David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘Mr Prendergast will be with you in a moment, sir.’ The young man bowed slightly and made his way back down to reception, thinking about the tale he would tell his friends later that evening. ‘Just walked in off the street, calm as you please, a Leonardo under his arm.’

Johnny Fitzgerald wondered how old you had to be before you became an art expert. The answer was not long in coming. Another young man announced himself as James Prendergast and shook Fitzgerald warmly by the hand. Fitzgerald thought he must have been in his late twenties. ‘Good morning, sir. Perhaps we could have a look at the painting?’

Fitzgerald unwrapped his parcel and placed it on the easel. ‘Fitzgerald’s the name, Lord Fitzgerald of the Irish peerage, to be precise,’ he said. ‘Here you are, Leonardo’s Annunciation. ’

Most Italian Annunciations took place in broad daylight. The Leonardo happened at first light. A beam of strong sunlight came through a window and lit up the face of the Virgin. Her green robe fell in shadowy folds towards the floor. Just inside the window, leaning on a table, was the angel of the Lord, dressed in light blue. Careful examination showed the rest of the contents of the room, a humble single bed, a washing table with a bowl. The scene was mysterious, the expression on the Virgin’s face apprehensive, as if she could not quite believe what was happening to her.

‘The shadows, Lord Fitzgerald, the shadows,’ said Prendergast reverentially, ‘how beautifully he handles the shadows.’ He paused, trying to imagine the price if the thing was genuine. It certainly looked genuine. A faint note of greed came into his voice with his next question.

‘How long has it been in your possession, might I ask? How was it obtained?’

‘It’s not mine, actually,’ said Johnny. ‘It belongs to my aunt. Some distant relation of hers bought it in Milan on the Grand Tour years and years ago. She’s got lots of this kind of stuff lying about the place.’

The young man’s face lit up at the prospect of further treasures. He was not an expert on Leonardo, in truth he might have had difficulty telling a Corregio from a Caravaggio, but he did know that Leonardo had lived in Milan. He was fairly certain about that. Or had that been Titian who lived in Milan?

‘It is a most excellent work, sir. Perhaps you could come with me to one of our senior partners on the first floor. I’m sure he would love to see it.’

They get older as you go up the stairs, Johnny said to himself, as he followed young Prendergast to the next floor. It seemed to be the wrong way round. They should make the young ones walk up all the stairs. Maybe the views were better higher up.

‘Mr Robert Martyn, Lord Fitzgerald. Lord Fitzgerald’s Leonardo.’ Prendergast made the introductions. Johnny felt pleased that the Virgin had attained human status in Clarke’s Gallery. Robert Martyn was a small man in his forties, with a prosperous paunch and very powerful glasses.

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘And so this is the Leonardo.’ The same reverential tone, Johnny noticed. It’s as if the entire staff of Clarke and Sons, art dealers, think they’re in church when they look at an Old Master. Martyn took out a magnifying glass and examined the painting carefully. ‘The handling of the paint is very similar to that in Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks in the National Gallery,’ he said. ‘And the green is very similar. And look at the bottom left-hand corner. Everything is very vague down there, as if the painter hadn’t quite finished it.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Fitzgerald in a loud voice, determined not to ape the customs of the art dealers.

‘Why, my lord,’ said Martyn, ‘it makes it even more likely that it is a Leonardo. He was notorious for never finishing his paintings. He got bored, perhaps. Or another idea sprang into his mind. Very fertile brain, Leonardo, quite remarkable.’ Martyn made it sound as though he had dinner with Leonardo every other Tuesday at his Pall Mall club.

‘But come, Lord Fitzgerald, I fear that we must trespass further on your patience. Our managing director would love to see it. It is not every day that we are privileged to see such a great work, is it, Prendergast?’ He nodded at his younger colleague. ‘Perhaps you could accompany us to the next floor where our managing director’s office is. Our Mr Clarke, Mr Jeremiah Clarke, is the fourth member of his family to hold the position. We are fortunate to have such continuity in a changing world.’

Johnny guessed that Mr Jeremiah Clarke would be in his sixties if age followed the levels of the building. He was wrong. Jeremiah Clarke was in his mid-seventies, a sprightly old man with very red cheeks and a shock of white hair.

‘Well,’ he said, looking closely at the painting, ‘it is most remarkable.’ He walked to the far side of his enormous office and looked at it from a distance. He advanced to a mid-point, half-way across the room. Finally he placed himself a foot or two away and looked closely at the angel for a couple of minutes. Martyn and Prendergast stood solemnly on either side, as if they were two sidesmen bringing the collection to the front of the church for the presentation.

‘Remarkable,’ said Clarke. ‘Mr Martyn, what is your opinion?’

Martyn spoke in hushed tones. ‘It seems to me, sir, that there is a very strong possibility that this is indeed a lost Leonardo. But I would have to consult the documents. I think we should call in the experts.’

‘We could make you an offer for the painting now, if you would be prepared to consider that option.’ Jeremiah Clarke had seen so many people who brought valuable works to his firm in need of ready cash. Johnny Fitzgerald was having none of that.

‘What would you be offering now?’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m sure it’s a lot less than it would fetch once the world knows it is genuine.’

‘I’m sure we could run to four or five thousand pounds. Cash,’ said Clarke. Johnny had been told that if the painting was genuine the initial bidding would probably start at one hundred thousand pounds, with American millionaires to the fore. There were so few Leonardos left anywhere in the world, the thing was virtually priceless.

Clarke sensed that his visitor was not impressed. ‘However, Lord Fitzgerald,’ he purred on, ‘we would much prefer to wait. But it would help if you could leave the painting with us for a week, maybe longer, so that our experts can have a proper look at it.’

‘No,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald. The three men looked at each other in astonishment. This had never happened before in the one-hundred-and-seventy-year history of Clarke’s. A client refusing to leave his painting on the premises! It was impossible!

‘Why ever not?’ said Martyn sharply.

‘It’s not that I don’t mind the experts looking at it and doing whatever they do,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘But I’m going to take the painting away with me. When you have made the appointments for the experts, you let me know and I’ll bring it back. I’ll bring it back as many times as you like.’

‘But why? Don’t you trust us?’ said Jeremiah Clarke.

‘It’s my aunt,’ said Johnny, ‘the lady who owns the painting, you see. Five years ago she decided to sell a Van Dyck. She took it to one of your competitors around here – she was a lot more mobile in those days. The gallery said it was worthless and sent it back. Three years later her Van Dyck was sold for a very large sum of money. You see, the gallery hadn’t sent her back the original at all. They sent her back a copy. They kept the original and then sold it after a period of time. It’s as well my auntie reads all the papers and the magazines or she’d have never found out what happened.’