Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  However, it was never going to match Chagall`s spontaneity with the brush. The almost casual interplay of colour and texture. At a glance in daylight, Sophie would recognise it for what it was – an arresting fake. Almost there… but not quite.

  I had to come up with some way of letting her see it in the shadowy half-light. Then I might, just might, get away with it.

  Tuesday I painted almost from dawn `till dusk. Putting the final touches to it as Mrs Dimmock announced dinner was ready.

  Wednesday, I tidied away all the materials; and in the late afternoon it was just about ready to place in the original frame. I must admit framed it did not look such an obvious fake.

  I took it into the study to complete the drying process; and on Thursday, kept popping into the room searching for possible flaws. Though, all the time, I knew its major weakness was the stilted, slow use of the brush, which gave it an air of restraint and inhibition.

  Chapter 65

  It was during one of my checks in Grandpa Johns` study the landline telephone rang. I picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Alan… good it`s you,” came the voice of Ben Ashley, the producer at the BBC. “I didn`t bother with your mobile, I know you have a poor reception where you are.”

  “Yes, it`s often a matter of chance down here.”

  I did not tell him, for I mention it only to close friends, I have a satellite phone that works anywhere, and others cannot readily listen in to your conversation.

  “Anyway, listen, are you ready to do that special on Vermeer for us? I`ve got a slot in three months’ time, Peter Soames has now fully recovered from the hit-and-run accident, so, what do you say? Are you up for it?”

  “Ben, could we discuss it on Monday, when I`m back in London?”

  “Fine. Will you come into the office? Actually, it`s a different office from the last one. But reception will show you the way.”

  The interesting thing was, where once I would have jumped at the chance, now I was hesitant. I was still smarting from the way I had been dismissed from the Culture Show. Alright, viewing figures had not been outstanding, and with the lean, mean policy adopted by the BBC, ratings were now more significant than hitherto. Even as a public broadcasting network, bums on settees in front of screens were important. Logic suggested they had been right to modify their approach to culture; but I suppose, dumbing down the content did not sit well with me.

  *

  A car pulled up on the forecourt.

  When I peered through the drawing room window I saw it was Roger`s Volvo. Though, someone I would never have recognised straight away, shut the driver`s door and walked up the steps to the entrance.

  “Good afternoon, Reverend, are you collecting for something, or come to exorcise our demons?”

  “It`s not bad, is it, Alan? They say clothes maketh the man. Wearing this lot I feel quite holy.”

  In a way, it was true. Roger was dressed as a vicar, or maybe a priest – from the central parting of his hair, half-glasses, black shirt with a Roman collar, and a black suit. It seemed to change his whole demeanour. Whereas, he had always been one to interrupt and express opinions forthrightly, now he leaned forward and cast an attentive ear.

  “So, my son, what have you to tell me?”

  “Roger, this is not a confessional, come and have a drink. Or perhaps alcohol is an abomination, and should be tossed down the nearest drain?”

  “I don`t feel that holy, Alan!”

  I smiled. “Ok… what`s the reason for the get-up this time?”

  “I always fancied being a cleric. It gets you into areas not accessible to the common man.”

  I led him into the drawing room.

  “Like where, for example?”

  “Here.” He tapped his head. “People do not see you as a threat. They open up to you much more readily if you`re wearing your collar back to front.”

  I stroked my chin. “Mm… you`re probably right. Help yourself to drink, I won`t be a minute.”

  My mother and McKenna were in the kitchen when I walked in. I had made sufficient noise to forewarn them I was approaching. Yet, they still reddened, like small children caught with their hands in the sweet jar.

  “McKenna, just the man. Can you come with me for a moment? There`s someone I want you to meet.”

  I opened the door. “You go first,” I said.

  He stood on the threshold staring at the cleric, who had a glass of wine in his hand.

  “I`ve arranged this little meeting with the local vicar, McKenna, so you can fix the wedding arrangements,” I said in a pompous voice. “I think it`s time, as the son of the bride, to move things along.”

  “Er… right… shouldnae ask Suzanna to come in? It`s a big decision… I cannae make it on my own.”

  His Scottish accent was thickening as he struggled to come to terms with the situation.

  “The thing is McKenna, this is a locum at the village church, and he can officiate at a wedding for half the price the Reverend Lines would charge. But the offer is only available today. So what do you say?”

  “Just a minute, laddie.” He turned and rushed out the room.

  “That was a rotten thing to do, Alan. Funny, though,” he grinned.

  The sound of feet crossing the tile hall floor.

  The door opened, and mother, followed by an anxious McKenna, came into the room. She stared at me, then her gaze shifted to the vicar.

  “Hello, Roger, up to your tricks again. You`ve got my fiancé into a rare state.”

  “Roger! Is that really you in there, laddie?”

  “At you service, sir. Talking about service, when is the real wedding taking place?”

  “Soon, I hope,” I muttered.

  Mother gave me a sharp look.

  “Actually, you`re right,” said McKenna. He turned to my mother. “Will you come with me to the church, Suzanna, to fix it all up?”

  *

  Roger and I were sitting out on the terrace.

  “Do you know,” I remarked, “you coming here dressed like that has moved things along nicely. I`ll be delighted when they are married. The antics McKenna gets up to, and the little white lies they spin to appear slightly distant and proper. It`s really quite wearing.”

  “Well, you won`t be able to regard this as your other home when they`re married, will you? No popping down to Dorset whenever you fancy. It will be their home now, and you`ll be welcomed by invitation.”

  “As I see it, it`s a small price to pay for my mother`s happiness.”

  I glanced at my watch, just as my mobile phone warbled.

  “Mm… it looks like she`s on time. You know Sophie, I believe. She`s coming down for the weekend, and taking away that painting, The Fire-Eater by Chagall.”

  I picked up the phone.

  “Hello? Good, so I`ll see you at the station in about thirty minutes… Bye.”

  “Why are you giving it to her, Alan?”

  “It`s a fake. She told me so herself. So she can have it for her uncle for all I care. Do you want to see it?”

  We went into Grandpa Johns` study, and I turned on the light over the painting.

  “Good Lord! Are you sure it`s a fake?”

  He peered closely at it.

  “I`m not that fond of the artist, but, if it is a fake, it`s a damned good copy.”

  I smiled to myself.

  *

  Sophie came out the station and walked towards the Range Rover.

  I was intrigued. She was wearing tight leather trousers, and a leather top. A trendy outfit which I had never seen before. In some ways, as it did Roger`s, it seemed to alter her personality.

  I jumped out and took her overnight bag, and a case which would carry an A2 size painting in its frame.

  “You`re well prepared,” I remarked.

  “Well I am taking the Chagall with me, aren`t I, or have you changed your mind?”

  “No, no… it`s ready for you. Mother and Mrs Dimmock are preparing dinner for us, so let`s go.”


  Desultory conversation. I asked her how the people at Tate Britain were reacting to the return of the Turners. She said there was not only a complete overhaul of all their security systems going on, any future transfer of works would require a convoy of vehicles manned by ex- SAS personnel.

  “What about you? You said you were abroad on Art Newspaper business. What were you writing about?”

  “Oh the state of flux the German art market is in.”

  I beefed it up by adding. “Oh… and helping a friend try to locate the whereabouts of an ancient artifact. It`s obviously in someone`s private collection, making it an almost impossible task. All we know is it disappeared somewhere in France.”

  She swivelled round towards me. What was the artifact?”

  “An early Egyptian basalt bust of Tuthmosis lll. It`s no more than five inches tall, but I`m told it`s worth about a quarter of a million dollars!”

  *

  As we turned into the drive, I mentioned the clothing she was wearing.

  “Don`t you like it?” Sophie asked.

  “Yes, yes I do. It`s just that I don`t normally associate you with that style.”

  “It`s the new me,” she laughed. “Or the old me striking out!”

  *

  “Sophie, let me introduce you to the Reverend Makepeace. An old friend of the family,” I said, making the introduction.

  We were going to continue the charade until after dinner, when Roger would change and reappear as his normal self. If there were such a thing as normal where he was concerned.

  Roger stood up and shook her hand. “My dear, it is so nice to meet you.”

  It was said in the lugubrious tones so often heard from the pulpit.

  Sophie smiled in acknowledgement.

  Mother and McKenna came into the drawing room, and I served drinks to each of them. When we went through to the dining room, Sophie and Roger were chatting amiably, and McKenna had a big smile on his face.

  He murmured to me as we were taking our seats. “We are seeing the Reverend Lines tomorrow, laddie.”

  To my mind, one of the joys of sitting around a table with friends or family, sharing good wines and eating good food, is the flow of conversation. Such gatherings often start with simple exchanges about one`s activities, move on to amusing personal incidents and anecdotes, thereafter, to what one might aspire to in the future.

  A pattern unfolds. A little too much to drink can so easily loosen the tongue. Inhibitions are dropped, unguarded comments are thrown into the ring that enlighten other diners to the underlying nature of a person. This was portrayed in Sophie`s manner. She was drinking and enjoying herself, and I sensed there was more to this young woman than I realised. Moreover, I was not sure I liked the new Sophie: from her leather attire to her giggling revelations.

  She was ambitious: evident in the way she hinted about her aim to trade in fine art, artefacts and antiques. She was calculating. When at one time the subject of auctions was aired, Sophie quoted sales prices and even where many treasured possessions were kept. She was also a liar. I already knew that her so-called cousin was more than a relative. He was her lover. Roger had made a number of phone calls to his network of like-minded operators, and very quickly discovered that Nikos Ioannidis, that was his name, though family, the ties were distant and could be discounted.

  I cannot say I was overly disappointed; and this evening cast any attraction even further from my thoughts. Alcohol, coupled with light-hearted, bantering conversation, can often reveal somebody`s true colours.

  I had the strong impression Roger had been frequently topping up Sophie`s glass.

  *

  It was close to eleven o`clock when we all rose from the table.

  “Perhaps I could just have a quick peep at the Chagall, Alan, before I go to bed?” enquired Sophie, touching my arm.

  “Yes, it`s in Grandpa Johns` study. I`ll show you.”

  I led her across the hall to the door, and opened it a fraction. A soft light was playing on the painting.

  “Marvellous,” she exclaimed. “My uncle will be truly delighted. Thank you.”

  As I turned off the light, she kissed my cheek, and coquettishly made for the stairs. Taking the first step, she turned and smiled invitingly.

  “See you later,” she murmured.

  *

  The bedside lamp flared brightly, and startled me into awareness.

  Through bleary eyes I watched a figure move to the end of the bed.

  “Good, now I have your attention.”

  Sophie was looking down at me. She was still dressed in leather. By the door stood her overnight bag and the carrying case.

  “What time is it? Is this what you meant by see you later?”

  I glanced at my wristwatch. It was almost one o`clock.

  “You don`t get it, do you? All the games you`ve been playing. Always just managing to stay out of trouble… you never suspected, did you?” She laughed mirthlessly.

  “What on earth are you talking about? Never suspected what?”

  “That I knew all about the ransom of the Turners for the Marbles. That you were working with Engel. You were involved with him in the theft of the Turner paintings from right under Tate Britain`s nose. You even had them tucked away in your family haulage company warehouse, didn`t you, before they went to Southampton? Only they didn`t go to the docks, did they? Because you substituted them for worthless daubs.”

  Her voice had risen. Her hostility towards me was patently obvious.

  “I believe you even knew who commissioned Engel to steal the paintings and set up the ransom demand.”

  “I haven`t got a clue who Engel`s client was.”

  “Liar!” she screamed. “You even told me yourself it was a very wealthy client.”

  “All Engel`s clients were wealthy. It was essential in his line of business!”

  She calmed down slightly. Her mood became calculating.

  “Anyway, it doesn`t matter if you do know. I`m here to tidy up any loose ends. Engel was a loose end which I dealt with… the same as I shall deal with you.”

  A hand went to her shoulder bag, and withdrew something metal that glinted in the half-light. Slowly she raised her arm.

  This cannot be real. Surely I am dreaming. There is a young woman at the foot of my bed brandishing a gun. I stared at the weapon then looked up into her eyes.

  “You know,” she said quite dispassionately, straightening her arm, “I could have fallen for you in a big way. But in Greece, family always comes first, no matter what.”

  “But you`re not true Greek, you`re Cypriot,” I said desperately.

  “That`s what I tell everyone. But I am truly Greek, my real name is Sofia Linardki. So make peace with your maker, Alan.”

  Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  Suddenly, the door burst open, and Roger charged into the room.

  “I am not sure why you want to do away with my young friend here, but let me tell you that before you do, consider this.”

  He held up the Chagall and a large kitchen knife.

  “I am quite prepared to rip this painting to shreds. Even before you attempt to shoot me, I will have plunged the knife into the canvas and destroyed a major work of art... forever.”

  Sophie stood there, uncertainty showing in her eyes.

  “Is it worth it? Put down the gun, Sophie. Leave, and take the painting with you. I mean it.”

  The knife came to rest against the painting`s surface. Roger tapped it lightly.

  I continued to stare fixedly at Sophie. I could almost read her thoughts. The years of working as a conservator had ingrained a respect for the many works of art she had helped preserve. Could she now lightly turn aside all that had been instilled in her?

  Her finger tightened on the trigger, but her arm swung upwards towards the ceiling.

  The discharge was loud and still ringing in my ears when she threw the gun down, took the painting from Roger and calmly put it in the carrying case.


  Then, almost perversely, Sophie came to the bedside and kissed me hard on the lips.

  “Goodbye, Alan. Let me tell you two things. Firstly, this Chagall is the real thing. I lied when I said it was a fake. The other thing… Nikos and I are moving to Vitznau, and you know what that means. yΔώσε τόπο στην οργή! – Let`s put our anger to one side.”

  Then she was gone.

  Minutes later we heard the throaty roar of a motorbike. Through the window Roger and I saw its braking light glow briefly at the gates, then it was gone.

  “Why the hell did she fire into the ceiling?” asked Roger, still rattled from the stand-off.

  I was in no better state.

  “Probably to lead Nikos, her fellow bike rider, to believe she had done the deed.”

  *

  The sound of feet running towards my bedroom. Mother and McKenna appeared.

  “Was that a shot I heard, laddie?”

  “I`m afraid so. Fortunately, it was fired into the ceiling.”

  “What have you been up to this time, Alan?” my mother asked resignedly.

  “Actually, Mrs Cleverden, Sophie was about to shoot him,” explained Roger. “I persuaded her not to, and she fired the bullet as a signal Alan had been killed.”

  “Oh my God!” mother cried, “Are you all right?”

  “Apart from the shakes, I`m fine… thanks to Roger.”

  “Why did she want to shoot you, Alan?” McKenna asked.

  “Sophie thought I was part of the plot to steal the Turner Collection, along with Peter Engel. As a consequence, she was adamant I knew the name of the person who had commissioned Engel to lift the paintings and hold them to ransom for the Parthenon Marbles. She called me a loose end, the same as Engel, whom she shot when the Marbles were stowed safely aboard the container ship. Only I now know the Marbles were fakes,” I grinned broadly. “The same as the Chagall Sophie ran off with.”

  “I think we could all do with a cup of tea to steady our nerves, don`t you?” murmured McKenna, ever practical.

  Chapter 66

  The receptionist walked in front of me along the corridor. The place had been redecorated since the last time I was here. Moreover, Ben Ashley seemed to be the rising star in the BBC firmament, judging by his new title, chief producer. Clearly, he had leapfrogged John Beatty to that more elevated position.