess. You mustn’t breathe a word to a single soul... understand?”
“I don’t see why not,” I objected.
“Just trust me, that’s all. And I’ll take care of these for the moment, okay?”
“It doesn’t look as if I’ve got any choice,” I said, as I watched the photos disappear into the inner pocket of his jacket.
Ben signalled for the bill. When we walked out a couple of minutes later we passed a small table at which Sir Denzil sat alone, and he glanced up and smiled. Somehow he looked out of place. He didn’t strike me as at all the sort of man who would choose to dine without a companion.
“Is there a Lady Boyd-Ashby?” I enquired when we were outside.
“Yes, in the background.” His hand on the car door, Ben paused and shot me a swift look. “Why? Were you hoping there might not have been?”
I made a face at him, feeling absurdly pleased. “I’m not looking for a father figure, thank you very much.”
“I’m told he has a fatal charm for women.”
“Not this woman.”
“No?”
“No,” I said firmly.
Chapter Six
When we reached Brighton’s outskirts, Preston Park with its creepered manor house was a floodlit fairyland. The roads were quiet at this time of day, and in a very few minutes we drew into the forecourt of Wyland’s Auction Rooms. The stylish Greek-pedimented building was deserted and in darkness. Ben unlocked the front door and snapped on a switch as we entered, lighting a chandelier that was suspended from the high cupola. I blinked as I gazed around this well-remembered entrance hall, the floor tiled in black-and-white marble, the staircase with its gilded balusters rising in three easy turns to the upper landing. I had not before seen the upstairs room Ben led me into now.
It was large and lofty, and lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling.
“I think I know just where to look,” he said, wheeling a library ladder into place. “At least, I hope so.”
He searched briefly among the books on a topmost shelf, then descended carrying a massive leather-bound volume. He laid it on the circular mahogany table, drew my photographs from his pocket, selected the four of the Sèvres sugar box and spread them out before him.
“Now then, let’s see. Just give me a minute or two, Tess.”
It was so silent within the building that I could hear the soft sound of his breathing as he bent over the table, riffling through the book’s pages. Now and then a car purred by in the road outside. A church clock somewhere struck eleven, and a full thirty seconds later another did the same, followed capriciously by a muffled three-quarters chime.
Ben half-straightened, and said without glancing up, “Come and look at this. It’s a piece from the Romanov Cabarets.”
What he showed me was a full-plate colour illustration depicting both sides of a Sèvres teapot in rose Pompadour, with elaborately gilt-framed reserves painted with delicate little pastoral scenes.
“Well?” he asked.
My heart beating fast, I said, “They’re the same general design, aren’t they? That gilt scrollwork looks identical, also the strawberry-shaped lid handles. And there’s the double-headed eagle again. I’d say this teapot and the sugar box could easily belong to the same set.”
The thick art paper crackled as Ben turned on a few pages.
“Now for the clincher. Read that.”
The text was in French. The paragraph he pointed to described in closest detail a particular pot à sucre, and as I read I came to a conviction, an utter certainty, that this was my sugar box. Each of the four pastoral scenes (attributed to Dodin after Boucher) tallied with those in the photographs ... an old woman picking apples into a basket, two men in smocks tending a bonfire of burning leaves, birds flocking in a stubble field, and a woman with her brood of children gathering nuts.
Stunned, hardly able to believe it, I glanced up at Ben. “What is this book?”
“It’s an illustrated guide to the Imperial porcelain collections, printed in Russia sometime around the turn of the century.”
“In Russia? But it’s all in French.”
“French was the language of the educated classes. Russian was strictly for peasants.”
“Oh yes, of course.” I felt lost for anything more to say, the whole thing was too big for me.
Ben said quietly, but with an edge of excitement to his voice, “All twelve of the Romanov Cabarets are described in the same amount of detail, item by item. Each individual cabaret has paintings appropriate to the month it represents ... snow and ice for January, frisking lambs and shepherdesses for April, hot sunshine and ripening corn for the summer months, etcetera.”
“
And this is an autumn one, isn’t it? Harvest time ... so September or October?”
“October,” said Ben. “The October Cabaret.” He paused, then added in little more than a whisper, “Now all we’ve got to work out is how this sugar box came to be in your uncle’s hands.”
“Do you think he realised himself what it was?” I asked.
“Why else did he take these four pictures of it? Oh yes, I reckon he knew exactly what he’d got hold of.” Again Ben paused, and his fingertips tapped a rhythm on the table. “I wonder if there are any more where this came from. It’s going to be tricky, Tess, finding out without arousing suspicion.”
I looked at him, frowning. “Why all the secrecy? I don’t get it.”
“Don’t you? Don’t you really?” He gave me a hard, straight stare.
“You think Uncle Maynard came by this sugar box dishonestly, don’t you?” I accused.
“I didn’t say that. I’m merely suggesting that we’d be wise to keep our mouths shut until we know what it’s all about.”
I felt a burst of irrational anger. And because I had a sneaking fear that Ben might be right, I was all the more emphatic in my protest.
“I’m not a complete innocent, you know. I’m perfectly well aware that Uncle Maynard bought as cheap as he could, and sold dear. That’s the name of the game in antiques. But I’m positive - yes, positive –that he would never have handled anything he believed was stolen.”
“Wishful thinking, Tess. All based on a few weeks one summer six years ago. You were only eighteen then—a bit young to be a good judge of a man’s character.”
I began to contradict him hotly, then stuttered to a halt. In those days I had believed what I wanted to believe about people, dreamed what I’d wanted to dream. It was with Ben that I’d first met disillusionment, learnt the hard way how wrong one can be at eighteen.
He said, “Look Tess, I’m not slinging mud at the Pennicott family honour. I’m just trying to take an objective view, and I suggest it’s sensible to keep quiet about all this until we know the score. Surely you can see I’m right?”
The October Cabaret Page 5
