David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘Sergeant Major!’

‘Sir!’ said the man, springing to attention.

So far so good, thought Johnny. ‘Major Fitzgerald, Connaught Rangers. Stand at ease, Sergeant Major.’

‘Sergeant Major Fitzgibbon, Royal Artillery, sir!’

Fitzgerald shook the Sergeant Major by the hand. ‘I was in India most of the time,’ he said, ushering Fitzgibbon to a chair. ‘And yourself?’

‘South Africa, sir. Zulu wars. Majuba, that sort of thing.’

‘Very good, Sergeant Major. Now there seems to have been something of a cock-up with the orders here. Wouldn’t be the first time, as we both know only too well. The girl was sent here to encourage him to escape. We knew the date, we knew the time, we knew the place. We’ve got them safe. They’ve been moved. Some people in London were getting suspicious. They should be in another remote location by now, somewhere in West Yorkshire, I believe. God knows why our lords and masters wanted it done like that, but they did. You can recall your men, Sergeant Major. We’ve taken over. Thing is, my orders are to collect the paintings and bring them too. Do you think you could give me a hand with them? I’ve got a carriage outside.’

‘Sir!’ said the Sergeant Major. Majors, even in civilian clothes, demand obedience. Ours not to reason why.

Speed, Johnny Fitzgerald knew, speed was vital. If the man stopped to think for one minute all could be lost. The coach driver came in to give further assistance. In twenty-five minutes all of Orlando’s work was safely in the back of the carriage. The delicate work of wrapping them carefully could wait until later.

‘Drive like the wind,’ Fitzgerald said to the coachman. ‘We need to get out of here.’

As they rattled back towards the main road, the carriage swinging wildly across the rutted road, Fitzgerald could see Sergeant Major Fitzgibbon scratching his head in the doorway. The whole business had happened so fast. As they passed the church on their right, invisible in the snow, a faint cry reached them, almost lost in the wind.

‘Major Fitzgerald! Come back a moment, sir. Come back!’

Powerscourt had already talked at length to Imogen about her trip to Norfolk. She told him about the meeting at the hotel in London, the trip by train and carriage with her eyes bound so tightly she could not see a thing. ‘I was some kind of reward, don’t you see, Lord Powerscourt? I was a prize for good behaviour. Orlando had been asking for months if he could see me or write to me. Finally they gave in. Maybe they thought I would give him a new lease of life, up there in that strange gallery with the rats prowling overhead. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound of those rats in the night.’

She had told him about the gambling at Monte Carlo, about Orlando’s drinking, about the promise that he would be free once he had earned enough to pay off his debts. She told him about her loveless marriage.

‘I expect Orlando and I will have to go and live abroad once all this is settled. I shouldn’t mind at all.’

Powerscourt’s housekeeper, Mrs Warry, had made a great fuss of young Mr and Mrs Blane, as Powerscourt had introduced them. She had decided that what they needed was a touch of good old-fashioned English cooking, not those scraps and army rations they’d been fed up there in Norfolk. So after an enormous meal of roast beef with all the trimmings, Mrs Warry’s best apple pie, and some good local cheese, Powerscourt sat down by the side of Orlando’s sofa in the drawing room. Mrs Warry kept a splendid fire going. Outside more snow was falling on the Powerscourt lawns. Imogen was sitting behind Powerscourt where she could see Orlando.

‘Mr Blane, there are many things I would wish to ask you. Some of them will have to wait. Let me say first of all that you are both welcome to remain here as long as you wish. Mrs Warry will be delighted to look after you. What interests me this afternoon is how the commissioning process worked, how you received your orders, if you see what I mean.’

Orlando paused for a moment before he replied. ‘There were different kinds of instructions,’ he began, ‘but they were all delivered in the same way. Mournful – that’s what I called the Sergeant Major person because he was always down in the dumps – would come and see me with a letter in his hand. He never showed me the letter – I never saw the heading on the paper, or where it came from. Tell Orlando, Mournful would say, reading it, that we wish him to do such and such.’

‘You said there were different kinds of instructions,’ said Powerscourt gently. ‘Perhaps you could give me an indication of what they were.’

‘Of course,’ said Orlando. He paused again. ‘Basically, there were three sorts of orders, if you like. Sometimes they would send me up an original, a Titian or a Giorgione, for me to copy.’

‘Do you know,’ asked Powerscourt, ‘what happened to the copies?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Orlando. ‘When they were finished, the two paintings were sent back to wherever they came from. If you pushed me, I should say that the most likely explanation is that they had sold the original at an exhibition. Then they told the new owner it had been sent away for cleaning. Then they would swap them over.’

‘And the second sort of order?’ Powerscourt was looking at Orlando’s hands. They moved sometimes as he talked, drawing some imaginary masterpiece all on their own.

‘The second sort was the smartest,’ Orlando laughed suddenly. ‘They would send me illustrations from the American magazines of a particular family. I was to create an English portrait, a Gainsborough or a Reynolds, with the wife or the children reproduced in my painting.’

‘Would the point have been that the American father was coming to London? And that he would be bowled over by this extraordinary likeness? Bowled over to the extent of lots of dollars?’

‘You have it, Lord Powerscourt. Americans often buy paintings that remind them of places or people they know. This just took it a stage further.’

‘And the last sort?’ Powerscourt knew Orlando would not be able to speak for very much longer. Lines of strain were beginning to appear on his forehead.

‘Straight forgeries. Lost masterpieces suddenly rediscovered. It happens all the time. I was working on a lost Giovanni Bellini at the end.’

‘And did they send back any comments, the people we presume were in London?’

‘They did,’ said Orlando. ‘Mournful would appear after the post arrived and read out messages. They were very pleased with me most of the time.’

‘But nobody ever came to see you in person? If you met the man behind the enterprise this afternoon you would have no idea who he was?’

‘Correct,’ said Orlando. Imogen was beginning to move about on her chaise longue.

‘I have only one more question,’ said Powerscourt. ‘But first I have to tell you a story.’

He told them about the murder of Christopher Montague, about the article he was writing before his death about fakes and forgeries in the exhibition of Venetian paintings at the de Courcy and Piper Gallery. He told them about the subsequent murder of Thomas Jenkins. He told them about Mrs Buckley planning to elope to Italy with Christopher Montague. He told them about Horace Aloysius Buckley, arrested after Evensong in Lincoln Cathedral. He mentioned that the trial was to start very shortly.

‘You don’t think this Mr Buckley is guilty, do you, Lord Powerscourt?’ asked Imogen.

‘No, I don’t. I do not at present know exactly who the murderer is. All we can do at the trial is to point out that other people might have good reason to kill Montague. Like Messrs de Courcy and Piper, who probably employed their very own forger, hidden away in Norfolk. If that was known, it would ruin their business, destroy their livelihood. This is my last question, Orlando.’ Powerscourt knew how difficult this could be. ‘If I have not found the real murderer before the trial starts, would you be prepared to give evidence about what went on in Norfolk? Let me tell you what it could mean before you answer. Your name would be splashed all over the newspapers. Journalists would want to come and interview you. You would be famous or infamous for about three days, but everybody would remember that you had worked as a forger. It would mean that a future career in the world of art in England would be very difficult, if not impossible for you.’