David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘Do you think, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that all of that could lead to a man’s death?’

Sir Frederick rose from his chair and stood by his window. A thin October sun was falling on the courtyard beneath. ‘I am an old man, Powerscourt. I have not been able to paint at all for the past three years. My doctors tell me that I have but a short time left to live. Soon I shall be swept away, just as the rubbish on our River Thames gets swept away by the tides to rest on some riverbank far away. So I can speak freely. I know too much about this art world. I would advise you to think of it as you would an Oriental bazaar, or the trading rooms of an unscrupulous financier in the City of London just up the road from here. I do not feel it appropriate to tell you of any of the dishonest activities that go on. But I make you this promise.’

Lambert had turned round now, and looked down on Powerscourt like a benevolent uncle offering unwanted advice to a feckless nephew. ‘I hope very much that the world of art in this city did not lead to Christopher Montague’s death. I hope there are other causes. But if, in the course of your investigations, you come across anything in the art world, anything suspicious or dishonest, I suggest that you return to me and I will help you. I will give you all the assistance in my power. I rather liked Christopher Montague.’

William Alaric Piper was going to a meeting with Gladstone. He descended from his train at Barnes railway bridge and set off beside the river. He was wearing a large overcoat and a hat pulled well forward over his eyes. He peered about him furtively as if he thought he might be followed.

Gladstone was responsible for the secrecy. Not for the cover name, of course. All of de Courcy and Piper’s most important agents in the field had their own sobriquets. You could never be too careful, Piper had said to himself when he started his system. One word of who you had seen, one dropped bit of gossip, could lose business. More important, it could lose money.

Only the authenticators, as Piper liked to call them, were named after former Prime Ministers. Some of these deceased statesmen had travelled further in death than they ever had in life. Liverpool had made it as far as Florence, Disraeli was reliving former diplomatic triumphs in Berlin, Peel had only progressed to Paris. But the word of these men, written rather than oral, could add tens of thousands of pounds to the value of a painting. If they said a Velasquez was a fake, it was worthless. But if they said it was genuine, William Alaric Piper’s bankers would be delighted. Most important, there could not be any visible link between expert and art dealer. If it was known that the expert was on the payroll of a dealer, his attribution would be worthless. Impartiality, the respected status of academic detachment, the quest for pure scholarship, these were the golden chips in the gambling saloons of the art world. That was why Piper created his cover names, that was why he checked his movements on his way to the Mortlake house this evening. Gladstone was an expert on the Renaissance.

Gladstone lived in a fine Georgian house in Mortlake High Street with a great drawing room at the back looking over the river. Until a few years before, round about the time he first met Piper, in fact, he had lived in a tiny terraced house in Holloway. Now he had more space. The Gladstone butler, a small man who spoke as few words as possible, showed him into the study. The curtains were tightly pulled. On an easel by the window stood the Hammond-Burke Raphael, carefully lit. Hammond-Burke, even more morose in London than he had been in Warwickshire, had delivered it in person the previous week. It had been delivered to Mortlake in secret by one of Piper’s porters a couple of days before.

‘Well, Johnston’ – for such was Gladstone’s real name – ‘what is your opinion of this painting?’

Johnston smiled. ‘I may tell you in a minute. Or I may not. It depends on the terms.’

‘What do you mean, terms?’ said Piper wearily, all too aware that another round of bargaining was about to begin. They were all the same, these art experts, he had decided long ago. There was not a single one of them who could not be bought. The only question was the price.

Johnston was the exact opposite of what the public would have thought a librarian or a museum curator would look like. He was six inches taller than Piper and at least a foot broader. Piper often thought Johnston could model for one of those paintings of muscular Christians, staff in one hand, Bible in the other, marching resolutely across landscapes derived from The Pilgrim’s Progress , which sold well to less discriminating palates. Or Goliath before he met David.

‘Let us talk of the terms later,’ said Piper, peering steadily at The Holy Family with Lamb , the terrible innocence of the Christ child as he gazed up at his mother. ‘I presume from your initial remarks that you think it is genuine?’

‘I do,’ said Johnston, suddenly realizing that he might have weakened his hand. ‘It is undoubtedly a Raphael, probably painted during his time in Florence before he went to Rome. It is mentioned in Vasari and one or two other chroniclers. There’s nothing like a respectable past to convince the world that a painting is genuine, as you know.’

‘What then are the terms you refer to?’ asked Piper with a smile. Never fall out with these people had been one of his maxims from his earliest days, never offend them, never have cross words. Disagree by all means but a pleasant manner was worth at least five per cent off any particular transaction.

‘Our arrangement,’ Johnston spoke quickly, ‘was that I should be paid this annual retainer in return for advice on any Italian paintings worth under ten thousand pounds. This one, I’m sure, is worth rather more than that.’

‘And the holidays, Johnston, don’t forget the holidays,’ said Piper, seeking for marginal advantage. De Courcy and Piper picked up the bills for Johnston’s regular visits to France and Italy.

‘What do you say to twenty per cent of the value of the painting?’ said Johnston fiercely. ‘And I don’t mean twenty per cent of what you pay for it. I mean twenty per cent of what you sell it for.’ He had promised his wife that he would begin the bargaining at this level but inwardly he was doubtful of success.

Piper reached for his hat which was lying on the table. He started out rather slowly for the door of the Johnston drawing room. ‘That would be quite impossible. I very much regret having to terminate this relationship as a guest in your house. But your request is simply impossible. I shall instruct my bankers to cancel the annual payments in the morning.’

Piper was right by the door now, strangely reluctant to go.

Johnston remembered his lines. ‘If you do that,’ he said, ‘I shall denounce your Raphael as a fake. I am one of the foremost experts on him and his school in the whole of Europe.’

‘Were you to denounce this Raphael as a fake, my dear Johnston,’ replied Piper, still not quite out of the room, ‘your career would be at an end.’ William Alaric Piper stared again at the Raphael. ‘There are always other experts who would say it was genuine,’ he said sadly, hoping that the pristine beauty of the picture would not be sullied by these transactions.

‘And,’ he went on, his hand on the door knob now, ‘I should be forced to write to the trustees of your gallery and inform them that one of their most valued employees had been receiving secret annual retainers from an art dealer in return for authenticating his pictures. I fear your employment would be terminated immediately. Other similar employment might be difficult to obtain.’ He opened the door and walked out, very slowly, into the hall, placing his hat carefully on his head. ‘A very good evening to you, Johnston. I deeply regret that our mutual association, so sensibly conducted until now, should conclude in these unhappy circumstances.’