“Mm… I was hurt, you know. I didn`t expect you to think such things of me,” Sophie said with a sniff. “But, anyway, today is a new day. So let`s have breakfast, I`m starving.”
Mother was already at the table when we walked into the room. She rose and walked over to Sophie. “My dear, I can`t apologise enough. Please forgive me.”
*
I cannot eat much first thing in the morning. While the two women tucked into a cooked meal brought to the table by Mrs Dimmock, I helped myself to a slice of toast and marmalade. When I was pouring coffee for the three of us, Sophie made a remark which again caused an immediate silence.
“Alan said last night that you were vulnerable to coercion because someone knows the background to the paintings. I suppose anyone else questioning their origin could trigger the fear you might be reported to the authorities, and so be forced to comply with their wishes. Is it true? Are you being forced to do what someone wants?”
My mother glanced at me before saying, “I think you should know of our situation, Sophie. Yes, my father did obtain works of art when working for the MFAA. However, they came from his association with Hildebrand Gurlitt, when he drove a lorry full of works of art from Munich to the small township of Aschsbach.
“The MFAA were fully convinced they were all Gurlitt`s property, and were returned to the art dealer, who promptly handed over a number of paintings to my father, Lieutenant Michael Johns. He brought them back to England, to Mead Court.
“If the MFAA decision, at the time, was that the works were Gurlitt`s property, then my father was not a thief. What belonged to Hildebrand Gurlitt was for him to do with as he pleased. And it pleased him to reward my father.”
“I`m not making any judgement of your father, Mrs Cleverden.” She glanced at me. “Though who is now trying to exploit the situation?”
“I don`t think you should know that, Sophie,” I replied, perhaps a trifle sharply. “All I will confirm is that they are dangerous people, and if they became aware of your involvement, you could well be at risk yourself.”
“Don`t be so high-minded, Alan,” she said testily. “If you are asking me to assess the paintings, and they are genuine, in truth I should report my findings, and let the courts decide who the rightful owners are.”
She lowered her eyes. “But you know I won`t do that. And as that makes me party to something dubious, I could be thought as much involved as you are.”
My mother answered for me.
“Sophie, thank you. In fact, it is a Russian by the name of Engel, Peter Engel. He found out from his erstwhile employer, a man called Schendler. When Schendler died in mysterious circumstances, Engel took over. Believe me when I say, he is far more ruthless than his former boss. I wouldn`t be surprised if he plotted Schendler`s demise so he could get his hands on an organisation which acquires, in reality steals, priceless objets d`art – paintings, statuary, antiquities, jewellery, artefacts, you name it - for extremely wealthy clients.”
I took up from my mother. “Sophie, even knowing that much about this man could be enough.”
“Alan,” murmured my mother, “go and ask Mrs Dimmock for more coffee.”
*
When I came back in the room there was a calmness I could not identify.
“Sophie and I have been chatting about Peter Engel, and his demands upon us, Alan,” remarked my mother. “We now understand each other`s point of view. After coffee why don`t you show her the paintings you brought down from London?”
*
After unveiling the paintings, and making sure Sophie had everything she wanted, I went in search of McKenna. But he was nowhere to be found, not in the house, the barns or gardens. I returned to the drawing room.
“Have you seen McKenna, mother?”
“Yes, he went over to Blandford Forum, to check on activities there. No one has put in an appearance at the haulage company for a week or more. Is it urgent? You can always phone him.”
“It`s not important... it can wait.”
But it was, and I did not want to wait. I wanted to know if we were still under surveillance by Engel`s people. Hopefully, the store in Dinah`s Hollow Road had their undivided attention. But they wouldn`t be watching the store all the time. They could also be casting an eye on the house, to note arrivals and departures. Especially anyone who stayed for any length of time.
I jumped in the car, and taking the Higher Shaftsebury Road drove the eight miles to the Blandford Heights Industrial Estate on the outskirts of Blandford Forum. Grandpa Johns had built up a thriving business. He had five large warehouse units with forecourts for the twenty or more vehicles comprising his transport fleet.
I spotted McKenna`s car and pulled into a space beside it.
“Hello, Alan, how are you?” asked the young receptionist brightly. “You haven`t been to see us for a while.”
“No, been busy writing and travelling. Tell me, where will I find McKenna?”
“I believe I saw him with John a short time ago. They were heading in the direction of the maintenance shop.”
“Thanks.”
I crossed the wide yard and came upon a Volvo tractor unit with the cab raised, exposing the engine bay. McKenna was one of three people inspecting the unit while a mechanic adjusted something in its innards.
“Morning everyone,” I called as I came upon them.
John Fielding, the site manager, looked up, grinned, and shook my hand.
“We haven`t seen you for a while, Alan. What brings you here?”
“I wanted a quick word with McKenna. It won`t take a minute.”
I drew him to one side.
“It must be important if you`ve come looking for me, laddie,” he remarked, as we moved away from the vehicle.
“It depends on the situation with the people keeping an eye on the Dinah`s Hollow store, McKenna. Are they still there? Do they periodically check on movements at the house?”
“Yes to both. Obviously, they still believe the truck contains the paintings from Munich, but one of them frequently comes over to Mead Court to note anything or anyone of interest.”
I bit at my lower lip.
“Hmm… so they would be aware that Sophie is staying there?”
“I should imagine so. Why?”
“Perhaps I`m being overly concerned, but I don`t want these people linking her with us. She could be vulnerable, in as much danger as ourselves. A word from Engel, and being in the art business, she would become an immediate suspect, losing her job, even go to jail for aiding and abetting.”
“I can`t see that happening, Alan,” murmured McKenna.
“I don`t think I want to take that chance. I`ll take her back to London today.”
*
“Hello, Alan, I`ve nearly finished. I`ve got all the paint samples and photographs I need. I`ve checked and recorded the canvases, and the many references on their backs. Of course, I can`t take them away for detailed analyses, but I can make a stab at their status. After I`ve packed everything away I`ll be free to relax.”
“Sophie, I`ve been thinking. I don`t feel comfortable with you staying here. I believe the best thing is for us to return to London this evening.”
“What the hell do you mean, not comfortable with me here? You`ve got a bloody nerve dragging me all the way down here, and getting rid of me once I`ve done your bidding!”
I walked over and put my arms around her.
“I`m worried for you, Sophie, that`s why. There are people watching our every move. I just don`t want to see you involved if they turn informants.”
She looked up into my face.
“Listen, Alan, your mother and I don`t think I would be caught up in the tangled web created by your grandfather. She thinks you`re worrying for nothing. I am no more than a distant friend from your student days.”
“Oh… I thought it might become a little more than that.”
“Well… as far as the outside world is concerned.”
I kissed her. We were still in an e
mbrace when Mrs Dimmock came through the long gallery.
“There`s a phone call for you, Alan,” she said, smiling.
I walked into the hall and picked up the receiver on the side table.
“Hello?”
“Alan, it`s Ben… Ben Ashley. I couldn`t get you on your mobile.”
“Sorry, Ben, it`s not a very good reception in this part of Dorset. What did you want?”
“It`s that uncooperative bugger, Roger Melville! You know you spoke with the people at the Tyne and Wear Gallery who are lending the painting, A Dark Pool by Dame Laura Knight for the programme? Well, our venerable director thinks we should include another by the lady, and he wants to include The Beach in the documentary. What do you say? Could you speak with the gallery?”
“Ben, I think she was a superb artist, and a prime mover in the Newlyn School with her husband, Harold. If it keeps him happy, I`ll try to persuade them to release that painting too. But are you aware that it does not depict a beach near Newlyn? It portrays the shoreline at Staithes in Yorkshire. It`s where she first painted en plein air before moving down to Dorset.”
“Ah…”
“Look, leave it with me. I know the painting well. It`s one of my favourites. I`ve often thought I might try to copy it one day, for my personal pleasure.”
I walked back to the long gallery. Sophie had removed the canvases from the four frames, and was about to take the first step, visual examination. The manner in which the canvas was fixed to the stretcher, examining the frame, and the backing for any dealer or auction house references.
She raised an eyebrow.
“You look pensive. Problems?”
“Not really… it`s the film director I`m working with on this Newlyn project. He wants another painting included in the documentary. I hadn`t done so, for it doesn`t feature the coastline in Dorset. Still, it might not be a bad idea. After all, it`s one of Laura Knight`s best outdoor painting.”
*
We returned to London on Sunday evening.
I dropped Sophie at her place in Battersea and went to the apartment to pack for the trip the next day. Despite the mounting problems, there were still the demands of the day job to fulfil.
The following morning, before the two vehicles - a truck with all the equipment, and a mini-bus carrying all involved in making the programme – set out for Cornwall, I got in touch with the Tyne and Wear Gallery.
They told me the painting, A Dark Pool, was en route, and it was not possible to arrange further transport. So my request could not be met. Anyway, it was a major exhibit in the gallery, and could not be released for the ten days it would likely be missing.
After thirty minutes of debate, we eventually came to a compromise.
The painting, The Beach, would be made available for filming on location at Staithes, just fifty miles down the coast from Newcastle. The figures portrayed were drawn from Cornish children and set against a north Yorkshire background. In my mind I envisaged a close-up of the children in the painting which would dissolve to show the actual beach.
I joined the others in the mini-bus and sat next to Melville.
“Roger, we are not going to get the Knight painting, The Beach, down to Penzance. The gallery is adamant it will not release it. However, they will allow it to be filmed at Staithes, the original setting for the background of the painting, and we`ll have to work with that.”
“Dammit! That work is an important feature of the programme. Laura Knight was a leading light of the Newlyn School. You`ll have to speak to them again. Demand the painting! It`s vital!”
I was surprised at his outburst. It was wholly over the top.
“No Roger. That`s their offer. And it`s one we have to accept, to work with. We`ll take a unit up there once we`ve finished in the south-west.”
He glared at me. For a moment I could see rage, then uncertainty in his eyes.
He turned his back, and stared fixedly out the window.
*
When Melville literally gave me the cold shoulder, I spent much of the eight hour journey studying my lines. Though, having written them they came easily enough. When the mini-bus finally pulled up before the Higher Faugan Parc Hotel, it was late afternoon, with a cool breeze blowing off the sea.
Roger Melville had glimpsed the light over the harbour, which immediately triggered the director qualities he possessed. Forgotten, suddenly, was his antipathy towards me. He grabbed my arm.
“We`ve got to capture that light, Alan. It has all the right qualities for the opening sequence. We can then take the evening shots of the pub they frequented.”
There was a frenzy of activity. The truck with the equipment, the cameraman, sound recordist and lighting engineer took off for the harbour.
Melville`s parting words were, “The rest of you meet us at the Tolcarne Inn as soon as you can.”
The newer buildings close to the harbour were lost in the half-light. On the shallow beach the last rays of the sun caught the slow tide rippling across the sand.
“Jack, take the ebb and flow, then slowly pan up to Alan as he walks towards the camera. Let`s hurry everyone, we haven`t got much time before we lose it. Ryan, put that soft floodlight on Alan when I give the word. Right, everyone, this is it. We`re off!”
Fortunately, I had heard from others that Melville dispensed with the usual commands, and `we`re off` was the moment to start shooting.
Melville, standing next to the cameraman, was looking anxiously at the reflections off the sea, one hand in the air ready to wave me forward, the other pointing at Ryan to light me against a darkening seascape.
A brief thought flashed through my mind - you haven`t got too many chances to get this right. As the hand dropped, I started walking slowly towards the camera saying the opening lines.
“Imagine you are here, at the turn of the twentieth century, in the harbour of Newlyn in Cornwall. You`re an artist. You`ve been drawn to a place where the light is remarkable, models of all description are plentiful, and the accommodation cheap.
“It must have been true, judging by the many painters who congregated in this corner of England, capturing for posterity the people in this tiny community. Those who work the sea and the land for their livelihood, who live plainly in homes with the most basic comforts… and the moments they rest from their labours to enjoy simple, uncomplicated pleasures.
“What is so often unconsciously portrayed in the paintings, is the fellowship of those living here. The camaraderie that exists, and noticeably rubs off on the artists themselves.
“I want to explore that feeling of kinship. Significantly, how it affected the many works of art that focused on this tiny village, unknown to many in the last days of the 1890s.”
“Cut!”
Melville walked over to me. “Alan that was good. I liked that. We`ll do it once more before we lose the light. Is that all right with you?”
In director mode, the pettiness was gone.
We did one more take before we lost the last of the fading light.
The equipment was stowed away, and we made our way round the harbour to the Tolcarne Inn. This was once the gathering place for the Newlyn School. Most evenings the inn was crowded with artists, chatting about their paintings; the day’s efforts; and their hopes of what tomorrow might bring.
The next sequence was outside the inn, the open door and small windows ablaze with light, and the sociable chatter, mixed with laughter, coming from within.
It took twenty minutes to set up the shot. Meanwhile, Melville was briefing the actors inside the inn, and the three who were soon to arrive. He gave them precise instructions, taking their cue from when I raised a hand in their direction.
Ryan lit the front of the building in a soft glow, with a mini-spotlight on me, the narrator.
“Places everyone,” called Melville.
I took up my position in front of the camera, with the inn in the background.
“We`re off!” called Melville.
“The Tolcarne
Inn. A hundred years ago this was the nightly rendezvous for artists. Predictably, they attracted the occasional free spirits, dilettantes, and eccentrics of the day. Those looking to drop out among a group energised by the freedom to paint what and how they pleased. It was here, in Newlyn, that people like Lamorna Birch, Stanhope Forbes, Frederick Hall, Norman Garstin, Laura Knight, Alfred Munnings, Frank Bramley, and many others, experienced the true pleasure of painting en plein air.
“The artists held court at the Tolcarne Inn. Giving vent to their successes, or the frustrations of their labours, and the hopes of achievement to come.”
I moved my right arm out of view of the camera, and the trio, dressed in the style of the period, walked towards the front door, to receive howls of greeting.
“There was always a steady stream of painters passing through that door. Yet, when they made their way back to their rented houses and lodgings, none seemed the worse for wear the following day. Meeting up with their fellows imbued a passion to strive even harder, to accomplish something extra in their work.”
“Cut. Let`s do it again. Alan, could you turn towards the inn slightly when you mention the steady stream of painters?”
We did the sequence twice more to Melville`s satisfaction.
Thereafter there were shots through the inn window of the artists carousing, exchanging comments, some even singing. These were followed by a sequence inside the inn of individuals, full-face and profile, socialising.
It was nine o`clock before Melville called a wrap. Ryan`s lights were turned off, leaving everyone temporarily blinded.
I had to hand it to Roger. It had been a sensible move to film that evening, even though we were all tired after the journey.
Chapter 21
The soft purr of the telephone brought him back to reality.
He had been relaxing beside the indoor pool at the mansion in Vitznau.
“Ja.”
“It is ready for your inspection, sir.”
“Good. I shall fly into Baxterley Airfield tomorrow. Meet me there at thirteen hundred hours.”
“Right. I`ll be there.”
“Tell me, is everything in order in the south-west? As I have heard nothing to the contrary, I presume the bird is still in the nest?”
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