The Dorich House Mystery (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 3)

by P. J. Thurbin

  “All this talk of robberies and paintings being worth more than one thought makes me think that I might need to up the insurance on the three paintings that I loaned to your museum, Vice Chancellor,” Grant Richardson said with a laugh. It broke some of the tension that had been building. Grant’s approach took Ralph back to his Cambridge days where the relaxed banter among students relied on a friend easing things down when someone had raised a contentious issue. It was a sport that Cambridge graduates excelled in. Ralph suddenly recalled having seen Grant’s name in the student newsletter for having gained his blue for chess while at Cambridge. He vaguely recalled that Grant had had a reputation for being a bad sport. One of his tactics was to distract his opponent’s concentration by waving to a fictitious friend who had walked into the chess hall, or as smoking was popular at the time, blowing smoke rings up into the rafters. Grant’s booming voice cut into Ralph’s thoughts.

  “It would be great if my paintings turned out to be worth a lot more than I paid for them. My wife and I bought them years ago while on holiday in St Petersburg. A good sale price at auction might help pay my golf club fees next year with the proceeds,” Grant laughed again. “My art galleries could do with an injection of cash right about now.”

  “Where in St Petersburg did you purchase them, Mr. Richardson, if I may ask?” Interjected Sergei.

  “Now look here,” Richardson replied with a smile. “It was all legitimate. We just lucked out and happened to be in the right place at the right time. They’re only copies, as you probably saw on your tour of the house. The shop owner thought they were probably painted by an early 18th century artist who died before he became famous. It may have been someone’s apprentice trying to develop his style by copying one of the great masters. Who knows. As you saw, they are unattributed, although they have been tested and proved to be genuine eighteenth century works rather than modern copies. The originals are hanging in the Hermitage, and thanks to Maria they are safe form the bad guys.” Maria smiled at Grant’s attempts at flattery, but it was obvious that she was used to such remarks.

  “Those old copies still go for a hefty price tag, even if they are unattributed,” said Sergei. “But of course they would be even more valuable if you could determine the artist and he turned out to be a prominent painter of the time. Of course if there is a break-in and they are stolen and passed on to the Chechen mafia you would never see them again. The mafia is now using stolen paintings and works of art as a way of paying off loans to other underworld gangs; a modern version of the barter technique. On the other hand, if they try to sell them back to the museum it is known as ‘art napping’.”

  “All this only confirms my view that we need to get our collection of paintings revalued so that they are covered fully on insurance,” said the VC. The Bursar nodded his agreement without looking up from his plate.

  “What do you think, Ralph? You’re the one with the business expertise, and especially now that you are our new ambassador. Do you think it’s the price that a painting can demand in the market place that establishes its true worth or is its value something that resides in the eye of the beholder? I’ve heard art aficionados explain that it is how the artist uses colour, the brush strokes, the composition or the way light is used, that sort of thing that determines why a particular artist is held in high esteem,” the VC said, and waited for Ralph to respond.

  Ralph hated being put on the spot without time to think through his answer. Here he sat alongside experts who made their living in the art world and had debated such a question many times. Was it the time to hide behind academic platitudes or would it be easier to simply turn the question into a riposte or light hearted remark? But he recognized that he was being tested by his Vice Chancellor. There’s no such thing as a free dinner, he thought.

  “A perceptive question, Vice Chancellor. There are parallels here to our role as a setter and adjudicator of standards in education. Society values our awards because we’ve been granted a license to teach and judge the work of students. Our use of the ‘referred paper’ approach to publishing academic papers and articles is another indication of how value can be attributed by a third party to someone’s work. In much the same way prestigious bodies and academics in the art world are sought out to determine the quality and authenticity of a painting. A rise in a wealthy middle class in the Renaissance created a demand for art and it became a commercial commodity. It became fashionable for artists to sign their work and often its commercial value depended on the artist’s name. Before that time painters seldom put their signatures on their paintings. As always the demand started to exceed supply and fraudulent signatures began appearing on paintings. This practice began in the 16th century. I read an article in the paper recently about a sculpture of a sleeping cupid figure that the artist had artificially aged with acid and attributed to Michelangelo that sold for a lot of money.” Ralph started to relax as he saw that his audience was listening to his answer to the VC’s question. They were no doubt relieved that they were not the ones who had been put on the spot. They could just reach for their wine or coffee and watch him sweat it out. Ralph’s years of teaching told him that it was time to interject a contentious almost risky note. “My point is that the value of art is market driven and not simply intrinsic to the object itself. Damien Hurst’s paintings of a symmetrically placed matrix of coloured dots recently sold for millions of dollars. That, and his exhibition of dead animals in formaldehyde at the Tate Gallery in London, has in all netted him some 350 million pounds. I rest my case,” he said, knowing that he would get a polite laugh at his theatrical finish. But Sarah was not about to sit idly by and let Ralph’s views about art stand. She was, after all, the resident professional, and she was determined to set the guests straight.

  “I take your point, Ralph, but many of us would argue that a painting has a universal appeal for its own sake as a work of art. Although I must admit when I see all those tourists snapping their cameras at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre I have my doubts. Most of them don’t even look at the picture. They only take photographs of it so they can prove to their friends that they were there. She smiled at Ralph to indicate that he had been let off lightly this time. Having made her conciliatory gesture she continued.

  “If its market value we are concerned with then we should use a recognized expert for the re-valuation and consider having some cleaning and restoration work undertaken while we’re at it.”

  “Then that’s what we will do,” said the VC., ignoring Sarah’s attempt to move the discussion away from seeing art as a commodity to be traded and a means of profit. The VC always got annoyed when someone challenged his view on priorities. He continued. “Cynthia, can I leave it to you to make the arrangements?” It was not a rhetorical question. As Ralph had anticipated, Cynthia practically genuflected.

  “Of course Vice Chancellor.”

  After the guests had all applauded the dinner they retired to one of the cosier reception rooms for coffees and cognac. Ralph found himself seated between Sarah and Cynthia, a dubious pleasure.

  I have a contact who has done work for Christie’s and Sotheby’s who would probably be happy to do the re-valuation,” Sarah said as she took a sip from her coffee. “Ivan Rabinsky is an acknowledged expert on the Imperial Russian art collections, among other things. We would have to give him all the details of provenance and such like but he can advise us on that once he agrees to do the work. I seem to recall that he has a laboratory at his studio over near Barnes.”

  “But how would we move the paintings between the museum and the venue where they will be re-valued?” Cynthia asked, obviously fearful that something would happen to her precious charges if let out of her sight.

  “Of course it would also entail employing a good firm to move them,” Sarah agreed. Paul Scott has a good reputation in the business for moving exhibition paintings around the world, and he’s also a friend whom I could vouch for.”

  “Provided he’s fully bonded,” Cynthia added
. “But I think we need to keep in mind that the founders and original collectors of these art treasures wanted the children and local population of Kingston to enjoy them and that they must be valued in that light and not simply because they might be worth a bomb.” Ralph just listened as the two women made decisions as they obviously needed no help from him.

  As the evening came to an end Ralph was bombarded with invitations. Grant invited him to visit his galleries in Cambridge and offered to help make some contacts with private collectors in the Shire Counties and Maria invited him to visit her at the Hermitage if he was ever in St Petersburg. He also arranged to meet with Sarah and discuss some of his plans for making contacts with investors in the art world and Sergei promised to send email references to the websites that showed paintings that had been stolen and not yet retrieved. Ralph noticed that the Bursar had scurried off home as soon as they got up from the table.

  As Ralph drove home he felt unusually relaxed. He was surprised at how much he was enjoying his new role, but he could see that he would have to be more careful when talking to Sarah about art, as it would not do to step on her toes. He wondered why she had been so quick to offer the services of Ivan Rabinsky when there was a whole range of respected valuers who worked at Christie’s and Sotheby’s. And that Paul Scott? It seemed a bit strange that she would know someone who was in the art shipping business. But of course he did not know Sarah that well, and for all he knew she may have met him at one of those art exhibitions that abound in the greater London area, or perhaps she and her husband had used him themselves. After all, it was rumored that Thomas Winton had a fairly substantial personal collection of his own.

  Back at his apartment he sipped his small malt whisky as he sat relaxing in his leather armchair and recalled the events of the evening. Maria was certainly a stunner, but for some reason he did not find himself particularly attracted to her. He reckoned that it was due at least in part to the contrived way she presented herself. And a stolen art market worth 3 billion dollars was certainly a likely hunting ground for the investors that he was hoping to attract to become benefactors of the University. And just how legitimate were Grant Richardson and his wife? He wondered if it were possible to be that wealthy without at least a nodding acquaintance with members of the underworld. Life was becoming very interesting; and no more teaching for a year to boot. Not bad, thought Ralph as he listened to his favourite recording of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, closed his eyes and immersed himself in the idyllic scene.

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  Chapter 2

  The flags outside New Scotland Yard in Whitehall fluttered and flapped in a bitingly cold easterly wind. Chief Inspector Linham and Sergeant Wilson moved quickly from the black taxi that had brought them from Waterloo station. The driver muttered something about ‘bloody coppers, never a tip from those buggers’ as he drove off into the swirling traffic.

  “Winds straight from the Urals, Sir”, gasped Sergeant Wilson as they entered the cold austere looking foyer that was devoid of any character. He wanted to add that bit about brass monkeys but thought better of it. His boss was what they used to call ‘old school’ and he had standards that Wilson was expected to respect. Since the London terrorists’ attack security had been tightened, and even as seasoned serving policemen they found the site of an armed uniformed constable blocking their path a bit disconcerting. But this was now the norm in many London government buildings.Having confirmed their appointment to see Jack Ince they took the stairs to his office on the third floor.

  Jack Ince could have been taken for any office manager in a London office block. Portly, balding and wearing a crumpled suit, he stood up to welcome his old friend.

  “Good to see you, Bob. And it’s Sergeant Wilson, if I remember correctly? Come in chaps and have a seat and I’ll get us some tea. I’m afraid it’s from the machine down the corridor.” A few minutes later he was back and they were soon catching up on old times.

  “So how’s life in leafy Surrey these days, Bob? I heard on the grapevine that Kingston is getting some bad press, what with all those University students wreaking havoc out on the town most nights.”

  “They sure keep us on our toes,” Linham replied as he picked up one of the plastic cups Ince had placed on the desk.

  Linham grunted inwardly. Having 25,000 ambitious kids on the loose was creating a headache for the locals, especially on a Friday night, but he could see that Jack had bigger fish to fry than commiserating over a bunch of college kids as his old colleague continued.

  “I guess you heard about the shooting of that transport driver who was killed in a lay-bye outside Dover Port. He’d just driven off the cross channel ferry from France and was probably having his rest break. The back of the lorry was broken open and by the time the police arrived it was completely cleaned out. Our colleagues down in Sussex will have their work cut out for them. No doubt the killer high-tailed it back across the channel within the hour.”

  “Yes, it caused quite a stir over our way as well,” Linham said. “The vehicle was owned by a local shipping and transport firm run by a bloke called Paul Scott, and it’s based just 5 miles from our headquarters at Kingston. Evidently they do a lot of work for museums and art galleries shipping stuff around the world. We think that the heist might have been masterminded by one of those white collar gangs. There are a lot of crooks moving goods around Europe and the driver was probably just a spoke in a big wheel. Now he’s dead, and so far we can find nothing to link the firm to the crime.”

  “Typical,” Jack observed. “The poor sap who got murdered was probably driving the stuff for peanuts while the big time crooks at the top get off scot free.”

  “So far our only involvement is in checking out the local firm and with any luck our counterparts in Sussex will have to deal with the murder and theft since it happened on their turf.” Inspector Linham said. “But you never know. The ball may well get bounced back into our court.” Linham went on.

  “You were part of the Fraud Squad in the old days, right after our career paths went in different directions, Jack. But from what I understand things have changed in the department since those days.”

  “It’s always bloody change around here. Musical chairs we call it. I’m now with what they call the Economic and Specialist Crime Unit.”

  “It sounds pretty impressive, Jack. What do you actually do?”

  “We’re a branch of the Specialist Crime Directorate and we merged with the Art and Antiquities Squad, or what’s left of it. What with the cuts the government keeps making in law enforcement you’re looking at one of the few remaining stalwarts of that illustrious unit. One of the areas hit hardest is in surveillance. We have a lot fewer teams nowadays and mostly I’m expected to do my own surveillance jobs.”

  “But who catches the crooks, Jack? The art theft business seems to be booming.”

  “It’s mostly done by the private sector now,” said Jack. “And I must admit they do a pretty good job. I’d join one of the firms myself if it wouldn’t mean losing part of my pension. And of course I do like being on the force.”

  “What caused the switch? You lot did a good job catching the bloke who commissioned those artists to fake all of those paintings at the Tate Gallery. I understand he made over 2 million sterling before he finally went down.”

  “Yes. He was a clever bugger all right,” Jack said. “And he got away with it for quite some time by fooling even the experts. It turned out that he aged the paintings using mud and vacuum cleaner dust, then baked them in an oven to create the cracked effect on the paint surface before selling them through an intermediary at the big art auction houses.”

  “But surely famous artwork could have been traced back through previous owners,” Linham said.

  “That’s usually the case,” Ince explained. “But the clever bit was that he forged certificates of authenticity and invoices of previous sales to create false provenance and paper trails. He even managed to access the archives of
some of the big Art Institutes and Museums and then put false records in their files. He simply replaced old pages and put in new ones. It was all reported at the time in the national newspapers.”

  “It seems like the powers that be would have rewarded the unit with a bigger budget rather than cutting it back after a coup like that,” Linham remarked.

  “The problem was that it cost the taxpayers a fortune to convict him. Some of the big boys upstairs thought it was a waste of public money. So they got the budgets switched to other crimes and we’re left sitting here drinking this poor excuse for tea in this morbid glass palace while the private firms are out there getting all the glory. Sorry about that. I’m probably just having one of my bad days. And I know you didn’t come into town just to hear my bellyaching about the bureaucracy. Tell me what I can do for you, Bob?”

  Linham stretched out as the heating in the office made him feel a bit drowsy.

  “Well I was hoping you could tell me if there are any big syndicates currently working the art theft game. As you know, we’re a small force out in the home-counties and we don’t generally have call to get involved in organized crime cases, but I’m under a lot of pressure to find out why one of our local art museums has recently become the target for the local villains. They haven’t actually had anything stolen yet as the alarm system seem to be pretty good and scares the buggers off, but one of your assistant commissioners lives only a few houses from the museum and he wants it sorted.”

  “If it’s who I think it is, then it’s Arthur Moulton. He’s slated to get the Commissioner’s job when the current guy leaves. The Mayor is one of his supporters, so I can see how if he’s not happy then your life will be hell. Moulton was a paratrooper in Vietnam so he knows how to cause as well as squelch trouble. Rumour has it that he helped to clear up those art thefts from the Marquess of Bath’s place at Longleat in Wiltshire and the Marquess of Cholmondeley’s place at Houghton Hall in Norfolk,” said Jack, reaching for his tea. “So no doubt he has pretty high expectations of his local boys.”