The Property of a Gentleman: One House. Many secrets.

by Catherine Gaskin

  I sat, my stomach churning in a queasy turmoil as I thought of what Vanessa had involved herself with. And for no profit? It was difficult to believe she could have taken the risk for no gain. And yet, it was still more difficult to believe that Vanessa was a thief – that she had stolen, even in a small way, from Tolson or anyone else.

  ‘And when Lord Askew asks for that room to be opened, Mr Tolson? Even he has to notice that frames are missing – even if he never knew what was in those frames.’

  ‘The frames are still there, Miss Roswell. And canvases are still there. What they contain is quite different. Remember, I never expected Lord Askew to return. But we – your mother and I – felt it should appear as if nothing had been changed. They wouldn’t have deceived an expert, your mother said, but they were very good.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Tolson? Very good? You mean they were very good copies. Like the Rembrandt?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘So Mr Stanton wasn’t deceived? I didn’t think he was. The artist ... well, perhaps the artist hoped he might deceive an expert, but really all we were planning for was the unlikely eventuality that Lord Askew might return. We wanted very good copies of anything he might remember to be there. But if it came to the moment of his deciding to sell, I knew I would be undone. I would probably go to gaol, even though the value of the land I had saved was more than equal to the value of the art works I had disposed of. About the Chinese stuff, and the gold boxes, I had no worry at all. He didn’t even know they were there. It took your mother to ferret them out. And as art prices appreciated, those little pieces raised the price of quite a number of farms I would have had to sell. It’s been a constant wonder to me all these weeks Lord Askew’s been back that he hasn’t found out how much land he still owns. But then he hasn’t been anywhere, hasn’t talked to anyone. No one even knew him by sight when he went into Kesmere, otherwise there would have been a lot of heads turned to look at the biggest landowner in the district. But he’s a very private man, Lord Askew – in some ways, still quite like that shy boy I remember ...’

  I halted his reminiscences. ‘The artist, Mr Tolson – well, let us give him his real title, the forger. Who was he?’

  ‘Van ... something. I never met him. He never came to Thirlbeck.’

  ‘Van Meegeren? No – not Van Meegeren. He didn’t ever copy pictures. He invented his own. Vermeers. There are quite a number of museums in the world who think they have Vermeers, but they’re purely inventions of that one man. He went to gaol in the end. Now who was your forger, Mr Tolson?’

  ‘You would have had to ask Mrs Roswell, that. I never met him. Wasn’t really interested in who he was. Mrs Roswell would carry out a canvas which would fit into her bag, and, in time, back would come a canvas which, to me, looked exactly like the one which had gone.’ He suddenly dropped his formal tone. ‘It makes a nonsense of the whole art thing, doesn’t it? Whose signature is it, Miss Roswell? If someone is able to do such an exact copy, why do people pay these mad prices?’

  I leaned back in the chair, wearied beyond thinking, almost. ‘Don’t ask me, Mr Tolson. I don’t understand. Ask me why people pay those prices for a lump of carbon, because it glitters. Like La Española. They wouldn’t pay it for a piece of coal. But in paintings there’s usually something more than the signature. Forgers make exact copies. Van Meegeren was different because he made his own pictures. Forgers ... well, you can copy, but it’s very unlikely the result will ever have the quality of the original. Whatever it is we prize about the original, it’s unlikely you’ll ever find it in the copy. Expert, yes. But not inspired. But if the forgery is very good, you’ll likely sell it to an unsuspecting client, who is simply told what it is, and experts, experts who can be bought, have vouched for it. It’s happened often enough. There are tests – X-ray and spectrograph – but not every collector requires them. Why should they? They become a little vain about their own ability to judge, or they’ve grown to trust their dealers too much. Now that Rembrandt ... you can stand in front of it – it looks like a Rembrandt, it speaks to you of someone who understands what Rembrandt is all about. It deceived me. But to people like Gerald – Mr Stanton – it isn’t a Rembrandt because it lacks the quality that Rembrandt would have given to it. There really is no explaining it, but no expert would authenticate that picture, Mr Tolson.’

  For a second or two he bowed his head, as if in acknowledgement. ‘We really didn’t expect that, Miss Roswell. Your mother warned me often enough. That was supposed to be a signed self-portrait, and according to the papers we have, it was that. So when we substituted a copy, we knew that if anyone with real knowledge ever saw it, it wouldn’t stand up. And it was a modern forgery – not something the Earl’s grandmother could have brought along with her as part of the parcel of paintings she had. So ... we knew. And I was determined if anything was ever called into question, your mother’s name should never be connected with it. If I had to go to gaol, there was no reason why she should.’

  ‘You really thought that, Mr Tolson? You were really so naïve? You were using her as a smuggler. If they had really cracked down on you, there would have been ways to trace her, the handling of money ... and so on. If you went, Mr Tolson, she would have gone with you.’

  He was silent. Once more his head went down. There was a restive stirring from behind him. But Ted took his father’s silence as a command.

  ‘So ... she took out the Rembrandt, Mr Tolson. And many others. To Holland? – To Switzerland? Van something you said his name was. There’s a man called Van Hoyt. He’s been in gaol – as Van Meegeren was. Could it have been Van Hoyt, Mr Tolson?’

  ‘It might have been. I don’t know.’

  ‘You left an awful lot to trust, Mr Tolson. For a man like you. How did you know Vanessa wasn’t cheating you? You couldn’t very well verify the price she got. It couldn’t go to public auction, where you would have got a much better price because more people have a chance of bidding for it. Everyone who touched it must have known it was stolen, except, perhaps, the eventual collector. And even he might have known – been prepared just to put it in a bank vault as something that was as good as gold. But if my mother was handling all this for you, how did you know she wasn’t taking a cut of the price for herself?’

  In my hurt I was deliberately striking out at him, forcing him to recall those things he had said to me about Vanessa when he had virtually denied any knowledge of her.

  ‘In the beginning ... well, rather naturally the question was raised by my brother. He didn’t know your mother well, hadn’t my reasons for trusting her. He insisted on a check. There are ways and means of finding out if someone has more money than they should. People as untidy in their transactions as your mother are rather easy to check on. We found out that she seemed perpetually on the edge of bankruptcy – always big overdrafts, and never a sign of any sums of money that couldn’t naturally be accounted for. No, she wasn’t stealing. I thought I’d made that quite clear.’

  He faced me quite directly as he said that, his tone not apologetic; he knew he was facing my anger and he did not turn away from it.

  ‘Thank you – for that. She wasn’t stealing. But she was taking risks for you. And you let her. Can you imagine what it feels like to walk past a customs officer when you’ve got a Rembrandt in your suitcase?’

  ‘It was her style. In an odd way, it appealed to her. People like your mother often have an idealistic streak, and quite a lot of daring. She knew what she was doing, and why she was doing it. And, at any rate, as to the Rembrandt itself, it was to be the last thing. She had spent almost a year arranging the sale. The agent and the buyer were coming to Zürich, the purchaser was bringing two experts with him for authentication. Your mother never told me the purchaser’s name – she said it was safer not to know. But he wasn’t the sort who would pay that kind of money for something that his own people hadn’t examined minutely. An uncatalogued Rembrandt – something dug up in an obscure country house in England. Never been exhibited.
There was reason for caution. Your mother brought the copy to Thirlbeck even before the sale was completed. I was nervous about not having the one painting I was certain Lord Askew would remember, so we changed the usual procedure. Then your mother went back to Zürich, where she had lodged the real painting in a bank vault. She had to be careful. People watch the meetings of art experts, and known collectors. The Dutchman who did the copying went to Zürich himself. He wanted to be paid there, to leave the money in a Swiss bank. That was to be his last contact with your mother. The buyer was going to pay a million two hundred thousand pounds if the experts agreed the picture was genuine.’

  ‘A million two,’ I repeated. Then added: ‘You know it could have gone for twice that amount if it had been sold at public auction. Had you thought of what Lord Askew would have said to selling his property at knock-down prices?’

  He gestured to indicate to me that it was a useless question. ‘I made my decision long ago. This last sale would surely keep pace with Lord Askew’s needs for the rest of his life. The man who did the copying was to have his cut. I had earmarked fifty thousand pounds to put a new roof on Thirlbeck and a few other essential repairs. The Swiss agent was to have a cut, and the rest was to be invested through Switzerland. I had always paid Lord Askew through Swiss banks. My brother used to arrange all that sort of thing. He hired and advised the accountants who looked after the estate business. It’s been more difficult since he died. But Mrs Roswell had learned her way around. But this was really why we decided on the Rembrandt – a sale big enough so that all of us could stop this business.’

  Now he seemed to be talking about a stranger – a stranger to us both. Vanessa, moving quietly – taking trips to Holland and Switzerland, going up to Thirlbeck, directing a porter to carry a suitcase which contained two million pounds’ worth of art. She could have done it, of course. There had been many times when she had gone on short trips, trips into the country looking for things for the shop, attending country sales, trips to sales outside England, though these had been rarer. She had never had the money or the market to buy widely in the international field. I wondered how often Gerald or I had believed she was spending her weekend with a man, the latest flirtation, when in fact she had been at Thirlbeck or flying to Holland. It was hard to imagine this devious Vanessa, the one who could lie with such skill, who knew how to keep her secret. I had a baffled sense of hurt, of having been shut out. ‘I wonder why?’ It was really a question to myself.

  Tolson didn’t try to answer. ‘It all blew up, of course, the day I got the cable from Lord Askew asking me to get the house ready for him and the Condesa. It was totally unexpected. It came while your mother was in Zürich. I knew the hotel she was staying at, and I telephoned the minute I got the cable. She had already checked out. So I knew the sale had gone through, and I had no way of stopping it. I needed the Rembrandt back at Thirlbeck. Of all the pictures there, that was the one I needed. I needed it more than I needed the million-odd pounds in a Swiss bank. Now I have neither.’

  My head jerked up. ‘You haven’t the money? Where is it?’

  ‘I would dearly like to know, Miss Roswell. But it was a numbered account, opened by your mother especially for this sale. She was to give me the name of the bank and the number. We had done this with other accounts. She would put the proceeds from the sale of a number of items into one account, and then it wouldn’t be used again except to transfer money to Lord Askew. So I waited for her to telephone from London which she usually did immediately on returning from the trip, to give me the information. It would be something, at least, to be able to tell Lord Askew that the money was there. Then we heard about the plane crash on the 6 o’clock news. When the papers came in the morning her name was listed among those killed. So ... I had no Rembrandt, and there was a million pounds sitting in some Swiss bank which none of us would be able to touch.’

  ‘Then why have you come here? What did you expect to find?’

  He sighed. ‘What? I really don’t know. Just the faint hope that she might have left some indication of which bank, at least, she intended to use. She might have made notes. There might even have been something recovered from ... well, there might have been something left after the plane crash which would have been sent here. A forlorn hope, I know. But I can’t put off telling Lord Askew the whole story any longer. I have been nearly desperate these last weeks. The whole of my stewardship of Thirlbeck has gone for nothing. Oh, yes, I have all the land intact, and that has appreciated as much as the paintings have. But now I have defaulted by a million pounds, and more.’

  He reached for his cup again, but it was empty. ‘The affairs of the Birketts have never been small. That jewel I have to guard ... the estate to hold together. A collection of pictures and furniture which your mother thought was almost matchless in this country, and which had to be kept hidden and safe. If the Earl himself had even been an ordinary man ... but he was born in a mould which caused him to do things like kill his own wife and son, and then win a V.C. If he had been a quiet man, content to stay at Thirlbeck, none of this need have happened. But he is driven by some kind of devil, and he has no rest. The Birketts are not a lucky family – ’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it, do you hear? Do you expect me to weep for the Birketts, or for you! I know it doesn’t mean a thing to you, but I loved my mother. And because of you and your insane ideas about the Birketts being something special, something above other people, she’s dead. I don’t know how you managed to drag her into all this, and to keep her in it for almost seventeen years. But you do know, in the end, she died while she was carrying out a mission for you – for you and the Birketts. For what? Why? In God’s name, why?’

  He breathed deeply and waited for a time before replying. ‘I thought I hardly needed to explain to you. Because you’re just like her. Thirlbeck has taken hold of you, too, hasn’t it? I can see you going about there, almost exactly as she did, exploring it all, touching the things she touched, falling in love with it.’

  ‘Oh, no! Not that! I’m not falling in love with anything. Don’t start trying to drag me in too. Haven’t you done enough? Must you have me as well?’

  ‘I was trying nothing, Miss Roswell. What has happened to you happened of its own accord. But we won’t discuss that. I take it that you will not give us permission to look among your mother’s belongings. There just may be the faintest chance...’

  ‘No! You’ll not touch anything. When someone looks, it will be myself. And I’m not going to look now. And you may forget about there being anything left from the wreck of the plane. There was nothing – nothing. My mother is dead. That’s all.’

  He sighed, and struggled heavily to rise. ‘Then we must be on our way back. Tomorrow – that is, today – I will have to speak to Lord Askew. I can’t delay any longer. I’m sure you will see reason and try to co-operate in looking among your mother’s belongings. I’m sure Mr Stanton would think it wise.’

  ‘Don’t – ! Don’t start on me! I’ve heard enough. Don’t try to speak for Mr Stanton. He’ll feel as I do. He was very fond of my mother.’

  He was putting on his raincoat. ‘I know that. And Mr Stanton is very fond of you. He was very restive today after you left so suddenly without any real explanation. Lord Askew didn’t tell him about the Chinese bowl. But Mr Stanton knows that something is coming to a head. I will have to be back there as fast as Ted can drive me. I have a feeling that this is the day Mr Stanton is going to ask to look at the paintings. I will have to have spoken to Lord Askew first.’

  ‘That’s your concern, Mr Tolson. My concern is how to keep my mother’s name out of it. If Lord Askew decides to prosecute, her name will be as much blackened as yours. Think about that, Mr Tolson, while you drive north again.’

  ‘If I can help it, Miss Roswell, your mother’s name will never be mentioned. But they’ll know I must have had help with this. I don’t know how I’ll explain not knowing where the money is. Lord Askew will press me, but I’ll try to see that you
r mother gets no blame.’

  ‘How good of you – now, when she’s dead. What a miserable lot you all are up there, hugging your great estate to yourselves. It’s really all been for you, hasn’t it, Mr Tolson? The Tolsons have been there as long as the Birketts, haven’t they? You’ve had stewardship for so long it really belongs to you – that’s what you think. And if you can’t inherit legally – you or your sons – then you’ll have Nat Birkett so brainwashed he’ll do exactly as you tell him. That’s what you think, isn’t it? And can you be really comfortable in your own mind that you didn’t indirectly contribute to the death of Nat Birkett’s wife? Are you quite innocent of that death? Are you, Mr Tolson? You remained silent, and so did Nat Birkett, for the sake of you all. There was no real blame on Jessica – only the all important fact that she neglected to tell you where Patsy Birkett was that night she died. An omission – not an act. And after all, Jessica hadn’t been well. A lapse like that might be forgiven. Jessica is highly strung – and highly intelligent. A little unbalanced, perhaps. But she’s been a good, quiet, well-behaved girl these past years – cured of all her problems. You really see no reason why she shouldn’t, eventually, marry Nat Birkett. If you just all press on him hard enough, he’ll go down. Jessica is beautiful, after all – and who can really believe she knew what she was doing then? So you wouldn’t object if she married Nat Birkett, would you? Your stewardship would be justified. Things would take their proper place, wouldn’t they? Nat Birkett has two sons, but if their luck runs its usual course, it’s just possible that your great-grandchildren – or your great-great-grandchildren – will inherit Thirlbeck and the Earldom of Askew. I don’t accuse you of it – you couldn’t have been so evil as to plan it that way. But now, as things are, it’s possible, isn’t it, Mr Tolson? And you wouldn’t stop it. No. You wouldn’t stop it.’