Death of an Old Master lfp-3

by David Dickinson

  There was an uproar in court. One of the newspapermen rose to his feet and fled the court. He could just catch the late afternoon editions. Mr Justice Browne looked at the crowd sternly. He hoped he never had to try a case like this again in his entire life. It was like being the referee at a football match.

  ‘Silence!’ he said firmly. He paused until total silence returned to his courtroom. ‘Any more disturbance, from any quarter,’ he looked at the society ladies at the back with especial ferocity, ‘and this court will be cleared until the conclusion of this case. Nobody will be allowed back.’

  He turned again to the jury. ‘The prosecution case may have collapsed, but we still need a verdict in this case. The prisoner has been brought here on the most serious charge a citizen of these islands can face, a charge of murder. Had the verdict been against him, it would have been my unhappy duty to pronounce sentence upon him in the manner prescribed by the law, that of being taken from this place and hung by the neck until he was dead.’

  Buckley shuddered. Pugh was writing notes on his pad. Powerscourt wondered if the judge sometimes referred to as Hanging Browne regretted having to let Buckley off.

  ‘In the different circumstances in which we find ourselves this afternoon,’ the judge went on, ‘it is equally important that we follow the correct procedures. Mr Buckley has had to endure a trial with the full majesty of the law. It is important that he receives a proper discharge, that he leaves the court without a stain on his character. I am therefore asking you to retire and consider your verdict. My instruction to you is that you should find for the defendant. When the prosecution have lost confidence in their own case, this means, in effect, that they too consider Mr Buckley innocent of the charges brought. You can have no doubt, after the manner in which he has conducted the defence over the past few days, that that is also the opinion of Mr Pugh. I therefore ask you to retire.’

  The jury shuffled out. Normally Mr Justice Browne would have followed them out to await the verdict in his own rooms. But he stayed in his place.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten. The society ladies were almost bursting with the need to talk to each other. Sir Rufus Fitch was looking at the papers in his next case. Charles Augustus Pugh sat lost in thought. This would be the most brilliant success of his career.

  Fifteen minutes. Powerscourt could bear it no longer. He thought of the weeks spent looking for the evidence that could acquit Horace Buckley of murder. He remembered the fateful encounter in Lincoln Cathedral, a pale Buckley led away to the great doors to be arrested at the end of Evensong. He thought of his expedition to Corsica, himself and Lady Lucy hurtling down the Aregno road, followed by unknown gunmen. He thought of his meeting with Orlando Blane and Imogen in the snowstorm in Norfolk, Orlando’s blood dripping on to the white ground. ‘For God’s sake, Pugh,’ he scribbled, ‘what are the bloody jury doing out there?’ Pugh’s reply was quick. ‘They don’t want it to seem too quick. Probably drinking the court’s disgusting tea before they come back.’

  Twenty minutes. At last the jury filed back into court, sighs of relief from the public gallery threatening to enrage the judge once more. The clerk read out the charge, the foreman looking nervous as he faced the judge.

  ‘Horace Aloysius Buckley is charged with the murder of Mr Christopher Montague and with the murder of Mr Thomas Jenkins. Do you, the jury, find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

  There was a long pause before the foreman replied. Lady Lucy told Powerscourt afterwards that she was sure they were going to find him guilty after all.

  ‘Not guilty,’ said the foreman. There was pandemonium in court. The newspapermen shot for the door in one movement, running as fast as they could, elbowing the society ladies out of their way as they went. Expensive hats, valuable bags, elegant gloves were thrown to the ground as they fled Mr Justice Browne and the verdict of the jury.

  ‘Mr Buckley,’ boomed the judge, ‘you are free to leave this court. You are discharged without a stain on your character.’ The judge turned and departed to his private quarters. Orlando Blane was embracing Imogen Foxe with a passion rarely seen in Court Three benches away from the jury. Johnny Fitzgerald hugged Lady Lucy. Mrs Buckley, a bowed and dejected figure, was led away by the two policemen. There was an air of great happiness and rejoicing as the crowd left the court. Pugh still looked solemn. Only one person was looking miserable. The defendant, Horace Aloysius Buckley, recently acquitted on two charges of murder, should have been the happiest person in the Central Criminal Court. He was the most dejected. He looked as if victory had turned into defeat before his eyes. He sat with his head in his hands, staring at the retreating back of his wife and her police escort. When they vanished from his view, he sat down in the dock where he had been on trial for his life and began to weep.

  Flushed with his success with Cornelius P. Stockman, Piper sought out Lewis B. Black in his hotel. He repeated his denunciation of Edmund de Courcy with even greater vigour than before. He protested his own ignorance of the forgeries in de Courcy’s house in Norfolk. He told Black that he was trying to start again, to recover from this terrible setback to his gallery. He offered Black a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds, two and a half thousand more than he had paid for Orlando Blane’s fake Sir Joshua Reynolds.

  Black had consulted a leading firm of London solicitors that morning. They pointed out the length of time it would take for any case to come to court. They told him that he would, most probably, have to remain in England for the duration. They pointed out that the details of the case would be splashed all over the newspapers in Britain and America. Such publicity might be disagreeable. They pointed out, with all the delicacy they could muster, that the defence counsel would do their utmost to make Black look at best an innocent American abroad, more likely a fool.

  ‘That’s two and a half thousand more than I paid for the painting, Mr Piper,’ Black said, looking at the cheque.

  ‘I felt it was the least I could do, Mr Black, after all de Courcy put you through. Now, if you let me have the painting, I will take it away and have it destroyed.’ Piper had noted that the fake Reynolds was hanging in pride of place above the mantelpiece in Black’s private sitting room. Black looked up at his very own forgery.

  ‘Do you mind, Mr Piper, if I keep the painting? I did pay for it. I’ve gotten rather attached to it.’ Black was putting the cheque into his breast pocket.

  Piper was backing away towards the door, keen to escape with so little damage.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Piper,’ asked Lewis B. Black, ‘who should I say the painting is by? Back in America, I mean.’

  William Alaric Piper smiled. ‘Say it’s of the school of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr Black,’ he replied. ‘The country houses of England are full of paintings described like that. Most of the time, they leave out “of the school of”. I can’t think why.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir. Magnificent performance in court!’ The clerk of Pugh’s chambers was clapping him on the back. His junior was skipping up and down for joy. An impromptu celebration party was taking place in the room lined with files where Powerscourt and Pugh had first discussed the trial. Imogen was whispering to Orlando not to drink too much champagne. Johnny Fitzgerald was drinking Pugh’s health perched on the side of his desk.

  ‘Don’t mind telling you, Powerscourt,’ Pugh had dispensed with glasses and was quaffing deeply from a great magnum of Bollinger, ‘I wasn’t sure we were going to make it at the start. Not sure at all.’ He laughed his enormous laugh and took another swig. Powerscourt hoped it wouldn’t sit too unhappily alongside the gin and water he had consumed throughout the trial.

  Two more people joined the party. Lady Lucy had taken pity on Mr Buckley, his eyes still red from weeping. She gave him a glass of champagne. He was a free man.

  ‘Could I just have a private word, Mr Pugh?’ said Buckley quietly. Pugh brought him over to the corner of the room by the window. A couple of blackbirds were hopping about on the lawn outside. ‘If they bring my wife
to trial, Mr Pugh, could you defend her? I would pay for it, of course.’

  Charles Augustus Pugh placed his magnum on a shelf and put his arm round Buckley’s shoulders. ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to undertake the case personally,’ he said. ‘It might be thought that I had been instrumental in bringing her to trial in the first place after the events of the last few days. But I promise you I shall find for you the best defence lawyer in London.’

  Buckley looked reassured. Lady Lucy came back to take him under her wing once more.

  ‘I’m going to drink one more glass,’ Powerscourt said to Pugh, ‘and then I must go. I promised to tell the President of the Royal Academy what happened. He’s at death’s door, poor man.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pugh. ‘I hope you realize, Powerscourt, that the people here may be drinking my health this afternoon. But the real credit, the real congratulations should be with you. You provided the bullets. I merely fired them.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Powerscourt with a smile and slipped from the room. Two minutes after his departure the party was interrupted. A bulky-looking man banged his cane on the floor and asked for silence.

  ‘I am a Government Messenger,’ he announced. ‘I am looking for a certain Lord Francis Powerscourt. I have reason to believe he is here. I have a letter for him from the Prime Minister.’

  The curtains were tightly drawn in Sir Frederick Lambert’s study. Powerscourt noticed that the piles of foreign stamps were still lined up in rows on the table in front of him. He thought the President of the Royal Academy was looking slightly better this evening. He was still deathly pale but his eyes were bright. Maybe it was the drugs.

  ‘Only ten minutes at most,’ said the nurse, ‘he gets tired so quickly now.’

  Powerscourt told the old man the details of the trial, the acquittal of Horace Buckley, the unmasking and discovery of Orlando Blane.

  ‘How strange that it should have nothing to do with the art world at all. Just a jilted lover. Hell hath no fury.’ Sir Frederick paused and began to cough. It had turned into a dry hacking cough now. There were no handkerchiefs stained with blood secreted down the side of his chair.

  ‘Tell me about Orlando,’ he said. ‘Did you say he was married now? That might settle him down.’

  Powerscourt replied that Orlando seemed to be enjoying most of the benefits of the married state without actually going through the ceremony itself. A feeble laugh came from Sir Frederick. ‘Nice girl?’ he said.

  ‘Very beautiful,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I think her parents forced her into a marriage she did not want. Mama did not want her to marry Orlando.’

  ‘Some mothers in the past have been very taken with young Orlando, Powerscourt,’ said Sir Frederick. ‘Pity he didn’t find the right one.’ The old man suddenly heaved himself up in his chair. He reached over to his desk and brought over a number of sheets of his headed notepaper.

  ‘Could you write a letter for me, Powerscourt? As you did that affidavit? I might just be able to sign it.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Frederick, I’m more than happy to do that.’

  Powerscourt began taking down the old man’s words. ‘To Signor Pietro Rossi, Senior Director, Rossi’s Picture Restoration Company, 217 Via Veneto, Rome.’ The old man paused, panting slightly. ‘Rossi’s are the leading picture restorers in Italy,’ he said, ‘do a lot of work for the Vatican.’ He paused again. Powerscourt thought his time must be nearly up.

  ‘Dear Signor Rossi, I would like to recommend most highly a young Englishman of my acquaintance called Orlando Blane. He was one of the most brilliant students we ever had at the Royal Academy. I believe you would find his talents most satisfactory in your business. With best wishes to you and your family . . .’

  Powerscourt passed the letter and his pen over. Sir Frederick paused before he signed it. He hoped his hands would do what they were told. In the end he took it at a gallop. Frederick Lambert, he wrote as fast as he could and sank back exhausted in his chair. The nurse was looking angrily at Powerscourt.

  ‘And tell young Orlando,’ the President of the Royal Academy said, ‘that I’m going to change my will. Don’t see why I should give that much money to the Society for Distressed Watercolourists. Tell him I’m going to leave him twenty thousand pounds. That should set the two of them up in Rome.’

  Piper was going through his third explanation of the day to Gregory Hopkin, the director of the National Gallery, at ten to four that afternoon. William P. McCracken, purchaser of a fake Gainsborough for fifteen thousand pounds and a real Raphael for eighty-five thousand pounds, was due in ten minutes’ time. Roderick Johnston, senior curator of Renaissance paintings, was sitting on the director’s left, hoping that he would not be interrogated about his role in the attribution of the Raphael.

  Hopkin was virtually certain that he was being told a pack of lies. He did not see how it was possible for Piper not to have known what de Courcy was doing. He did not see how the instructions for the creation of the forgeries could have been devised without the approval of both of them. In an ideal world he would have thrown William Alaric Piper out of his office and left him to the wolves. But, as Gregory Hopkin reminded himself sadly while he listened to the flow of injured innocence and personal betrayal pouring out of his visitor, it was not a perfect world. There was nothing the art circles of London or any other international centre feared more than scandal. The dealers and the galleries knew far better than their customers how fine a line divided a fake Van Dyck from the real thing, a genuine Titian from one of Orlando Blane’s accomplished forgeries. The whole edifice depended on trust. It depended on the customers being reassured by the elegant offices, the fine suits, the languid tones of the English upper classes. The clients had to think they were dealing with a world with the highest possible standards, rather than one permanently on the edge of fraud.

  If scandal broke, the whole London art market would be plunged into chaos. Clients would go elsewhere, to Paris or to Rome. The Americans who were reviving the market and bringing enormous prices to Old Bond Street would go elsewhere. Nobody would believe a word the London art market said. They would have the mark of Cain upon them. It could take years to recover, if they ever did. So far, Hopkin admitted to himself, Piper had extricated himself from his first two Americans rather well. But the third had paid the most money. Eighty-five thousand pounds for a Raphael was a world record at the time. Another fifteen thousand for an Orlando Blane purporting to be a Gainsborough. So, at whatever cost, William P. McCracken had to be placated.

  The opening exchanges were not propitious. ‘What about these bloody forgeries then?’ said McCracken, no longer a rich foreign visitor in the National Gallery, but an American rail tycoon, a ruthless millionaire. He unwrapped a parcel and placed the two paintings on a chair beside him.

  Piper went through his customary routine of how the rotten apple had been removed, the boils lanced, the Augean stables cleansed, how a bright new dawn had arrived for The Salisbury Gallery.

  ‘I’m seeing my lawyers in the morning,’ said McCracken. ‘That thing,’ he pointed to the Gainsborough, sitting innocently on their chair, ‘is a fake.’

  ‘Let me assure you, Mr McCracken,’ the director of the National Gallery thought that McCracken might respond better to a man with clean hands, ‘that if you wish to back out of the deal, Mr Piper here will refund you the money immediately.’

  ‘I have a cheque here, Mr McCracken. Made out to you.’ Piper fished about in his jacket pocket and produced a cheque made out to William P. McCracken for fifteen thousand pounds. He laid it on the table.

  ‘That’s peanuts,’ snarled William P. McCracken. ‘You took eighty-five thousand pounds of my money for this other forgery, conceived in your gallery, Mr Piper, and executed by your confederate, the forger, up there in Norfolk.’

  ‘That’s not a forgery, that Raphael, Mr McCracken, it’s real,’ said William Alaric Piper.

  ‘After what we heard in court these last f
ew days, gentlemen,’ McCracken was scornful, ‘no jury anywhere in the world is going to be convinced that it’s real.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be sure about that,’ said Piper carefully. ‘In any case I have prepared a further cheque for you for eighty-five thousand pounds.’ Piper laid down a second cheque beside the first as he might lay down a hand of cards.

  ‘That is a very fair offer,’ said Gregory Hopkin. ‘As for the authenticity of the Raphael, Mr McCracken, I think you would have considerable difficulty in establishing it as a forgery. Mr Johnston here on my left is the foremost authority on Renaissance paintings in Britain, if not in Europe. He believes it to be genuine. So do other experts here in the National Gallery. So do I. We would all testify in court that it is a genuine Raphael. You would have to find other witnesses to attest to its false provenance. That might be difficult.’

  Something snapped in William P. McCracken. He was tired of the smooth talking, the sophisticated veneer of all these wretched English people. Suddenly he wanted the clearer air of New York and Boston and the simpler certainties of the society of Concord, Massachusetts. Art was something he thought you could acquire like houses, or racehorses or yachts. Now all he could see was a kaleidoscope of mirrors with these slippery people trying to bamboozle you at every turn. No more.

  ‘I think I’ll take the cheques, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of the whole lot of you. I’m going back to the States. You can keep your lousy pictures, real or not. I couldn’t give a damn.’

  With that McCracken picked up his cheques and strode angrily from the room. He slammed the door behind him.

  ‘Mr Piper?’ said the Director of the National Gallery. Two terrible thoughts had just occurred to him. ‘That Raphael. Real or fake?’