The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  “How can you tell?”

  Firstly, the forger made no attempt to conceal his art. He executed the work on a piece of machine-made poplar that has been cut using modern milling techniques.

  As for the painting, it is of the very highest standard. If the forger had been really seeking to fool us with his skill as an artist, he could almost have done so, except for a classic error—the smell. If this painting had really been five hundred years old it would no longer smell of oil paint, would it?”

  “An impressive level of deduction Uncle C, but knowing this painting is a forgery gets us precisely nowhere does it?”

  “On the contrary Mira. The precision with which this painting has been executed tells us much. Firstly, the quality of the work is of such a high standard, that the forger must have had access to the original painting. The frame of this work is also an identical copy of the frame we saw in the photograph, which confirms that the forger is no back street amateur, but a highly competent professional with access to sophisticated machining tools. So, far from wasting our time, we draw ever closer to our quarry, because the person who executed this painting will be able to tell us much. Who knows, they might even be able to tell us where we might find the original.”

  “That’s just great, all we have to do is search down the crook who painted this thing, how long it that going to take?”

  Franklin looked at his wristwatch. “Not to long, I would hope, Ms Templeton is expecting us home in time for dinner.”

  “You sound very sure of yourself—as usual,” said Mira doubtfully.

  “But of course I am sure. In the art business one has to be sure,” replied Franklin. “So, once you have finished your coffee my dear, we really will have to be on our way.”

  “You talk like you know who painted this thing.”

  Franklin gave Mira a puzzled frown, “But of course I know who painted it,” he replied.

  “Of course, you would know,” said Mira, her voice heavy with resignation. “You got any more surprises crammed up your sleeve?”

  Franklin propped the painting of Lucretzia on the kitchen counter. After a long moment staring at it in thoughtful contemplation he said, “Thank you for reminding me Mira, there was one other matter I wanted to mention.”

  Mira rolled her eyes, “So mention away would you—while we still got daylight.”

  Franklin tapped his chin thoughtfully and pointed to the painting of the Annunciation that hung in the tiny living room. “I am afraid there is good news and bad news Signora Calibano. The painting that Signor Elzorra gave you is not a copy—it is an original work by Andrea del Verrocchio painted in 1470.

  Signora Calibano looked puzzled. “I never heard of this man,” she frowned.

  “Few outside the art world have, dear lady, and yet Verrocchio is famed for many things—his sculptures, his paintings and his contribution to renaissance Florence, but perhaps his greatest achievement and the thing for which he will best remembered, is teaching Leonardo da Vinci how to paint.”

  “The painting must be very valuable, said Mira quietly.

  “It is more than valuable. It is priceless, if a painting such as this were ever to reach the open market it would fetch a hundred million dollars at least, but unfortunately, that is where the bad news comes in, because this painting was stolen from the Vatican art collection over seven years ago, whilst en route to an exhibition in Paris France.”

  For the overtaxed sensibilities of Alicia Calibano, this final piece of information was too much. She sagged backwards suddenly in a dead faint. Mira arrested her fall with difficulty, and guided her downwards onto the living room couch.

  “Nice going Uncle C,” said Mira. “You’ve just gone and killed her, haven’t you?”

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 23

  Venice. Piazza San Marco, May, 1797

  As the General rode into the Piazza San Marco, a scene of celebration rose up to greet him—wide jubilant faces everywhere—a seething mass of humanity engaged in a wild and drunken revel, to mark their emancipation from the shackles of the ancient Republic of Venice. A thousand years and more under the auspices of a moneyed elite, but now, at last, the people were free. The citizens showed the General their appreciation, by roaring wildly, throwing their hats in the air, and cheering with joyous abandon as he rode through mob. General Napoleon Bonaparte—hero, liberator, savior of the people.

  The General remained aloof, his horse retaining composure as the cheering masses roared ever louder. The horse was named Bijou, a favorite amongst the many in his stable. Bijou, so elegant and self assured, the envy of an entire army. The creature was so proud and beautiful, her composure reminded the General of his new wife. How he missed his dear Josephine. Who would ever have thought that he, a simple soldier from the isle of Corsica would one day marry the most beautiful woman in the whole of France? Bijou had been her gift to him, a wedding gift, the most beautiful gift he had ever received. The General frowned, he would be in the loving arms of his beloved wife right now, were it not for the treachery of the Doge of Venice. The thought of the separation from his dear Josephine curdled the moment of victory. As he moved slowly through the cheering crowds a furious and vengeful anger boiled within the General. A duplicitous old man and his sanctimonious government, perhaps they thought they could hide their treachery, make pretence with their coiled words, that they had not offered succor to his enemies?

  The cheering grew ever louder, the sound of drums and trumpets, now beating out a victorious drunken cacophony over the roaring crowd. The General noticed with satisfaction, that his army of wild men had grown ever wilder since their arrival in the city of Venice, drunk on a heady mix of booze and victory. Ragged war-hardened faces stared up at him, wild-eyed and fearless, their filthy uniforms rank, from endless months of battle. The army of the French Republic would have their fun, and their plunder too, thought the General grimly, and if the grand old men of Venice saw fit to raise objection, they would quickly find the uncompromising nature of their new master.

  Approaching the Doges Palace, the crowd thronged more wildly—seething, drunken currents of humanity, surging towards him as he passed. As the General approached the palace doors, a troop of his finest Hussars rode before him, forcing a passage through the crowd. As they came to a stand, the General rode onwards, up the palace steps and into the building, nervous glances were exchanged by the closest members of his retinue, before they followed him up the steps, into the oldest and grandest palace in the whole of Europe.

  Inside the grand lobby, elite troops from the Generals honor guard snapped to attention, at the sight of their illustrious leader, their muskets held front and centre in rigid salute. Trumpets sounded out a crisp and triumphant welcome, and Bijou responded, by snorting and stamping with annoyance. The General wheeled around, surveying the grand interior with contempt, before dismounting his faithful steed, with the confidence of a natural born horseman. Aides advanced with reticence, to take charge of Bijou. She showed her displeasure, by snorting wildly and half rearing, to discourage their attentions. The General made a shushing noise and the horse fell quiet at once. It had been a long ride into Venice, but Bijou was ready for more. Watching, as his faithful horse was led away was led away, the General was surrounded at once, by members of his staff, anxious to congratulate and glad-hand him, upon his triumphant arrival. The General swept them away dismissively, striding forward into the grand Palace of the Doge, as though it was a humble frontier outpost—a staging point for some grand battle of blood and honor.

  As the General strode up the grand staircase, a flamboyant figure hastened along the landing towards him, dressed in an elegant brocaded suit of the fashionable type, the figure paused dramatically at the top of the stairs and chirruped, “Citizen General, you are with us at last, we were beginning to wonder what had happened to you…”

  Bonaparte paused on the marble stairway and regarded his assistant Denon, with a hard look. “I have had a busy morning Citizen Denon, exec
uting enemies of the French Republic, I trust you have managed to fulfill your duties with similar vigor?”

  Denon’s long, pale face tilted sideways, like a bird, as his master’s comment permeated the ghastly silence. Denon smiled, widely, “The inventory is complete General,” he said lightly, in the hope that completion of his duties might mitigate his masters unpredictable wrath.

  The General turned on the stairs and addressed his entourage with a thick voice, “You hear that gentleman, Citizen Denon from the Commission of Arts and Sciences, has completed his double entry bookwork, so that the fat men of The Directory might pay your wages once more.”

  The assembled company guffawed in unison. The Directory, were the leaders of revolutionary France, led by the Generals nemesis Vicomte Paul Barras. Vicomte Barras was not only a former lover of The General’s wife, he was the man who had been instrumental in sending the rag-tag French Army to Italy, in the hope that he might deflect their tendencies for idle mischief and insurrection to foreign shores. The Vicomte was an enemy, almost as odious as the Austrians, or the greedy, gold-loving dukes of the Italian states.

  The General turned to Denon and said, “Come bookkeeper, let us see the fruits of your brave exploits, I am anxious to see the cultural wealth of our most gracious hosts.” Bonaparte’s eyes were black, and fathomless, filled with measureless intelligence. As the cold gaze of his master passed over him, Denon gave an involuntary shudder, the General was a dangerous man; one never knew how quickly one of his famous stares could boil over into furious and violent displeasure.

  The assembled company chuckled approvingly at the Generals comments. When General Bonaparte used the words cultural wealth, he meant plunder. He was an expert in such matters, it was the fuel on which his army marched, and egalitarian that he was, he ensured that every man got his share. An attribute that had every man in the Grand Army of France marching with renewed enthusiasm. Many had spoken in hushed tones that the General was destined for a future greater than his station as leader of the expeditionary army of France, but whatever the fates held, there was a universal certainty that wherever the General marched, he would be followed—to the gates of hell and beyond should occasion demand it.

  “I was hoping monsieur General that we could, with your permission, tour the palace, so that you might indicate which objects you would like to send back to Paris.”

  The General sniffed, giving Denon a hard silent look that would have unnerved the stoutest of hearts. Bonaparte regarded Denon as a toady—a facilitator of the lowest kind—but in the quest for empire, such failings were an essential requirement for career minded men of the sword. Again the general sniffed. He took a look up the grand, high ceilinged corridor in which they stood. The place had a vulgar eastern esthetic—statuary and objects d'art abounded, and there were sumptuous religious paintings adorning every wall. To the General, such art had no value, other than it’s ability to please people of influence. The General found the world of esthetics puzzling, it was for this reason he employed Denon, an internationally acknowledged expert in matters of art & good taste. The discernment of Denon, and his team of assessors had proven invaluable during the Italian campaign, they had recognized and catalogued very many priceless artifacts, ensuring that halls of the Louvre and the homes of the leading members of The Directory would be well stocked with treasures of every description.

  The General gave Denon a sour look. “Where is the Doge of Venice? Why is he not here to greet his liberators?”

  Denon’s face fell immediately, mirroring the disappointment of his commander. “The Doge is a man of greatly advanced years, who struggles with infirmity. He has been under the instruction of doctors since the fall of the Republic.”

  The General nodded quietly, then said, “Raise the malingerer from his deathbed Denon, bring him forth, so that he might greet the arrival of his Republics brave liberators,” again, the dark eyes of the General cut through the soul of his assistant, with merciless intensity.

  Denon made a deep and gracious bow, whilst snapping his fingers in wordless instruction to his team of bureaucrats, who scurried away to at once, to affect the will of their master.

  The General breathed deep. “This place smells like a sewer and it has the decorative appeal of a Marseilles whorehouse on Bastille-day,” snapped the General nastily, “Is there anything of value to be salvaged from this house of infamy?”

  “There are many works of great value here citizen General, the rulers of Venice have been busy with their wealth.”

  The General sniffed. “Then we shall give them respite from their labors Denon. Come, let us explore this castle of whores so that we might examine more closely what treasures it holds,” and with that the General stalked off down the corridor, his vast entourage following swiftly in his wake. As the General marched forwards, his boots squeaked across the polished floor, his spurs crunching with a metallic rhythm, like loose change in the hands of a beggar. Striding faster now, masterpieces from a dozen centuries flashed past the astonished group. The General marched onwards down the great gallery without pausing for contemplation.

  The entourage marched after him in silent formation, none daring to draw breath or pass judgment on the nature of the unfolding spectacle. Then, at last, under the frowning disapproval of the dead ancestors of the Venetian Republic and the gaze of a thousand tortured saints, The General paused abruptly, before a painting of a young woman. The picture had a name plaque inlaid into the ornate frame that read, Lucretzia.

  “What is this painting Denon?”

  Denon moved forward quickly, his shoulders hunched, as he rubbed his thin white hands together in a nervous washing motion. “A work from the Florentine School, Citizen General, from the early sixteenth century—of little value I am afraid—such works are at odds with current fashions, and as you can see the subject matter is highly personal.”

  The General stood silent. Then he took a step backwards, tilted his head fractionally to one side, then the other; as he did so several members of his party mirrored his actions. At last, after much silent contemplation The General said, “I like it. I like it a lot. Have it sent to my wife.”

  Denon gave a deep bow. “Of course citizen General, were there any other items in the collection that piqued your interest?”

  The General rested the heel of his hand against the hilt of the saber that hung at his waist, and pursed his lips. “All of them,” he said, his voice cold and even.

  Denon paused momentarily, his face frozen in a mask of awkwardness. “I believe Citizen General, that the agreement the fathers of the Republic signed allowed for the surrender of twenty of their finest paintings, along with three million in gold and…”

  The General grimaced. “Tell me Denon, do you see around you the fathers of the Venetian Republic?”

  “No citizen General.”

  “Do you see before you an agreement of any kind?”

  “No Citizen General, I do not.”

  “Splendid, then it is decided! Ship everything of value back to Paris and take care to charge the Venetian Republic for all associated costs.”

  Again Denon bowed deeply, “Of course citizen General, consider it done.”

  “Now, where is this old man who calls himself Doge? Perhaps he is entertaining our Austrian enemies to tea and cakes, whilst we stand here engaging in social pleasantries, what do you think Denon?”

  Denon washed his thin white hands together, a thin obsequious look ironed across his waxy face. The General noticed with distaste that his assistant was wearing a lustrous shirt, tailored from a showy eastern looking fabric that oozed decadence. Bonaparte gave his assistant a look of contempt that edged dangerously close to a sneer, his black eyes sweeping the room with building displeasure.

  It was then, that the doors at the far distant end of the room burst open, and a flurry of attendants hurried forth, carrying with them an old man. The old man sat somewhat precariously, in a heavy looking gilt chair of a distinctly ostentatious appear
ance.

  The General folded his arms, his head cocked in disbelief. “This is him—the Doge of Venice?”

  “Indeed Citizen General,” confirmed Denon quietly, “I would caution you that he is a man of somewhat idiosyncratic disposition and like many men of advancing years, he is somewhat deaf.”

  “Idiosyncratic you say, how so?”

  “A delusional backward looking attitude Citizen General—he is argumentative and easily tired by even the lightest discourse.”

  “Then we must set him straight as to who his new masters are with all possible haste Denon. Bring him to me. Have the servants set him down by the windows, so that I might get a measure of this man they call the Doge of Venice,” and with that the General stalked forward, riding gloves in one hand, the other hand balanced at a rakish angle on the hilt of his saber. As he moved across the room the ribald cheering from the Piazza San Marco rose up to greet him, like waves history crashing through the floodgates of a drowning civilization. A change was coming for the continent of Europe, a vast unstoppable revolutionary change, and if the last Doge of Venice thought he could dictate the flow of the great tide, both he and his kingdom of the past would disappear from the face of the earth, just as surely as the lost city of Atlantis.

  As he neared the old man, the General was disappointed by what he saw. He had been hoping to confront a man of substance and virility, a stout and worthy adversary. What he found instead, was a broken and crumbling figure of almost skeletal demeanor. Not even the grand robes of his office could hide the fact that the Doge of Venice was a man of diminished faculties. The old mans head rocked gently back and forth, his wet lips working silently with drool. He sat, clutching the arms of his golden throne with translucent fingers and stared up at the General with pale, watery eyes.

  “Who are you?” snapped the Doge in a thin, reedy voice.