David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Sir Rufus Fitch was looking rather cross. He was telling himself that this was meant to be a murder trial not a tutorial at the National Gallery.

‘Suppose you are a rich American gentleman,’ said Pugh, looking carefully at the jury. ‘You have made millions from steel, or railways, or coal. You have magnificent houses in Newport, Rhode Island and Fifth Avenue in New York.’

‘Could I suggest, Mr Pugh, that you come to the point.’ Mr Justice Browne sounded rather irritated. ‘One minute you are implicitly criticizing a man for the size of his house. Now you are telling stories of American millionaires. Perhaps you could reach the point you wish to make?’

Two all, thought Powerscourt. Sir Rufus might not have intervened but that definitely counted against Pugh.

Pugh was unperturbed. ‘I am coming to the point, my lord.’ He smiled a deferential smile in the direction of the judge and carried on. ‘Many of these rich Americans come to Europe to buy paintings. They are keen to establish their own collections of Old Masters. They go to the galleries here and in Paris and in Rome. But how do they know whether a painting is genuine or not? How do they know whether they are buying the real thing or a forgery? This is how they find out. They, or their art dealers, go to an expert. They go to a man like Mr Johnston here for what is called an attribution. If he certifies that the painting is by Titian, they are satisfied. They pay large sums of money for the Titian. Without the attribution the picture is worthless. Is that a fair description, Mr Johnston?’

And Pugh turned another smile upon his witness.

‘By and large, I would say it was, yes.’

‘Tell me, Mr Johnston,’ Powerscourt sensed that Pugh was about to fire his heaviest artillery, ‘have you recently been involved in the attribution of a Raphael?’

Johnny Fitzgerald’s drinking sessions with the porters and the attendants of the galleries of Old Bond Street were now bearing fruit in the Central Criminal Court. Johnston turned pale. There was a pause before he replied.

‘That is true.’

‘And did you say that this picture was genuine, Mr Johnston?’ Pugh was staring intently at his witness now.

‘I did,’ said Johnston, obviously wishing fervently that he was somewhere else.

‘Perhaps you could tell the court how much the Raphael was sold for?’

‘I believe the figure was eighty-five thousand pounds,’ said Johnston. There was a murmur of astonishment from the spectators. The newspapermen at the back were writing furiously.

‘And, what, Mr Johnston, was your commission for pronouncing the work genuine?’

‘I am not sure of the exact figure,’ Johnston began.

‘I put it to you,’ said Pugh, ‘that your commission was twelve and a half per cent of the eighty-five thousand pounds. To translate it into hard cash, ten thousand six hundred and twenty-five pounds, for looking at a painting and saying it is genuine.’

Ten thousand six hundred and twenty-five pounds was more money than the entire jury would earn in their lifetimes. They stared in amazement at a man who could command such sums.

‘I put this to you, Mr Johnston,’ Pugh could sense the judge getting restless again, ‘that had Christopher Montague lived, you would have lost your position as a leading attributer. He would have replaced you. Your extra-curricular earnings, these fabulous sums for inspecting a few Old Masters, would have dried up. You would have lost your main source of income, would you not?’

Pugh picked up a piece of paper from his desk. ‘I have here, my lord, a statement from the President of the Royal Academy. Sir Frederick Lambert has been very unwell. He is, at present, being nursed round the clock in his home. This document only reached me very recently. I propose to see, Mr Johnston, whether you agree with it.

‘“Christopher Montague was on his way to becoming the foremost expert on Italian paintings in Britain, probably in Europe.”’ Pugh read the statement very slowly, as if in respect to the dying man. ‘“His first book established him as a scholar of rare distinction. His second, which is about to come out, together with his article on the Venetian exhibition, would have consolidated his position. The dealers would have flocked to him for attributions of their paintings. Other practitioners in the field,”’ Pugh paused to look directly at Roderick Johnston, leaning heavily against the side of the witness box, ‘“would have been sidelined. That element of their income would have evaporated, more or less instantly.”’

Powerscourt had drafted the statement with the President’s approval two days earlier. Charles Augustus Pugh saw no reason to refer to that.

‘So, Mr Johnston,’ said Pugh, pausing only to hand a copy of his document to the clerk of the court, ‘with Christopher Montague alive, you would have been finished. No more little extras, what did we say the figure was, ten thousand six hundred and twenty-five pounds, for the attribution of a single painting?’

Johnston spluttered. ‘I cannot agree with that assessment – ’ he began.

Pugh cut in. ‘I would remind you, Mr Johnston,’ he said, ‘that we are dealing with the President of the Royal Academy here, not some twopenny ha’penny scribbler who writes for the art magazines.’

Johnston said nothing.

‘I put it to you again, Mr Johnston. With Christopher Montague alive, you become poor. With Christopher Montague dead, you carry on becoming richer, year after year after year, is that not so?’

Johnston said nothing, staring unhappily at the back of the court. Small boys, employed for a few pence as runners, were crouching down beside the newspapermen, waiting to rush their copy to the presses.

Sir Rufus Fitch rose to his feet to salvage Johnston from the onslaught. ‘Objection, my lord, objection. My learned friend is practically accusing the witness of murder.’

‘Mr Pugh?’ The judge looked up from his notebook.

‘I was merely concerned with the question of motive, my lord. It is only proper that the jury should be acquainted with the facts, that there are, however unfortunate it may appear, a number of people who might have wished Montague dead.’

‘Objection overruled. You may carry on, Mr Pugh, but on more orthodox lines.’

‘No further questions, my lord.’

Charles Augustus Pugh sat down. Sir Rufus was on his feet again. ‘Mr Johnston,’ he began, ‘perhaps we could clear up the main point here, without all these pieces of interesting but irrelevant detail.’ Sir Rufus looked sternly at the jury as he spoke, as if he was reminding them of what their duty was. ‘Did you kill Christopher Montague?’

‘I did not.’

Just before the court resumed Powerscourt handed Pugh a cable from Corsica. It came from Captain Imperiali. As the jury filed in for the last session before the weekend, they were confronted by a most unusual sight. A pair of empty easels sat towards the front of the court, clearly visible to judge, jury and witnesses.

‘Terrible time I had getting the judge to agree to the bloody things,’ Pugh had said to Powerscourt, tucking into an enormous steak for his lunch. ‘Thank God my young colleague here had found a previous trial in 1884 when an easel was permitted in court. Even then the old bugger couldn’t see why we wanted two of them. I had to say that we had evidence of forgery directly pertaining to the case, that we proposed to demonstrate how one of the forgeries referred to in the Montague article was carried out. Sir Rufus was snorting like an old war horse. Didn’t seem able to come up with any relevant objections for once. Only hope the old bastard isn’t saving them up for the afternoon. Bloody judge made some crack about a most unorthodox defence. Well, he hasn’t seen anything yet!’ With that, Pugh laughed his enormous laugh and helped himself to a small glass of claret.