David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Four asterisks, in the Piper code, meant that the owner was not to know that the painting had been planted on him, rediscovered, as Piper preferred to put it. He felt sure that Hammond-Burke would be perfectly convincing in defence of the picture, particularly when he had been shown the papers. The alternative, the fifth asterisk, was to pay the alleged owner a large sum of money to pretend the painting had been in his family for generations. William Alaric Piper didn’t like the option of the fifth asterisk. Think how much money he was paying out already. He had paid for the painting to come into existence. He might have to pay more for a correct attribution. He had to pay for his gallery. It was hardly worth the enormous amount of time and thought and trouble he took to bring new Old Masters into the world as it was.

As his train pulled out of Stratford station he thought again of Mr William P. McCracken. Piper had already promised him the possibility of a tasty morsel. How delighted, how generous McCracken would be when it was dangled in front of his nose!

Lord Francis Powerscourt was back in the Royal Academy offices in Burlington House. Sir Frederick Lambert, President of the Academy, was looking slightly better than on the last occasion, although the flesh was still sagging round his eyes. Powerscourt noticed that Dido preparing her pyre, one of Lambert’s own works, on view the previous visit, had been removed from the walls. Perhaps the pyre had consumed her. In her place was a rather plaintive canvas, of Ariadne standing on the beach at Naxos, surrounded by her handmaidens. All bore the marks of a night of debauchery, leaves and sections of bushes attached to their scanty robes, marks of wine, or perhaps blood, turning from purple into dark black. Just visible in the trees was Dionysus, a cluster of grapes in his hair, a stick in his hand, grinning salaciously at his new initiates. On the hill behind the god, a solitary bull stood, pawing the ground, a reminder perhaps of the Bull Ring and the Minotaur Ariadne had left behind in Crete. Higher up the hill a flock of sheep were grazing peacefully. Ariadne was staring sadly out to sea, one bloody hand raised to her forehead. Making good speed across the dark blue waters of the Aegean, a ship with black sails was heading for Athens. Ariadne had been abandoned by her paramour. Theseus had deserted her on the island.

‘Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I have been thinking a lot about the late Christopher Montague.’

Sir Frederick bowed his head as if they were both attending a memorial service.

‘How damaging would his article have been to the firm of de Courcy and Piper? Could it have brought them down?’

‘Well . . .’ said Sir Frederick, pausing while a coughing fit racked his body. ‘Forgive me. The article would have caused a sensation. It might have brought them down – all would depend on the strength of their financial position, their reserves and so on. It is certainly likely that they would have lost a lot of sales. But they could have survived.’

‘And what of Montague’s own position?’ Powerscourt went on. ‘Would he have become the foremost authority on Venetian paintings, whether they were genuine or not, I mean?’

Another coughing fit reduced Lambert to silence. He took a clean handkerchief out of his drawer and wiped his lips. Powerscourt saw that the handkerchief was now flecked with blood. Was time running out for the President of the Royal Academy?

‘He would have become the leading expert on that period, yes.’

‘So how much would he have been able to charge for these attributions, Sir Frederick? Presumably they could have added tens of thousands of pounds to the value of the painting? And, equally pertinent,’ Powerscourt was trying to make the interview as short as possible, ‘who would he have replaced as the main authenticator of such pictures?’

Sir Frederick looked at him sadly. A minor coughing fit gave rise to another handkerchief, produced as if by magic, from the drawer. Powerscourt wondered how many he had to bring with him each day. Ten? Twenty?

‘When I became President of this institution, Lord Powerscourt, I tried to introduce a code of conduct for the attribution of paintings. I was trying to take it out of the shadows of greed and secrecy where it has dwelt for so long. I failed. None of the participants would agree to it.’

Sir Frederick gazed sadly at his painting of the abandoned Ariadne. There had been no code of conduct for the behaviour of heroes, breaking all the rules as they swaggered across the ancient world.

‘The real problem, Powerscourt, is with what you might call the sleepers. Suppose you are the resident expert on Italian paintings at the Louvre. People come to you for attribution of the painting they have bought. You are a recognized authority on the subject. So far, so good. But what happens if the expert is also on the payroll of the dealer who is selling the painting? Then you are no longer impartial. You have a financial interest in the sale of the painting. You will receive a percentage of the final sale price. You are no longer impartial, you are a secret beneficiary of the sale. And a secret it had to be since your attribution would be worthless if the purchaser knew you were on the payroll of the dealer. The highest percentage I have heard of – rumour, alas, only rumour – was twenty-five per cent of the final sale of the painting. That may seem rather a lot, but, remember, the dealer still receives three-quarters of the money. I’m sure it has led to a general rise in prices in the art market.’

Sir Frederick paused again. Powerscourt felt that the proud old man would not welcome sympathy. ‘There must be a number of people who would have lost money if Christopher Montague had lived. He would have become the foremost authority on Italian paintings in Britain. Some people would have lost. A couple of the people at the National Gallery are said to go in for it. Or you can go to Germany. For some reason, Lord Powerscourt, people feel that German authentications are the last word, that they are bound to be right. If only they knew.’

A pale ghost of a smile passed across the sunken features.

‘There’s an elderly professor in Berlin,’ he began. Powerscourt remembered from his first visit how much the old man enjoyed telling his stories. ‘Wife dead, that sort of thing. Professor’s word is at least as good as the Pope’s in saying what’s true and what’s not true. A leading firm of art dealers in Berlin, no, the leading firm of art dealers in Berlin, employ two very pretty girls for one purpose only. Girls can hardly spell, let alone write, let alone compile a catalogue. They are sent, one at a time, with the attribution neatly written out, only waiting for a signature. God knows what they do with the old professor when they see him, but it always works. If the blonde doesn’t get it, the brunette will. Sort of Scylla and Charybdis of the Prussian art world. The dealers, Powerscourt, whether in Germany or here, will do anything to get what they want.’

The old man smiled as he thought of the irresistible frauleins on the Unter den Linden. Powerscourt wondered if the same tricks were current in London.

‘But in fact, Sir Frederick, as we both know, the article never appeared. The exhibition goes on. Those paintings may yet sell. Somebody has got what they wanted from the death of Christopher Montague, is that not so?’

‘Of course you are right, Lord Powerscourt. I suspect that may be very important for you in your investigation.’

‘Just one last question. We have talked about these Americans, flocking here like the sheep in your painting on the wall, to be fleeced by the greedy and the unscrupulous. Should they be warned? That they might be buying rubbish?’