That Peregrine Slade should return to the office at all so close to Christmas was unusual but well explained. He lived only round the corner; his wife, the Lady Eleanor, was almost permanently at their Hampshire place and by now would be surrounded by her infernal relatives. He had already told her he could not get down until Christmas Eve. It would shorten the purgatory of the Christmas break playing host to her family.
That apart, there was some snooping on senior colleagues he wished to accomplish and that needed privacy. He let himself in by the same service entrance that Benny Evans had left an hour earlier.
The building was pleasantly warm – there was no question of turning off the heating during the break – and certain sectors were heavily alarmed, including his own suite. He disconnected the system for his office, passed through the outer office of the absent Miss Priscilla Bates and into his own inner sanctum.
Here he took off his jacket, took his laptop computer from his attaché case and plugged into the main system. He saw he had two items of e-mail, but would deal with them later. Before that, he wanted some tea.
Miss Bates would usually make this for him, of course, but with her gone he had to force himself to make his own. He raided her cupboard for the kettle, Earl Grey, bone china cup and a slice of lemon. He found one piece of that fruit and a knife. It was while he was looking for a socket for the kettle that he saw a letter on the carpet by the door. As the kettle brewed he tossed it onto his desk.
Bearing his cup of tea at last he returned to his own office and read the two e-mails. Neither was so important that it could not wait until the New Year. Logging on with a series of private access codes, he began to prowl through the database files of his department heads and fellow board members.
When he had trawled enough, his thoughts turned to his private problems. Despite a very handsome salary, Peregrine Slade was not a rich man. The younger son of an earl, hence the handle to his name, he had nevertheless inherited nothing.
He had married the daughter of a duke, who turned out to be a pettish and spoiled creature, convinced she was entitled as of right to a large manor in Hampshire, an estate to surround it and a string of very pricey horses. Lady Eleanor did not come cheap. She did however give him instant access to the cream of society, which was often very good for business.
He could add to that a fine flat in Knightsbridge, but he pleaded that he needed this for his work at Darcy. His father-in-law’s influence had secured him his job at Darcy and eventual promotion to vice-chairman under the starchy and acerbic Duke of Gateshead, who adorned the chair of the board.
Shrewd investments might have made him wealthy but he insisted on managing his own and this was the worst advice he could have taken. Unaware that foreign exchange markets are best left to the geeks who know about them, he had invested heavily in the euro currency and had watched it tumble 30 per cent in under two years. Worse, he had borrowed heavily to make the placement and his creditors had delicately mentioned the word ‘foreclosure’. In a word, he was in a hole of debt.
Finally there was his London mistress, his very private peccadillo, an obsessional habit he could not break, and hideously expensive. His eye fell on the letter. It was in a Darcy envelope, therefore in-house and addressed to him in a hand he could not recognize. Could not the fool use a computer or find a secretary? It must have appeared during the course of this day or Miss Bates would have seen it last night. He was curious. Who worked through the night? Who had been in before him? He tore it open.
The writer was clearly not good with a word processor. The paragraphs were not properly inset. The ‘Dear Mr Slade’ was in handscript and the signature said Benjamin Evans. He did not know the man. He glanced at the letterhead. Old Masters department.
Some wretched staff complaint, no doubt. He began to read. The third paragraph held his attention at last.
‘I do not believe it can be a fragment broken from some much larger altarpiece because of the shape and the absence from the edges of the panel of any sign of detachment from a larger piece.
‘But it could be a single devotional piece, perhaps contracted by a wealthy merchant for his private house. Even through the murk of several centuries of grime and stain, there appear to be some similarities with known works of . . .’
When he saw the name, Peregrine Slade choked violently and spilled a mouthful of Earl Grey all over his Sulka tie.
‘I feel the precaution may be worthwhile, despite the expense, of having the picture cleaned and restored and, if the similarities are then more clearly visible, of asking Professor Colenso to study it with a view to possible authentication.’
Slade read the letter three more times. In the building off Knightsbridge his light alone burned out into the blackness as he thought what he might do. On his computer he accessed Vendor Records to see who had brought it in. T. Gore. A man with no phone, no fax, no e-mail address. A true address in a penurious district of cheap bedsitters. Ergo, a pauper and certainly an ignoramus. That left Benjamin Evans. Hmmmm. The letter ended, below the signature, with the words: cc Sebastian Mortlake. Peregrine Slade rose.
In ten minutes he was back from the Old Masters department holding the hessian package and the duplicate letter. The latter could be incinerated later. This was definitely a matter for the vice-chairman. At that point his mobile phone rang.
‘Perry?’
He knew the voice at once. It was prim but throaty and his mouth went dry.
‘Yes.’
‘You know who this is, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Marina.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Sorry. Yes, Miss Marina.’
‘Better, Perry. I do not like my title being omitted. You will have to pay for that.’
‘I am really very sorry, Miss Marina.’
‘It has been over a week since you came to see me. Mmmmm?’
‘It has been the Christmas rush.’
‘And in that time you have been an extremely naughty boy, haven’t you, Perry?’
‘Yes, Miss Marina.’
His stomach seemed to be running water, but so were his palms.
‘Then I think we shall have to do something about that, don’t you, Perry?’
‘If you say so, Miss Marina.’
‘Oh but I do, Perry, I do. Seven o’clock sharp, boy. And don’t be late. You know how I hate to be kept waiting when I have my little ticklers out.’
The phone went dead. His hands were trembling. She always frightened the daylights out of him, even with a voice down a phone line. But that, and what came later in the schoolroom, was the point.
JANUARY
‘My dear Perry, I am impressed and intrigued. Why such a sumptuous lunch, and so early in the year? Not that I am complaining.’
They were at Peregrine Slade’s club off St James’s Street. It was 4 January, a self-indulgent country was staggering back to work, Slade was the host and Reggie Fanshawe, proprietor of the Fanshawe Gallery in Pont Street, eyed with approval the Beychevelle Slade had ordered.
Slade smiled, shook his head and indicated that there were other lunchers a mite too close for absolute privacy. Fanshawe got the message.
‘Now I am even more intrigued. I must wait, consumed with curiosity, until the coffee?’
They took their coffee quite alone in the library upstairs. Slade explained succinctly that six weeks earlier a complete unknown had walked in off the street with an unutterably filthy old painting that he thought might have some value. By a fluke and pressure of overwork in the Old Masters department it had come under the gaze of only one man, a young but evidently very clever junior valuer.
He slipped the Evans report across to the gallery owner. Fanshawe read, put down his glass of Special Reserve port, lest he spill it, and said, ‘Good God.’ In case the Almighty had missed the appeal, he repeated it.
‘Clearly you must follow his suggestion.’
‘Not quite,’ said Slade. Carefully he explained what he had in mind.
Fanshawe’s coffee went cold and his port remained untouched.
‘There is apparently a duplicate letter. What will Seb Mortlake say?’
‘Incinerated. Seb left for the country the previous day.’
‘There’ll be a record on the computer.’
‘Not any more. I had an IT wiz come in yesterday. That part of the database has ceased to exist.’
‘Where is the painting now?’
‘Safe in my office. Under lock and key.’
‘Remind me, when is your next Old Masters sale?’
‘On the twenty-fourth.’
‘This young man. He’ll notice, he’ll protest to Seb Mortlake, who might even believe him.’
‘Not if he is in the north of Scotland. I have a favour up there that I can call in.’
‘But if the painting was not rejected and returned to owner, there would have to be a report and a valuation.’
‘There is.’
Slade drew another sheet from his pocket and gave it to Fanshawe. The gallery owner read the anodyne text, referring to a work, probably early Florentine, artist unknown, title unknown, no provenance. Valued at £6,000 to £8,000. He leaned back, raised his port glass in a toast and remarked, ‘Those beatings I gave you at school must have had some effect, Perry. You’re as straight as a sidewinder on speed. All right, you’re on.’
Two days later Trumpington Gore received a letter. It was from the House of Darcy on headed paper. There was no signature, but a stamp from the Old Masters department. It asked him to sign an enclosed form authorizing the auctioneers to proceed with the sale of his painting, which they valued at £6,000 to £8,000. There was a return-addressed envelope with stamp. Though he did not know it, the address would bring the letter, unopened, to Peregrine Slade’s desk.
He was ecstatic. With even £6,000 he could stagger on for another six months, which surely would include further acting work. Summer was a favoured time for film-making on outside locations. He signed the authority form and sent it back.
On the 20th of the month Peregrine Slade rang the director of Old Masters.
‘Seb, I’m in a bit of a bind and I wonder if you could do me a favour.’
‘Well, of course, if I can, Perry. What is it?’
‘I have a very old friend with a place in Scotland. He’s a bit absent-minded and he clean forgot about the expiry of the insurance cover on his paintings. Reinsurance is due at the end of the month. The swine in his insurance company are cutting up rough. They won’t reissue without an up-to-date revaluation.’
The valuation for insurance purposes of substantial or even not-so-substantial art collections was a service regularly performed by all the great art houses of London. There was of course a useful fee involved. But advance notice was habitually much longer.
‘It’s a bugger, Perry. We’ve got the big one in four days and we’re working our tails off down here. Can’t it wait?’
‘Not really. What about that young lad you took on a couple of years ago?’
‘Benny? What about him?’
‘Would he be mature enough to handle it? It’s not a huge collection. Mainly old Jacobean portraits. He could take our last valuation, add a bit and bingo. It’s only for insurance.’
‘Oh, very well.’
On the 22nd Benny Evans left on the night train for Caithness in the far north of Scotland. He would be gone a week.
On the morning of the sale, which Slade would be taking himself, he mentioned to Mortlake that there was one extra lot, not in the catalogue, an afterthought. Mortlake was perplexed.
‘What extra lot?’
‘A small daub that could be Florentine. One of those off-the-street things that your young friend Master Evans handled. The tail-end jobs that he had a look at after you had left for Christmas.’
‘He never mentioned it to me. I thought they had all been returned to owner.’
‘My fault entirely. Slipped my mind. Must have slipped his as well. I happened to be in to clear up some details just before Christmas. Saw him in the corridor. Asked him what he was doing. He said you had asked him to look at the last forty-odd of the hand-ins.’
‘True, I did,’ said Mortlake.
‘Well, there was one he thought might be worth a try. I took it off him to have a look, got distracted, left it in my office and forgot all about it.’
He offered Mortlake the modest valuation that purported to come from Benny Evans and certainly bore his signature, let the director of Old Masters read it, then took it back.
‘But do we have authority?’
‘Oh yes. I called the owner yesterday when I saw the damn thing still in my office. He was more than happy. Faxed the authority through last night.’
Seb Mortlake had a lot more on his plate that morning than an anonymous daub with no attribution and a valuation close to his personal basement price of £5,000. His star offering was a Veronese, along with an exceptional Michele di Rodolfo and a Sano di Pietro. He grunted his assent and hurried to the auction room to supervise the running order. At ten a.m. Peregrine Slade mounted his rostrum, took his gavel in hand and the auction began.
He loved taking the most important auctions. The elevated position, the command, the control, the waggish nods to well-known dealers, bidders and pals from the inner coterie of the fine-art circuit of London, and the silent recognition of agents he knew would be there to represent some really mega player in the circus who would never dream of appearing personally.
It was a good day. Prices were high. The Veronese went to a major American gallery for more than double the estimate. The Michele di Rodolfo caused a few muted gasps as it went for four times the estimate.
As the last twenty minutes came into view he noticed Reggie Fanshawe slip into a seat at the rear and, as agreed, well to one side. As the last lot in the catalogue went under the hammer, Slade announced to a depleted hall: ‘There is one extra item, not in your catalogues. A latecomer, after we had gone to press.’
A porter solemnly walked forward and placed a very grubby painting in a chipped gilt frame on the easel. Several heads craned forward to try to make out what it represented through all the grime covering the images.
‘A bit of a mystery. Probably Florentine, tempera on board, some kind of a devotional scene. Artist unknown. Do I hear a thousand pounds?’
There was a silence. Fanshawe shrugged and nodded.
‘One thousand pounds I have. Any advance on a thousand?’
His eyes swept the room and at the far side from where Fanshawe sat he found a signal. No-one else saw it, for it did not exist, but as the blink of an eye can constitute a bid, no-one was surprised.
‘One thousand five hundred, against you, sir, on the left.’
Fanshawe nodded again.
‘Two thousand pounds. Any advance on . . . two thousand five hundred . . . and three thousand . . .’
Fanshawe bid against the fictional rival to clinch the purchase at £6,000. As a known gallery owner his credit was good, and he took the picture with him. Three days later, much faster than usual, Mr Trumpington Gore received a cheque for just over £5,000, the hammer price minus commission and VAT. He was delighted. At the end of the month Benny Evans came back to London, utterly relieved to be free of the bleak fastness of a freezing castle in Caithness in January. He never mentioned the grubby painting to Seb Mortlake and presumed from Mortlake’s silence that his chief had disagreed with him and that silence implied rebuke.
APRIL
Quite early in the month the sensation hit the art world. The window of the Fanshawe Gallery was dressed entirely in black velvet. Alone behind the glass, on a small easel, delicately but brightly lit by two spotlamps and guarded night and day by two big and muscled Group Four security guards, was a small painting. It had lost its chipped gilt frame.
The painting, tempera on poplar board, was much as the artist would have finished it. The colours glowed as fresh as when they were applied over 500 years before.
The Virgi
n Mary sat, gazing upwards, entranced, as the Archangel Gabriel brought her the Annunciation that she would soon bear in her womb the Son of God. Ten days earlier it had been authenticated without hesitation by Professor Guido Colenso, by far and away the world’s leading authority on the Siena School, and no-one would ever gainsay a judgement by Colenso.
The small notice below the painting simply said: SASSETTA 1400–1450. Stefano di Giovanni di Consolo, known as Sassetta, was one of the first of the giants of the early Italian Renaissance. He founded the Siena School, and influenced two generations of Sienese and Florentine Masters who came after him.
Though his surviving works are few in number and comprise mainly panels from much larger altarpieces, he is valued beyond diamonds. At a stroke the Fanshawe Gallery became a world player, attributed with discovering the first single-work Annunciation painted by the Master.
Ten days earlier Reggie Fanshawe had clinched a sale by private treaty for over £2,000,000. The divvy-up was done quietly in Zurich and the personal financial position of each man was transformed.
The art world was stunned by the discovery. So was Benny Evans. He went back through the catalogue of the 24 January sale but there was no trace. He asked what had happened and was told about the last-minute addition. The atmosphere inside the House of Darcy was poisonous and he intercepted a lot of accusing stares. Word gets around.
‘You should have brought it to me,’ hissed a humiliated Sebastian Mortlake. ‘What letter? There was no letter. Don’t give me that. I’ve seen your report and your valuation to the vice-chairman.’
‘Then you must have seen my reference to Professor Colenso.’
‘Colenso? Don’t mention Colenso to me. That shit Fanshawe hit upon the idea of Colenso. Look, laddie, you missed it. It was evidently there. Fanshawe spotted it, but you missed it.’
Upstairs an emergency board meeting was taking place. The acidulous Duke of Gateshead was in the chair but Peregrine Slade was in the dock. Eight other directors sat around the table pointedly studying their fingertips. No-one was in the slightest doubt that not only had the mighty House of Darcy lost about a quarter of a million in commission, but it had had in its hands a real Sassetta and had let it go to a sharper pair of eyes for £6,000.
The Veteran Page 10