“You too,” I murmured. Then I turned to shake Sophie’s hand. “Goodbye, Mrs. Marsden,” I said, hoping my grin wouldn’t look too stiff.
“Please call me Sophie,” she replied, fixing my eyes with hers as she added: “After all, I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
C H A P T E R
NINE
Timariot & Small’s financial circumstances didn’t improve as 1992 faded towards 1993. There were, to be honest, no grounds for expecting them to. Jennifer spent nearly as much time in Melbourne as Petersfield, but the more she learned about Dyson’s management of Viburna Sportswear, the worse the outlook seemed to grow. While Adrian’s attempts to negotiate an exemption for us from Bushranger’s agreement with Danziger’s came predictably to nothing. The road back to profit and self-respect was going to be long and hard.
But we had no obvious choice other than to tread it. For my part, I took some comfort from being the least blameworthy member of the board and concentrated on running the Frenchman’s Road operation as efficiently as possible. The workforce knew about the Viburna disaster, of course. How couldn’t they? It led to some cynicism about the calibre of the directors, but no more than I’d have expected. Less, in some ways, than was justified. Don Banks had been making cricket bats of consistently high quality for as long as I could remember. It had taken him fifteen years just to learn how. His standards were as demanding as ever. And he was no moaner. A stern reticent deferential man was Don. But I saw the look on his face as Adrian and I stood talking in the workshop one day. And I knew what the look meant. We’d let him and his fellow craftsmen down. We’d failed to live up to their standards.
I think it was people like Don who made me determined to see it through. I could have scuttled back to Brussels and index-linked security any time I liked. I often thought of doing so, I can’t deny. The Maastricht Treaty was bulldozing its way through the parliaments of Europe and lots of juicy new posts were sure to follow in its wake. One of them might have my name on it. Nobody could blame me for grabbing a ripe plum from the laden bough. Except Don Banks and the rest, of course. Except all their predecessors and successors for whom Timariot & Small had meant and might yet mean something more satisfying than an adequate living. Except, in the final analysis, me.
So I stuck to the task, over-compensating for the board’s strategic deficiencies by working excessive hours and paring back my life until it comprised little more than the short-term worries and long-term problems of the family firm. Hugh’s example should have deterred me from becoming a workaholic. But during an evening of home truths and brotherly bonding in the Old Drum, Simon assured me that was just what I was turning into. And he was right, however reluctant I might be to admit it. I had few friends and no leisure pursuits besides country walking. Since the break with Ann, I’d deliberately avoided intimacy with another human being. Not just sexual intimacy, but any kind of lowering of the psychological defences. I found the limitations of my existence strangely comforting in an ascetic sort of way. More and more, I was coming to see how safe—how undemanding—the solitary life really was. And I was beginning to think I’d probably settle for it.
Thanks largely to Bella, I stayed in distant touch with the Paxtons. She invited me to a Boxing Day lunch at The Hurdles, which Paul and Rowena also attended, along with Sarah and a humourless young lawyer called Rodney who was clearly more taken with her than she was with him. That and a few similar occasions apart, however, our worlds no longer overlapped. Sir Keith had given his daughters the use of The Old Parsonage as a weekend retreat within easy reach of Bristol, while he and Bella divided their time between Biarritz and Hindhead. The lives of Louise Paxton’s husband and children were back on an even keel. Sir Keith was settling into marriage and retirement. Sarah was looking ahead to her career as a solicitor. And Rowena was probably only waiting to finish her degree course before starting a family. Equilibrium had been restored. As for Louise and her stubborn but elusive memory, those who couldn’t forget her didn’t speak of her. Those, like me, who couldn’t stop wondering, knew better than to wonder aloud.
In March 1993, however, the Kington killings’ slide into a discarded past came abruptly to a halt. That month saw the publication of Fakes and Ale: the Double Life of Oscar Bantock, by Henley Bantock and Barnaby Maitland. I remember clearly the moment when I came across a review of the book and learned of its existence for the first time. It was an unremarkable Thursday afternoon. I was eating a snack lunch at my desk, waiting for our timber agent to return a call and leafing idly through the newspaper. Then the headline caught my eye. NEGLECTED EXPRESSIONIST’S LAST LAUGH AT ART WORLD. What had apparently already been made much of in the specialist art press was summarized in the column below.
This entertaining if sometimes uneven biography of Oscar Bantock, the eccentric English Expressionist who was murdered three years ago, is a collaborative venture between Bantock’s nephew Henley and the unorthodox art historian Barnaby Maitland. It reveals that Bantock, written off in his lifetime as a prickly drink-sodden recluse determined to plough a lonely and deeply uncommercial Expressionist furrow, was actually a womanizer of considerable charm, a popular and sociable pub-goer and a gifted forger of several different artists and styles. His scorn of naturalistic and sentimental work emerged in subtle pastiches of its most popular examples from which he made far more money than he ever did painting in his own name. Maitland’s researches are based on journals inherited from Bantock by his nephew and meticulous cross-checking with the records of dealers named in them, often to those dealers’ vigorous displeasure. They reveal the curmudgeonly idealist’s double life as the most mercenary of forgers. He seems to have stuck at first to middle-rank recently dead artists, notably a clutch of Edwardian specialists in drawing-room or garden scenes of children and pets, greetings card material in reasonable demand but not famous or pricey enough to attract expert attention. In the last few years of his life, however, he became more ambitious, mining his own Expressionist vein to produce several brilliant fake Rouaults and Soutines. Henley Bantock’s insight into his uncle’s drift towards cynicism supports Maitland’s contention that this change was triggered by the artist’s acceptance that he could not hope for recognition in his own right and that material reward represented his only prospect of satisfaction. If they are correct, which many irate dealers, auctioneers and owners will say they are not, Bantock and one of the few tireless fans of his own work, the late Lady Paxton, paid a heavy price for his revenge against the artistic establishment. The authors’ most startling conclusion is that the murders of Bantock and Lady Paxton in July 1990 may have had more to do with his output of fake art than any of the motives imputed to the man convicted of the crimes. If this sad and fascinating tale of frustration and forgery turns, as it well might, into a cause célèbre of miscarried justice, then the authors will have exposed a legal as well as an artistic scandal. But that, as they say, is another story.
I was dumbstruck. What had Henley been thinking of? His uncle a forger. Well, that was between him, his conscience and his customers. I didn’t care one way or the other. But I did care about Louise Paxton. And it was being suggested according to the reviewer—on what evidence he didn’t bother to mention—that there was more to her murder than met the eye. More, by implication, than could be laid at Shaun Naylor’s door.
I telephoned Sarah that evening. Before I could explain why I’d called, she guessed.
“You’ve read Fakes and Ale?”
“No. Just a review.”
“Then you might be making more of it than you should. Henley Bantock sent me an advance copy. Crowed about his theory in a covering letter. Said I’d be bound to find it persuasive. Well, I don’t. He hasn’t produced a shred of evidence to support it.”
“But what is his theory?”
“That Oscar was murdered because several dealers he’d sold fakes to were afraid he meant to go public with the story of how he’d duped them. And that Mummy had the bad luck to be there when it happened. Bu
t he can’t back it up. The forgery business seems to be true. But obviously that wasn’t sensational enough for the publisher. So, Henley’s gilded the lily with this wild idea that just happens to tally with Naylor’s defence.”
“But surely, if there’s no evidence—”
“It’ll come to nothing. Exactly. That’s why I didn’t bother to tell you about it. But look, I have to go out and . . .” She seemed to be whispering to somebody in the background. “Why don’t I send you the book, Robin? It’ll be quicker than you ordering a copy. Then you’ll see what I mean.”
It arrived two days later. The cover illustration was one of Oscar Bantock’s own paintings, a blurred but eye-catching self-portrait depicting the artist standing in a luridly decorated bar drinking from a tankard shaped in the likeness of a death’s head. There was a queasily prophetic quality to it that made me think Sarah might have been glad to get it off her hands.
According to the blurb on the dust jacket, Henley Bantock was a former local government officer. Presumably, he and Muriel had already earnt enough from Uncle Oscar’s art to quit the bureaucratic life. Now they were aiming to cash in on his scandalous secrets while enjoying the luxury of condemning them. With Barnaby Maitland to lend the whole thing some scholarly gloss. Maitland had books on two other twentieth-century forgers—the notorious “Sexton Blaker” Tom Keating and the Vermeer specialist, Hans van Meegeren—to his credit. He must have seemed an obvious choice as co-author. Just as the journals Henley had discovered at Whistler’s Cot must have been too succulent an opportunity for Maitland to resist.
I read the book in one long sitting, enduring Henley’s self-serving hatchet job on his uncle’s character for the sake of Maitland’s convincingly detailed account of how and why he’d taken to forgery. And even that was only a necessary preamble to what really concerned me. We came to it slowly, via Maitland’s meticulous verification of the output of forgeries recorded in the journals. Oscar had wanted the truth to come out after his death, of course. That was the point of them. To show what fools the experts were to denigrate his work. To prove they couldn’t tell good from bad, true from false, real from fake. And he’d proved his point. Perhaps too well. The Rouaults and Soutines were his fatal mistake, in Maitland’s opinion. They fetched high prices despite doubts about their authenticity. Such high prices that the truth about them threatened the reputations and livelihoods of influential dealers and powerful middle-men. The authors reckoned Oscar let it be known he meant to publish the facts. It would have been his glorious V-sign to the self-appointed arbiters of taste who’d done him down. It would have fulfilled his true motive for turning out fakes, which was never really money in their opinion so much as distorted pride.
Sarah was right. They hadn’t uncovered any evidence to support their theory. It was a shallow invention designed to boost sales. But to the ill-informed it might sound plausible. A contract killing that claimed Louise Paxton as an extra victim because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Where did that leave Naylor? The authors didn’t know. But Maitland doubted he was the sort to be employed as a hit-man. So, in the end, their implication was clear. But unstated. That was the worst of it. They never came out and said what many readers would infer. That Naylor was innocent.
I felt so angry after finishing the book that I wrote to Henley Bantock care of his publisher, accusing him of a gratuitous attack on a fine woman’s memory. It was a stupid thing to do, since it merely elicited a sarcastic reply that deliberately missed the point I’d made. “You were not above deceiving me about your connection with Lady Paxton,” Bantock wrote, “so your high moral tone is scarcely justified. Our conclusions about the Kington killings represent a reasonable extrapolation of the known facts. I am sorry if they offend you, but I wonder if that is not really because you resent us seeing matters in a clearer light than you.” I didn’t pursue the correspondence. Nor did I comply with his closing request. “Please pass on my best wishes to your sister.”
According to Sarah, the only sensible course of action was to ignore the book. “Treat it with the contempt it deserves, Robin,” she said in a telephone conversation shortly after I’d finished it. “Chuck it on the fire if you like. I don’t want it back.”
I didn’t destroy it, of course. I slid it into a bookcase out of sight, spine turned to the wall, and did my best to forget all about it. Oscar Bantock’s career as a forger would no doubt run and run as a story in the art world. But I didn’t move in the art world. As for its supposed relevance to Naylor’s conviction as a rapist and double murderer, that was surely a kite that wouldn’t fly. With or without Fakes and Ale, Shaun Naylor was staying where he belonged: in prison. And the truth was staying where it belonged. The Kington killings weren’t going to come back to haunt us. Not so long after the event. Not in the face of so much certainty. They couldn’t. Could they?
I had lunch with Bella and Sir Keith over Easter. They took the same line as Sarah. Dignified silence was the only way to respond to Henley Bantock’s money-grubbing. “I’m glad Louise never knew old Oscar was into forgery,” said Sir Keith. “She thought he was a neglected genius—and an idealist to boot. The real irony is that this will actually increase the value of genuine Bantocks. Like the ones Louise bought for next to nothing. And Sophie Marsden. She should be pleased. But Henley’s the big winner, isn’t he? Royalties from his nasty little book. And God knows what per cent whacked onto his stockpile of Bantock originals. With all that to look forward to, you’d think he could have had the decency to leave the murders out of it. But people never are moderately greedy, are they? They always want more.”
I enquired tentatively about Rowena’s reaction to the book. But as far as Sir Keith knew, she was unaware of its existence. “Too busy trying to combine being a student and a housewife to comb through reviews. Paul hasn’t drawn it to her attention and, frankly, I think he’s wise not to. We don’t want any repetition of those problems she had before the trial, do we? In fact, I’d be grateful if you took care not to mention it next time you meet her. With any luck, it’ll pass her by completely. Leave her free to concentrate on making me a grandfather as soon as possible.”
I promised to say nothing, even though I wasn’t sure keeping Rowena in the dark was either feasible or sensible. Too many secrets were piling up for my liking. Presumably, Sir Keith still didn’t know about her suicide attempt. Now she wasn’t to know about Henley Bantock’s alternative explanation for her mother’s death. If and when she found out, the efforts to shield her from it might give the theory some of the credibility it didn’t deserve. “It’ll end in tears,” my mother would have said. And I’d have been bound to agree with her. Tears. Or something much worse.
Vindication of my scepticism came within a matter of weeks. It was heralded by a telephone call at work from a researcher for the television series Benefit of the Doubt. I’d heard of it, of course, and seen it a couple of times. Nick Seymour, the presenter, set about drawing public attention to a possible miscarriage of justice during a thirty-minute assessment of the evidence that had sent one or more people to prison. He’d helped bring about acquittal and release in several cases and become a minor celebrity in the process. Now he planned to devote a future edition to the Kington killings—and the conviction of Shaun Naylor. As a witness at Naylor’s trial, would I be prepared to record an interview for the programme? I said no. But Seymour wasn’t the man to leave it there. A couple of days later, he rang me personally at home.
“I’m trying to get as full and fair a picture as possible, Mr. Timariot. All I’d want you to do is repeat what you said in court. Set the scene for the viewer. Give your first-hand impression of Lady Paxton’s state of mind on the day of the murders.” His voice was rounded and reasonable. But there was an edge of impatience in it as well. He didn’t like being turned down.
“The problem is, Mr. Seymour, that I have to assume you’ll be trying to suggest Naylor’s innocent. And I simply don’t believe he is.”
“Have you read this new biography of Oscar Bantock?”
“Fakes and Ale? Yes. And if Henley Bantock’s unsubstantiated theories are what—”
“They’re part of it, of course. But if you’re so sure they’re unsubstantiated, why not say so on TV? I’m offering you that chance.”
“But the programme will be geared to backing Henley’s interpretation, won’t it? Otherwise you wouldn’t be doing it.”
“True. But look at it this way. Naylor claims Lady Paxton picked him up that night. If you think he’s lying, why not tell it on air the way you saw it? After all, you’re the only other person who met her that day. Apart from her daughter. And I don’t really want to bother her. Unless I have to, of course. Unless you leave me no choice in the matter.” The pressure was subtle but definite. I wasn’t warming to Mr. Seymour. But I was beginning to think I’d better cooperate with him. If only for Rowena’s sake.
“How do I know you’d transmit what I said? I can tell you now none of it would help you paint Naylor in a sympathetic light.”
“Then I might not use it. But at least I couldn’t say you’d refused to talk to me, could I?”
“All right, Mr. Seymour. You can have your interview. For all the good it’ll do you.”
The interview was fixed for Thursday the twentieth of May. Seymour and a cameraman would come to Greenhayes at six o’clock that evening and be gone again within the hour. They’d be punctual and I’d be put to minimum inconvenience. So Seymour assured me, anyway. And I believed him. I also believed he wouldn’t want to linger after he’d heard what I had to say.
At the time I scribbled the appointment in my diary, Thursday the twentieth of May seemed just one handy blank in an otherwise busy week. But it didn’t turn out to be. Adrian was supposed to return to the office on Monday the seventeenth after a fortnight in Australia. The trip was a last ditch attempt to strike some kind of deal with Bushranger Sports. Adrian believed—unlike the rest of us—that he might still be able to sweet-talk Bushranger’s notoriously hard-nosed chairman, Harvey McGraw. And McGraw had agreed, apparently, to let him try. I arrived at Frenchman’s Road on the seventeenth expecting to hear Adrian’s account of his failure. Instead, his secretary announced his return had been delayed by forty-eight hours. Whether that was a good sign or not he’d declined to tell her. We’d just have to wait and see.
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