David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘It’s de Courcy, Francis, Edmund de Courcy.’

Powerscourt suddenly remembered Lucy telling him a story during one of his earlier investigations into the death of Prince Eddy, Duke of Clarence and Avondale. That had been a fairy story with a young man and his mother, a young man in love, a dead wife at the bottom of the steps leading down to her garden.

‘There are three branches of the de Courcys, Francis, as I’m sure you know.’

Powerscourt didn’t but he nodded vigorously all the same.

‘One lot are in Cumbria,’ Lady Lucy went on, ‘enormous estates, lots of money, all they do is hunt and fish, that sort of thing. Then there are the Nottinghamshire de Courcys, pots and pots of money from coal. Now, this is the interesting part, Francis, Edmund de Courcy says he comes from the Nottinghamshire de Courcys. But he doesn’t. He comes from another branch altogether.’

Powerscourt thought of the de Courcy family as a train line, branching out all over England, red lines on his map connecting Nottinghamshire to Cumbria. Change at York, probably.

‘So where does he come from?’ he said. ‘And why should he lie about his origins?’

‘I can only guess about why he should lie,’ said Lady Lucy, trying to stick to the facts in the manner approved by her husband. ‘But he comes from Norfolk. The Norfolk de Courcys have lived for centuries in a huge house near the sea, not far from Cromer. But the family fortunes have collapsed. Edmund de Courcy’s father, Charles Windham de Courcy, ran away to the south of France to live with some Frenchwoman. He left three children behind in Norfolk, Edmund, who was the eldest, and his two sisters. Then this Charles de Courcy had another two children with the Frenchwoman. When he died they discovered that he had spent most of the family fortune. What was left was divided between the English branch, including Edmund’s mother, and the French family. But there wasn’t enough money to go round. The great house is closed up. Nobody lives there now. Edmund has entered the art world.’

Lady Lucy looked sad, the bald facts of her narrative hiding so much private pain, a family torn apart.

‘And where are the mother and the two sisters now, Lucy?’

‘They’re living abroad. It’s so much cheaper over there.’

Powerscourt asked the obvious question. ‘But why should Edmund lie about his family? There’s no shame attached to going to live abroad. People go to the south of France or Italy all the time. And would you suppose that the mother would be happy in France, fearing she might bump into her husband’s mistress at the bakery or the hairdresser’s or somewhere like that?’

‘It’s a pretty big place, the south of France,’ said Lady Lucy defensively. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of hairdressers, more than enough to go round.’

‘Suppose the family had plenty of pictures up there in Norfolk, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Edmund could have gone into the art world to get the best prices for them. When he’s got enough money, he’ll bring the rest of his family home.’

‘That still doesn’t explain why he lied about them,’ Lady Lucy replied.

‘Or,’ Powerscourt rushed on, his mind racing through the facts of his investigation since the death of Christopher Montague, ‘suppose the opposite. There are no pictures in the house in Norfolk. De Courcy employs a forger. Maybe the forger is in the same place as his family. Maybe one of his sisters is rather a star with the brushes and the impasto. Maybe it’s some embittered local artist, desperate for money. Every time de Courcy crosses the Channel to see his family he brings a lot of forgeries back with him, hidden in the bottom of a suitcase, wrapped up inside his fishing gear, God knows. Did nobody know exactly where they had gone, the mother and the sisters de Courcy?’

Lady Lucy paused. She knew somebody had mentioned somewhere unusual to her.

‘Corsica,’ she said at last. ‘Northern Corsica. Place called Calvi, I think.’

‘Calvi?’ said Powerscourt, suddenly remembering Johnny Fitzgerald telling him about a great bundle of paintings arriving at the de Courcy and Piper Gallery. What were Johnny’s words? ‘It said on the front that it came from Calvi or Galvi, somewhere like that.’

He picked up the atlas on the floor and began turning the pages furiously. Ireland, no. Scotland, no. Germany no. France, yes. Off the southern coast, its northern section pointing like a finger at the Italian Riviera, was Corsica. And in a bay at the northern end of the island sat Calvi.

He showed Lady Lucy the map and smiled at her. ‘We’re going on a journey,’ he said. ‘What do you know of Corsica, Lucy?’

Lady Lucy paused. ‘Mountains,’ she said, ‘huge mountains. Wild coastline, I think. And,’ she shuddered slightly as she thought of going to the granite island, ‘feuds, bandits, vendettas, murderers.’

‘Premises secured,’ said the telegraph message. ‘Corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Sixth Street. Ample space for display of treasure.’

William Alaric Piper rubbed his hands together with delight. At last, his agent in New York had secured a base for him, a base that would be converted into a gallery for the display of his paintings. The Venetians, currently on display on the floors above him to the ungrateful Londoners, who had bought in insufficient quantities in Piper’s view, the Venetians would cross the Atlantic. Surely, he reflected, America must have been discovered in Titian’s lifetime, if not that of Giorgione. Perhaps they had met Amerigo Vespucci on their travels. Now they could all be reunited in the plutocratic magnificence of Fifth Avenue. He read on.

Another millionaire en route. Arrives tomorrow. Piccadilly Hotel. Name of Cornelius P. Stockman. Dime store money. Single. Not fond of religion. No Crucifixions. No Madonnas. No Annunciations. No dark pictures. No Rembrandts. No Caravaggios. Suggest women, possibly without clothes. Regards. Kempinski.

William Alaric Piper was having trouble with his latest millionaire. He had taken Lewis B. Black on his normal introductory tour, the National Gallery, the weekend at a grand house in the country, the reverential tour round his own exhibition. William P. McCracken, Piper reflected bitterly, may have been overly susceptible to the views of the elders of the Third Presbyterian in Lincoln Street in his home town of Concord, Massachusetts. His wife might have had strong views about pictorial propriety. But at least he had talked. Lewis B. Black scarcely spoke at all. In the National Gallery on a visit lasting almost three hours he had uttered precisely two words in front of a Turner. ‘Nice sunset.’

In Piper’s own gallery he had hummed and erred in front of various paintings. He seemed to be pregnant with speech. But no words came out. For a man of Piper’s temperament, volatile, mercurial, this was maddening. He wanted to pick up Mr Black, not a very large man, and shake him. After two or three hours in his company Piper would feel exhausted, emotionally worn out. He wondered if it was damaging his health. He would have to go to his doctor. Maybe there would be some pills he could prescribe.

When William Alaric Piper tried to work out why Black spoke so little he could only guess. Maybe words were like money. The less you talked the richer you would become. After ten or fifteen years you would become a word millionaire, you would have a hoard, a treasure trove of unspoken thoughts. Maybe Black spent his life surrounded by people who wanted him to make decisions. Close down that factory. Invest in these bonds. Buy this mansion in Newport Rhode Island. Silence would torture his staff as surely as it tortured Piper. Surely, he felt, Cornelius P. Stockman could not be another of the silent plutocrats.