by Ruth Brandon
‘No idea. Nothing would surprise me now.’
I remembered the mix of guilt, rage and impotence that had swamped me when I heard about Juliette. Olivier must be feeling the same, but raised to the power of a thousand. It was as if the spirit of Caravaggio, that unquiet and violent soul, had somehow infused itself into his pictures, as though anyone who touched them was condemned to experience something of his own lawless desperation.
‘My God, Olivier. What can I say?’
‘Not much,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to say.’
‘I’ll get that bastard if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘It probably will be,’ he said, and rang off.
After the madness, my phone was now reduced to silence. Nobody called. And my passport remained in Paddington Green. Surely they’d have done the autopsy as soon as they’d exhumed the body? And surely, once it was done, I was entitled to know the results? Quite apart from anything else, I urgently needed, for both professional and personal reasons, to visit Paris again. Finally I lost patience and phoned Detective Sergeant Edmunds. Naturally he wasn’t at his desk, so I left a message and awaited his call. Two days later it came.
‘Dr Lee? John Edmunds here from the Metropolitan Police. I believe you wanted to speak to me. Is there some-thing I can do for you?’
What a time to play silly buggers – as though he and I didn’t know exactly what he could do for me. However, I recalled my father’s maxim – always be polite to police and customs officials: they have the upper hand. So I said mildly, ‘Oh, Sergeant Edmunds. Thanks for calling. I was wondering when I could have my passport back. They exhumed the body a while ago – there must be an autopsy report by now. I assume they haven’t found anything suspicious or they’d have got in touch. ‘ ‘That’s down to Lebrun,’ he said. I waited for him to say, I’ll give him a ring and get right back to you, but no.
Mildness was clearly wasted on Edmunds. ‘Then please get in touch with him and let me know what he says. Or I’ll ring him myself. Perhaps that would be better.’
That got him going. ‘I’ll ring him,’ he replied sharply. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
I told him, as evenly as I could manage, that I’d appre-ciate it if he did that, and the sooner the better.
Predictably enough, he did nothing of the sort. My sanity was saved, however, by an email from Lindsay Hillier. Some results from the Louvre. Why don’t you come round and see.
When I rang she said she was free for an hour that afternoon, if I wanted to come. Glad of any distraction, I hotfooted it to Bloomsbury, where I found her deep in conversation about resins with a man I recognized from the Gallery’s own technical department. I waited at the back of the room, where she kept the pictures she was currently working on – a stiff eighteenth-century portrait, a Russian-looking abstract from the agitprop period – and tried, inconclusively, to decide whether they were or were not what they purported to be. Finally the resins conversation drew to an end, and it was my turn.
‘Ah, Reggie, yes. Something quite interesting here, I think.’ Lindsay rummaged among her folders.
I tried to keep quiet but it was too much for me and I burst out, ‘You mean it’s a fake?’
‘Not exactly.’ She grinned, found the folder and laid it on the desk. It contained a list of pigments, a number of photographs, and various notes from the person at the Louvre. Lindsay scanned through it. ‘The period seems right – the right pigments, and hand-ground. It’s not on its original stretcher, so that doesn’t help us much. But it’s certainly not a modern forgery. But now look at this.’
She pulled out three photographs and laid them on the desk. One showed the Louvre picture, the next was an X-ray, showing where it had been blocked out in lead white on the dark ground. The third at first glance looked like another photo of the same picture, but when you looked .more closely, you could see that it was slightly different. I recognized my own photograph of the Jaubertie picture.
‘D’you see,’ Lindsay said, ‘there are no pentimenti on the X-ray.’ It was true: no ghost limbs or vanished figures pointed to the usual second thoughts and overpaintings. ‘Usually you’d say that pointed to a copy,’ she went on. ‘But of course that’s not necessarily true with Caravaggio. He often didn’t alter his compositions at all, even when they were quite complicated.’
I remembered Freddie Angelo’s demonstration. ‘Perhaps it’s because he used lenses.’
‘Perhaps,’ Lindsay said sceptically. ‘But now look at this.’ She produced a sheet of tracing-paper, on which were the outlines of the picture’s main features – the Angel, St Cecilia, the lute, the violin. ‘I traced this from your photo. And now –’ She superimposed the tracing on the Louvre picture. It fitted exactly. ‘That’s strange for a start – when he made a new version of a picture he usually changed some of the details. But not this one. The only difference is the placing of that flower on the music. Everything else is identical. It must mean someone requested an exact copy of a particular painting. So, that leaves us with two possibilities. One, Caravaggio makes his picture, someone comes to see it while it’s in his studio, or even when it’s been hung in his patron’s house, and likes it so much they want a copy. So he makes one. It’s by no means unknown – he did it more than once.’
‘And the other?’
‘The other is, he refuses to do it, or isn’t around, or maybe he’s already dead. So someone else makes the copy. So in that sense, although it’s not actually a Caravaggio, it’s not a fake either. That’s what I think seems to be most likely. It would explain the contemporary materials and the different quality. Look at the treatment of the fur here.’ She pointed at the Jaubertie picture. ‘It’s so delicate and alive in this one, and so flat and heavy in the other. And her face – and his. The Louvre one’s wooden by comparison. You could never prove it, of course.’
Of course. But now that Lindsay had offered a reasoned explanation for what had until this moment been no more than a feeling, the difference in quality between the Louvre picture and the Jaubertie one seemed so obvious, so glar-ingly apparent, that there could be no more doubt. Caravaggio could not possibly, even on a very bad day, have painted the Louvre picture.
‘Here.’ She gathered together the various items spread out on her desk, shuffled them back into their folder and held it out. ‘Why don’t you take them with you? They’re more use to you than me. I’d have expected it to take longer, but Judith said it was apparently all to hand. Somebody had already had all this stuff done, all she had to do was find the file.’
That made me sit up. ‘Really? Did she say who?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t think to ask.’
Back at the office I pulled out my bulging Caravaggio file in order to add the folder to it. Something fell out, and when I bent to pick it up I saw that it was the Partir, c’est mourir un peu, Martyr, c’est pourrir un peu pamphlet. As I leafed through it, something caught my eye.
I looked again. Surely it couldn’t be?
It was.
The photos in the pamphlet were not of the picture that hung in the Louvre now. They unmistakably showed the Jaubertie picture, with its little flower laid across the centre fold of the music book. At some point – presumably during the missing weeks between the picture’s theft and its reappearance – the two must have been switched. Juliette hadn’t said anything about this, whether by acci-dent or design I would now never know (and what else, I again wondered, had she left unsaid?) But there could be no other explanation. After they’d abducted the picture they’d driven it round Paris, taking the photographs that they’d use over the next few weeks. Then they’d taken it to La Jaubertie. While the photos were being teasingly sent to the press, and the police were vainly setting dawn traps to try and catch the thieves, the picture was hundreds of miles away. And when eventually a different picture was returned, nobody, in the excitement, noticed the substitution.
Had Juliette known? Impossible to imagine she had not. The one essential detail, unmentione
d.
I rang the library and inquired whether they had any old illustrated books on Caravaggio. Something prewar.
Yes, they had one or two. If I wanted to come down, they’d get them out for me.
When I got there the librarian had two books waiting, one from 1907, one from 1928. Both were in German, but that didn’t bother me – it was the plates I was after. Staggering under their combined weight, I took them to a table.
The 1907 book didn’t show the St Cecilia, but the 1928 one did. It mentioned the three versions, the church’s, Del Monte’s and Doria’s, but pictured just one, the one belong-ing to the Louvre. The photograph was black and white, but it was good enough. There was the little flower, crisp and clear, lying across the centre of the music book; and the Angel had two fingers extended. It was incontrovertibly the Jaubertie picture. QED.
A day passed, and then another: still no word from Edmunds.
Before the exhumation I’d become relatively calm, but now, perhaps irrationally, the jitters returned in full force. Naturally I knew I hadn’t done anything, but in a battle with Jean-Jacques Rigaut mere innocence seemed a puny weapon. Who could have been more innocent than Delphine? When the phone didn’t ring, which was most of the time, I couldn’t concentrate, and when it did my heart leapt into my mouth.
Inevitably, when the call eventually came I was away from my desk. The caller wasn’t Edmunds, but Lebrun. In his halting English, he left a number for me to call. I dialled it at once: it was engaged. I spent the next half-hour punching Redial, but it went on being engaged. Finally I got through. Somewhere in France, a phone rang. There was no reply and no answering machine. I dialled the number again from scratch, in case I’d got it wrong in the first place, but the same thing happened. In the split second between ending his previous interminable conversation and my getting through, Lebrun had vanished.
I tried again ten minutes later. This time I had better luck. The phone not only rang, but was picked up. ‘Lebrun.’
I said, in French because it was easier and I really didn’t feel like playing about, ‘Monsieur Lebrun, it’s Regina Lee. I saw that Madame de Beaupré’s body was exhumed, and I wondered if there were any autopsy results.’
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Over a week ago. Did no one say anything to you?’
No, I said. I’d heard nothing.
‘There was nothing. She died of old age. A heart attack. The case is closed.’
‘Then I can have my passport back?’
‘Bien sûr,’ he replied. ‘Au revoir, madame.’
Just in time, I remembered to ask him if he could send me an email to this effect. Then at least I’d have proof that this conversation had taken place. He said he would, and twenty minutes later it arrived.
By then I was dancing with fury. Edmunds must have known this all along. What did he think he was doing? Sitting there letting this hang over me, holding on to my passport, when all the time the results were there, the case closed. Spitting with fury, I called David to see what we should do next.
‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘You’ll do yourself no good.’
‘But I’m sure he knew.’
‘Whether he did or didn’t, all you want is your passport back. Just concentrate on that, it’s the only important thing.’
I rang Edmunds, but of course he wasn’t there. Probably down at the pub with his mates or indulging in a few desultory stop-and-searches. I left a message to say Lebrun had told me the case was closed, and had sent me an email to confirm it, which I would forward. I was coming by Paddington Green in an hour, and I expected my passport to be ready and waiting for me to collect.
Paddington Green is the place they store all the really edgy prisoners, IRA bombers and terrorists of every stripe. It isn’t nice. It’s situated on possibly the nastiest site in London, just under the roaring Westway and immediately over a particularly squalid pedestrian underpass. I’d passed the building a hundred times, but never actually gone inside. However, I was too furious to be intimidated. I marched up to the counter and demanded Detective Sergeant Edmunds.
‘Who wants to see him?’ a harassed woman wanted to know.
I told her my name and explained that he knew I was coming by and should have left my passport to be picked up. She looked, but there wasn’t anything. She rang his extension. Of course he wasn’t there.
I asked her when he might be back.
‘I’m afraid I can’t say. You can wait if you like.’
I explained that he should have returned the passport a week ago, and that I needed it now as I was going to Paris in the morning. (Who knew? I might be – if I had a pass-port.) I produced my receipt and a copy of Lebrun’s email: she studied them without much interest and said there wasn’t anything she could do, I’d have to speak to him.
I suggested he must have a cellphone. She did not take the suggestion kindly. Those numbers were for use in an emergency. This was not an emergency.
By now I was beginning to actually shake with rage. I said, ‘What’s the name of his superior officer?’
‘Please calm down, Dr Lee,’ said the woman. ‘Losing your temper won’t help matters. I’ll try his extension again. You never know, he may be back.’
As luck would have it, he answered. Back from the pub at last.
‘John? I have a Dr Regina Lee here at reception. Something about a passport . . . OK.’ She put the phone down. ‘He’ll be down shortly. Please take a seat.’
Steaming, I took my place among a disconsolate gather-ing of the marooned. It was twenty minutes before Edmunds ambled in. He was carrying the passport in its plastic bag. He nodded, handed it over to the woman, and, perhaps wisely, ambled out again without emerging from behind the protective counter. In fact I probably wouldn’t have attacked him: even I could see that might be counterproductive. I signed for the passport and left before they took it into their heads to confiscate it again, then celebrated the return of foreign travel by booking a seat on next morning’s seven twenty Eurostar.
20
Paris, October
My first destination was the Louvre, and an unannounced visit to Charles Rey. There were things I wanted to know, and even if he didn’t want to share them, they might nevertheless be divined if I could confront him face-to-face. And that could only be achieved impromptu. If I tried to make an appointment, not only would the element of surprise be lost, but he almost certainly wouldn’t agree to see me. Whereas if I just turned up, he couldn’t escape.
London was being battered by October gales, but Paris, when I arrived there, sparkled palely under an autumn sun. I took the metro to the Louvre, and descended to the subterranean corridor that contained Rey’s office. It was eleven forty-five – not lunchtime yet, there should be a good chance of finding him at his desk. I knocked, and Janine Desvergnes’ voice called, ‘Entrez.’
I entered. ‘Bonjour, madame. Regina Lee from the National Gallery, we met in June. Is Monsieur Rey in?’
‘Bien sûr.’ Madame Desvergnes sat trimly at her desk. I wondered if she’d seen the story and noted my starring role. It seemed impossible she had not. ‘Naturally I re-member. Is Charles expecting you? I don’t seem to have anything written down.’
‘No, I was passing by, so I thought I’d take a chance.’
She got up and opened the door that led into the inner sanctum. ‘Charles – Madame Lee from the National Gallery’s here to see you.’
There was a short pause: I imagined him trying, unsuccessfully, to devise a way out. Eventually a chair was pushed back, and he appeared in the doorway. After the first brief shock the young man I’d known warped into the middle-aged figure before me. He’d got plumper, and his thick black hair had receded and thinned, though the terrifically unhealthy white complexion was unchanged. Presumably he was registering similar details. I dyed my hair so incessantly these days that its original colour was a mere flickering memory. Had my Ghent self still been a nut-brown girl? She’d certainly been a larger girl . . . For a minute
we stared at each other. Then, wordlessly, he waved me into his office.
Charles Rey and I were about the same age, but on Juliette’s measurement – are you successful? – he definitely scored higher than me. Where I had only the most exiguous share of a communal secretary, he commanded an outer office complete with watchdog. This time, however, the system had unaccountably failed, and he was trapped. He looked sulky, there was no other word for it. He nodded perfunctorily towards a chair, closed the door, then slumped down behind his desk and waited.
‘Nice to see you again after all these years,’ I opened cheerfully.
He grunted, not actually disagreeing in so many words. ‘Next time it would be better if you’d call if you’re plan-ning to visit. I might easily have been away from my desk.’
I didn’t bother to remark that this was exactly the point. Why waste precious time telling him what he already knew? ‘I wondered if you’d remembered any more about that Caravaggio, or Monsieur Rigaut,’ I said sweetly. ‘I was in Paris, so I thought I’d take a chance and drop by.’
‘Uh.’
‘I’m still hoping you may change your mind and lend it to us.’
He shook his head. ‘Not a chance.’
‘Give me one good reason why not.’
He looked at me, his elbows on the desk, his chin resting on his clasped hands. Then he leaned back and spoke as from a great distance. ‘Just accept it. Some things are more trouble than they’re worth. What are we talking about, some piffling little exhibition? Take my advice, give it up. It’s not worth it.’
Trouble indeed. I wondered how much he knew about it. ‘Perhaps it’s worth it to me.’
‘Then you’re stupider than I thought.’
Temper, temper! This was obviously a sore spot. All the more reason, then, to probe it further. ‘You must see, Monsieur Rigaut’s behaviour was puzzling. First he said yes, then all of a sudden no. No reason, just no. But that’s ridiculous. It can’t have been just a whim.’
‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘I don’t suppose it was a whim.’