It was certainly in the character of an aggrieved citizen that Mr Braunkopf – with a noble scorn for any merely local police force – had presented himself at Scotland Yard. He had once, it appeared, sold a colour lithograph to the wife of the Home Secretary; and he had thus been in a position to represent himself as the acknowledged prime purveyor of aesthetic delectation to the entire Cabinet – a body of men (and ladies) notably distinguished for their connoisseurship and artistic taste. Thus representing himself, Mr Braunkopf had been received with the immediate respect such connections command in a democratic society. He had, it was true, been a little demoted later; but by that time he had established himself in the regard of several senior officers entirely on his own merit. It could not be claimed for him that he owned any notable brilliance of mind, or even much that was positively inspiring in point of moral posture. But in the middle of much dreary routine, Mr Braunkopf could undeniably be quite a success for half an hour.
He had been the victim, it seemed, of an outrageous imposture. And it had been shrewdly, he was constrained to admit, that he had been singled out as victim. Only a man who habitually took an elevated view of human nature, who expected fair and honourable dealing in return for fair and honourable dealing, could have been so shamefully betrayed as he had been.
Mr Braunkopf, it appeared, had been approached by the confidential agent of a nobleman in relation to an artistic problem of some delicacy. Beguiling a dreary winter day by rummaging through some ancestral lumber, this nobleman had come upon a darkened canvas of the most evident antiquity, curiously concealed (as it seemed) beneath a tumble of mouldering folio volumes chiefly of a theological nature. So much was the subject of this painting obscured by heavy varnish, that the nobleman had not at first accorded it much attention. Suddenly, however, he had seemed to distinguish one motif – and then, while in the very act of blaming the impurity of his own mind for having imagined something, he had undeniably distinguished another. It was a highly indecent picture.
The first impulse of the discoverer of this opprobrious object was, of course, to occasion its immediate destruction. But he then reflected that he was not, perhaps, entitled to do this; that here, conceivably, was something which would prove of interest to art historians. It might even be valuable. So he had made discreet inquiries, and followed these up by taking equally discreet measures to have the canvas cleaned. What emerged in consequence surprised him very much. It appeared that a certain Giulio Romano (of whom he had never heard, but who turned out to be the only painter to have achieved the distinction of being mentioned by William Shakespeare) had enjoyed considerable esteem in the earlier sixteenth century. In fact he had been nothing less than head of the Roman school of painting in succession to Raphael, and most of his work had been of an edifying, not to say a sacred, character. He had done an important ‘Benefactors of the Church’ and an even more important ‘Donation of Rome to the Pope’. Unfortunately he had fallen into the reprehensible habit of devoting some of his leisure hours to compositions of a different character. Most of these were mere drawings – notably a set to accompany certain licentious sonnets composed by Pietro Aretino. (The nobleman had been able to turn up Aretino in his own library, translated into very comprehensible French.) But once, at least, Giulio had done an oil painting in the same manner. It was known as ‘Nanna and Pippa’, and had been very celebrated in its time. Several detailed descriptions of it were extant. Long ago, however, it had disappeared, and historians were inclined to suppose that, after agreeably adorning for many years one of the more private apartments of an art-loving cardinal, it had been destroyed by a succeeding cardinal during a fit of religious morbidity. But this could not in fact have been so. For here the ‘Nanna and Pippa’ was – discovered under the collected works of Bishop Stillingfleet in the possession of an English peer.
The confidential person who had consulted Mr Braunkopf explained the resulting situation frankly. His principal (whose anonymity must be maintained) was not minded to expose such a work to the curiosity of his family and guests either in his town residence or in his country seat. He had made tentative moves to present it to the National Gallery, but it seemed that there would be a similar difficulty in placing it on public exhibition there; only properly accredited scholars could be exposed to the risk of corruption and depravity inherent in contemplating this creation of the Roman caposcuola in so decidedly off a moment. So what was to be done?
It had occurred to the nobleman that there were private collectors – notably, perhaps, in the United States of America – whose catholicity of taste would incline them to treat Nanna and Pippa (who were clearly delightful girls) as they deserved. And who might pay to be allowed to do so. But such a negotiation required a high degree of discretion as well as wide experience in such matters – the more particularly since, the quieter the deal, the more convenient might it be in point of certain financial dispositions purely private to the painting’s present proprietor. Hence the recourse to Mr Braunkopf.
Mr Braunkopf had highly commended to the confidential person his sagacity in coming straight to the Da Vinci Gallery. It was a concern, Mr Braunkopf had modestly pointed out, of the very highest reputation and the most unblemished ethical standing in the entire voonderble vorlt. Mr Braunkopf then proposed (after having received satisfactory assurances about percentages and the like) that he should proceed at once to the nobleman’s residence for the purpose of examining Giulio’s painting. But this had proved unacceptable. The nobleman was minded that – for the time being, at least – his identity should remain unknown even to the eminent dealer whom he had caused to be sought out. The Giulio, however, would be brought to the Da Vinci on any date that should suit Mr Braunkopf’s convenience. And Mr Braunkopf could there arrange for its due authentication by the very best authority on Mannerism (Giulio being undoubtedly the founder of that interesting school) available in England.
This had come about. The painting had appeared; eminent authority had appeared; eminent authority (after due admonishment as to the highly confidential character of the whole affair) had made its expertise, pocketed its fee, and departed. And then the still unknown nobleman’s agent (who had brought the canvas in under his arm) raised a further interesting point. The nobleman, it appeared, had by this time become rather fond of Nanna and Pippa. He liked, it might be said, the way they comported themselves. So he proposed having his discovery copied before parting with it. In a purely private apartment (the nobleman’s bathroom, the confidential person confided to Mr Braunkopf with the ghost of a conspiratorial smile) he judged that a modest replica would look uncommonly well. For this purpose the painting must be removed again for a brief space. But within a week it would be back in Mr Braunkopf’s keeping.
This too had come about – or had appeared to. And when the confidential person reappeared with the painting he had a most interesting communication to make. The state of his principal’s affairs was such, he now confided to Mr Braunkopf, that very considerable expedition was to be desired in the further stages of the operation. The nobleman – not to put too fine a point on it – was damned hard up. Mr Braunkopf was distressed by this news. Being (as he explained to a senior and poker-faced Inspector at Scotland Yard) one eminently well affected to the Crown and Constitution of these islands, it harrowed him to hear of any vulgar pecuniary embarrassment befalling an ornament of the Sovereign’s Court. So distressed was he, that he had an immediate suggestion to make. He was prepared to enter the affair no longer as an agent but as a principal. He was prepared to make an immediate offer for the Giulio himself. Whereupon the confidential person, while expressing proper astonishment and gratification at this outstanding posture of magnanimity on Mr Braunkopf’s part, did confess that his client had borne some such possibility in mind – and that as a consequence he, the confidential person, was empowered to close the deal there and then, cash down. And Mr Braunkopf would understand that by cash what was meant was cash. The agreed price would do in ten-pound notes
. But five-pound notes would be even better.
Mr Braunkopf was, of course, well accustomed to transactions in which the peculiar needs of the other party – often, he believed, the greater ease which such a system afforded to the unobtrusive handing over of substantial sums to charity – entailed dispositions of this kind. After what might be called a decent ritual haggle, he repaired together with the confidential person to his bank in the next street, withdrew the required sum in notes, handed it over there and then, and returned to the Da Vinci Gallery with a comfortable sense of the day’s work well done. He was not at all sure of what he might eventually obtain for an obscene painting – untraced through nearly four hundred years – by Giulio Romano. It might not prove to be astronomical, but it would certainly very much exceed the mere £12,000 which he had just parted with. So after putting in a quiet half-hour selling another colour lithograph (eighteen guineas, plus five guineas for mount and frame), he repaired to his inner sanctum to refresh himself with the contemplation of his new acquisition, It was remarkable, he thought, how perfectly the pigments had been preserved beneath their now departed layers of varnish. It was very remarkable, indeed… Mr Braunkopf (who was a frank and unaffected man) admitted to the Inspector that his first realization of the truth had actually been occasioned by hearing himself give a howl of rage. The higher connoisseurship, after all, is a highly intuitive affair. At one moment Mr Braunkopf had been modestly pleased with himself; in the very next moment he knew; a moment after that again, he had turned the picture round, and was looking at the back of a perfectly fresh and innocent canvas on its stretcher. It wasn’t even a forgery that had passed into his possession. It was an honest-to-God copy of an original which – he instantly realized – he had seen once but might never see again.
There were several more pages of the Braunkopf file. But, having read so far, Appleby knew that he had in effect read all. Criminal Investigation would prove to have shed no light on this ingenious fraud. He flicked back a page, and glanced again at the name of the man who had authenticated the picture. It was an odd fact about expertises that the eminent scholars qualified to make them made substantial fees at the same time. Indeed, it was a unique fact. Among top archaeologists, for example, anything of the kind wasn’t on; they grumbled about it, but were rather pleased with themselves all the same. So with the picture boys, you had to know your man. Appleby knew this man by repute; he was a respectable professor at Cambridge. Which meant that the Giulio Romano he inspected had been a real Giulio Romano. Or at least that was a good working hypothesis. Somewhere in the world (barring the intrusion of another cardinal in a morbid frame of mind) the thing existed still: Nanna and Pippa, two high-class tarts, done in oils by a painter who hadn’t, in fact, been too good with oils, but who was an extremely important figure in the history of Western art, all the same. This canvas, unknown for centuries, had suddenly turned up at the Da Vinci Gallery, transported thither by a person unknown and from a place unknown. Perhaps it had simply been whisked away briefly from an unsuspecting owner: the evident train of events required no more than that – an hour or two for the Da Vinci and the painfully hoodwinked Braunkopf; perhaps no more than two or three days for the attentions of an expert copyist. Alternatively, the owner of the Giulio had hit upon the bright idea of selling his painting twice over: once to Braunkopf and once to somebody else.
But consider – Appleby said to himself – the context in which this deception appears to place itself. Lord Cockayne and the predatory August Personage. Sir Thomas Carrington and his Stubbs. The worthy Mr Meatyard and his visit to Sir Joshua Reynolds. It was a reasonable hypothesis that these three had been defrauded by a single far from unmercenary joker, thoroughly well up in the craft of peddling pictures. If this were so, then it was a fair bet that the business of the Giulio Romano tied in and followed the same pattern. Once more, that was to say, there had been a carefully planned operation against an ingeniously chosen victim. The ‘Nanna and Pippa’ was really extant; there could be no doubt of that. But as its whereabouts had been unknown, it must be supposed that its owner, somewhat oppressed by its dubious character, had kept entirely quiet about it. He had probably felt himself to be in the position of a gentleman who keeps a collection of erotic books in a cupboard. As a consequence, he had been in no hurry to make a fuss when something a little irregular had occurred. Yes – Appleby told himself – that might well be it. The Giulio had vanished from its discreet niche, but with some intimation that it had merely been borrowed – as a joke, it might be represented – and would be returned quite soon. Absolute theft might have nerved the owner to call in the police. But the appearance of a mere prank would make him hesitate – and then (the painting having been authenticated at the Da Vinci and copied meantime) back it had actually come. So the only substantially aggrieved person had been Braunkopf, and Braunkopf had no information which would provide the police with any sort of trail.
So here, once more, was the formula: lucrative fraud perpetrated in such circumstances that ridicule or a fear of ridicule acted at least as an inhibiting force – as a kind of brake, one might say – upon the vigour and effectiveness of any comeback by the defrauded person.
Having arrived thus far in reckless speculation, Appleby pulled himself to a halt. You really had to be a very retired policeman indeed, he told himself, thus cheerfully to run ahead of the evidence. Of the four undoubtedly curious affairs he had been reviewing he was equally without any first-hand information – without the slightest brush or contact with any of the personages concerned. One was no more than a yarn spun to him by a young man in an Oxford college. Two were memories of matters once brought to the police but very little pursued – and certainly never before directly inquired into by Appleby himself. The fourth was in more or less the same category as the second and third, but had been after his time. There had, indeed, been more rigorous investigation on this occasion, Braunkopf having alleged so large a loss. But nothing seemed to have come of it. Braunkopf himself apart, there seemed to be no witness to tackle. Except, indeed, Professor Sansbury of Cambridge, who had set eyes not only upon the authentic ‘Nanna and Pippa’ but also, presumably, upon the mysterious confidential person who had produced it. As for tangible evidence – anything of the order that, in court, could be termed an exhibit – there was the copy of ‘Nanna and Pippa’. (At least it might be supposed there was that, still in the possession of Braunkopf.) And that was the lot. There didn’t seem much scope for manoeuvre.
Appleby tucked the Braunkopf papers back in their file, and glanced round the dining room. The average age of those lunching (he had calculated on a previous occasion) was about five years short of the age at which those male persons die whose age at death is recorded by their sorrowing relatives in The Times newspaper. In the year 1968, that was to say, here was a roomful of people who were quite strictly to be defined as Victorians. But – Appleby had turned his head a little further – there was one surprising exception. Quite a young man had strayed into the club. He could conceivably have done so, of course, only as a guest – and indeed there was a more than reasonably elderly man at the same table with him. They were father and son, or uncle and son, or conceivably grandfather and son. And about the young man there was something familiar.
It was no doubt only because his mind had been far away that Appleby was thus for a moment tardy in recognizing so recent an acquaintance as Lord Oswyn Lyward. For it was certainly he. Here, rather oddly, and dutifully sipping port in evident deference to his host, was the prime mover of Appleby in his present courses. Nor could there now be much doubt as to who was entertaining him. Father and son had been the correct conjecture. Here was Lord Cockayne himself.
The young man glanced up, and caught Appleby’s glance. On his part, recognition was immediate. He jumped to his feet, and strode across the room.
‘Oh, I say, sir!’ he said. ‘What luck running into you in this mausoleum. Won’t you come over and meet my father?’
5
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br /> Lord Cockayne stood up – an action which the difficulty of the operation rendered all the more gracious in this amiable nobleman. For Lord Cockayne was distinctly ancient; surprisingly so, indeed, for the father of an undergraduate son. Within his tweeds – which had once been of a peculiarly hairy variety, but were now worn smooth except in quite small patches – he creaked alarmingly as he moved. This was the more disconcerting in that, for the moment at least, Lord Cockayne appeared tolerably well oiled. He had lunched comfortably and was now taking no more than a second glass of port, but perhaps he was to be accounted among that class of elderly persons whose heads lighten as they age. It was with a certain vagueness of direction that he extended his hand.
‘How-d’y-do?’ Lord Cockayne said. ‘Glass of port?’
Appleby agreed to a glass of port. He couldn’t recall having seen Cockayne in the club before, and he wondered whether he often favoured it with his presence. This speculation received, as it happened, an answer now.
‘Like to give Oswyn lunch here once in a way,’ Lord Cockayne said. ‘Good atmosphere, eh? Self-made fellows with plenty of effort in their lives: bishops, professors, top sawbones, smart chaps at the Bar. The boy should take their measure, you know. See what he’s up against. As my father used to say to my brothers: younger sons must be prepared to take their place in the ranks.’
A Family Affair Page 4
