Walden of Bermondsey

by Peter Murphy

  ‘A “school” simply means that the artist had one or more students working with him. These would be young men who had the ambition to become artists, and wished to study with a master, to learn from him and to develop their own skills.’

  ‘Essentially, they were apprentices?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And like all apprentices, they would work, doing various tasks in the studio, mixing paint, carrying canvases around, and what have you, in addition to learning to paint?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if they had enough ability, there would come a time when the master might allow them to work on certain details of a painting?’

  Dr Smalling considers.

  ‘Yes, but usually on the working model rather than the finished product. The student would have to be very gifted to be allowed to work on the canvas.’

  ‘But there were cases where that happened, weren’t there?’

  ‘There were.’

  ‘And if the master had a real hit on his hands, a painting that everybody wanted, he might have to delegate some of the work, simply because he didn’t have the time to do it all himself – at least, not without making the client wait for a long time and perhaps become bored with it all.’

  Dr Smalling is hesitating.

  ‘I know this, Dr Smalling,’ Julian is smiling, ‘because I have had dinner in the shadow of one such painting many times, in my Inn of Court.’

  Dr Smalling laughs.

  ‘I know exactly what you are referring to. Van Dyck’s portrait of Charles I mounted on a horse, in Middle Temple Hall.’

  ‘Yes. There are one or two others just like it, aren’t there?’

  ‘Almost the same. That is true.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Julian says. He pauses for a moment or two, eyeing the jury for emphasis. ‘Dr Smalling, if I were to put it to you that Exhibit one may be an original painting of the school of Gerrit ter Borch based on “Woman drinking Wine with a Drunken Soldier”, would you disagree with me?’

  ‘I would disagree, yes.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  I look up. It is dangerous to ask an expert a question beginning with the word ‘why’. It is a licence for the expert to give a lecture, and having asked the question yourself, you can’t really stop him. Strangely, I find myself hoping that Julian has thought this through.

  ‘I would classify this as a copy. There are no real differences between this and the original, and the low quality of the brush-work and composition lean against it being a school piece. A bad school piece could tarnish the master’s reputation just as much as a bad original. Ter Borch would never have allowed something like this out of his studio.’

  I am looking carefully at Exhibits one and two, and I have to think that Dr Smalling has a point. But Julian comes right back at him.

  ‘Except that the wine jug the woman is holding is blue and white, isn’t it, where the wine jug in what you term the “original” is white?’

  We all look again. Julian is right about that, no doubt about it.

  ‘That’s true,’ the witness concedes.

  ‘And, if you look at Exhibit three again, the painting from Helsinki, the blue and white wine jug on the table behind the young woman looks very much like the wine jug she is holding in Exhibit one, the painting in our case, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But all that means is that whoever made this copy was aware of the Helsinki painting, and perhaps, therefore, we can date it as being not earlier than 1665.’

  ‘Dr Smalling, isn’t it possible for even the most experienced expert to be mistaken in an attribution?’ Julian asks. ‘That he may quite genuinely believe that a piece should be attributed to a particular artist, only for someone to demonstrate later that his attribution cannot be correct? Does that happen sometimes?’

  ‘Of course,’ the witness smiles. ‘We are all human.’

  ‘Quite so. Dr Smalling, let’s allow for the moment that this was not executed by Gerrit ter Borch himself, and let’s allow that it might not have passed his test for being sold under his brand…’

  He pauses to make sure the witness is with him.

  ‘Very well, let’s allow that.’

  ‘Making those allowances, can you exclude the possibility that this work was created in ter Borch’s studio and then perhaps sold to someone with less money to spend – sold as a second, rather like a piece of china that fails the quality test?’

  There is a long silence.

  ‘I can’t exclude that possibility,’ Dr Smalling says, ‘but I regard it as unlikely. May I explain…?’

  But Julian has already resumed his seat.

  ‘Yes, you may explain,’ Susan says, rising quickly to her feet.

  ‘If such a piece existed,’ Dr Smalling continues, ‘it would have been known and catalogued. Any surviving work which may possibly be attributed to the school of a major artist would be of great importance. Such a work is not going to turn up out of the blue in a studio in London Bridge Road.’

  Soon afterwards, Dr Smalling’s evidence is concluded. To the relief of everyone in court, I now have to deal with the execution of a bench warrant. A defendant charged with multiple counts of street robbery, who failed to attend court on the last occasion, has been arrested pursuant to the warrant I issued. Now that he is here, I have to begin the process of managing the case – and I have to deny any further bail application he may make so that we don’t lose him again when the case is ready for trial. I adjourn Jan van Planck until two o’clock and deal with the bench warrant.

  And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.

  ‘How is your trial going?’ Legless asks. ‘Is it still looking bleak for our friend Jan?’

  ‘Yes, I fear so,’ I reply, ‘though Julian Blanquette did quite well cross-examining the prosecution’s art expert. It’s probably going to depend on how well Jan does in the witness box, and how well the jury liked the complainant.’

  ‘I heard he was a bit of a pain,’ Legless says.

  ‘He was insufferable,’ I reply. ‘Not only does he know nothing about art, and not only does he have far too much money to throw around buying it, he even tried to tell me how to run the trial.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He wanted me to say “sustained” or “overruled” every time I dealt with an objection.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s such a bad idea,’ Marjorie says. ‘At least then, everyone knows what you’ve decided.’

  ‘I’ve never noticed anyone being in doubt about what I’ve decided,’ I say.

  ‘Careful, Marjorie,’ Legless grins. ‘Next thing you know, you will have counsel approaching the bench.’

  ‘Counsel are not coming anywhere near my bench,’ I say emphatically. ‘They can keep that in California. Not that there would be any need for it there. I understood Pratfall to say that they don’t have rules of evidence there any more, just something they call the Truth in Evidence Act.’

  Legless frowns. ‘That sounds a bit Kafkaesque,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Marjorie says. ‘We’ve been doing that in civil cases for years and it doesn’t seem to have brought the justice system crashing down about our heads.’

  ‘We don’t have to deal with juries in civil cases,’ I point out. ‘Well, hardly ever. If you let juries loose on some of the stuff witnesses would like to tell them, it would be a disaster.’

  ‘They do that in America,’ Marjorie points out. ‘They have civil jury trials, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, well that just proves my point,’ I reply.

  We all take a bite of our sandwiches.

  ‘Where’s Hubert?’ I ask.

  ‘He popped his head round the door to say that he was working on a ruling he has to give this afternoon, and he’s had the dish of the day sent to his chambers,’ Marjorie replies.


  ‘Hubert working on a ruling?’ I protest. ‘What kind of ruling? If he has a point of law, he usually hawks it around the mess to find out what we think. I don’t think he’s opened Archbold for years. In any case, he never misses lunch.’

  Marjorie shrugs. ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘I hope he’s all right,’ I say. ‘He hasn’t been looking quite himself recently, if you ask me.’

  * * *

  Tuesday afternoon

  This afternoon Susan calls the officer in the case, DC Denise Sharp, to deal with the investigation. DC Sharp describes dealing with a distraught Elmer G Pratfall, some weeks after he became aware that the painting he had bought from Jan van Planck wasn’t exactly what he thought it was. She contacted Jan to inform him of the allegation. He attended the police station voluntarily with his solicitor, without being arrested, so that DC Sharp could interview him. After being cautioned and told of his right to consult with his solicitor at any time, he handed in a short prepared statement and then spent forty minutes or so answering ‘no comment’ to every question DC Sharp asked. The prepared statement was as follows:

  I have been made aware by DC Sharp that an American gentleman called Elmer G Pratfall has accused me of fraud in selling him a painting, falsely claiming it to be the work of a Dutch artist by the name of Gerrit ter Borch. This is untrue. The painting in question is exactly what I told Mr Pratfall at the time, i.e. a painting of the school of Gerrit ter Borch. The price I charged for this piece was not unreasonable. I had acquired this painting about a year before at an estate sale in the Bristol area. I paid about two hundred and fifty pounds for it. I did have a receipt at the time, but I am now unable to find it. The reason I paid so little was that the estate did not realise what the painting was, and neither did I until much later. I knew it must be seventeenth century, but only on much closer examination did I come to believe that it was from the school of Gerrit ter Borch and was an original work based on an earlier work of ter Borch himself. I stand by this transaction as being fair and reasonable. At no time did I make any false representation to Mr Pratfall, and he seemed very pleased with the bargain we had struck. Since then, he seems to have had a case of buyer’s remorse, probably because his wife has given him a hard time about spending so much money.

  With that, and a few agreed facts placed before the jury in writing – which include the fact that, perhaps a little fortuitously, Jan van Planck is a man of previous good character – Susan closes her case. Julian asks whether he can begin his case tomorrow morning, to give him a chance for one last conference with the defendant. This is reasonable enough in the circumstances, and we adjourn for the day.

  I remove my robes and resume street dress, and prepare to wade through the pile of files on my desk that need some administrative decision or other. But I am interrupted by a knock on the door, and in walk Bob and Stella. Their mood is hard to gauge, but they do seem a bit more upbeat than when they were last here, and I am anxious to hear what they have to say. We all sit down, and Bob leans forward earnestly in his chair.

  ‘How is the investigation going?’ I ask. ‘Have you found the culprit?’

  ‘Not yet, Judge,’ he replies. He looks at Stella who smiles and nods brightly – a gesture quite unlike Stella. I wonder what on earth is coming.

  ‘Have you at least made some progress?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, yes, Judge,’ Bob replies immediately. ‘We are definitely making progress. I have interviewed several members of the staff. So far, no one seems to know anything about it.’ He pauses. ‘But… I think we may have caught a bit of a lucky break this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, Judge. I spoke to Annie.’

  I must have been looking blank.

  ‘Annie is in charge of the cleaners,’ Stella reminds me.

  ‘Right,’ Bob continues. ‘Well, Annie told me that she was in the dining room just after the reception for Judge McVeigh had finished, and the judges and staff had left. She went in to start clearing everything away and clean up. She says that was about ten past two, certainly not later than two-fifteen. She remembers Judge McVeigh’s portrait being on the wall then, because that was the first time she had seen it and she stopped to admire it. She is certain that there was nothing wrong with it then. She was there until about two-thirty, when she left the cleaning partly done because the prison staff needed something cleaned up in the cells. But she returned to the dining room at about a quarter to four, and she saw that someone had added the moustache to Judge McVeigh’s portrait.’

  I stared at Bob in surprise.

  ‘It was done on Friday afternoon?’

  ‘Even better than that,’ he replies. ‘Annie narrows it down to just over an hour.’

  ‘Between half past two and a quarter to four,’ Stella adds, ‘and you know what that means, Judge, don’t you?’

  Not at first, but it doesn’t take me long.

  ‘It means that quite a few of our original suspects have water-tight alibis,’ Stella says. ‘Three of our courts were sitting all afternoon, from about two-fifteen until four-fifteen; yourself, Judge Jenkins and Judge Dunblane.’

  ‘Are you saying that I was a suspect?’ I ask. I feel ever so slightly offended.

  ‘No, not at all, Judge,’ Bob reassures me quickly. ‘But several suspects we had our eye on were either in court all afternoon with the judges, or were in the general office with Stella and myself.’

  ‘What about Judge Drake’s court?’ I ask.

  ‘They sat at two-fifteen,’ Stella replies, ‘but they ran out of witnesses by about three o’clock and adjourned for the weekend.’

  ‘So,’ Stella says, ‘that leaves us with Joyce, who was the clerk in Judge Drake’s court, and Jim, his usher. Bob and I can’t remember either of them coming back to the office that afternoon.’

  ‘I can’t see Joyce doing something like this,’ I say. Joyce is a rather shy lady in her late fifties, who seems to spend most of her time away from court knitting things for her numerous grandchildren.

  ‘Neither can I, Judge,’ Bob agrees. ‘But Jim… well, he never got on very well with Judge McVeigh.’ He hesitates to go on. Stella says it for him.

  ‘It was worse than just not getting on well,’ she says. ‘They argued all the time. Eventually, Judge McVeigh refused to have Jim as his usher. It got worse and worse, and in the end we had to put Jim in another court.’

  ‘I take it you will be speaking to Jim, then,’ I say.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Bob confirms. ‘Tomorrow morning. Stella and I will see him together. The only thing is…’ Again, he seems hesitant.

  ‘What Bob is trying to say,’ Stella interjects, ‘is that Jim has been with the court for a long time. He goes back almost to when we opened, and he has always been very loyal, always ready to help out if there’s a problem.’

  ‘So, this would be out of character?’ I suggest.

  ‘Exactly, Judge,’ Stella says. ‘We were wondering how you would feel about allowing him the chance to pay for the damage and holding off on calling the police.’

  I consider for a few moments. Calling the police still seems a very unattractive option, given the virtual certainty of arousing the interest of the Grey Smoothies. It may be inevitable, but there would be a lot to be said for avoiding it if we can.

  ‘Well, all right,’ I reply. ‘But he must admit what he did, and he must agree to pay whatever it costs to restore the portrait – and that may be quite a bit, I imagine. I don’t suppose you’ve…’

  ‘No. We haven’t tried to cost it yet,’ Bob says. ‘Obviously, the best option would be to ask Mr van Planck, but at the moment…’

  ‘We can’t,’ I say emphatically. ‘If he is found not guilty, I will ask him as soon as the words are out of the jury’s mouth. If he is found guilty… well, we will have to make inquiries elsewhere. Quietly, you understand.’

&
nbsp; ‘Of course, Judge,’ Stella says. She is impeccably discreet, and a loyal ally in the endless struggle against the Grey Smoothies.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Well, let me know what happens tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not looking forward to it,’ Bob says.

  Stella puts a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘He’ll be all right, Judge,’ she says.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning

  ‘My name is Jan van Planck.’

  ‘And you are originally from the Netherlands, I think?’

  ‘From Haarlem, yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘How long have you been in this country?’

  ‘For more than twenty-five years.’

  ‘Living in London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Julian looks down at his notes briefly.

  ‘Tell the jury in your own words about your career in the art world.’

  Jan nods and seems to reflect for some time.

  ‘Well, as a young man I studied art and art history at the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam – the Amsterdam Free University. I then worked as a docent at the Rijksmuseum for two years. After this, I decided that I must be an artist, do my own work, and I thought it would be better for me to get away from home, to have some new experiences, so I moved to London.’

  ‘And did you set up your studio in London Bridge Road, as the jury has heard?’

  ‘Yes. For some time I tried to make a living just by painting. I received some commissions to produce work, including a number of portraits. In fact –’

  ‘Yes, I’m not sure we need to dwell on that, do we, Mr Blanquette?’ I ask quickly. I have suddenly been seized by a fear that Jan may start cataloguing the work he has done for the court, or even worse, demand that the portrait of Terry McVeigh be produced as an exhibit, as an example of his work. Awkward wouldn’t begin to describe that situation, quite apart from the fact that he would be trying to use the Court as a character reference, which I have no intention of allowing. Julian looks at me rather pointedly, but mercifully decides to move on.

  ‘Let’s not worry about that, Mr van Planck,’ he says. ‘Would it be fair to say that you had to turn to something else to supplement your income from your own work?’