Death of an Old Master

by David Dickinson

  ‘I guessed that the party would not have made the relevant purchase in the immediate vicinity of their house,’ William McKenzie began. ‘They might have been seen or recognized entering or leaving the premises. I then had to take a gamble, my lord. They could have travelled further afield by cab. But that would have been risky. The cabby might have remembered the identity of his passenger. They have, I believe, a remarkable ability to remember people’s faces.’

  McKenzie paused. Powerscourt said nothing.

  ‘Or,’ McKenzie went on, his features a model of concentration, ‘they could have taken the underground railway, so much more anonymous. The party’s nearest station is on the District Line. So I have been travelling further and further from the party’s address. I drew a blank in the area around Gloucester Road. I failed in Hammersmith. I failed in Chiswick. I failed in Kew. This morning, at the very eleventh hour as you might say, my lord, I found what we sought in Richmond, the final stop on the District Line if you are travelling in a westerly direction.’

  McKenzie paused again. Powerscourt was thinking of another life about to be ruined.

  ‘The party made two trips to this particular emporium, not far from Richmond station. The first visit was two days before the murder of Christopher Montague. The second was just before the murder of Thomas Jenkins.’

  ‘And will the owner of the emporium come to court?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Will they give evidence?’

  ‘They will, my lord. They have given me their word.’

  ‘Did you offer any money, William?’ said Powerscourt, a sudden vision of Sir Rufus Fitch moving in to discredit the witness.

  ‘I did not, my lord. I thought the legal gentlemen might have had a field day if I did.’

  Powerscourt wondered suddenly how McKenzie had known that. Perhaps the man was a secret devotee of murder trials, a regular visitor to the courts of London and his native Scotland.

  ‘Forgive me, William.’ Powerscourt knew he should have felt triumphant, but he didn’t. ‘Are you certain this witness will turn up?’

  ‘Rest assured, my lord, the witness will turn up. Why, I am going to Richmond myself on Monday morning to escort the party to the court. They start very early, those trains on the District Line.’

  Early on Sunday evening Powerscourt and Pugh held a final conference in Pugh’s house in Chelsea. At the same time Schomberg McDonnell was sitting in a quiet corner of the library of his club in Pall Mall. He began composing a letter to his master, the Prime Minister.

  ‘Dear Prime Minister,’ he began. ‘You asked me to find the best intelligence officer in Britain.’ McDonnell paused, his eye wandering over a couple of shelves filled with the complete works of Cicero. Should he tell the Prime Minister the names of the people he had consulted, the generals, the brigadiers, the majors, the staff officers? Probably not, he decided. The old man wouldn’t want to waste his time with the detail. He just wanted a name.

  ‘I believe,’ he continued, ‘that I have found the man you are looking for.’

  27

  London’s finest sign writers went to work very early on the Monday morning. By a quarter to nine, a busy time in the streets of the capital, the board that previously said de Courcy and Piper had been removed from the front of the gallery of that name. The staff in the artistic world round about gazed in astonishment as a new sign was erected. The Salisbury Gallery, it announced to Old Bond Street, Art Dealers and Suppliers of Fine Pictures, London and New York.

  Piper and de Courcy had spent much of the weekend in hiding at a grubby hotel near Wolverhampton. Nobody, Piper had announced gloomily, would come looking for them in Wolverhampton. Nobody did. On Sunday evening under cover of darkness they returned to London and crept down into the basement where their stock was stored. De Courcy had devised an original code to tell his partner about the pictures. Alpha meant that it was genuine. Beta meant that it was a copy of an original in the gallery’s possession. Gamma meant that it was a copy of an original not in the gallery’s possession. Omega meant that it was a total forgery, not based on any original, but born out of the artistic knowledge and creative energies of Orlando Blane in the Long Gallery in northern Norfolk. After that Edmund de Courcy left the gallery that had borne his name.

  Piper had decided that this was the only way in which they might rescue the business. Even then, he was not sure it would work. De Courcy was to take the blame for everything. He was the sacrificial lamb, slaughtered to keep Piper afloat. ‘Think of it like this, Edmund,’ Piper had said to him as they stared in horror at the dinner menu in their Wolverhampton retreat on Saturday evening, ‘greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his partnership for his friend. I can keep you on as a sleeping partner. I’ll pay whatever it takes to bring your mother and your sisters back from Corsica. You will still get a share of the profits if we survive. If we give in now the entire value of our stock will simply disappear. Nobody will ever buy any of it. They’ll think they’re all bloody fakes. It’s our only chance.’

  At a quarter past nine William Alaric Piper made his way slowly along Old Bond Street to his newly named gallery. He was wearing a new suit in dark grey. There was an orchid in his buttonhole. He nodded genially to his acquaintances. He was going to bluff it out. Already at the back of his mind he could feel a strategy emerging for handling his clients. He sat down at his desk and waited for the American invasion.

  By the same hour a long queue had formed around the entrance to the public gallery of the Central Criminal Court. There were law students come to watch the last day of what was bound to be a famous trial in the annals of London’s jurisprudence. Maybe they would read about the case in faded red leather volumes in years to come when they were senior members of their profession, Queen’s Counsel at least, if not High Court Judges. Today they could see it for themselves and tell their future juniors that they had watched all the proceedings in person. There were drifters, people who always turned up to watch a great procession or a military parade because they had nothing better to do. There were phalanxes of society ladies whose loud greetings echoed up and down the streets.

  ‘Darling, haven’t seen you since Freddy’s party!’

  ‘They say that Mr Pugh is frightfully good-looking!’

  ‘Somebody told me at the Devonshires’ that the police know de Courcy did it. They’re just about to arrest him.’

  ‘Nonsense, darling. Everybody knows that poor man Buckley was the murderer. Pugh’s just trying to confuse the jury.’

  At twenty past nine a dishevelled-looking Johnny Fitzgerald burst into Charles Augustus Pugh’s chambers. Pugh was deep in conversation with Powerscourt, fastening his gold watch chain into place, making final adjustments to his wig. Fitzgerald thrust two sheets of paper into Pugh’s hand.

  ‘That’s the Italian connection,’ he said, looking around desperately for coffee. ‘Got some of it from Italian newspapermen here in London. Got the rest from a man who’d worked as a footman at the house in Rome. Man drinks like a fish, maybe a bloody whale. Had to keep refilling his glass, if you follow me.’

  Pugh read it quickly and placed it carefully at the top of his papers. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  The judge, Mr Justice Browne, had had his hair trimmed over the weekend. He always tried to have a haircut before he gave his summing up and pronounced sentence on his victims. Powerscourt had heard somebody refer to him over the weekend as Hanging Browne. The jury looked refreshed after their two days away from court. The foreman was wearing a smart suit, as if his wife had told him he must look his best with all those press men watching. Horace Aloysius Buckley looked as though he had hardly slept at all. His face was gaunt, his eyes staring from their sockets. But he held himself well on this, the last day of his trial. The area reserved for the gentlemen of the press was meant to accommodate six scribes at most. There were eleven of them there this morning, crammed tightly together like galley slaves at their oars, fresh notebooks at the ready. The judge gl
ared at them balefully as if he was thinking of reducing their number. The journalists avoided his gaze and began scribbling on their pads. The public gallery was crammed to the rafters, a long line waiting outside in case some of those present decided to leave.

  Charles Augustus Pugh, veteran of many a courtroom drama, was feeling rather nervous that morning. He looked at his tall glass and decided to wait.

  ‘Recall Mrs Horace Buckley!’

  The society ladies peered forward to see what she was wearing. The rustle of their skirts sounded like a small breeze blowing through Mr Justice Browne’s courtroom.

  ‘Mrs Buckley, forgive me if I just take you through some of the details of your friendship with Christopher Montague.’

  Rosalind Buckley was wearing a long dress of very deep grey, with a small black hat. The colours suited her. She looked like a widow in mourning.

  ‘You had known Mr Montague for some fifteen months before he died, is that correct?’

  ‘It is,’ said Rosalind Buckley in a firm voice.

  ‘And could you remind us what plans the two of you had made for your future?’ Pugh was at his silkiest, talking as if he had just met Mrs Buckley sitting next to him at a fashionable dinner party.

  ‘We were going to live together in Italy,’ she said. ‘Christopher, Mr Montague I mean, was going to write there.’

  ‘You were going to live there out of wedlock? Or out of wedlock as long as your husband was alive?’

  The newspapermen looked at each other in amazement. Yet another possibility crossed their minds, far faster than it struck anybody else in the public gallery.

  ‘We were,’ said Rosalind Buckley, staring at the floor beneath the witness box.

  ‘Were you planning to have children with Mr Montague, Mrs Buckley? Bastard children born on a foreign shore?’

  ‘Objection, my lord, objection.’ Sir Rufus Fitch had been reflecting over the weekend that he had let Pugh get away with far too much. Today would be different. ‘The question is purely hypothetical. It has no bearing on the case.’

  ‘Mr Pugh?’ The judge turned to the defence.

  ‘It is our contention, my lord, that such questions may have featured more and more heavily in Mr Montague’s mind in the period before his death.’

  ‘Objection overruled. But I warn you, Mr Pugh, that I shall expect some evidence from you that this was the case.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I believe we shall be able to satisfy you on that score. I have no more questions for Mrs Buckley for the moment. With your permission, my lord, I would like to call Miss Alice Bridge.’

  The judge grunted and fiddled with his pens.

  ‘I, Alice Bridge, do solemnly swear that the evidence I shall give is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

  Powerscourt looked around the visitors in the public gallery. Was the formidable Mrs Bridge in court? Pugh was several steps ahead of him. He had already spotted Mrs Bridge from Powerscourt’s description, staring at the proceedings through her lorgnette, her vast bosom protruding into the courtroom. He edged a pace or two to his left, blocking out all sight of mother.

  ‘Miss Bridge,’ Pugh began, ‘I believe you too were a friend of Christopher Montague?’

  The girl blushed slightly. ‘I was.’

  ‘And how long had your friendship been going on?’

  ‘A little over four months.’ Alice Bridge had brought a diary to court in case she needed it, a diary that detailed every single meeting she ever had with Christopher Montague.

  ‘Would you have described yourself as a passing acquaintance? A friend you might bump into from time to time? Or was it more substantial than that?’

  Powerscourt looked round. Mrs Bridge was twisting herself into contortions as she tried to catch her daughter’s eye. But Charles Augustus Pugh’s broad well-tailored back stood between her and her daughter.

  ‘It was more substantial than that, sir.’ Alice Bridge was speaking quite confidently now.

  ‘Would you have said that you were intimate with Mr Montague, that you were lovers?’ Pugh was speaking very slowly, looking closely at the jury.

  ‘I would,’ said Alice Bridge proudly, now staring in triumph at the grey figure of Rosalind Buckley.

  ‘Had Christopher Montague, and I don’t need to remind you, Miss Bridge, that you are under oath here . . .’ Pugh paused so the jury could appreciate what he knew was coming next. ‘. . . had he asked you to marry him?’

  Alice Bridge did not hesitate. ‘He had. We were planning to marry in St James’s, Piccadilly, sir.’

  There was a mighty snort at the back of the court. Mrs Bridge had risen to her feet and was trying to make her way forward to the witness box. ‘What nonsense, child,’ she began. The judge smashed his gavel on to his desk.

  ‘Silence in court! Remove that woman! At once! She is interfering with the course of justice!’

  Two officers of the court moved swiftly. ‘I am her mother, she’s only a child . . .’ Mrs Bridge’s voice just reached the front of the court as she was led away.

  ‘This is not your drawing room, madam!’ Mr Justice Browne was furious. ‘It is a court of law!’ He paused and wiped his brow with a large blue handkerchief. ‘Mr Pugh.’

  ‘So,’ said Pugh, ‘you were planning to marry. Were you also planning to have children, Miss Bridge? Children who would have been legitimate rather than bastards?’

  ‘We were.’ Alice Bridge’s replies were firmer with the removal of her mother.

  ‘One final question for you, Miss Bridge.’ Pugh was caressing her with his eyes, the fingers of his right hand playing another imaginary piano concerto on his gown. ‘As far as you know, had Mr Montague told Mrs Buckley about your relationship?’

  ‘He had,’ said the girl.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ asked Pugh.

  ‘Mr Montague showed me bits of the letters she wrote him. She said he’d betrayed her, that her life was ruined.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Bridge. No further questions.’

  Sir Rufus had the sense that he was being outmanoeuvred again. He rose slowly to his feet. ‘Miss Bridge,’ he began, ‘would you describe yourself as a truthful person?’

  ‘Objection, my lord.’ Pugh realized he might be able to throw Fitch off balance if he protested right at the beginning of the cross-examination. ‘Unfair line of questioning.’

  ‘Objection overruled. Sir Rufus.’ The judge looked stern. Up in the press area one or two of the reporters were looking at the two women. Lucky Montague, they thought to themselves. Not just one beautiful woman, but two.

  ‘I put it to you, Miss Bridge, that your entire story is pure fantasy, the kind of thing young girls have daydreams about, the kind of thing they enjoy reading about in the magazines and popular fiction. Is that not so?’

  The girl did not blush. She did not look down. She was, for once, her mother’s daughter. She felled Fitch with six words, looking him up and down as if he had come to clean the coal cellar. ‘No, Sir Rufus, it is not.’

  She smiled at Pugh. Fitch felt he should beat a retreat. ‘No further questions,’ he said and sat down grumpily in his chair.

  This, Pugh, knew, was the trickiest bit of all. Mrs Buckley was recalled to the witness stand.

  ‘Mrs Buckley, you have heard the statement from Miss Bridge. Is it true?’

  There was a long pause. A whole series of emotions, fear, doubt, anger passed across her face. Pugh hoped the jury were watching carefully. At last Rosalind Buckley spoke.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Really?’ said Pugh, looking carefully at the jury. ‘Are you sure?’

  There was another long pause. Then the words came out in a rush.

  ‘I mean it’s true and it isn’t. I did know Christopher, Mr Montague I mean, was seeing this other person.’ She stopped and looked round the courtroom to stare at Alice Bridge. ‘I knew it was only an infatuation, I knew it would pass. I may have written him some letters, I’m not sure. I knew he wou
ld come back to me in the end.’

  ‘And if he didn’t, Mrs Buckley?’

  ‘I knew he would come back to me in the end.’

  Pugh paused. Three of the newspapermen who worked for the evening editions crept slowly from the courtroom to file their reports.

  ‘Mrs Buckley, I wish to ask you about the period of time you spent in Rome before you were married, when you were still Miss Rosalind Chambers.’

  ‘Objection, my lord.’ Sir Rufus was up once more. ‘I fail to see what relevance this period in Rome can have to the present case.’

  ‘Mr Pugh?’ said Mr Justice Browne wearily. He knew that the juniors often placed bets on the number of successful objections, keeping score as if his courtroom were a tennis court. He had done the same thing himself as a young man.

  ‘My lord,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh, ‘if my learned friend would permit to me to complete the line of questioning I am more than confident that the relevance will become apparent to him. And,’ he added quickly, ‘to the members of the jury.’

  ‘Objection overruled. Mr Pugh.’

  ‘At the time of your residence in Rome, Mrs Buckley, you were between the ages of eighteen and twenty. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosalind Buckley. Suddenly she looked very very frightened.

  ‘And for most of your nineteenth year, Mrs Buckley, Rome was convulsed with a society scandal. You will forgive me, Mrs Buckley, if I convey the briefest of summaries to the court.’

  Pugh paused and took a long drink from his glass. ‘A young nobleman, Antonio Vivarini, from one of the oldest families in Rome, was found dead at the bottom of the Spanish steps. It transpired that he had promised to elope with the wife of a high lay official in the Vatican. Then he broke his promise. He had laid plans to elope with another, the heiress to a great fortune. The scandal went on for a very long time because the police were unable to find the murderer. The Romans said the police had been bribed, by the heiress’s father, or by the Vatican, it doesn’t really matter. Can you remember who was convicted of the murder in the end, Mrs Buckley?’