The Fraud (52 page)

There was a silence of sorts as people tried to control themselves: although Mr Bounds had no idea why this extraordinary financial debacle was taking place he had the sense to not, at this point, raise the subject of marriage.

‘Euphemia,’ said the
signore
at last in a strange voice, ‘there is an empty portmanteau in the corner of my Studio. Please fetch it immediately.’ And the portly maid bobbed and was gone, running up the staircase.

Claudio was then addressed. ‘Empty your pockets, sir.’

‘It is mine,’ said Claudio again, but with much less conviction.

‘No, sir, it is not yours,’ answered his father heavily. ‘I repeat: empty your pockets.’

Most reluctantly Claudio discharged further coins from about his person.
Plink
, they fell.
Plunk.

Squawk!
cried the parrot.

‘Lady Dorothea,’ said the
signore
, ‘forgive me. I must ask you to leave.’

‘But - dearest Filipo -’

‘I must insist.’ He gave no explanation. But there was something very cold and very final about his words. Lady Dorothea was almost dumbstruck but he repeated, ‘I must insist.’ At last, with what hauteur she could at this stage manage, Lady Dorothea, adjusting her gown still, walked towards the door, but with several backward glances at the Painter.
This could not, surely, be the end? What fault was it of hers
?
This could not be the end?
She had banked on marriage: she was no longer young, she badly needed marriage. (It had been whispered among her more unkind friends that he may be a Foreigner, but that this was her last chance.) For Lady Dorothea Bray had made a fatal mistake in her life: she had used herself too much, before she had secured a husband. She looked back one more time: Roberto dived upon her upswept bird-decorated hair and Lady Dorothea screamed as she ran from the drawing-room, pursued by the parrot, down the wide staircase past the beautiful painting of Angelica.

Euphemia arrived with the portmanteau.

‘Young man,’ said the
signore
to Mr Bounds - whom he may have recognised, or whom he may have taken to be some passing servant, so disturbed was he - ‘please assist Euphemia to collect together the Guineas. There must be seven hundred, else they are no doubt about the person of my son.’

Claudio stood, mute; Euphemia and Mr Bounds bent to their unusual task.

It was at this moment that Isabella, who had received a message from Mr Bounds regarding his intentions, now breathlessly entered the drawing-room in her best gown and wearing her beautiful gold and ruby pendant, hoping to be clasped to her father’s bosom in acquiescence and love. Instead she saw her beloved scrabbling about the floor with the maid, and her father and Claudio embroiled in some sort of silent tragic scene from Mr Shakespeare. Isabella, like Mr Bounds, had the sense not to mention marriage at this moment, nor to move from the doorway. Some instinct made her blow out the candle she was carrying: she stood there like some pretty, inquiring ghost in the silence; only the sound of the coins falling one by one into the portmanteau as they were collected. The
signore
looked at his shameful son. He then transferred his gaze to the shameful money.

It could be said that all of Signore Filipo di Vecellio’s dreams, that is the dreams of Philip Marshall of Bristol, died on this one, long day.

But she has nowhere to go. She has no friends.
The wild grey eyes of Mr James Burke flashed as he walked; suddenly, very quickly, he turned north towards Brook Street. He walked up and down, he had never visited: found the house by asking; the knocker banged. Miss Ann Ffoulks came to the door herself, he heard her slowly walking along the hall.

Afterwards he thought that she had not looked very surprised to see him as she had ushered him in most politely. In her tiny drawing-room another, younger lady sat; like Miss Ffoulks she was dressed in a dark gown and white cap. There were books and pamphlets and teacups on the table with the candle-holder, and a port bottle. And immediately his eye was caught by a painting on the wall: the most extraordinary painting of the shadowed face of a black man. It was - he stared at it - a painting of pain. It was like nothing he had ever seen yet he knew:
that is one of Grace’s Paintings
, and he could not, for several moments, tear his eyes away.

‘This is my friend, Miss Constantia Proud, Mr Burke,’ and he forced his attention from the painting and bowed to the woman at the table. ‘This is Mr James Burke the Art Dealer, Constantia. I believe I have mentioned him to you. Shall you partake of tea with us, Mr Burke? Miss Proud has written these most interesting Pamphlets about her travels in the Mediterranean, for her Brother moves in Diplomatic Circles and Miss Proud attends him often as his Hostess.’

‘Another time I would enjoy such a Discussion, and such Information,’ said James Burke swiftly, ‘but I am on a most urgent quest to find Signorina Francesca di Vecellio.’

Miss Ffoulks regarded him impassively. ‘I am no longer a regular visitor to the house in Pall Mall,’ she said.

This did surprise him. Miss Ffoulks and old John Palmer were always there, always with interesting matters of the world to discuss. ‘But they will surely have suffered from your absence, Miss Ffoulks, for you added much to that dining-table, as I well remember from the time when I was also welcome.’

She nodded at his compliment but said, ‘Not all the present Guests to the house found me so entertaining, Mr Burke. I was there, just once, several weeks ago, with Mr Gainsborough, hoping to see the famous Painting that Filipo had acquired but the - Rumours - had started and the Picture had unfortunately already been taken from the wall. Otherwise I have not been there for many months.’ She gave a small wry smile. ‘And that very day I returned, Filipo fell out with old John Palmer. I should think that that Friendship will not be repaired either.’

And Miss Ffoulks sighed, perhaps for the days that were gone. ‘I grow old, Mr Burke, I expect.’ James Burke, so involved in his own affairs suddenly noticed: Miss Ffoulks did indeed look pale, and perhaps old too.
It must be more than twenty years
, he thought,
that we began to dine together so regularly and I suppose I thought her old then
, and something, some thought, shuddered through him as if someone walked upon his grave, which made his quest even more urgent.

Nevertheless he addressed the old lady politely. ‘Are you well, Miss Ffoulks?’

‘As I say, I am an old woman, Mr Burke. I will not bore you with the complaints of Age!’

And then he could not wait. ‘You will have heard the news nevertheless, Miss Ffoulks?’

It was Miss Constantia Proud who answered him and she was smiling. ‘If you mean have we heard of the beautiful and fraudulent Picture to which an Italian housekeeper has laid claim,’ she said, ‘let me tell you we have been celebrating all evening! We have even consumed port! Perhaps that would be more to your taste at this time?’

‘And you were the Dealer I believe, Mr Burke,’ said Miss Ffoulks expressionlessly.

‘And as such, I must find the Artist,’ was all he answered,
I do not know how much they know
, and again his eyes were drawn to the painting on the wall. ‘Miss Ffoulks, it is a matter of urgency! Can you assist me?’

‘Do you wish her well or ill, Mr Burke?’

The two women watched him carefully. He had not settled and the small room was filled with his presence and his agitation and they saw turbulence in the grey eyes. And then, extraordinarily, he laughed. ‘Upon my life I do not know whether I wish her well or ill,’ he said. ‘She has cost me many things in my Life, including very likely my Reputation as an honest Dealer. But, Miss Ffoulks, Miss Proud - if you had seen her at the Royal Academy with all the Gentlemen Painters of England you would have been proud of your Sex. In my life I never saw such a rewarding scene - nor one, incidentally, as my Banker this afternoon has made abundantly clear to me - that has cost me so much money!’

It was Miss Proud who spoke. ‘My dear Mr Burke, I have travelled the World, as you have heard, but seldom in my most interesting life have I experienced such pleasure as I did upon hearing about this Painting.’

And Miss Ffoulks smiled. ‘I have not seen Francesca since yesterday when to my - Mr Burke, I must say this - to my extraordinary surprise she appeared at my door and
gave
me - ’ did Miss Ffoulks’ voice break slightly? ‘- this wonderful Painting which she said - she said she could not have painted if she had not known me.’ Just for a moment the old lady could not speak. And he looked up again at the extraordinary Painting that he had never seen, knew nothing of, the Painting of the black man, and back at Miss Ffoulks.
She must know then
. Then Miss Ffoulks straightened her back and continued. ‘If you would spend a few moments describing the scene at the Royal Academy to Miss Proud and to me, dear Mr Burke, I will tell you where I believe the Painter is.’ And she indicated the empty chair.

Laughter echoed out presently from the house in Brook Street: it left a smiling, drifting trail, in the darkness.

‘And you
knew
?’ said Grace Marshall, in the small room in Spitalfields.

Finally, as darkness fell, she had found him. She had walked from the Royal Academy, leaving quickly with her basket during the wild, artistic disorder and ink-throwing, and she had walked until she found him: she and Miss Ffoulks had agreed yesterday that Spitalfields would very likely be a better place just at the moment, than the middle of London. ‘You knew
always
?’

‘I knew always,’ said John Palmer. ‘When Philip was trying out his new persona in Rome he tried it first on me. It was myself who suggested he play with the real name of Titian - only true connoisseurs would have known that
Tiziano Vecelli
was Titian’s real name - we thought di Vecellio was near but not exact, in case of any questioning, and we decided Philip should be born in Florence, not Venice as Titian was. It seemed - well, almost a Jape, at the beginning. We were young and poor and struggled to paint street portraits for a few lira so that we might eat. And Philip suddenly had this wild idea to become an Italian. Of course I knew.’

‘But never by so much as a look . . .’

‘A fast Friend never betrays,’ he said. ‘Never.’ And she remembered the look on his face as heavily and slowly, that afternoon in Pall Mall, John Palmer had left the dining-table of his old friend: the embarrassed silence; her brother’s cruelty.

‘He will ask you to return.’

‘I will never return,’ said John Palmer simply. ‘They are gone, those old days.’ She saw his lined, tired face.

‘You must have felt many things when he suddenly became so very fashionable?’

‘I felt many things. I knew quite well that he and I were equally as good as each other at what we did. It would have been impossible not to feel envious when he rose like a Comet. But -’ John Palmer sighed ‘- but mostly I admired him. He had Ambition and Determination and Energy. I had some Talent also, but there are many other qualities that an Artist requires to survive. London is littered with failed Painters like myself: I am lucky perhaps to still be alive. Philip succeeded, against all the odds, and I admired him - and was always grateful for his hospitality.’ And she remembered that she too had admired her brother Philip when she came to London: the hard work, the long, long hours, the dedication. John Palmer was smoking a pipe, something he did not do in Pall Mall. And then suddenly he laughed.

‘But
you
, my clever, clever Painter! - he was secretive about his Family altogether, even to me, but
surely
my dear he must have known from the beginning that you were also talented? I wonder that he was not proud of you!’

‘He knew,’ said Grace Marshall. ‘But he chose not to know. I expect over the years he forgot.’

‘It was staggeringly beautiful, what you did. It does not matter that it was not Rembrandt, it was beautiful - I myself would have liked to own such a Painting.’

‘Thank you.’ And she smiled and her dark eyes lit up her troubled face. ‘I began drawing in Bristol - it is true that he used my Chalks, that day of my Ninth birthday. And I have painted ever since I came to London.’

‘But, I do not understand - do you mean - in your own room upstairs?’

‘In my own room upstairs. At St Martin’s Lane first. And then in Pall Mall.’

He shook his head ruefully. ‘Of course we thought you were a Lady
amateur
. We even joked of it - oh, in a fond way my dear - if we saw paint on your hands.’ He looked down at his own: old and dirty and paint-besmattered, the paint was embedded deep in the skin and the nails, as so often with painters. And then he looked back at her. ‘He could have helped you. He should have helped you. We have spoken of that, have we not? That a Woman cannot succeed in the Art World unless she has a Father or a Husband - or a Brother - to assist her.’

‘Indeed.’

‘You
sat
there, while we had those conversations?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am - ashamed,’ he said. He puffed at his pipe, the smell of tobacco wafted. ‘And your Brother chose not to assist you.’ He puffed and puffed on his pipe. ‘Well, well. He was - jealous, I presume. ’ She was silent. ‘I know my dear that he is a jealous man. I have always known that. He did not want Rivals.’ He sighed heavily once more, shook his head in disbelief. ‘We could
never
have guessed, and you so quiet at the table. God’s Breath! One does not, really - forgive me - expect a Woman to have such an extraordinary talent as you have proved: it is not in the scheme of things!’ He saw the strong, bitter perhaps, dark-eyed woman before him. ‘What shall you do now Francesca?—Ah forgive me, it would feel so odd to call you Grace after so many years. I heard the story of what happened this morning at the Royal Academy because Thom Gainsborough sent me a note, he thought I would be extremely interested! Many people will know by now no matter how they cover it up, as of course they will. I presume it would be almost impossible for you to return to Pall Mall in the circumstances?