‘Silence in court! I shall not repeat myself again!’
The judge had turned red at the insult to his court.
‘Your honour,’ Pugh had dropped his voice again, ‘with your permission I should like to ask Mr de Courcy to stand down for the moment. I should like to call Mr Blane to give evidence.’
‘Sir Rufus?’ The judge peered down at the prosecution counsel. There was nothing he could do in the circumstances. He nodded his assent.
Orlando made his way slowly to take the oath. Powerscourt reflected on the irony of the words. Here was a man who had cheated in the temple of art, forging and faking and copying, promising to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Would the jury believe him?
‘You are Orlando Blane, until recently resident at de Courcy Hall in Norfolk?’ said Pugh.
‘I am.’
‘Could you tell the court how you have spent the last few months?’
‘I was employed to copy a number of Old Masters, and to produce, or to forge, if you like, new Old Masters for sale to rich Americans.’
‘Did you know at the time who you were working for?’ said Pugh.
‘I did not, then,’ replied Orlando, ‘but I do now.’
‘And who do you now believe you were working for?’
‘I believe I was working for the firm of de Courcy and Piper, sir,’ said Orlando Blane.
‘What makes you so sure of that?’ Pugh went on.
‘The Titians,’ said Orlando. ‘The original was sent up to me in Norfolk. It was mentioned in the catalogue of the de Courcy and Piper exhibition of Venetian paintings. Therefore it could only have come from them. I created the drawing of the fake Reynolds of Clarissa, Lady Lanchester. I also created the painting of Clarissa, Lady Lanchester in the style of Reynolds which has now been sold by de Courcy and Piper to an American millionaire. They sent me an illustration of a Mr Black and his family cut from an American magazine. I was told to make a Gainsborough or a Reynolds which included a woman who looked identical to the wife of the Mr Black in the illustration. I had created, or forged, if you like,’ Orlando winced as he said the word, but Powerscourt had insisted he use it liberally, ‘a Gainsborough a few weeks before, so I transferred my allegiance to Sir Joshua Reynolds. I’ve always liked Reynolds.’
‘Quite, quite,’ Pugh cut in quickly, thinking that the jury might not appreciate the finer details of Orlando Blane’s preferences among the Old Masters. ‘Let me recap for the gentlemen of the jury, Mr Blane. Up there in Norfolk you were a sort of mail order forger. Orders came. You delivered. You were a sort of one man manufactory of forged paintings for the firm of de Courcy and Piper. If Christopher Montague’s article, of which we have heard so much, had been published, what impact would it have had on your output?’
‘I am sure,’ said Orlando, ‘that it would have put a stop to the production of the forgeries. De Courcy and Piper would have had people crawling all over every picture they sold. They would not have dared to continue with the constant stream of fakes flowing down from Norfolk. However good they were.’ He smiled apologetically at Imogen, watching pale-faced five rows away.
‘So to sum up, Mr Blane,’ Pugh was at his most genial now, ‘with the article published, the rich seam of forgeries would have stopped. But with no article, the little gold mine you had opened up in northern Norfolk for de Courcy and Piper was free to produce as many forgeries as you could create, to be sold on for large, possibly enormous sums, if the figures we have heard for the Raphael earlier are correct, and I am sure they are, to gullible Americans. The absence of the article was guaranteed to enrich de Courcy and Piper, is that so?’
‘That is correct, sir.’ Orlando Blane nodded carefully.
‘No further questions,’ said Pugh, and sat down. He took a long drink of cold water, slightly laced with gin.
Sir Rufus rose slowly to his feet. It was time for the prosecution to throw some mud in the defence’s eye.
‘Mr Blane,’ he said, looking at the new witness with considerable distaste, ‘how much were you paid for these forgeries of yours?’
Pugh suspected this would come. He had taken Orlando through the likely questions the evening before.
‘I was not paid, sir,’ said Orlando, ‘I was discharging a debt.’
‘How much was the debt for? How was it incurred?’
Powerscourt thought Pugh would rise to object. He didn’t. He was holding his fire.
‘The debt was for ten thousand pounds. It was incurred at the gambling tables of Monte Carlo.’
Another buzz ran round the court. The newspapermen could not believe their ears. This was almost too good to be true. One or two of them were smiling broadly at the sheer perfection of the story. It was much better than fiction.
‘Have you ever been imprisoned for debt in your past life, Mr Blane?’ Sir Rufus was sounding as offensive as he could.
‘No,’ he said. It was with great difficulty, he told Imogen later, that he did not add the words, ‘Have you?’
‘Did you cheat at the tables at Monte Carlo?’ Sir Rufus was trying his best.
‘I did not,’ said Orlando, remembering Pugh’s words about keeping calm at all times.
‘What other crimes have you been guilty of in your time, Mr Blane?’
‘Objection, your honour.’ Pugh was very quick to his feet. ‘My learned friend is trying to blacken the witness’s character.’
‘I was only trying to establish the veracity of the witness,’ said Sir Rufus, looking at the jury like a pompous headmaster. ‘A man who loses money he does not possess at the gaming tables, a man who cheats and deceives the public with his forgeries, cannot be regarded as a credible witness.’
‘I would remind you, Sir Rufus,’ said the judge, taking a surreptitious glance at his watch, ‘that we are here to try Mr Buckley on a charge of murder, not to preach a morality tale to the members of the jury. Objection sustained.’
Sir Rufus Fitch sat down. Powerscourt wondered if Pugh would ask some more questions. Ship definitely hit by hostile fire, he thought. Holed but not below the water line. Pugh rose to his feet again. He had noticed the judge checking the time. About half an hour before the train from Waterloo. He wasn’t finished yet. ‘No more questions,’ he said. ‘I would like to recall Mr de Courcy, your honour.’
Edmund de Courcy returned reluctantly to the stand. He was very pale.
‘Mr de Courcy,’ said Pugh, taking another sip of his water, ‘did you have in your employ until recently a Corsican person called Pietro Morazzini? Employed as a porter in your gallery?’
‘I did,’ said de Courcy, unsure where this new onslaught was going to take him.
‘And was he in your employ,’ Pugh went on, ‘at the time of the murder of Christopher Montague?’
‘I believe he was. Shortly after that he had to return home.’
‘I am afraid, Mr de Courcy,’ Pugh hurried on, aware that Sir Rufus might be about to mount another objection at any moment, ‘that people in this country are somewhat suspicious of Corsicans. Unfortunate, no doubt, but true, nevertheless. The defence has been making inquiries about your Pietro Morazzini.’ Pugh paused to search among his papers. Powerscourt felt sure that Pugh knew exactly where the message was.
‘I have here,’ he went on, looking carefully at the jury, ‘a cable from the Chief of Police in the city of Calvi, one of the principal cities of Corsica.’ He held the missive aloft. ‘Pietro Morazzini had to leave Corsica because of a vendetta, a blood feud. He murdered a man in the citadel of Calvi itself. The victim’s family swore vengeance on Morazzini. He was only allowed home recently to attend his mother’s funeral. They attach great importance to the last rites, these Corsicans. Then he will have to flee again. Signed Captain Antonio Imperiali, Chief of Police, Calvi.’
Pugh paused briefly. ‘Did you know, Mr de Courcy, that you were employing a murderer on your staff?’
‘I did not.’ De Courcy was stammering now. This had been the worst
afternoon of his life.
‘The good Captain Imperiali does not tell us how he murdered his victim. Gun maybe. Knife possibly. Perhaps he garrotted them, Mr de Courcy. I believe there is a lot of that in Corsica.’
A silence fell briefly across the court.
‘I put it to you, Mr de Courcy, that you had the motive for the murder of Christopher Montague. You had the means in the person of this disreputable Corsican you had employed, Morazzini. Did you kill Christopher Montague?’
‘No, I did not,’ said de Courcy.
‘Did you send your very own murderer round to Brompton Square to kill him?’
‘Objection, your honour,’ said Sir Rufus, ‘unfair and unjustified line of questioning.’
‘Mr Pugh?’
‘I am trying to alert the members of the jury to the fact there are other people who could have committed this terrible crime, your honour.’
‘Objection sustained, Mr Pugh.’
‘No further questions,’ said Pugh and returned to his seat. The damage had been done before the interruption. He took another glass of his water.
As Mr Justice Browne made his way back to Hampshire, the Prime Minister was in conclave with his Private Secretary in his study at Number 10 Downing Street.
‘Look at them, McDonnell,’ said the Prime Minister, pointing to a great pile of cables on his desk from South Africa. ‘It’s one disaster after another. These damned Boers seem able to strike at will. Our bloody generals haven’t a clue what they’re doing. The fools in the War Office and the Colonial Office have no idea either. We’re losing this bloody war, and it’s got to stop.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said Schomberg McDonnell.
‘As a rule, as you know,’ the Prime Minister went on, shaking his head at the messages in front of him, ‘it is my custom to leave my ministers and my generals alone. Let them get on with the job. That day is past. I cannot let this continue. There is a complete failure of intelligence out there. Nobody knows where the bloody Boers are. Nobody knows where they may strike next. I want my own man in there, McDonnell, answerable to the generals, of course, but primarily working for me.’
The Prime Minister rose to his feet.
‘Find me the best intelligence officer in Britain,’ he said. ‘I don’t care if he is currently in uniform or not. Find him for me by Monday morning. Bring him here on Monday afternoon.’
With that the Prime Minister walked slowly from the room.
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said Schomberg McDonnell.
Opinions were divided in Charles Augustus Pugh’s chambers that evening. Johnny Fitzgerald was sure the jury could no longer believe that Buckley was guilty. Lady Lucy was certain they would be forced to acquit. Powerscourt was not so sure. Neither was Pugh. He looked exhausted from his day in court.
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ he said to everybody, his feet in their favourite position on his desk. ‘Sir Rufus looked very irritated indeed as he left. He didn’t even wish me good evening as we came out of the court.’
And Pugh threw his head back and laughed his enormous laugh once more. The tension was beginning to drain out of him.
‘But I don’t know if it’s enough. Not yet. Forty-eight hours to go, Powerscourt. Only two days left. This case will close on Monday. I have a few witnesses left to call, maybe more.’ He looked meaningfully at Powerscourt. ‘Then Sir Rufus will sum up for the prosecution. I shall sum up for the defence. Mr Justice Browne will deliver his closing thoughts. God only knows what they’ll be like. After that . . .’ He paused and looked again at Powerscourt. ‘After that the jury will decide. Twelve good men and true.’
26
‘Forgeries in Mayfair!’ ‘Fake paintings sold to US Millionaires!’ ‘Master Faker hidden in Norfolk Mansion!’ ‘London Art Dealers Employ Their Very Own Forger!’ The London newspapers on Saturday morning were full of the reports of the trial. Enterprising editors sent fresh teams of reporters to de Courcy Hall itself to bring more news on the secret location of Orlando Blane. They searched in vain for Blane himself. A Mr Thomas Blane, a retired clergyman resident in Wimbledon, was disturbed several times that morning by gentlemen of the press who had discovered his name on the electoral roll. An elderly widow, Mrs Muriel Blane of Fulham, South-West London was also troubled by fruitless journalistic inquiries.
The man at the centre of the whole affair, Horace Aloysius Buckley, did not see the reports. Newspapers are not normally delivered to the cells of Her Majesty’s prisons. Lord Francis Powerscourt and Lady Lucy, breakfasting with Johnny Fitzgerald in Markham Square, bought all the day’s papers to read the coverage.
Charles Augustus Pugh was doing the same. He took out a small red pen and ringed the word Pugh every time he saw it. By the end of his marathon perusal – total reading time over two and a half hours – he had counted fifty-four mentions of his name against a mere sixteen for Sir Rufus Fitch.
The nurse in her crisp white uniform read the main points to Sir Frederick Lambert, President of the Royal Academy, resting in a large chair in his drawing room, a rug thrown over his knees. A faint smile crossed his lips when he heard of the diverse activities of Orlando Blane.
But one group of readers were more vigorous in their response than anybody else. Mr William P. McCracken was taking ham and eggs in the dining room of Edinburgh’s finest hotel, looking out over the Royal Mile. Mr McCracken had paid fifteen thousand pounds for his Gainsborough and eighty-five thousand pounds for his Raphael. One hundred thousand pounds in total. Now he saw he could have been sold a couple of forgeries. Worthless forgeries. Mr McCracken, as he had reminded William Alaric Piper in his gallery in Old Bond Street, was a senior elder in the Third Presbyterian Church of Lincoln Street, Concord, Massachusetts. His minister and his fellow elders would not have been pleased to see him take the name of the Lord in vain that morning. ‘God dammit! God dammit to hell!’ he said in such a loud voice that the waitress just behind his table dropped a dish of fresh kippers on the floor. ‘The bastard!’ he went on, totally oblivious to his surroundings. ‘The bastard! God damn him to hell!’ In fifteen years of commerce nobody had outwitted William P. McCracken. ‘God dammit,’ he went on, ‘I’ll sue that man! I’ll break him, if it’s the last thing I do!’ And with that he ordered his bill and a carriage to take him to the railway station to catch the next express to London.
Cornelius P. Stockman was not in London either. He was in Salisbury, taking a short tour of some of England’s finest cathedrals, though he was not attending Evensong. His hotel room looked out over the tranquillity of the Cathedral Close. Cornelius did not swear. He did not shout. He shook with fury. He had not yet paid over any money for the Sleeping Venus by Giorgione and eleven other nudes from the de Courcy and Piper Gallery. But it was the fact that he, Cornelius P. Stockman, had been cheated by these treacherous Englishmen that annoyed him so much. In spite of his rage a small smile crossed his features as he thought of the Sleeping Venus’s naked beauty. But he had ordered another eleven of them from those crooks in Old Bond Street! Twelve damned fakes to carry back across the Atlantic! The good Lord, he reflected, a thought possibly inspired by the sight of the spire of Salisbury Cathedral soaring upwards into a clear sky, the good Lord had twelve and only one a wrong un. I’m going to get twelve wrong uns in one enormous parcel. Oh no, I’m not, he said to himself. He wished he had brought his legal counsel Charleston F. Guthrie on this trip to the devious Europeans. Many times back in the States Charleston had ridden into battle in the courtrooms of New York and laid waste to Stockman’s enemies. Bloody English, he said to himself, they probably have a completely different set of rules. But Stockman was not a man to take things lying down. He too set off for the railway station to return to London. He was going to find the best lawyer in the capital, whatever it cost.
Only one of the millionaires read the headlines in London. Lewis B. Black was still a resident of the Piccadilly Hotel. He had paid over ten thousand pounds for his Sir Joshua Reynolds. B
lack read the accounts of Orlando Blane’s evidence with particular care. He checked one account with another. There was only one conclusion. The man said he had been sent the pages of an American magazine with an illustration of the Black family. His family. His wife, staring out of the portrait, so pretty in that hat with the feathers. His very own forgery. How they would laugh, back on Fifth Avenue, about how he had been deceived.
Black abandoned his breakfast and walked as fast as he could to the de Courcy and Piper offices in Old Bond Street. All the other art dealers were open, gossip swirling round about what might come next when the trial resumed on Monday. But on the offices of de Courcy and Piper there was a large sign. ‘Temporarily closed due to Refurbishment’ it said. Black hammered on the door in fury. Maybe the bastards were hiding inside, destroying the evidence of their crimes, burning their records. There was no reply. De Courcy and Piper had gone to ground. Black hammered even harder on the door. A couple of newspapermen came up to him.
‘It’s no good, mate,’ they said cheerfully. ‘Bugger’s not there. We’ve been here since first thing this morning. He’s gone.’
Late on Saturday afternoon an exhausted but triumphant William McKenzie found Powerscourt lying on the sofa in the drawing room of Markham Square, a mass of newspapers strewn across the floor.
‘William!’ Powerscourt rose and shook McKenzie by the hand. Something in the man’s face suggested that he was the bearer of good tidings. ‘Any news? Have you found it?’
‘I believe I have, my lord, I have come to make my report.’
Powerscourt suddenly remembered that McKenzie’s reports were always couched in rather lifeless prose. Names were rarely mentioned in case the report fell into the wrong hands. As a result the McKenzie accounts always required a certain amount of decoding by the recipient, unlike Johnny Fitzgerald’s. These were always scrupulously accurate but read like the popular fiction of the time.
Death of an Old Master Page 32