David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Rouge , said Orlando. Noir , said the croupier. Rouge , said Orlando. Noir , said the croupier. Five thousand pounds down. This incredible run of blacks could not continue. It was mathematically impossible.

Rouge , said Orlando.

Noir , said the croupier as the ball came to rest.

Seven and a half thousand pounds down. One last throw would begin the revival of his fortunes. Rouge , said Orlando. The ball clattered round the bowl. Pirate was staring intently at the wheel. ‘ Courage ,’ murmured his French friend behind him. The little old lady made the sign of the cross. She had placed her last chips on the red along with Orlando.

The ball was slowing now. ‘Which colour, Professor?’ whispered the manager. The Professor looked at pages and pages of equations beside him. ‘Black,’ he said sorrowfully.

There was a murmur in the crowd as the ball hovered over the wheel. The Englishman is broken. He is finished. Can he pay? It seemed to be a choice between a black 2 and a red 25. Orlando looked at his last chip, sitting on the table. Grandad’s Little Friend had her two hands on the old man’s shoulders, straining for a better view.

The last rattle. The ball settled into its compartment.

‘ Deux ,’ said the croupier. ‘ Noir .’

Orlando waited for half an hour at the table. He noticed bitterly that the next four rotations all ended in reds. He wondered about Imogen, their dreams of happiness lost in the spin of a wheel. He wondered what he was going to say to the cashier. He wondered if he would be sent to prison, left to rot like the Count of Monte Cristo in a miserable cell deep inside the Chateau d’If. He wondered how he could tell Imogen. He knew she wouldn’t be angry, only sad that their plan had failed.

At a quarter past two he left the table. His French friend followed him. The little old lady embraced him. ‘My poor boy, ’ she said, ‘my poor boy.’ The Pirate saluted him. ‘What courage,’ he said. ‘What bravery.’ The croupier shook his hand. ‘ Au revolt, monsieur. I hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again.’

Orlando’s friend led him to a quiet alcove off the main reception. Three Greek philosophers seemed to be having an argument on the walls behind them.

‘Mr Blane,’ said the Frenchman, ‘my name is Arnaud, Raymond Arnaud. Before we come to the business, let me ask you one question. Can you paint as well as you can draw?’

Orlando stared at the man. Paint? Paint? What on earth was he talking about? ‘Of course I can paint,’ he said, ‘I paint better than I can draw. I was trained at the Royal Academy and in Rome. But what of it? It does not matter now. I owe this casino ten thousand pounds. I do not have ten thousand pounds.’

Raymond Arnaud put his arm across his shoulders. ‘Mr Blane, my friends and I, we have been looking for a man like you. We will pay your debt. It does not go well with those who do not pay here. In France they are more lenient. But in Monte Carlo the authorities feel they have to make examples of those who gamble and cannot pay. Otherwise their casino would sink under a mountain of unpaid debts.’

Orlando could hardly believe his ears. Escape was being offered by this improbable Frenchman. ‘What do I have to do in return?’ he said.

‘You paint,’ said the Frenchman ‘you come and work for us in the world of painting. When you have earned enough to pay off your debt, we let you go!’

Raymond Arnaud did not say that he was the French associate of a firm of London art dealers, based in Old Bond Street. He did not say that they had been looking for somebody like Orlando Blane for eighteen months.

Orlando came back from his reverie. A flock of starlings was flying past the house, heading for the lake. He walked back down the Long Gallery to his stretcher and looked at his Gainsborough. He took the illustration from the American magazine out of its folder. Just the children, his instructions said. Don’t worry about a likeness for the parents, it might seem too much of a coincidence. Just the children, not too perfect a likeness. He reached for his brushes and began to work.

Orlando had never discovered where the instructions came from, or who sent them. He presumed they came from London. All he had to do was to work every day in the Long Gallery. In the evening he played cards with his jailers.

They played for matchsticks.

Lord Francis Powerscourt was having trouble with a letter. He stared gloomily at the full extent of his composition so far.

1st November 1899.

Mrs Rosalind Buckley,

64 Flood Street,

Chelsea.

Dear Madam,

Powerscourt was writing to the lover of the late Christopher Montague, one-time art critic, recent inheritor of a very large sum of money. He stared out at the trees in Markham Square.

‘Please forgive this intrusion on your privacy,’ he began.

I have been asked by his family to investigate the death of the late art critic Christopher Montague. I have been given to understand that you were a friend of his. I would be most grateful if you could spare me the time for a brief conversation about Christopher. Any such conversation would, of course, be entirely confidential. I would be happy to call on you in Flood Street at a time of your own choosing. Alternatively, should business take you in the direction of Markham Square, my wife and I would be pleased to receive you here. Yours, Powerscourt.

He read it through again. Was it too cold? Did he sound like a solicitor about to impart bad tidings? Should he have said more than he had? Should he have mentioned the possibility of further deaths? No, he would leave it as it was, he decided.

But one fact worried him more than anything else. Lady Lucy’s intelligence system had revealed that Mr Buckley was a solicitor, partner in the well-known firm of Buckley, Brigstock and Brightwell. And that Mr Buckley was at least twenty years older than his wife. And that Mr Horace Aloysius Buckley had not been seen in his office for over three weeks. He had not been seen there since the day following the murder of Christopher Montague.

Johnny Fitzgerald decided he was going to enjoy his outing to Old Bond Street. He had a large parcel under his arm. He peered enthusiastically into the windows of the galleries, paintings for sale on offer, further exhibitions due to open shortly promising a cornucopia of artistic treasures.

He entered the offices of Clarke and Sons. The reception looked like a London club, he thought, portraits of previous Clarkes, drenched in respectability and sombre colours, hanging proudly on the walls.

‘Good morning,’ Johnny said cheerfully to the young man behind the desk.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said the young man. ‘How can we help you?’

‘It’s this Leonardo here,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘it belongs to my aunt. She’s thinking of selling it. I wonder if you could tell me what it’s worth?’

The young man had sprung to attention at the mention of the word Leonardo. He had only been with the firm a few weeks but even he had absorbed enough to realize that a Leonardo was the ultimate prize. He would be remembered as the man who secured the da Vinci for Clarke’s. He would become famous. Other, better paid jobs would surely follow.

‘Very good, sir. How wise of you to bring it to us.’ The young man pressed a small bell on his desk. ‘If you would like to come with me, sir, one of our experts will talk to you and examine the painting.’

Fitzgerald was escorted up a half flight of stairs and shown into a small room looking out on to the back of Old Bond Street. There was an easel by the window and a couple of rather battered chairs. A bowl of fading flowers sat sadly on a side table.