Death of an Old Master (6 page)

‘Was his work good? What was your opinion of it?’ asked Powerscourt.

Sir Frederick Lambert paused before he replied. ‘It is quite unusual in my profession for the old to praise the young, Powerscourt,’ he said. ‘Most of the time we think they
are trying to destroy our reputations, the young steers battling for the leadership of the pack. But Christopher Montague was good. He was very good. I think he could have become the most
distinguished scholar of his generation. The world of art is widening. More and more people want to know about it. Montague could write in a way that appealed to the intelligent public as much as
it did to scholars.’

‘But surely that couldn’t have caused his death?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Surely nobody gets killed because they may become the foremost scholar in the country?’

Sir Frederick Lambert paused again. He looked closely at Powerscourt’s face. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘that’s how it would seem. That’s how it would appear.
Maybe you should think of the world of art in London as being like some masterpiece of the High Renaissance. You stare, entranced by the drama of the scene, the gorgeous colours, the depiction of
character, the composition of the work. But few people stop to think about the time the artist has devoted to creating that particular illusion, the months, even years spent in bewitching the eye
of the beholder.’

Sir Frederick pulled a small book from the shelves behind him. He riffled through the pages, searching for the passage he wanted.

‘This is Dürer writing to a friend called Jacob Heller about one of his own paintings. “And when I come over to you, say in one or two or three years’ time, the picture
must be taken down to see if it has dried out, and then I will varnish it anew with a special varnish that no one else can make; it will then last another hundred years longer than it would before.
But don’t let anyone else varnish it. All other varnishes are yellow and the picture would be ruined for you. And if a thing on which I have spent over a year’s work were ruined, it
would be grief to me.”’

Sir Frederick took off his spectacles. ‘See the care, the concern, to maintain the illusion. Titian once went all the way back from Venice to Ferrara, quite a journey in those times, to
readjust the final varnish on his
Bacchus and Ariadne
now on display in our own National Gallery. The art world, the dealers, the restorers, the curators in their galleries love to present
themselves like those paintings, the glossy surface, the impeccable clothes, the illusion of perfection. It’s as if they hope some small particles of the glories of the past will rub off on
to their own shoulders. But underneath, it is quite different. Beneath the surface, behind the fine paint and the varnish, there lurks a different world. Sometimes long ago, when painters mixed
their own paints rather than buying them in the shops, trying no doubt for ever more dramatic results, they would invent a paint that nobody had ever tried before. But the outcome could be
disastrous. The air, the dust, the surrounding atmosphere would erode the colours. After thirty or forty years, only the canvas would remain. The image upon it had vanished, like the smile of the
Cheshire cat. So to a newcomer to the art world, I would repeat the words of Horace,
caveat emptor
, let the buyer beware. All is not what it seems.’

‘Do you think, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that all of that could lead to a man’s death?’

Sir Frederick rose from his chair and stood by his window. A thin October sun was falling on the courtyard beneath. ‘I am an old man, Powerscourt. I have not been able to paint at all for
the past three years. My doctors tell me that I have but a short time left to live. Soon I shall be swept away, just as the rubbish on our River Thames gets swept away by the tides to rest on some
riverbank far away. So I can speak freely. I know too much about this art world. I would advise you to think of it as you would an Oriental bazaar, or the trading rooms of an unscrupulous financier
in the City of London just up the road from here. I do not feel it appropriate to tell you of any of the dishonest activities that go on. But I make you this promise.’

Lambert had turned round now, and looked down on Powerscourt like a benevolent uncle offering unwanted advice to a feckless nephew. ‘I hope very much that the world of art in this city did
not lead to Christopher Montague’s death. I hope there are other causes. But if, in the course of your investigations, you come across anything in the art world, anything suspicious or
dishonest, I suggest that you return to me and I will help you. I will give you all the assistance in my power. I rather liked Christopher Montague.’

William Alaric Piper was going to a meeting with Gladstone. He descended from his train at Barnes railway bridge and set off beside the river. He was wearing a large overcoat
and a hat pulled well forward over his eyes. He peered about him furtively as if he thought he might be followed.

Gladstone was responsible for the secrecy. Not for the cover name, of course. All of de Courcy and Piper’s most important agents in the field had their own sobriquets. You could never be
too careful, Piper had said to himself when he started his system. One word of who you had seen, one dropped bit of gossip, could lose business. More important, it could lose money.

Only the authenticators, as Piper liked to call them, were named after former Prime Ministers. Some of these deceased statesmen had travelled further in death than they ever had in life.
Liverpool had made it as far as Florence, Disraeli was reliving former diplomatic triumphs in Berlin, Peel had only progressed to Paris. But the word of these men, written rather than oral, could
add tens of thousands of pounds to the value of a painting. If they said a Velasquez was a fake, it was worthless. But if they said it was genuine, William Alaric Piper’s bankers would be
delighted. Most important, there could not be any visible link between expert and art dealer. If it was known that the expert was on the payroll of a dealer, his attribution would be worthless.
Impartiality, the respected status of academic detachment, the quest for pure scholarship, these were the golden chips in the gambling saloons of the art world. That was why Piper created his cover
names, that was why he checked his movements on his way to the Mortlake house this evening. Gladstone was an expert on the Renaissance.

Gladstone lived in a fine Georgian house in Mortlake High Street with a great drawing room at the back looking over the river. Until a few years before, round about the time he first met Piper,
in fact, he had lived in a tiny terraced house in Holloway. Now he had more space. The Gladstone butler, a small man who spoke as few words as possible, showed him into the study. The curtains were
tightly pulled. On an easel by the window stood the Hammond-Burke Raphael, carefully lit. Hammond-Burke, even more morose in London than he had been in Warwickshire, had delivered it in person the
previous week. It had been delivered to Mortlake in secret by one of Piper’s porters a couple of days before.

‘Well, Johnston’ – for such was Gladstone’s real name – ‘what is your opinion of this painting?’

Johnston smiled. ‘I may tell you in a minute. Or I may not. It depends on the terms.’

‘What do you mean, terms?’ said Piper wearily, all too aware that another round of bargaining was about to begin. They were all the same, these art experts, he had decided long ago.
There was not a single one of them who could not be bought. The only question was the price.

Johnston was the exact opposite of what the public would have thought a librarian or a museum curator would look like. He was six inches taller than Piper and at least a foot broader. Piper
often thought Johnston could model for one of those paintings of muscular Christians, staff in one hand, Bible in the other, marching resolutely across landscapes derived from
The
Pilgrim’s Progress
, which sold well to less discriminating palates. Or Goliath before he met David.

‘Let us talk of the terms later,’ said Piper, peering steadily at
The Holy Family with Lamb
, the terrible innocence of the Christ child as he gazed up at his mother. ‘I
presume from your initial remarks that you think it is genuine?’

‘I do,’ said Johnston, suddenly realizing that he might have weakened his hand. ‘It is undoubtedly a Raphael, probably painted during his time in Florence before he went to
Rome. It is mentioned in Vasari and one or two other chroniclers. There’s nothing like a respectable past to convince the world that a painting is genuine, as you know.’

‘What then are the terms you refer to?’ asked Piper with a smile. Never fall out with these people had been one of his maxims from his earliest days, never offend them, never have
cross words. Disagree by all means but a pleasant manner was worth at least five per cent off any particular transaction.

‘Our arrangement,’ Johnston spoke quickly, ‘was that I should be paid this annual retainer in return for advice on any Italian paintings worth under ten thousand pounds. This
one, I’m sure, is worth rather more than that.’

‘And the holidays, Johnston, don’t forget the holidays,’ said Piper, seeking for marginal advantage. De Courcy and Piper picked up the bills for Johnston’s regular visits
to France and Italy.

‘What do you say to twenty per cent of the value of the painting?’ said Johnston fiercely. ‘And I don’t mean twenty per cent of what you pay for it. I mean twenty per
cent of what you sell it for.’ He had promised his wife that he would begin the bargaining at this level but inwardly he was doubtful of success.

Piper reached for his hat which was lying on the table. He started out rather slowly for the door of the Johnston drawing room. ‘That would be quite impossible. I very much regret having
to terminate this relationship as a guest in your house. But your request is simply impossible. I shall instruct my bankers to cancel the annual payments in the morning.’

Piper was right by the door now, strangely reluctant to go.

Johnston remembered his lines. ‘If you do that,’ he said, ‘I shall denounce your Raphael as a fake. I am one of the foremost experts on him and his school in the whole of
Europe.’

‘Were you to denounce this Raphael as a fake, my dear Johnston,’ replied Piper, still not quite out of the room, ‘your career would be at an end.’ William Alaric Piper
stared again at the Raphael. ‘There are always other experts who would say it was genuine,’ he said sadly, hoping that the pristine beauty of the picture would not be sullied by these
transactions.

‘And,’ he went on, his hand on the door knob now, ‘I should be forced to write to the trustees of your gallery and inform them that one of their most valued employees had been
receiving secret annual retainers from an art dealer in return for authenticating his pictures. I fear your employment would be terminated immediately. Other similar employment might be difficult
to obtain.’ He opened the door and walked out, very slowly, into the hall, placing his hat carefully on his head. ‘A very good evening to you, Johnston. I deeply regret that our mutual
association, so sensibly conducted until now, should conclude in these unhappy circumstances.’

‘Wait! Wait!’ Johnston was beaten now. His wife had not foreseen that he might lose not only his private retainer but his public position as well. He knew he could never face her
with that news. ‘Come back, please!’

Reluctantly, Piper returned. He closed the door. He did not take his hat off. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘I’m sure we could come to some other arrangement about the Raphael,’ Johnston said defensively, hoping that the Piper goose might still have some golden eggs left in its
nest.

Piper realized that he could name his price. He could humiliate Johnston in his own drawing room. However much he might relish the prospect, he knew it would be bad for business. Johnston had to
be brought back into the fold as gently as possible. There might be further Raphaels. Piper’s private fantasy had always been for a lost Leonardo. Only Johnston could put the official seal of
approval on such a wondrous event.

‘I fully agree with what you said earlier about your retainer only covering paintings worth less than ten thousand pounds,’ Piper said affably, his hat still on his head. He had
checked his notes of the earlier conversation with Johnston when the deal was struck. Nothing formal had been put down on paper. There were no Heads of Agreement, no correspondence conducted
between lawyers or bankers to make the contract legal. That would have been too dangerous.

‘Did you have any figure in mind?’ Piper went on, taking off his hat and placing it carefully on a table.

‘Perhaps,’ Johnston was almost stammering now, ‘it would be better if you were to suggest a figure and we could take it from there?’

Piper paused. He walked over to the window and opened the curtains a fraction. Outside there was a stiff breeze. A dark Thames was flowing peacefully towards the sea. Five per cent would be too
small. Seven and a half per cent? Maybe that would be too much humiliation for Johnston and the absent Mrs Johnston to take. Ten? Quite a lot of money, possibly ten thousand pounds in
Johnston’s pocket. Fifteen? He winced as he thought of that enormous sum departing from the accounts of de Courcy and Piper.

‘What do you say, Johnston . . .’ He paused, staring again at the Raphael. Johnston felt sick, wondering how much punishment he would have to take. ‘What do you say to twelve
and a half per cent of the selling price? I think that’s a pretty fair offer.’

Johnston felt relieved. Only a few minutes earlier professional catastrophe had been staring him in the face. ‘That sounds excellent to me,’ he said. ‘And I shall certainly
recommend that the gallery makes a substantial offer for the picture.’

William Alaric Piper clapped him on the back. The two men shook hands.

‘Splendid, quite splendid,’ said Piper. He knew that he could now conduct a dizzy round of bid and counter bid on the price of the Raphael. He could tell Johnston’s gallery
that a rich American client was considering an offer of seventy-five thousand pounds or thereabouts. Then he could tell a rich American that the gallery were prepared to offer eighty thousand
pounds. The game could go on as long as he dared play it.