Death of an Old Master (12 page)

‘Well,’ said de Courcy, ‘he’s going to be pretty busy. I’m sending these two illustrations up there as well.’ He showed his partner the two pages he had
stolen from the basement of the Beaufort Club.

‘The family of William P. McCracken.’ Piper peered closely at the page to make sure William P. McCracken and family had not been represented outside the main entrance of the Third
Presbyterian Church, Lincoln Street, Concord, Massachusetts. They had not. He breathed again.

‘And so this is Mr Lewis B. Black, the king of steel,’ said Piper, eyeing up his other prey. ‘And Mrs Black! And the Miss Blacks! I can see, Edmund, why you were so excited
about the feathers. It’s going to be magnificent!’

De Courcy wrapped the two illustrations up. The package would leave London that afternoon, bound for a secret destination known only to de Courcy and Piper. The Black and McCracken families
would be accompanied on their journey by the
Portrait of a Man
by Titian and the
Portrait of a Venetian Gentleman
by Zorzi da Castelfranco, better known as Giorgione.

Lord Francis Powerscourt stared in disbelief at the paintings on the walls of Sir Frederick Lambert’s office. They had been changed around since his last visit.
Powerscourt found himself wondering if Lady Lucy had a secret contract to rearrange the furniture here too, popping over from Markham Square to switch round the paintings in the President’s
office. Hector being dragged round the walls of Troy had disappeared. It had been replaced by an even vaster canvas. In the courtyard of a huge palace servants were rushing towards the centre and
placing household objects on a pyre. A magnificent bed was being brought out of a courtyard towards it. Hiding behind a pillar upstairs a distraught Queen stared down below. A courtier was
whispering in her ear. In the bottom left a huge man, clad only in a loincloth, his dark skin glistening with oil, was carrying a flaming torch towards the pyre. Dido, one-time lover of Aeneas,
reigning Queen of Carthage, was preparing her own immolation.

‘Happens every month, Powerscourt.’ Sir Frederick had observed Powerscourt looking at the walls with amused interest. ‘We change the paintings round. Get fed up with looking at
the same thing, even if you’ve painted it yourself. Maybe especially if you’ve painted it yourself.’

‘A very dramatic work, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt politely.

Sir Frederick looked rather ill. His huge frame seemed to be collapsing inwards. The suit was now several sizes too large. The great moustache was still perfectly trimmed but it was drooping. He
looked at Powerscourt’s letter on his desk.

‘Let me begin with these art dealers you asked about, Lord Powerscourt.’ He paused and looked up at the pyre on the opposite wall, wondering perhaps about his own more peaceful
obsequies. ‘What you must realize about these art dealers is that they are in a permanent state of conflict and competition with each other. Clarke’s and Capaldi’s have been
around a long time, of course. De Courcy and Piper are new. I believe de Courcy spends most of his time wandering round the great country houses looking for people who are almost bankrupt but could
be saved by selling some of the Old Masters on their walls.’ Sir Frederick shook his head sadly. ‘Capaldi’s have a member of staff whose main job is to read the obituaries in all
the major newspapers looking for families who may have to sell up.’

‘What about the people who work in these places?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘What manner of people are they?’

‘I wish I could say that they were all devoted lovers of art, Powerscourt. Some of the people at the top are very knowledgeable, of course. For the rest they are just salesmen, but
salesmen disguised beneath the finest suits and shirts of Jermyn Street. Younger sons who failed the army examinations – can you imagine? – are quite prevalent. They sound convincing.
They look good. They learn the patter and the patois. One of Capaldi’s most successful operatives used to sell central heating systems to the aristocracy. But often, the porters who carry the
pictures in and out of the building know more than the salesmen.’

‘What about the Americans?’ asked Powerscourt, surprised at the cynicism of such a leading artistic figure as the President of the Royal Academy. He supposed it came with
experience.

‘The Americans, my dear Powerscourt, may be starting the biggest change in the art market in living memory.’ Sir Frederick paused as he was racked by a terrible coughing fit. His
face turned red. He was obviously in considerable discomfort. Powerscourt wondered how long he had left to live. Lambert waved away his sympathy.

‘Sorry, Powerscourt. It’s part of my illness. Now then, these Americans. They bring enormous amounts of money. I suspect we may be at the very beginning of the biggest buying spree
in history. The New World is returning to carry off the artistic heritage of the Old. For the dealers, the opportunities are huge.’

Sir Frederick’s face had faded now. The red had turned into a chalky white, the eyes sinking into his head.

‘Two last things, Sir Frederick, before I take my leave,’ said Powerscourt. ‘This magazine that Christopher Montague was going to found with Jason Lockhart of Clarke’s.
What would the purpose be?’

Sir Frederick laughed. It sounded as if another coughing fit might overcome him. ‘War, in Clausewitz’ words, is merely the continuation of politics by other means. The magazine would
be the same sort of thing, a vehicle for Clarke’s to rubbish their opponents, the genuineness of their paintings, the reliability of their attributions. No doubt the other two dealers would
shortly have to start magazines of their own. Very good for the printers, no doubt, but unlikely to advance the cause of art.’

‘My last question concerns the private affairs of Christopher Montague, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I now know the Christian name of the woman concerned. She was called
Rosalind. But I have no surname. Would you, by any chance, have a letter written by Montague? A signature perhaps? An example of his handwriting would be very helpful.’

Sir Frederick looked closely at Powerscourt. He looked as though he might be about to ask how the handwriting could help. But he didn’t. He rummaged about in the drawers of his enormous
desk.

‘This should serve, I think.’ He handed over an envelope addressed to himself. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is Montague’s hand. I presume you would like to keep
it.’

Suddenly Powerscourt felt absolutely certain that Sir Frederick Lambert knew the full name of the mysterious Rosalind. But, for reasons of honour or personal loyalty, he was not prepared to
say.

‘Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘forgive me if I sound arrogant when I say that it should only take me a couple of days to discover the surname of this unfortunate lady. I
know that you feel bound by honour and human decency to guard the secrets of your colleagues. I respect you for that.’ Powerscourt was trying to cut off Lambert’s escape routes.
‘But we are dealing with murder here. Garrotting may be the work of a professional assassin, hired by a person or persons unknown. The killer or killers may strike again. If, by any chance,
you know the surname of this Rosalind, I beg you to tell me. I know it may have unfortunate consequences for the lady in question, but there are more important considerations than the manners and
conventions of society. It may save lives.’

Powerscourt stopped. Then he went on quite suddenly, ‘I do not need to tell you, Sir Frederick, that the name would be treated with the utmost discretion.’

Sir Frederick Lambert looked sadly at Dido’s palace, shortly to be engulfed by the flames. He did not look Powerscourt in the eye but stared at his painting, as if he wanted to improve
it.

‘Mrs Rosalind Buckley,’ he said very quietly. Powerscourt had to strain to catch the address. ‘64 Flood Street, Chelsea.’

William Alaric Piper was waiting for the American millionaire William P. McCracken in his office in Old Bond Street. Piper was wearing a dark blue pinstripe today over a cream
silk shirt with a single rose in his buttonhole. The black shoes were polished to perfection. Eight days had passed since McCracken had offered him eighty thousand pounds for the Raphael Madonna.
Piper had told McCracken that he had another buyer with the first refusal on the painting, that McCracken would have to wait.

And what a wait it had been. The American had grown increasingly impatient. At first the letters to Piper from the Piccadilly Hotel had come only twice a day. Then they turned into a flood,
four, five, six, or even seven. Piper did not reply to any of them. McCracken began to call at the gallery in person. Mr Piper was not available. Mr Piper was at a meeting on the other side of
town. Mr Piper was in the country. Mr Piper was at the National Gallery.

William Alaric Piper had indeed been to the National Gallery, in his brown check suit, three days before. The gallery were most flattered that de Courcy and Piper were prepared to give them the
first refusal on Raphael’s
Holy Family.
They regretted that they were unable to offer more than seventy thousand pounds. The claims on the public purse, Mr Piper must understand, were
many and various. The gallery director did not mention that an election was in the offing. Politicians were always reluctant to spend large sums on paintings before the voters went to the polls. It
left them open to charges of extravagance, of wasting taxpayers’ money on foreign fripperies, sometimes scantily clad. The director wondered if the dealers would ever work out that the best
time to tempt the National Gallery was in the period immediately following an election. Any purchases then would be forgotten by the time of the next one.

So Piper had resolved to put McCracken out of his misery. He knew the American was hooked. Once McCracken felt this overwhelming need, this passion for purchasing the Raphael, he could be lured
into other purchases in years to come. McCracken looked perfectly healthy to Piper. Suppose he sold him two or three paintings a year at these sort of prices. A quarter of a million pounds a year.
Two and a half million over ten. Five million pounds over twenty years. Piper would have to get hold of the paintings, of course, but two and a half million pounds profit out of one client over
twenty years sounded rather good to Piper. And McCracken must have friends. Rich friends whose social jealousy might be aroused by the beautiful paintings on McCracken’s walls. Maybe
McCracken would build a little gallery as an extension to his vast mansion.

Now William Alaric Piper faced a dilemma. McCracken had offered him eighty thousand pounds, cash, not stock, he remembered. Piper was always doubtful about American stock. Cash was safer. He
felt sure that McCracken would go to a hundred thousand, maybe even a hundred and twenty, to secure the
Holy Family.
He could say his other potential client had raised his offer. Tempting,
very tempting.

There was a knock on the door. William P. McCracken, in a blue check suit, shook Piper warmly by the hand. ‘Why, Mr Piper,’ he said, ‘I reckon it would be easier to get to see
the President of the United States than it is to see you!’

‘Do you see your President often, Mr McCracken?’ said Piper with a smile.

‘Sometimes I have to see him when I feel my competitors are being unreasonable, Mr Piper,’ said McCracken, taking out a gigantic cigar. ‘And I usually see him six months before
an election in case he needs any help with his campaign funds. But what of the Raphael, Mr Piper? I don’t mind telling you that I’ve lost more sleep about that painting than I ever did
over the purchase of the Boston to Hartford railroad three years ago. And that could have left me a broken man!’

‘The Raphael is yours, Mr McCracken. I managed, not without some difficulty, to persuade my other client to withdraw. I have had to promise him something very special in return. And I had
to agree a slight increase in the purchase price, unlikely to trouble a serious collector like yourself. For eighty-five thousand pounds in cash, Mr McCracken, one of the world’s most
beautiful paintings is yours. I must say I envy you. The thought of being able to look at that Raphael every day for the rest of my life, in the morning sunlight, in the heat of the day, in the
afternoon shadows, would fill me with such joy.’

William P. McCracken pumped Piper’s hand in a vigorous embrace. ‘From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Mr Piper,’ he said. ‘Why, we should celebrate. Let me take you
out for a bottle of champagne!’

Piper pleaded the press of business. But he did agree to dinner at the Beaufort Club that evening. ‘Looking to the future,’ said Piper, ‘I cannot promise, Mr McCracken. But I
believe I may shortly have something which would interest you. It may come to nothing, but the work is divine.’

‘I’d be very interested in any future propositions, Mr Piper.’

William Alaric Piper leaned back in his chair. ‘Let me offer a word of advice, now you have joined the ranks of the great collectors, Mr McCracken. As you know, there is no possible
parallel between the world of business and the world of art. But a great businessman, a great industrialist such as yourself, will have a balanced portfolio of investments, not only railroads but
steel, not only steel but mining and exploration, not only mining and exploration but banking and property and so on. When one goes down, the other goes up. In the same way the great collectors
hold a wide variety of the great Masters in their portfolios. Not only Raphaels but perhaps Giovanni Bellinis from the great days of Venice, Gainsboroughs maybe, Holbeins, Van Dycks, some of the
great Rembrandts.’

Piper did not mention that he had two Rembrandts in his basement which Mr McCracken’s compatriots refused to buy because they were too dark.

‘What might you get your hands on soon?’ asked McCracken.

‘It is a Gainsborough, Mr McCracken. A Gainsborough of the very highest quality.’

McCracken searched his memory. He found it hard to remember the names of the painters. ‘Gainsborough the guy who did all those aristocrats in their country parks? Lots of real estate
behind them?’