David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Piper checked the red rose in his buttonhole. He was in his light brown suit today with a cream silk shirt and pale brown brogues. Edmund de Courcy was in conservative tweeds, peering down at the notebooks in front of him, the records of his travels round the country in search of art that might sell.

‘What about portraits, English portraits?’ he said at last. ‘Lots and lots of those about.’

‘Excellent,’ said Piper, rubbing his hands together, ‘but not English Portraits. The English Portrait.’ Suddenly Piper could see the publicity material, the appeal to the Americans as tens or even hundreds of English aristocrats and gentry lined the walls of his gallery upstairs, resplendent Reynoldses, glorious Gainsboroughs, Romneys and Lawrences by the dozen.

‘How many do you think you could get, Edmund?’ he said.

De Courcy flicked through the pages of his notebooks, scribbling hard as he went.

‘Nearly a hundred, I should think,’ he replied finally. ‘Maybe more.’

‘And how many do you think would be genuine?’ said Piper.

‘Maybe a quarter?’ replied de Courcy.

‘Never mind,’ said Piper with a grin, ‘that’s better than these damned Venetians upstairs. Go to it, Edmund. Call the masterpieces home to the de Courcy and Piper Gallery. We shall give them a good show. And,’ he laughed, ‘good prices too, real or fake.’

There was a knock at the door. ‘Mr Piper,’ said the footman, ‘Mr McCracken to see you.’

Two weeks had passed since Mr William P. McCracken, railroad millionaire from Massachusetts, had taken possession of his Raphael. Had William Alaric Piper been able to see what had happened to The Holy Family since it passed into American ownership, his heart would have been filled with joy. Most sensible people would have locked it away in the hotel safe. After all, it had cost eighty-five thousand pounds. Not William P. McCracken. He had bought an easel of the right size and placed it in the centre of his suite in Room 347 of the Piccadilly Hotel. When he retired for the night he took the painting with him, not literally, but he placed the easel at the end of the bed so he could see it first thing in the morning. On one occasion he even arranged his Raphael just outside the door of the bathroom so he could view it from his bathtub.

As Piper led him upstairs to the special viewing chamber above the main gallery, William P. McCracken was excited about this new offering from de Courcy and Piper.

‘You said I could see it at the end of last week, Mr Piper. Why, I guess we Americans just aren’t very good at waiting. I’ve gotten to be very eager to see this picture. Gainsborough you said.’

Piper made soothing noises as if he were talking to a child. ‘It’s waiting for you, Mr McCracken,’ he said, ‘right here.’ Piper did not disclose that he had travelled down to Truscott Park the day before and handed over a cheque to James Hammond-Burke for eight thousand pounds for his Gainsborough. ‘There may be more masterpieces here, Mr Hammond-Burke,’ Piper had said in his most expansive mood. ‘We must wait till our man has completed his work on the catalogue.’

Once again the viewing room had been specially prepared. The windows were open this time. The painting sat on an easel, shrouded by a pair of curtains. Piper pressed a switch to bring on the illuminations. Then he pulled slowly on the cord. The curtains fell away.

There, seated on a bench in the middle of an enormous park, sat Mr and Mrs Burke, of Truscott Park in the county of Warwickshire. Standing behind them were their two children, a dog lying at their feet. It was the beginning of autumn, the leaves on the trees beginning to change colour.

‘God bless my soul!’ said William P. McCracken, staring very hard at the children. ‘It’s a miracle, it really is.’

William Alaric Piper said nothing. It was, he reflected to himself, indeed a miracle that two children should have arrived in London on the pages of an American magazine, and been turned into a new Old Master by Orlando Blane in his Long Gallery.

‘Mr Piper, sir,’ said McCracken, taking off his hat, ‘let me tell you something. I really can’t believe this. Those two girls look almost the same as my own two dear children back home. My Daisy has brown eyes, and this little girl has blue, and Dorothy’s hair is a little darker than this one here, but otherwise, it’s uncanny.’

McCracken walked to the back of the room and looked at the painting again. ‘I must have it, Mr Piper,’ he said fervently, ‘I must have it. Think of what Maisie, that’s Mrs McCracken, will say when she sees it! Think what the girls will say! I can see it now, Mr Piper, on the wall in the living room back home in Concord, Massachusetts. There’s some vulgar religious picture my wife picked up hanging above the fireplace at present, Moses leading the children of Israel out of Egypt. Well, Moses can just lead them all someplace else now. This Gainsborough will sit there perfectly. Imagine what the neighbours and the elders of the Third Presbyterian will say when they come to see it! My entire trip to Europe will have been worthwhile if I can carry it back across the Atlantic.’

William Alaric Piper coughed slightly. ‘Mr McCracken,’ he said in mournful tones. ‘We have a problem.’

‘Problem, what problem?’ said McCracken, standing defiantly by the picture as if he would fight anybody who tried to take it away from him, ‘I thought you said this thing was for sale?’

Piper nodded. ‘It was for sale, Mr McCracken. When I spoke to you of the Gainsborough, it was for sale. Not any more. The owner has changed his mind.’

McCracken put his arm around the frame. ‘You can’t do this to me, Mr Piper. Not now when I’ve had the chance to see it. Please, not now.’

‘I’m afraid it happens more often than you would think, Mr McCracken,’ said Piper mournfully. ‘The owner decides to sell. He is quite determined. The painting comes down to be sent away. There is a gap on the wall. I’m sure a man like yourself with such sensitivity to the beauty of paintings, can understand what it feels like. After a day or two the owner feels sad. Then it gets worse, Mr McCracken. After a week or two it becomes like a bereavement, a death in the family, gone from the walls of the family drawing room. Eventually it becomes unbearable. The owner has to have the painting back.’ William Alaric Piper fiddled briefly with the rose in his buttonhole as if he were going to cast it over a coffin making its last journey down into the grave. ‘Can you see that, Mr McCracken?’

‘Sure I can see that, Mr Piper. It’s how I felt some years back when I thought I’d lost the deal to buy one of my Boston railroads. But I came through it. Yes, sir. We Americans like to get what we want, Mr Piper. What do I have to do to buy the painting?’

Piper shrugged his shoulders. Impossible, said the gesture.

‘Let’s try talking dollars here, Mr Piper. What sort of price did the owner think he would get for this Gainsborough?’

‘I fear it is not a question of money,’ said Piper, ‘it is a question of loss. Beautiful things bring their own special powers. The owners get addicted to them, as if they were some terrible drug.’

William P. McCracken thought of the Raphael in Room 347 of the Piccadilly Hotel and his worship of it. ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘But I’m not going to give up. What price did the owner want?’

Piper decided it was time to give in. ‘Twelve thousand pounds was his asking price,’ he said, ‘maybe a bit high for a Gainsborough, but the thing will always keep its value.’

‘Double it,’ said McCracken decisively. Piper could suddenly see what had made him such a power in the railroads of America. ‘Just double it. But please, Mr Piper, can you get me an answer in the next twenty-four hours? Throw some more money at it if you have to. I had to wait a long time for the Raphael. I couldn’t bear to have to wait as long again.’