Death of an Old Master (36 page)

Johnny Fitzgerald had secured a bottle of brandy and was inspecting its label with extreme scepticism. ‘Don’t think they’d serve this stuff in the better London clubs,’
he said to Powerscourt, ‘but you can’t be particular after a night like that.’

‘Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I’ve just had a daft idea.’

‘For God’s sake, Francis,’ Johnny Fitzgerald was pouring himself a giant refill already, ‘it’s half-past two in the morning. We’ve just spent an idyllic few
hours wandering about in a snowstorm with Romeo next door nearly killed by one of those characters. And you start talking about daft ideas.’ He took a giant’s mouthful. ‘What is
it?’

Powerscourt smiled at his friend. ‘It’s those pictures, Johnny. I think they might be really useful in the court case. Do you think you could get them out of the house?’

Fitzgerald looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Could one man carry them? From that big room upstairs with all those windows?’

‘I think it would need two people, Johnny. I’d come with you but I want to see Romeo and Juliet safe in Rokesley It might be too late by the time I got back.’

Johnny Fitzgerald laughed suddenly. ‘Once a Sergeant Major, always a Sergeant Major, that’s what I say, Francis. Where do you want the bloody things delivered to?’

‘The paintings,’ said Powerscourt, guessing suddenly how Johnny was going to manage it, ‘should be reunited with their maker, Orlando Blane. I’ve always felt the need of
some really first rate pictures in my country house at Rokesley.’

‘Dear Lucy . . .’ Powerscourt was writing again to his wife from the sitting room of his house in Northamptonshire. Rokesley Hall was host not just to its owner
but to a pair of refugees, Orlando Blane, lying on a sofa by the window of the drawing room, and Imogen Foxe, currently reading aloud to Orlando from a book of romantic poetry.

Thirty-six hours after the lovers’ flight Johnny Fitzgerald was making another visit to de Courcy Hall. He was travelling in some style, in a large enclosed carriage with
an officious-looking man at the reins. Great carpets of snow covered the long drive from the main road. The roof of the little dovecot inside the walled garden had turned from red to white. The sun
was shining brightly although it was bitterly cold. Johnny knew that his plan depended on two things. First, the Sergeant Major must not have reported the flight to his masters in London. Earlier
that morning Johnny had checked the railway station. One of the ruffians was still watching. Another one had gone to Norwich by an earlier train. He had passed a third patrolling the road into
Cromer, looking rather dejected. The Sergeant Major should be on his own in the house. The second factor depended on the ingrained habit of obedience to superior officers drilled for years into the
brains of every single Sergeant Major in Her Majesty’s Army. Johnny took a quick swig from his hip flask as the coach drew up outside de Courcy Hall. He strode through the main door, shouting
loudly.

‘Sergeant Major! Sergeant Major!’

A bleary-eyed man approached him in the Great Hall. Fitzgerald put on his loudest voice.

‘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.’

Imogen had gone to sit beside Orlando on the sofa. She was stroking his hand.

‘Take your time,’ said Powerscourt. ‘You don’t have to give me a reply now if you don’t want to.’

‘But if I don’t give evidence, Lord Powerscourt,’ Orlando said, ‘then this poor man may be hanged for something he didn’t do?’

‘That is correct,’ said Powerscourt gravely.

‘Let me tell you, Lord Powerscourt,’ Orlando was sitting up straight now, his eyes blazing, ‘we have received nothing but kindness at your hands. I might be dead if you
hadn’t come along. There is honour, even among forgers. The profession is as old as art itself. I could not bear to think of that poor man losing his life just because I kept quiet. If you
wish me to do so, I shall gladly give evidence.’

‘Well done, Orlando, well done,’ said Imogen.

Then they heard a voice shouting through the house. ‘Old Masters for sale!’ it said. ‘Buy your very own Old Master now! Titians for sale! Giorgione going cheap today! Reynolds
and Gainsborough! Old Masters for sale.’

Johnny Fitzgerald walked through the door, a couple of canvases under his arm. Orlando Blane and his forgeries were reunited in Powerscourt’s Rokesley Hall.

Rarely in its long history had Number 25 Markham Square been such a whirl of social activity. The mornings brought a constant rush of visitors, nearly always female. Streams of
post, delivered by postmen, footmen or by hand of bearer, poured through the letterbox. At lunchtime Lady Lucy would go out to a rendezvous with some more of her informants. By three thirty in the
afternoon she was back At Home to receive another wave. In the early evening tea sometimes turned into early evening drinks. In the evenings she and Powerscourt would dine out with yet more of her
relations, Powerscourt for once not complaining about anything at all. The auxiliaries, as Powerscourt referred to the outer ring of the vast regiment of relatives, were often the most productive
of all in terms of information as they moved in different circles of London society. There were now three days left before the trial.