Death of an Old Master Page 9

  Powerscourt was scribbling furiously at his writing desk. Jackson, the family footman who had served with his master in India, was waiting discreetly behind the chair. Powerscourt had decided not to call upon Jason Lockhart of Clarke’s the art dealers in person. He felt Lockhart might feel constrained in his working surroundings and, for some reason he couldn’t pin down, Powerscourt didn’t want to show himself yet in the rarefied air of Old Bond Street.

  ‘I am investigating the death of the late Christopher Montague,’ he wrote, ‘and I feel that you may be able to assist me.’ He said nothing of new magazines, of fakes and forgers, of mistresses in the heart of Chelsea. ‘If you could fix a time with my man here I should be delighted to see you in 25 Markham Square at your earliest convenience.’

  Jackson promised to wait for the reply. Powerscourt found Lady Lucy inspecting the dining room with a worried air. ‘Francis,’ she said, ‘these dining chairs. We’ve had them for ever so long. But they’re beginning to look a bit shabby, don’t you think?’ Lady Lucy pushed hard at one of the seats. There was a slight wobble, implying that a very heavy person might find themselves sitting unexpectedly on the floor.

  Powerscourt was used to these continuous campaigns of domestic improvement. Sometimes he would return home and find that all the furniture in the drawing room had been rearranged. Or that a pair of curtains, previously deemed perfectly satisfactory, had been transferred from his study to a spare bedroom. Once he found that his entire wardrobe had been removed from the bedroom and placed in a closet some yards away down the corridor.

  ‘I just didn’t like that wardrobe, Francis,’ Lady Lucy had said on that occasion, ‘it was so ugly.’ Privately Powerscourt wondered if he himself might not be the subject of one of these periodic fits of rearrangement, transferred for ever to the coal hole or the top floor of the stables, thereby guaranteeing the aesthetic perfection of the rest of the house. Sometimes he replied with flippancy, suggesting that the kitchens would work much better if they were transferred into the attics, and that the children should all sleep in the front hall. It would mean that they could get to school quicker. He was reproved for being a domestic Philistine, a non-believer in the search for domestic harmony. In vain did Powerscourt try to tell his wife that perfection was an ideal, like one of Plato’s Forms, something to aspire to, a beacon on a distant hill, a vision that could never be achieved, and that all her efforts were doomed to failure.

  ‘You’re being absurd, Francis,’ Lady Lucy would laugh at him. ‘All I’m trying to do is to make our home as nice as possible. You wouldn’t want the children growing up surrounded by ugliness, would you?’

  Powerscourt decided that instant capitulation was the only solution to the case of the dining-room chairs. ‘That looks a bit dangerous, Lucy. I think you’d better replace them straight away.’

  Lady Lucy was not accustomed to such rapid victories. Often there would be protests about furniture being able to last a few years longer, sometimes dire and apocalyptic male mutterings about money. She stared hard at her husband’s face. Perhaps, as so often, he was teasing her.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she said incredulously.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ replied her husband. Lady Lucy resolved to try to find the cause of this immediate acquiescence. If she could identify the reason, then she could time future campaigns to coincide.

  ‘Are you all right, Francis?’ said Lady Lucy, worried suddenly that her husband might be ill.

  ‘I’m perfectly all right, my love,’ said Powerscourt, giving his wife a quick kiss. ‘I’m just in rather a hurry. I’ve got to get to the Royal Academy. And I want to ask your advice.’

  Lady Lucy sat down on one of her dubious dining-room chairs. Powerscourt observed that there hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation. Were they all in perfectly good condition after all, he wondered? Did just one of them need repair? This was not a battle he was prepared to enter. He banished all thoughts of domesticity from his mind.

  ‘We’ve got to find somebody in Chelsea, Lucy,’ he began. Lady Lucy felt a quick thrill at the use of the word ‘we’. Not I. But plural. We.

  ‘Who is this person, Francis?’ Lady Lucy smiled.

  ‘All we have,’ said Powerscourt, ‘is a Christian name. Rosalind. She was having an affair with the late Christopher Montague. Her husband was apparently not compliant. And she lives in Chelsea, this Rosalind. That’s it.’

  ‘I could ask Montague’s sister,’ said Lady Lucy, relieved that the vast tribe of her relations, as Francis referred to them, might come in useful at last.

  ‘You could,’ said Powerscourt doubtfully, ‘but I have asked the sister already in general terms. She said she didn’t know anything about his private life.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘It’s quite tricky, isn’t it? You can’t very well pin up a notice on Chelsea Town Hall asking for the Rosalind who was having an affair with Christopher Montague to pop round to Markham Square for afternoon tea.’

  Powerscourt laughed. ‘I wonder about the post,’ he said. ‘People in those circumstances sometimes spend a lot of time writing to each other, arranging the next meeting, saying how much they miss the other one, that sort of thing. Liable to cause trouble if you leave any of the correspondence lying around, of course.’

  Lady Lucy looked suspiciously at her husband. ‘Are you an expert in these matters, Francis?’

  ‘Certainly not. I promise you.’ Powerscourt laughed. ‘But I have been involved in a number of cases where this sort of thing goes on. One chap I heard of even had his messages delivered by carrier pigeon. Of ingenuity in affairs of the heart there is no end.’

  ‘Thomas is a great friend of our postman here,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘He takes Thomas on his rounds of the square sometimes on Saturday mornings. I’ve watched Thomas post the mail through the letterboxes. He thinks it’s tremendous.’

  ‘Well, the postman might be able to help. But we need Montague’s hand on a letter. Those murderers took every scrap of paper out of his flat. We don’t know what his handwriting looked like.’

  Powerscourt looked at his watch. ‘Heavens, Lucy, I’m going to be late. Will you have those new chairs in position when I come back, do you think?’

  Lady Lucy laughed. ‘Be off with you, furniture Philistine!’ she said. But she kissed him warmly as he left.

  The gallery of de Courcy and Piper in Old Bond Street was temporarily closed to the public that morning. Opening at eleven o’clock, said the sign outside. All the doors were locked. Edmund de Courcy and William Alaric Piper were in the basement. That door was also locked.

  ‘Only two more to go,’ said Piper, panting slightly. He placed a small piece of cloth over a nail on the bottom of a picture frame. He pulled very slightly. The nail did not move. He tried again, pulling fractionally harder. Again the nail did not move.

  ‘Damn these nails!’ said Piper. He was reluctant to pull too hard in case damage was done to the painting or the frame. And, as both he and de Courcy knew only too well, one day soon they would have to perform the operation in reverse.

  He tried again. Very slowly the nail agreed to part from the frame. De Courcy had a piece of paper ready for it. Bottom row, first from right-hand corner, said the piece of paper. De Courcy placed the nail reverently into its new home. Then he put it into a box. The nails were ordered in the box in the same way they had been in the frame.

  ‘There!’ said Piper. The last nail had come out. De Courcy pulled the painting very carefully from its frame. He rolled it into a cylindrical shape and wrapped it in two sheets of linen, specially cut for the purpose. It joined another cylinder on the floor. These two paintings had been part of the de Courcy and Piper Venetian exhibition upstairs. Both had been sold and removed from the show.

  ‘How long has he got?’ asked de Courcy.

  ‘I should say up to three weeks. But he works very fast so it may be less,’ said Piper, wiping his hands and sliding the box with the nails into a shelf in a safe on the wall. ‘I told t
he new owners they were going off to be cleaned, but that it could take some time. Can he do it in three weeks?’

  ‘Well,’ said de Courcy, ‘he’s going to be pretty busy. I’m sending these two illustrations up there as well.’ He showed his partner the two pages he had stolen from the basement of the Beaufort Club.

  ‘The family of William P. McCracken.’ Piper peered closely at the page to make sure William P. McCracken and family had not been represented outside the main entrance of the Third Presbyterian Church, Lincoln Street, Concord, Massachusetts. They had not. He breathed again.

  ‘And so this is Mr Lewis B. Black, the king of steel,’ said Piper, eyeing up his other prey. ‘And Mrs Black! And the Miss Blacks! I can see, Edmund, why you were so excited about the feathers. It’s going to be magnificent!’

  De Courcy wrapped the two illustrations up. The package would leave London that afternoon, bound for a secret destination known only to de Courcy and Piper. The Black and McCracken families would be accompanied on their journey by the Portrait of a Man by Titian and the Portrait of a Venetian Gentleman by Zorzi da Castelfranco, better known as Giorgione.

  8

  Lord Francis Powerscourt stared in disbelief at the paintings on the walls of Sir Frederick Lambert’s office. They had been changed around since his last visit. Powerscourt found himself wondering if Lady Lucy had a secret contract to rearrange the furniture here too, popping over from Markham Square to switch round the paintings in the President’s office. Hector being dragged round the walls of Troy had disappeared. It had been replaced by an even vaster canvas. In the courtyard of a huge palace servants were rushing towards the centre and placing household objects on a pyre. A magnificent bed was being brought out of a courtyard towards it. Hiding behind a pillar upstairs a distraught Queen stared down below. A courtier was whispering in her ear. In the bottom left a huge man, clad only in a loincloth, his dark skin glistening with oil, was carrying a flaming torch towards the pyre. Dido, one-time lover of Aeneas, reigning Queen of Carthage, was preparing her own immolation.

  ‘Happens every month, Powerscourt.’ Sir Frederick had observed Powerscourt looking at the walls with amused interest. ‘We change the paintings round. Get fed up with looking at the same thing, even if you’ve painted it yourself. Maybe especially if you’ve painted it yourself.’

  ‘A very dramatic work, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt politely.

  Sir Frederick looked rather ill. His huge frame seemed to be collapsing inwards. The suit was now several sizes too large. The great moustache was still perfectly trimmed but it was drooping. He looked at Powerscourt’s letter on his desk.

  ‘Let me begin with these art dealers you asked about, Lord Powerscourt.’ He paused and looked up at the pyre on the opposite wall, wondering perhaps about his own more peaceful obsequies. ‘What you must realize about these art dealers is that they are in a permanent state of conflict and competition with each other. Clarke’s and Capaldi’s have been around a long time, of course. De Courcy and Piper are new. I believe de Courcy spends most of his time wandering round the great country houses looking for people who are almost bankrupt but could be saved by selling some of the Old Masters on their walls.’ Sir Frederick shook his head sadly. ‘Capaldi’s have a member of staff whose main job is to read the obituaries in all the major newspapers looking for families who may have to sell up.’

  ‘What about the people who work in these places?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘What manner of people are they?’

  ‘I wish I could say that they were all devoted lovers of art, Powerscourt. Some of the people at the top are very knowledgeable, of course. For the rest they are just salesmen, but salesmen disguised beneath the finest suits and shirts of Jermyn Street. Younger sons who failed the army examinations – can you imagine? – are quite prevalent. They sound convincing. They look good. They learn the patter and the patois. One of Capaldi’s most successful operatives used to sell central heating systems to the aristocracy. But often, the porters who carry the pictures in and out of the building know more than the salesmen.’

  ‘What about the Americans?’ asked Powerscourt, surprised at the cynicism of such a leading artistic figure as the President of the Royal Academy. He supposed it came with experience.

  ‘The Americans, my dear Powerscourt, may be starting the biggest change in the art market in living memory.’ Sir Frederick paused as he was racked by a terrible coughing fit. His face turned red. He was obviously in considerable discomfort. Powerscourt wondered how long he had left to live. Lambert waved away his sympathy.

  ‘Sorry, Powerscourt. It’s part of my illness. Now then, these Americans. They bring enormous amounts of money. I suspect we may be at the very beginning of the biggest buying spree in history. The New World is returning to carry off the artistic heritage of the Old. For the dealers, the opportunities are huge.’

  Sir Frederick’s face had faded now. The red had turned into a chalky white, the eyes sinking into his head.

  ‘Two last things, Sir Frederick, before I take my leave,’ said Powerscourt. ‘This magazine that Christopher Montague was going to found with Jason Lockhart of Clarke’s. What would the purpose be?’

  Sir Frederick laughed. It sounded as if another coughing fit might overcome him. ‘War, in Clausewitz’ words, is merely the continuation of politics by other means. The magazine would be the same sort of thing, a vehicle for Clarke’s to rubbish their opponents, the genuineness of their paintings, the reliability of their attributions. No doubt the other two dealers would shortly have to start magazines of their own. Very good for the printers, no doubt, but unlikely to advance the cause of art.’

  ‘My last question concerns the private affairs of Christopher Montague, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I now know the Christian name of the woman concerned. She was called Rosalind. But I have no surname. Would you, by any chance, have a letter written by Montague? A signature perhaps? An example of his handwriting would be very helpful.’

  Sir Frederick looked closely at Powerscourt. He looked as though he might be about to ask how the handwriting could help. But he didn’t. He rummaged about in the drawers of his enormous desk.

  ‘This should serve, I think.’ He handed over an envelope addressed to himself. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is Montague’s hand. I presume you would like to keep it.’

  Suddenly Powerscourt felt absolutely certain that Sir Frederick Lambert knew the full name of the mysterious Rosalind. But, for reasons of honour or personal loyalty, he was not prepared to say.

  ‘Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘forgive me if I sound arrogant when I say that it should only take me a couple of days to discover the surname of this unfortunate lady. I know that you feel bound by honour and human decency to guard the secrets of your colleagues. I respect you for that.’ Powerscourt was trying to cut off Lambert’s escape routes. ‘But we are dealing with murder here. Garrotting may be the work of a professional assassin, hired by a person or persons unknown. The killer or killers may strike again. If, by any chance, you know the surname of this Rosalind, I beg you to tell me. I know it may have unfortunate consequences for the lady in question, but there are more important considerations than the manners and conventions of society. It may save lives.’

  Powerscourt stopped. Then he went on quite suddenly, ‘I do not need to tell you, Sir Frederick, that the name would be treated with the utmost discretion.’

  Sir Frederick Lambert looked sadly at Dido’s palace, shortly to be engulfed by the flames. He did not look Powerscourt in the eye but stared at his painting, as if he wanted to improve it.

  ‘Mrs Rosalind Buckley,’ he said very quietly. Powerscourt had to strain to catch the address. ‘64 Flood Street, Chelsea.’

  William Alaric Piper was waiting for the American millionaire William P. McCracken in his office in Old Bond Street. Piper was wearing a dark blue pinstripe today over a cream silk shirt with a single rose in his buttonhole. The black shoes were polished to perfection. Eight days had
passed since McCracken had offered him eighty thousand pounds for the Raphael Madonna. Piper had told McCracken that he had another buyer with the first refusal on the painting, that McCracken would have to wait.

  And what a wait it had been. The American had grown increasingly impatient. At first the letters to Piper from the Piccadilly Hotel had come only twice a day. Then they turned into a flood, four, five, six, or even seven. Piper did not reply to any of them. McCracken began to call at the gallery in person. Mr Piper was not available. Mr Piper was at a meeting on the other side of town. Mr Piper was in the country. Mr Piper was at the National Gallery.

  William Alaric Piper had indeed been to the National Gallery, in his brown check suit, three days before. The gallery were most flattered that de Courcy and Piper were prepared to give them the first refusal on Raphael’s Holy Family. They regretted that they were unable to offer more than seventy thousand pounds. The claims on the public purse, Mr Piper must understand, were many and various. The gallery director did not mention that an election was in the offing. Politicians were always reluctant to spend large sums on paintings before the voters went to the polls. It left them open to charges of extravagance, of wasting taxpayers’ money on foreign fripperies, sometimes scantily clad. The director wondered if the dealers would ever work out that the best time to tempt the National Gallery was in the period immediately following an election. Any purchases then would be forgotten by the time of the next one.