David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘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.

So Piper had resolved to put McCracken out of his misery. He knew the American was hooked. Once McCracken felt this overwhelming need, this passion for purchasing the Raphael, he could be lured into other purchases in years to come. McCracken looked perfectly healthy to Piper. Suppose he sold him two or three paintings a year at these sort of prices. A quarter of a million pounds a year. Two and a half million over ten. Five million pounds over twenty years. Piper would have to get hold of the paintings, of course, but two and a half million pounds profit out of one client over twenty years sounded rather good to Piper. And McCracken must have friends. Rich friends whose social jealousy might be aroused by the beautiful paintings on McCracken’s walls. Maybe McCracken would build a little gallery as an extension to his vast mansion.

Now William Alaric Piper faced a dilemma. McCracken had offered him eighty thousand pounds, cash, not stock, he remembered. Piper was always doubtful about American stock. Cash was safer. He felt sure that McCracken would go to a hundred thousand, maybe even a hundred and twenty, to secure the Holy Family. He could say his other potential client had raised his offer. Tempting, very tempting.

There was a knock on the door. William P. McCracken, in a blue check suit, shook Piper warmly by the hand. ‘Why, Mr Piper,’ he said, ‘I reckon it would be easier to get to see the President of the United States than it is to see you!’