Under the Hammer

by John Mortimer

  ‘Glazier. Ben Glazier.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Glazier. I’ll remember to ask for you when I call again.’ Winston McKenzie left them then, carrying the wood-carving with extreme care, and Ben told Camilla that he wanted to ask her about Hardcastle. With considerable pride she showed him the front of The Times Arts section. A reproduction of the Hardcastle picture nestled under the headline: KLINSKY’S CHAIRMAN PLANS TO START CHARITY BALL ROLLING BY BUYING BRITISH.

  ‘Amazing!’ Ben was filled with wonder. ‘The art market’s just a little whore. Bestows her favours on the most unlikely people. But about that picture ...’

  ‘I hope you can see how sensitive it is.’

  ‘Yes, all that ... But, just remind me, when did you say Hardcastle died exactly?’

  ‘Ten years ago. I’ve checked it for the catalogue. At a place called Shenstone-on-Sea. He left a widow and no children. Terrible loss.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Thanks.’

  ‘Going well, is it?’ Camilla asked him, as he started to move away.

  ‘Let’s say, it’s interesting,’ Ben called back to her.

  While Ben was in conference with Harry Lomax, Ned Nunnelly was carrying Pandora out of Klinsky’s. He got some sympathy from Lucy Starr, the ever-hopeful resting actress at the reception counter. He told her he couldn’t give his picture away and she told him that she knew how he felt because she was often rejected. When he added that the Philistines upstairs had no understanding of work painted by the elements – by Boreas, the north wind, for instance – she told him that there was not much charity in the acting business either. She also told him about going up for parts. ‘Your face aches from all that smiling. Smiling when you come in. Smile when they look you up and down. Smile when they ask you to read some load of rubbish. Smile when they say they’ll let you know but never do.’

  Ned clearly felt he’d met a friend. ‘What do I care?’ he said, ‘I’ve got a show coming on soon.’

  Lucy announced joyfully, ‘And I’ve got a part at the Baptist’s Head in Dalston. Not, actually, a part with lines or anything. I’m on the stage most of the time, though. Not that there is a stage, as such. I’ve got a leaflet – if you’re ever in Dalston – tells you about the first night. My name’s Lucy Starr and I’m going to live up to it!’

  ‘And I’m Ned Nunnelly. Best of luck!’ And so they exchanged leaflets.

  At the end of the day Ben told Maggie Perowne all about the ‘Jolly Joker’. Lord Holloway, she predicted, would have a fit when he found out. ‘Klinsky’s buys British,’ she said. ‘You mean, Klinsky’s buys a British fake?’

  ‘Perhaps there’s no need to tell him? I mean, he’s paid good money for it. That’ll go to the starving in Neranga. If we tell him, he’d only take the bread out of their mouths.’

  ‘Ben! What are you saying? We’re going to have a charity auction full of forgeries?’

  ‘Not full of them. Just one little fake, perhaps. I mean, Hardcastle was a bit of a faker even when he painted his own pictures.’

  ‘If it’s a fake, we’ve got to withdraw it from the sale. For God’s sake, Ben! It’s only right.’

  ‘You have such an overdeveloped sense of morality.’ He looked at her with great affection.

  ‘I do, when it comes to pictures.’

  ‘Not when it comes to young men. I hope to God your bent old Etonian hasn’t been up to his tricks again.’

  ‘If he has, they’re confined to the Wine department. That’s all over! Completely.’

  ‘So what do we do about this possibly phoney picture?’

  ‘We’ve got to be sure about it.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘We investigate. For God’s sake, Ben, we’ve done it before! Then, if it’s really a fake, we’ll have to tell Holloway.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell Holloway. You’re the one with the overdeveloped sense of morality. I can find out who put it in here for sale. Anyway, I can try.’

  So Maggie left it, a little doubtfully, to Ben. On her way out, Lucy Starr made her promise to go to the play at the Baptist’s Head, Dalston, and told her that tickets, though greatly in demand, could easily be arranged for any friend of hers. While Maggie was being talked into attending this entertainment, Nick Roper appeared from nowhere in particular and asked how long she was going to go on treating him like a fake Rembrandt etching. ‘Or some such bloody thing. Forgive and forget. Come out to dinner. San Lorenzo, like we used to.’

  ‘Once. On your birthday. It was my treat, if I remember.’

  ‘Mine this time. What do you say?’

  ‘Impossible. My mother’s coming to stay.’

  ‘Bring Mum!’

  But Maggie wasn’t having it. ‘Mum’s at the flat doing home-cooking. When I was a child, we ended every meal by beating our breasts. It was our nightly sign of indigestion. Besides which, you’ve behaved like a complete bastard. And, what’s more, I’m not having her meet you, Nick. She disapproves of my London life quite enough already. If she met you, she’d have me taken into care!’

  Mrs Perowne, as a young woman, had something of Maggie’s beauty and had appealed greatly to her film fan, piano-playing, commercial traveller of a husband. Her features remained clear, but seemed to have been pressed together by the spreading plumpness of her face so that her lips were pursed and her eyes half-closed in a mistrustful manner. On her visits south she found much to object to in Maggie’s flat, and with her work which, having to do with art, she felt wasn’t a real job in any proper sense of the word.

  ‘However much did that cost?’ she said, standing in front of Maggie’s much-prized lithograph.

  ‘The Léger? It’s only one of fifty, signed. I honestly can’t remember how much it cost.’

  ‘Modern art, I suppose. The things they think look pretty nowadays!’

  ‘It’s not all that modern, Mum. 1920. Before you were born.’

  ‘Before I was born, I doubt if women looked all flattened out. I’m sure your gran didn’t.’

  ‘What about a glass of white wine? I’m going to have one.’ Maggie’s mother made her feel like a confirmed alcoholic as she looked disapproving and said, ‘No thank you, dear. I don’t want to be drinking at all hours. Anyway, the meal will be ready directly. Do you know how much I had to pay for that little bit of beef, do you? Can you guess?’

  ‘No, Mum. Go on, astonish me.’

  ‘Twelve pounds! I don’t know how they have the nerve to do it. I told the young man in that butcher’s you think so highly of – the one that wears that white trilby hat arrangement and seems to think such a lot of himself – “That little bit of beef d go for half the price in Salford!” You know what he had the cheek to tell me? “This isn’t Salford, Madam.” “You’re too right, it isn’t.” That’s what I said. And more’s the pity, I was tempted to add. I’ll just take the weight off my feet for a moment. Then I’ll go and pay my respects to that little scrap of beef that cost a fortune.’

  Mrs Perowne sighed deeply and sat down, contemplating the rapaciousness of southern butchers while her daughter began to search cupboards and drawers for the remains of a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Funny thing’ – Mrs Perowne looked about her – ‘you’ve never got it really cosy in here, have you, dear?’

  Maggie had found one dried-up Silk Cut, shedding tobacco and entombed in an alabaster box. She resurrected it eagerly. ‘I think it’s nice that splash of colour I miss in your furnishings,’ her mother went on remorselessly. ‘Now, Linda and her Barry!’ Maggie knew it wouldn’t be long before her sister, a particularly perfect person, entered the conversation. ‘Well, Barry’s gone up to area manager. And, as I say, they just got this lovely red velvet three-piece suite with gold trimming, which was quite a bargain. And, as Barry says, it’s warming up the room. Gives it a real homey appearance.’ At this point she looked at Maggie in some horror and began to cough extravagantly, ‘Put that out, please. I don’t want to have to sue you for passive smoking, do I? That really
would get our name in the papers.’

  There was a ring at the doorbell and Maggie escaped to answer it. She opened the front door and before she could slam it again, or interpose her body against a most unwelcome visitor, Nick had invaded her hall. As usual, he was carrying champagne. ‘Who is it, dear?’ Mrs Perowne called from her seat on the sofa. Nick shouted, ‘You must be Mum!’ and surged into the sitting-room. So Maggie followed with a sickening heart to where he was flattering her mother outrageously. ‘Now I can see where Maggie gets her good looks. Maggie! Why didn’t you tell me your mum was such a stunner?’

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening!’ Maggie’s desperate mutter to her former lover.

  ‘I brought a bit of Bolly to wash down the home-cooking.’ Nick plonked the gold-topped bottles on the table like flags of conquest.

  ‘That’s very nice. Very nice indeed.’ To Maggie’s horror, her mother was purring. ‘I don’t believe we’ve had that since Linda’s wedding. That’s very kind of you,

  Mr – Oh, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.’

  ‘I’m Nick. Nick Roper. One of Maggie’s closest friends. You mean, she never told you she’d asked me to dinner?’

  ‘I haven’t, for God’s sake! What do you think you’re doing?’ Maggie was beginning to panic. ‘There’s not enough beef, is there, Mother?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we can eke it out,’ Mrs Perowne was delighted to say. ‘FHB, as Maggie’s father always used to say. Family hold back!’

  In time – it seemed to Maggie that it was a long, long time – dinner was over, most of the champagne had been drunk and Mrs Perowne was showing Nick the family snaps which he was looking at as though they were the rarest and most fascinating works of art.

  ‘That’s Karen, is it? What a beautiful baby!’ Nick showed enormous interest.

  ‘The first grandchild. I’ve been waiting for Maggie to contribute.’ Maggie took a quick, pain-killing gulp of champagne.

  ‘Don’t tell me! That’s Linda.’ Nick held up a blurred picture in triumph. ‘Your looks again, Mum. Who’s the little fellow in the suit?’

  ‘That’s Linda’s Barry. He’s done very well for himself. Not tall like you, of course.’ And then Mrs Perowne had a terrible moment of doubt. ‘Not married yourself, are you?’

  ‘Oh, not at all. I’m free as the wind.’

  ‘Well! I’m very glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want our Maggie mixed up with anyone married. That happens far too often with young girls nowadays. You remember the Winthrop girl, Elsie, don’t you, Maggie? Used to go to school with our Linda.’

  ‘A married man?’ Nick was deeply sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘So was Mrs Winthrop,’ Mrs Perowne told him. ‘Especially when his wife tried to set fire to the Winthrops’ front door.’

  ‘Look, I hate to break up the party.’ Maggie was desperate and, although Nick protested, she insisted. ‘Mum’s exhausted. I mean, she came down all the way from Salford. You are exhausted, aren’t you, Mum?’

  ‘Not really.’ Mrs Perowne betrayed her. ‘The wine’s perked me up, nicely.’

  ‘Well, I am.’ Maggie gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘I’m going to bed. We’ve got another hard day tomorrow on this charity sale.’

  ‘Awful party pooper, your daughter. But, all right.’ Nick stood up and Maggie was thankful. ‘Good-night Mum. Get your beauty sleep.’ And then he kissed Maggie’s mother.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Nick.’ Mrs Perowne emerged from the kiss best pleased. ‘Oh, and Nick, look after our Maggie, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  In the hall, as she let him out of the front door, Maggie at last spoke her mind. ‘I told you once, I’ll tell you again. Get out of my life!’

  ‘Why?’ Nick was a picture of injured innocence. ‘I thought I did rather well. Weren’t you pleased?’

  ‘Pleased? You’re a liar, Nick, a con artist and a cheat. And the absolutely unforgivable thing about you is my mother likes you!’

  While Maggie was enduring the blossoming of friendship between her rejected lover and her mother, Ben Glazier was at another party at Deracott’s, drinking the iffy champagne in the gallery. He started his inquiries into the works of Edward Hardcastle. ‘His pictures are quite a cult nowadays,’ Roy Deracott growled. ‘We had an exhibition last year.’

  ‘And you put one in for the charity auction?’

  ‘The one Klinsky’s paid for with its own money?’ A gravelly laugh from Roy. ‘What’s happened, Ben? Has your Chairman undergone some sort of religious conversion?’

  ‘To charity? Yes, he has. Watch out, he’ll be sending you food parcels. Can you tell me, Roy? Who brought the picture to you? A friend of the dead artist’s? A relative, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Roy shrugged. ‘Did he have relatives? I think there might be a wife. Didn’t she figure in some of the paintings?’

  ‘Is that her in the one we bought? “Woman with a Bowl of Flowers”?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, Ben.’ Roy still seemed gently amused. ‘From now on, my lips are sealed.’

  As Ben was making his way out through the crowd, someone called his name and he saw the hawklike Piers Frobisher stooping over a drink. He asked, ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever met? Christopher M’tatu, Foreign Secretary of the country you’re helping so much.’

  He introduced a large African in a shining silk suit who was engaged in sampling a tray of little vol-au-vents and sausages on sticks. ‘You’re in the government there, are you?’ Ben asked. ‘And you’re not particularly hungry?’

  Shenstone-on-Sea, in the county of Sussex, was once, in distant, happier days, a small fishing village. Now it was part of the urban sprawl which stretched along the South Coast. The fishermen pushing the boats out for a catch had been replaced by crowds of boat people, weekending mariners in yellow anoraks and wellies, bobble hats and nautical caps, who raced out of the small harbour, now known as the marina. They did this to show their boats off to each other and impress their female crew, some of whom wore T-shirts with ‘Galley Slave’ written upon them.

  When Ben approached Shenstone it was, as usual, covered in cloud, and a brisk wind was chopping white scars on the grey sea. Ben asked for directions and found his way to a half-timbered cottage on the outskirts of the town; surrounded by a small but glowing garden, it seemed an oasis away from the supermarkets, garages and flats for holiday lets. A woman was clipping the hedge. She was wearing jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, her hair was grey and blown by the wind, her face was tanned in a way which came not from sunshine holidays but from sailing and gardening in all seasons. Her eyes were very blue and had wrinkles of laughter around them. She might have been fifty years old and Ben thought that she was beautiful. He switched off the engine of his Harley-Davidson and asked if she were Mrs Hardcastle. She admitted it and he told her he was Ben Glazier who’d rung her from Klinsky’s.

  ‘Good God! I never thought a man from Klinsky’s travelled around like that. I expected a Roller, at least. Anyway, you’d better come in.’

  The cottage had a living-room with a log fire, a sofa and armchairs whose chintz had been gnawed by two spaniels. They leapt up, barked at Ben, went for his groin and then, quickly bored with him, went back to sleep on the hearthrug. There was also an easel and a paint table which was clean, with the tubes of paint neatly set out, the brushes in a jar, and no sign of any of them having been used recently. There were Hardcastle pictures on the walls: accurate, pleasant, characterless paintings and drawings of Liz (she had asked Ben to call her Liz) as a younger and much younger woman. Liz made coffee, poured it into thick china mugs, and they sat in front of the fire and he showed her a photograph of ‘Woman with a Bowl of Flowers’.

  ‘That’s Ted’s,’ she said without hesitation. ‘No doubt about it. That’s the way Ted painted. He took trouble, you see, like an Old Master. He’d got no patience with people who splash paint around, or bicycle across puddles of Crimson Lake.’

&
nbsp; ‘That “Woman with a Bowl of Flowers”, is she you?’

  ‘Well, you can only see the back of her head, can’t you?’ Liz picked up the photograph and looked at it again.

  ‘The back of a head of dark hair.’

  ‘Ted died ten years ago. It’s grey now.’

  ‘You remember sitting for it?’ Ben asked her.

  ‘Not for that picture, no. I can’t say I remember that particular one.’

  ‘Are you sure? If it’s you, you must’ve been there when he painted it.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Ted painted me so often, he always said he could do me by heart. There’re lots of pictures of me I didn’t sit for.’

  ‘So he might have painted this when you weren’t there?’

  ‘Quite easily.’

  ‘But not after he was dead?’

  ‘Is that meant to be a joke?’ Liz was suddenly serious, ‘I’m sorry. I have this complaint. Inappropriate joke syndrome. But Klinsky’s bought that picture with its own money, something quite unheard of. Naturally we want to find out all we can about it. Its date, for instance.’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember. It was so long ago.’

  ‘I understand, but perhaps you could help us about this. You sent a lot of your husband’s pictures to Deracott?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He had an exhibition.’

  ‘Including this one?’

  ‘Not as far as I can remember ...’ Liz hesitated. ‘I don’t go to London anymore.’

  ‘In fact, you really can’t remember this picture at all?’ He got up and wandered round the room, the dogs stirred, growled and then went back to sleep.

  ‘Not exactly.’ She smiled, a small apology for her vagueness. ‘Do you paint yourself?’ he asked her.

  ‘Oh, no! I’d be hopeless!’

  ‘You didn’t meet your husband at art school?’

  ‘Oh, no. I was studying music. And I wasn’t marvellous at that. My mother and father lived in Shenstone. We met when our boats collided in the harbour. I wasn’t much of a sailor either.’

  ‘But your husband was?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He loved it. Loved it too much, as it turned out. Ted was a wonderful sailor. I mean, he’d done it since he was a boy. He could sort of sniff at the wind and discover exactly what it had in mind. He knew there was going to be a bit of a wind that afternoon, but not a gale. I suppose he’d got it wrong, for once. They sent out a helicopter and it found the boat turned over. That’s all.’