Artifice

by Gooch, Patrick

  My partners in crime checked I had completed my part in the affair, then wandered off to the nearest pub.

  The following morning the Institute was in uproar. Fortunately, no one asked who the culprits were, though one of the senior staff remarked dryly that it would have been better if the giant female nude had been flown the right way up, not with her feet facing skywards.

  I did not feel up to remarking, `you do better in the dark when it`s blowing a gale.`

  *

  Another episode came to mind that could have been calamitous. It sprang from an occasion when we had gathered in the students` café. Idly, I posed the question, `where do you think that trapdoor leads to?`

  I pointed to the hatch set in the floor just below a flight of steps leading to an upper level. Suddenly, it became a mission. We had to explore what lay beneath. Clearly, it could not be done when the café was open, so we waited until the building had emptied. It was close to nine o`clock before four of us slipped through the café doors. Each had brought a torch. In addition, I carried a large, workman-like screwdriver, which was used to lever open one side of the twin hatch covers.

  We hesitantly climbed down rudimentary steps. Peering around in the torchlight, at first glance we appeared to be in a square, white-walled room devoid of anything other than a few discarded boxes. Then, someone noticed a further hatch set in the stone floor. There was a length of rope amid the boxes, and looping it through a ring two of us pulled the cover open. A torch was shone through the gap, to reveal a narrow, rock-hewn tunnel.

  More uncertain steps, and I dropped through to the tunnel floor. When everyone had joined me, I cautiously led the way, placing one foot carefully before the other. I recall saying we must be well below the courtyard, moving in a south-easterly direction towards the East Wing of Somerset House, when suddenly a brick wall loomed before me, stopping me in my tracks.

  Frustrated, I kicked at the wall: the mortar crumbled, and several bricks came loose. Emboldened, I lashed out with my foot and as the bricks fell away a gap appeared. I pulled away a few more with my hands, until I could ease my way through.

  I was standing in a round brick tunnel, approximately six feet in diameter.

  I had to bend my neck to avoid touching the ceiling, and the damp brickwork was covered in mould, giving off a strong, lavatorial scent. There was a trickle of water running along the middle of the tunnel which sloped downwards towards the River Thames.

  When the other three had clambered through, we set off to explore. Descending the shaft the noise of rushing water intensified, as did the smell. Suddenly, we were standing on the brink of the major sewer running under the Victoria Embankment.

  We stood there for some minutes waving our torches to illumine the scene. The roar of the water almost drowned out our words. It was a remarkable sight, but not a place to linger. The sewer ran from west to east, and on either side were raised walkways.

  One of my fellow students, helped by one of the others, hoisted himself onto a walkway. What he did not take into account was the damp, slippery surface. He lost his footing, and with a cry fell sideways into the churning waters, dragging his compatriot with him.

  The two of them were clinging to each other as they swept past me. Luckily, I managed to grab a flailing arm, pulled them to the side, and heaved them out the streaming effluent. It was not deep, no more than three feet, but the torrent had knocked them off their feet and watery sewage oozed from their clothes.

  We beat a slow, soggy retreat.

  I vividly recall people veering sharply away from us when we shuffled along the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.

  *

  I sat upright with a start.

  Of the many people attending the funeral, I suddenly recalled a face from the past. When a student, I had spent an Easter weekend at Mead Court. On the Monday afternoon, when packing to return to London, I was aware Grandpa had a visitor. After lunch I had heard a car drive across the forecourt.

  I was descending the staircase, when the study door was wrenched open, and I heard the visitor declare in a harsh, guttural voice: `just hide it on the walls with the rest of them!`

  A tall man, elegantly dressed with strong, aquiline features, strode red-faced past me and slammed the front door. A few minutes later I heard the sound of a vehicle accelerating across the gravel.

  Grandpa emerged from his room. I looked into his face and raised an eyebrow. He stared at me for a moment, as if on the point of giving an explanation. Then with a slight shake of the head turned towards the drawing room, where my mother appeared in the doorway. I remember her asking her father what the commotion was about, but he ignored the question, saying, `Let`s have afternoon tea, shall we?`

  During one of our phone conversations several weeks later, my mother remarked: “Oh, by the way, that horrible man came again yesterday. He had a large, square package with him.”

  If there were so little regard for each other, I was curious to learn why that `horrible man` had attended Grandpa Johns` funeral.

  Chapter 2

  I arranged with my immediate employers to stay on at Mead Court for the rest of the week.

  At the age of thirty-two, I had carved out a rewarding career for myself. I was one of the leading journalists working for The Art Newspaper, an online and tabloid publication, was fed by its network of sister editions in Turin, New York, Paris, Moscow, Beijing and Athens. It provided an unrivalled news service about the art world.

  The other organisation for whom I worked, the BBC, was not so concerned about my brief absence. I was a freelance presenter on The Culture Show - my speciality being The Dutch Golden Age of painting, from Cuyp to Verspronck. A period in Dutch history generally spanning the seventeenth century.

  In my view they were the masters of the oil medium, using it primarily to portray robust, realistically detailed visions of the world around them.

  I was currently putting together two stand-alone programmes. One on the Dutch artist, Jan Vermeer, best known for his domestic interior scenes of middle-class life. Vermeer was a moderately successful painter during his lifetime, though he worked slowly and with great care, frequently using very expensive pigments. Perhaps that was why he was perpetually broke. His output was insufficient to support a family of eleven children. However, he was renowned for his treatment and use of light in his work, and today his paintings are highly prized, and highly priced! Current estimates of the sales value of The Girl With The Pearl Earring, place it at over thirty million dollars.

  Another, which was scheduled for later in the year, was an in-depth review of the Newlyn School of painters. An early twentieth century colony of artists based around Newlyn, a fishing village close to Penzance in Cornwall. Newlyn had a number of things likely to attract them: clarity of light, cheap living, and inexpensive models. A good number of noted British artists emerged from the School, and the programme would dwell on the key names and their works.

  *

  Over breakfast the next morning, my mother suddenly remarked,“Maurice Lowry, Father`s solicitor, is coming next Thursday, Alan. I hope you`ll be here when he reads the will. I know largely what it contains, of course, because I`m his principal heir. But he particularly wanted you to be present.”

  “I should be able to slip away. When is he coming? Morning or afternoon?”

  “He said three o`clock, dear. Is that all right?”

  “No problem. I`ll come down by train. Do you think McKenna could collect me from the station?”

  “I`ll have a word with him.”

  “Tell me. . . it`s probably too early to think about it, but do you plan staying on here? It`s a big house, won`t you want something smaller? And what about the haulage business. Who is going to run that now?”

  “I really haven`t given it much thought, Alan,” my mother said slowly. “I suppose that`s something else I shall have to consider. But there`s a competent manager at the depot, and McKenna oversees the operation. He can run it until I have had time to d
ecide what`s to be done.”

  I munched thoughtfully through a slice of toast.

  “Mother, what was the name of that man who once came to see Grandpa, and left shouting to the heavens, slamming the front door as he left? Did you realise he was at the funeral?”

  “Not until he came over to speak to me when we returned to the house. And it wasn`t just once he came to Mead Court, he was a fairly regular visitor. Father and he would have long, often heated, discussions. His name is Horst Schendler, and on the last few occasions he has been accompanied by another man. I didn`t like him either. That`s all I know, other than the fact he lives somewhere in Switzerland.”

  *

  I still lived in the London house Grandpa Johns had made available to me when attending the Courtauld Institute. Having an aversion to hotels, he had acquired the property in St George`s Square in Pimlico when he bought Mead Court. Each of the four floors had been converted into apartments, retaining the topmost for his own use whenever he visited the capital city.

  To buy the same property today would cost a small fortune. Grandpa had made a wise investment when he purchased it in the 1950s. The three-bedroom flat had been modernised over the years. From the untidy clutter and indifferent plumbing of my student days, it had been transformed into elegant, well-furnished quarters. I had never questioned Grandpa Johns` use of the third bedroom, which was hung with an array of paintings. All identified as copies of original works. It was kept locked: part of the agreement for my use of the premises.

  Whenever entertaining friends, and I had many wild parties when a student, invariably there were questions about what went on behind the locked door. I used to pass it off by saying it was being used by a flatmate. I rarely saw him, for he was a very private individual, but his presence helped with the rent.

  Now, presumably, ownership would revert to my mother. I wondered briefly, if she would sell the house. Although Grandpa Johns might leave her Mead Court and his various assets, she could well be comfortably off in terms of property, but short on cash. Anyway, I ought to buy a place of my own. I had been living on my grandfather`s generosity far too long. Though, doubtless, what I could afford would be far from the city centre.

  *

  The following Thursday McKenna collected me at Gillingham station. As usual, he barely said a word during the six mile journey to Mead Court. In his most loquacious moments one rarely got more than a few words, and most often those were responses prompted by questions.

  However, neither of us was in a talkative mood; and when we drew up in front of the house, my `thank you` merely prompted a nod of the head.

  Mother greeted me at the door, and drew me across the hall to the dining room. Having gone into the BBC offices early that morning I had missed breakfast, and was pleasantly surprised to enjoy a most welcome lunch.

  Over the meal mother told me of the many cards and letters she had received. She poured coffee, then walked over to a side table where she removed something from a drawer. She passed an envelope to me.

  “What do you make of that?”

  The envelope bore a Swiss stamp.

  Lifting the flap I withdrew a letter on very expensive paper.

  Gutshaus,

  Büntli, Vitznau,

  Lucerne, Schweiz

  Dear Mrs Cleverden,

  I share with you the loss of your father. He was a fine man, well-versed in the history, creation, and merits of major works of art. As am I – which was the basis of our shared interest in such treasures.

  Whilst we might not be able to afford the originals, we often exchanged copies of the masters - delighting for a while in each other`s collections before returning them to their owner.

  We had a bond of friendship which transcended the need to document such exchanges. But perhaps that bond is now being tested. You see, currently there are four paintings loaned to Michael Johns that are rightfully mine. They were lent to him some months ago. Maybe, because of his age, I should have provided some affirmation of ownership; but we had been sharing for so many years, I little thought upon the situation that has now arisen.

  I list below the works on loan to your father:

  THE FIRE-EATER - Marc Chagall

  BLOSSOM TIME AT ARGENTEUIL - Claude Monet

  THE CARD GAME – Edouard Manet

  THE PARTING – Gustave Courbet

  In the circumstances, I wish to call upon you on Saturday, 17 October at 3pm to arrange their return.

  Mit herzlichen Grüßen,

  Horst Schendler

  “What`s does `Guthaus` mean, do you think?” asked my mother.

  “In English it would be equivalent to `The Manor`, which suggests it`s a large, private dwelling in Vitznau, across Lake Lucerne. By the way, `Mit herzlichen Grüßen` means with heart-felt regard. As a matter of interest, have you come across the paintings Schendler is referring to?”

  “I haven`t looked, Alan. I thought I`d wait `till you were here. After all, you know about these things.”

  But I didn`t have time. Maurice Lowry, the solicitor, had arrived.

  *

  We sat in the orangery. Lowry removed spectacles from their case, polished the lenses, and carefully placed them on the bridge of his nose. Hooking them over his ears, he smoothed back the hair he had disturbed to complete the act. A methodical man of ingrained habit, exuding an air of unhurried competence.

  A slight cough, more to signal that he was about to deal with official business, than to clear his throat.

  “I have in my possession the last will and testament of Michael Roderick Johns, witnessed by Michael Squires and Jonathan Rand on the thirteenth day of April, two thousand and eight.”

  Lowry glanced up, giving my mother and I searching glances.

  “For your information, the will was signed in my office and both signatories are members of staff. Apart from a few bequests, it is a simple document, with the bulk of the estate assigned in favour of Mrs Suzanna Cleverden of Mead Court.”

  Another small cough as he stared down at the few pages in his hand.

  “I, Michael Roderick Johns, widower presently of Mead Court, Melbury Abbas in the county of Dorset, hereby revoke all previous testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will.”

  He glanced again, and in a most un-Lowry like manner murmured. “Frankly, I`ve no need to ramble over the legal niceties, I`ll leave a copy of this document for you to peruse. However, he cites you, Mrs Cleverden, and you, Mr Cleverden, as his executors. In terms of bequests, Michael is leaving his long-time companion, Jeremiah McKenna, the sum of fifty thousand pounds.”

  Well, well, I thought. Jeremiah… no wonder we knew him simply by his family name.

  I tuned in again to what Lowry was saying.

  “. . .and ten thousand pounds to each of the three members of staff at Mead Court. To you, Mrs Cleverden, he leaves this house and its grounds, and the MJ Haulage Company in Blandford Forum, and whatever resides in his bank accounts. Having spoken to the bank, I have ascertained the likely monetary assets to be in the region of three quarters of a million pounds, before death duties.”

  Perhaps she won`t need to move after all came the thought.

  Lowry was still in full flow.

  “To Alan Sharpthorne Cleverden, I leave the property in St. George`s Square, London, and my art collection, both in Mead Court and at the said dwelling.”

  He rummaged in his briefcase and removed two envelopes.

  “One contains the key to a room in which he stored works of art at the apartment,” explained the solicitor. “The other, by the weight of it, appears to be a lengthy document, which your grandfather never showed me. It was, in his words, `for your eyes only`. When he gave it to me for safe keeping, he added, `Let him make of it what he will.`”

  *

  Lowry left soon after we had had tea, having advised that being a straightforward will, probate should take no more than six weeks. At that point the bank would release the monies, and if required, cha
nges could then be made to the running of the haulage business.

  “In the meantime, can I move the paintings from London to Mead Court?” I asked, adding. “If that`s all right with you, mother?”

  She nodded. “Of course, Alan.”

  “Providing you don`t attempt to sell them before probate is declared,” Lowry warned.

  “I see no reason to sell them,” I responded. “After all, we all know they are merely well-executed copies.”

  Chapter 3

  I didn`t get around to examining the envelopes until early the following morning.

  I was still in my pyjamas and dressing gown when I entered grandfather`s study. I gazed upon the Rousseau painting for a while, then sat in his sturdy, leather chair and opened the first at his desk.

  As Lowry had mentioned, it contained a key to which a label was attached. On it was written: `Bedroom 3/St George`s Square apartment`.

  A simple Yale lock held the door fast. On reflection, I could easily have entered the room by slipping the catch; but it had never occurred to me to do so. It had been none of my business.

  The second envelope, the bulky one, I undid carefully. From it I withdrew a sheaf of at least twenty pages of closely typed script.

  A note was clipped to the first page.

  `Alan, on second thoughts, I wish I had spoken to you first before you read the contents of this document. It`s not exactly a confession – for that would imply I felt contrite for my actions. More, it is a record of all that has transpired over the past seventy years.

  As you have now been informed, you are the recipient of the many works of art I possess. I hope you derive the same pleasures I have experienced: though I must warn you, as owner, you may well find that unwittingly, I have hung an albatross around your neck.

  This document is more a memoir of my exploits. I warn you, it may not always accord with your sensibilities. I was never a saint . . .more often a sinner.