David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘Were they indeed?’ said Powerscourt, feeling pleased that a thin shaft of light had opened up on his investigation. ‘And what was the other intelligence you have, Mr Garson? Not that you haven’t been very helpful already.’ He took another surreptitious look at his watch. Christ! They must be on the pudding by now.

‘Only this, my lord,’ said Garson nervously. ‘Mr Montague talked to me quite a lot when he was here. I used to help him find books and that sort of thing. He told me the morning he took those books out,’ Garson shuddered slightly, ‘that he was going to be the co-founder of a new magazine. He wanted to know if the library would take out a subscription.’

‘Did he tell you who the other founder was, Garson?’ Powerscourt was feeling rather hungry now. He wondered if Rosalind would have saved him any lunch.

‘He did not, my lord. I’m afraid I have no idea.’

Powerscourt thanked the librarians and hurried across St James’s Square. It was almost half-past two.

‘How very nice of you to put in an appearance, Francis,’ said Lady Rosalind, surveying him severely from the top of the table, ‘only two hours late.’

‘Such a pity we have to leave in a moment,’ said Mary.

‘And to think that you used to lecture us when we were small about being punctual and the importance of good manners,’ said Eleanor. ‘You were always going on about being on time and good manners.’

Lady Lucy sensed a sudden wrath coming over her husband. Francis very seldom lost his temper, the last occasion about four years ago. She patted him affectionately on the knee. For a fraction of a second Powerscourt wanted to shout at his three sisters. He was trying to find a murderer who might strike again. They were merely concerned with punctuality. Beyond the safety of their front doors and the railings around the square there was a dangerous world where people put pieces of picture cord or piano wire round other people’s necks and pulled until their victim could breathe no longer. He didn’t think that was very good manners. Somebody had to do the dirty work to keep the world secure for society and its rituals.

But he didn’t. He smiled apologetically at the assembled company. ‘My apologies for being late,’ he said. ‘I had very important work to do in the London Library across the Square. I must have the food of the penitent if you have such provision. Bread and cheese perhaps? Humble pie and pickles?’

Edmund de Courcy believed he could compile a selling manual based entirely on the talents of William Alaric Piper. Piper was a maestro in his field. He had different voices, different styles depending on his victim. He could cajole. He could bribe. He could bully. He could inspire. He could flatter. He could rhapsodize about the beauty of paintings he was selling. He could be scornful about the ones he was buying. Often the painting would be the same.

Now de Courcy and Piper were sitting with James Hammond-Burke in the morning room of Truscott Park. De Courcy and Piper were on the sofa to the left of the fireplace, Piper in a dark blue suit and sparkling black boots. Hammond-Burke faced them in an armchair with horse hair falling out of the side. Paintings of previous Hammond-Burkes stood on either side of a vast mirror. There was a large crack running down the left-hand side of the glass. The Raphael, still in its wrapping paper, sat incongruously between de Courcy and Piper.

‘Mr Hammond-Burke,’ began Piper, purring in his most ingratiating tone, ‘let me tell you what a pleasure, nay, more than a pleasure, what an honour it has been to have enjoyed the company of your Raphael for the brief period it has been our privilege to care for it. The curves! The colours! The innocence! The beauty! Truly we are blessed that this masterpiece has survived the ravages of time.’

Hammond-Burke made as if to speak. Piper pressed on. ‘We have, of course, brought this beautiful object back to you. Only you can be the final arbiter of its fate. We have consulted the finest experts in London about its provenance. Neither you nor I, of course, would doubt for a second that it is a genuine Raphael, but I do not need to tell you that we live in suspicious times. There is always some charlatan prepared to gainsay, to contradict the evidence of our own eyes and our own hearts, our very souls, in fact, that this Holy Family is really the work of Raphael. The experts have only confirmed what we knew – that it is genuine. And that means, demeaning though it is to mention money in the presence of such glory . . .’ William Alaric Piper paused to cast a reverential glance of worship at the brown paper and string beside him, ‘. . . that the painting will be valued at its true worth.’

Piper paused again. Hammond-Burke seized his moment ‘How much?’ he said. It was, de Courcy remembered, exactly the same phrase Hammond-Burke had employed on his previous visit. This was a perfect moment for connoisseurs of the Piper style. De Courcy doubted if the high-flown rhetoric, the gushing Piper would serve now. Hammond-Burke was not a man to be moved by the rhetorical tricks of a Demosthenes or a Cicero or a William Alaric Piper. But he could scarcely change character in mid flow.

Piper did not hesitate for a second. His reply was as blunt as the question. ‘Forty-five thousand pounds,’ he said. Then he paused briefly. He fiddled about in his breast pocket and passed over a cheque to his host.

Hammond-Burke looked at it. It was probably the largest cheque he had ever seen in his life. Pay James Hammond-Burke, it said, the sum of forty-five thousand pounds. De Courcy wondered if Piper had a series of cheques in his pocket, made out for smaller, maybe even larger, sums. How did he know he was pulling the right cheque out? It would be, to say the least, unfortunate if the written figures were ten thousand pounds less than the spoken word.

‘Thank you,’ said William Hammond-Burke, his eyes drawn magnetically to the figures on the cheque. ‘But I have a few questions for you, Mr Piper.’ He looked as if he might be going to ask for more money. ‘Is that your final offer?’ he said.

Piper leaned forward confidentially in his sofa. ‘Mr Hammond-Burke,’ he went on, ‘believe me when I tell you this. I have loved paintings all my life. In many ways they are my life, my inspiration.’ Get on with the business, thought de Courcy to himself. ‘It has always been our policy to offer the possessors of such masterpieces the very highest prices. Only on the train on the way down here Edmund was suggesting a lower figure. A considerably lower figure, Mr Hammond-Burke.’

Piper waited to let the thought of a lower figure take centre stage in Hammond-Burke’s mind. Then he leaned back into the sofa once more. ‘But I overruled him. That is the figure I propose. Not a penny more, but certainly, undoubtedly, not a penny less.’

De Courcy was watching Hammond-Burke’s face very closely. Greed and anxiety, in equal portion, passed across his features.

‘What will you sell it for?’ he asked.

De Courcy sat back and watched the play unfold. He had the best seats in the house. Which Piper would come forth now?

‘I have no idea,’ he said. De Courcy knew that was a lie. Piper had at least one American millionaire, William P. McCracken of the Boston railroads, in his sights. Maybe there were more.

‘It is impossible to say.’ Piper shook his head rather sadly. ‘It depends on the market, on who wishes to buy at any given time. Sad and regrettable though you and I would regard it, Mr Hammond-Burke, objects of great beauty like your exquisite Raphael are as subject to the whims, the ups and downs of the market as any other commodity like wheat or potatoes. It might sell for fifty thousand pounds. I should be surprised if it did.’