Book Read Free

The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

Page 32

by Mike Ashley (ed)


  “Writing? And the candles unlit? My dear friend. I’ll have the girl attend to it directly. But now supper beckons. If you are ready.” The words came out in short, jerky sentences as Gerbier moved fussily round the room.

  Rubens watched his friend and, not for the first time, wondered about him. He had first met Gerbier in Paris in 1625, four years earlier and had soon realized that the younger man was cultivating him. That did not trouble or surprise him. He was by that time acknowledged as one of Europe’s foremost artists, was court painter to Isabella, Governor of the Spanish Netherlands and a member of the diplomatic corps frequently entrusted with delicate negotiations. All manner of men sought his acquaintance and for all manner of reasons.

  Gerbier, however, was different. For a start he was a Calvinist, the son of Huguenot parents who had fled from France to the Netherlands. Although he did not wear his religion on his sleeve, it was an encumbrance in the sophisticated courts he aspired to frequent. After various adventures he had come to London and entered the service of the Duke of Buckingham, that capricious and arrogant royal favourite for whom Rubens had nothing but contempt. In the pay of this philistine popinjay Gerbier had toured the royal and noble palaces of Europe buying up paintings, sculptures and antiquities by the wagonload as though they were so many farthing candles. The little dealer had a remarkable gift for sniffing out works of art and impecunious owners who might be obliged to sell. He had survived the assassination of his patron the previous summer, finding other leading courtiers ready to make use of his talents.

  Gerbier was a rogue but Rubens could not help liking him. He was a natural connoisseur, with a knowledge matching his enthusiasm. If he hunted like a hawk and accumulated like a jackdaw, it was because he loved beauty and craftsmanship and derived a thrill from acquiring for patrons those works of genius he could never own himself.

  Now he was standing by the open curtains of the bed, admiring Rubens’s sketches.

  “Today’s work? The drowned pauper?”

  Rubens smiled, as he affected the economical speech of his host. “Today’s work. Not drowned. Not a pauper.”

  Gerbier arched his eyebrows. “But I thought . . .”

  “Look at the hands.”

  Gerbier picked up one of the sheets of tinted paper. He carried it to the window and there admired the simplicity of the brush strokes which had yet miraculously captured the textures of skin and nails. ‘Oh, yes, I see. Very elegant.”

  Rubens nodded. “They have never done rough work. And here –” he strode to the bed and took up another drawing “– see the soles of the feet. Not a callus, not a cut, not a scratch. I’ll wager they were accustomed to nestling inside boots or shoes of the finest kid. But this is the most interesting.” Rubens gathered up more leaves and handed one to Gerbier. “There, see that mark below the left shoulder blade?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “A clean – a very clean – wound. The sort that might be made by one of those Venetian stilettos. One thrust, expertly made, straight between the ribs into the heart.”

  Gerbier gasped. “Murder?”

  “It would take a remarkably agile suicide to stab himself in the back.”

  “There must have been much blood.”

  “Not a trace.”

  “But even the river would not remove all the stains.”

  “Very unlikely – if he was thrown in wearing his own clothes. The foul, ill-fitting rags the poor man was wearing bore not so much as a speck of blood.”

  Gerbier shook his head and sighed. “My friend, what barbarous times we live in.”

  Rubens nodded agreement. “Barbarous and puzzling.”

  “Not in London. Cutpurses are everywhere.”

  “Cutpurses who strike a man down for his money, then go to the trouble of dressing him as a vagabond?”

  “Fine clothes are valuable.”

  “Then why not dispose of the body naked or trussed up in a sack? No, I’m sure the rags were an attempt at disguise. The killers wanted to make their victim look like just another destitute beggar. That way no-one would be interested in him. I wonder who the poor fellow was.” Rubens held at arm’s length his drawing of the anonymous victim’s face.

  Gerbier stood at his elbow and scrutinized the clean-shaven features, the square jaw and the wisps of dark hair flattened against the dead man’s cheeks and forehead. Rubens felt rather than saw Gerbier stiffen.

  “You recognize him?” he asked.

  “No. Not at all.” Gerbier shook his head. “It’s an intriguing puzzle, though. Tell me, what do you intend doing about . . . this?” He pointed at the scattered drawings.

  Rubens shrugged. “What can I do? I have to remain on the best possible terms with his majesty. I cannot go to him and say, ‘Sire, that body you kindly supplied was the corpse of some poor gentleman, brutally murdered.’”

  “You’re right, of course.” Gerbier seemed very eager to agree. “What’s done is done.”

  Rubens laid the papers on the table. “Yes. Yes.” He paused. “Of course, if you hear of anyone missing . . .”

  “I’ll show them the portrait you’ve made. Perhaps you could give me a copy?”

  “Certainly. Certainly. But I don’t suppose . . .”

  “No. Very unlikely. Now, come. Supper will be spoiling.”

  It would be incorrect to say that Gerbier had recognized the dead man or even that the flaccid features in their frame of straggling black hair had triggered some vague memory. What he had experienced when he looked at Rubens’ drawing was an almost physical sensation, a tingling of excitement, a frisson. It was a feeling that came to him rarely but which he had learned to trust implicitly. It was the kind of intuitive reaction he had when he came face to face with a painting supposedly by an anonymous hand but which he recognized as the work of a master. Some people referred to this gift as a kind of aesthetic “nose”; highly sensitive to beauty and genius. It was that but in Gerbier’s case it was something more. It extended to people as well as objets d’art.

  Balthazar Gerbier was a man who lived by his wits. He had come from nowhere and had exploited to the full his artistic talent and obsequious personality to gain access to the highest political and social circles. The position of trust (or, at least, grudging respect) he had gained among the cognoscenti of several countries had not been achieved without an awareness of people who might be useful to him. He “knew” when he was in the presence of potential patrons or buyers or sellers. Now, he had that excited inner conviction that the nameless victim of some hired assassin would be important to him.

  It was not difficult to conclude that he was dealing with a professional killing. The single, clean blow from behind with a narrow, needle-sharp blade had all the marks of an expert in his craft. He had seen such men during his visit to Venice and Rome eight years before. They were not hired cheaply. So, whose death was worth such a price and who was prepared to pay it? Gerbier scented information that could be valuable.

  The enquiries he made over the next few days were discreet in the extreme. Necessarily so. Whoever had done away with the mysterious unfortunate had gone to considerable lengths to conceal their crime. Gerbier had no intention of alarming them and himself ending up as a piece of riverain flotsam. His questioning spread out in an ever-widening circle like ripples from a thrown stone. First, he approached those he felt he could trust. But no friend or close acquaintance at court recognized the face in the drawing. More surprisingly none of the goldsmiths or drapers on Cheapside could identify the man. Seemingly, he had not been a regular purchaser of fashionable clothes or expensive geegaws.

  Only when Gerbier risked approaching strangers did his luck change. A week after his discussion with Rubens he took a boat from London Bridge to have himself rowed home from the City. The burly waterman who skilfully plied the oars was both talkative and inquisitive. As the boat pulled clear of the medley of sea-going vessels moored in mid-channel he cast a quizzical eye over his dapper fare.

&nb
sp; “Not from these parts, are we, sir?”

  “I am English and a friend of his majesty,” Gerbier replied somewhat haughtily. At least part of the statement was true for he had deemed it advisable only the previous year to change his nationality. “But, you are right; I am by birth French.”

  “No offence meant, sir. It’s all one to me. I get a lot of frogs in the boat, specially when I work the upper river. You’ll be part of the queen’s household, no doubt. We’ve seen no end of frogs in London since the king’s marriage.”

  Gerbier nodded, seeing no need to let this fellow know his business.

  “No doubt you’ll be glad of the peace just made with your old country.” The boatman rambled on. “I had a cousin killed at La Rochelle. Bloody waste and all down to Bloody Buckingham, God rot his soul.”1

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Peace is always preferable to war.” The platitudes slipped effortlessly from Gerbier’s lips. Then he was struck with a sudden inspiration. “I, too, have lost a cousin – though I hope not dead.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “I received a letter from him some weeks ago, telling me that he was coming to London and asking me to arrange lodgings for him. Well, the fact is, he never arrived.”

  “Changed his mind, doubtless.”

  “No, I have since heard that he definitely took ship from Calais soon after the treaty was signed.”

  “Pirates, then. Sure to be pirates. Scourge of the Channel. Now, my cousin – the one I was telling you about . . .”

  “Possibly.” Gerbier hastened to interrupt the burly Londoner’s reminiscence. “But I’ve a feeling he did reach London. I wonder whether, by any chance, you have come across him. You watermen are excellent at remembering faces. Look, I have his likeness.” Gerbier opened his purse and extracted the drawing. He unfolded it and held it up for scrutiny.

  The waterman rested his oars and shielded his eyes against the fiery reflection of the sun on the water.

  “Now there’s a funny thing,” he said, wrinkling his brow in concentration.

  “You recognize him?” Gerbier leaned forward.

  “I’d swear I know that face but it don’t belong to no frog.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you’d asked me straight off if I recognized that gentleman I’d have said ‘Yes, he was one of my best customers last winter –’.”

  “Really?” Gerbier tried not to sound too eager.

  The boatman bent again to his oars. “Always asked for me, he did. Very generous, too. He didn’t like to have anyone else row him.”

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  The other man grinned and winked. “Not under certain circumstances.”

  “I’m not sure I und . . .”

  “Look, let’s just say I used to pick him up regular at Blackfriars’ Stairs of an evening and take him to Chelsea and he always asked me to collect him first thing the following morning. And it wasn’t his house we went to and it wasn’t his wife who sometimes met him at the staithing. You take my meaning, sir?”

  Gerbier allowed himself a man-of-the-world chuckle. “And this went on all last winter?”

  “January to March. It’s my guess he was a parliament man. The Commons were meeting all that time and I never saw him the session before or after the king sent them all packing. Anyway, sir, that’s of no comfort to you. My regular certainly wasn’t French.”

  “A Londoner?”

  “No, not that neither. Country gent. That’s why I reckoned he was here for the parliament.”

  “And you don’t know his name?” As soon as the question left his lips Gerbier knew that he had pressed too far.

  Suspicion clouded the waterman’s face. “No more than I know yours, sir. Anyway, he’s of no interest to you, him not being, as I say, a froggy.”

  “No, indeed. It was just that I hoped against hope . . .” Gerbier hurriedly changed the subject.

  Rubens, meanwhile, was feverishly busy. As an envoy from Philip IV of Spain it was his responsibility to frequent the English court as much as possible, to gather information and to commend to Charles and his ministers, at every opportunity, the necessity for a peace treaty between the two monarchs. It was exhausting work. The French and Venetian ambassadors did all they could to obstruct him and promises of aid from self-professed allies on the royal council never seemed to result in any advancement of his cause. The painter soon came to realize the reason for this: there was a vacuum at the centre of government. A year had passed since the death of Buckingham but the young king was still immersed in grief and even in shock. His close friend had, as courtiers were always ready to point out, with a contemptuous sneer, controlled every aspect of policy, had, in effect, run the country. The disastrous results of Charles’ abdication of responsibility were obvious to everyone but Charles and now that his viceroy was gone he seemed unable to fix on clear decisions or initiatives. Fortunately for Rubens there was one subject on which the King of England was well informed and about which he was passionate. The royal enthusiasm for art provided several opportunities for Rubens to enjoy the privilege of private conversations with Charles.

  “You must forgive my coming almost unannounced, Mr Rubens. Since you told me that the Lamentations was finished I have been all impatience to see it.”

  The arrival of a messenger one August morning with the news that the royal barge was already on its way along the river had thrown the Gerbier household into utter confusion. Balthazar was away from home and his young wife, Debora, though pregnant with her fourth child, rushed from room to room shouting at the servants to make everything ready, getting in their way as they tried to do so and, all the time, being accompanied by her maid who was trying to dress her. When the small, twenty-eight-year-old king stepped ashore Debora greeted him at the staithing, attempting an obeisance which her condition made virtually impossible. After a few courteous words Charles addressed himself to Rubens who was standing close by, and demanded to see the painter’s latest painting. They turned towards the house, Charles linking his arm in Rubens’ and talking excitedly. They climbed immediately to the attic room which had been converted into a studio.

  Charles had dismissed his attendants and the two men stood alone amidst the array of completed and partially-completed canvases, paper sketches pinned to the rafters and the scattering of jars and bowls of pigments and oils, brushes and crumpled rags. For a full two minutes Charles stood silently before the picture on the easel which stood immediately beneath a fan light. It was some one and a half metres square and depicted the body of Jesus laid on a stone slab and surrounded by his mother and three disciples all displaying tearful anguish. Rubens stood behind him, anxious to hear the royal verdict.

  “A difficult subject, Master Rubens,” Charles remarked at last. “So still. No movement.”

  “Your Majesty has unerringly identified the central problem,” Rubens replied and the comment was far from being empty flattery.

  “Yes, yes.” The King turned, hand gestures emphasizing his excitement. “With an Entombment or a Descent from the Cross, there is action the artist can freeze depicting straining muscles and tension, the contrast between the active participants in the drama and the limp, lifeless from which yet remains the central point of the composition. You must come and see my Titian Entombment. But here,” he turned back to the canvas, “here all is stillness. The tension, the emotion is in the faces. How do you do it?” Without waiting for an answer Charles hurried on and Rubens noticed how the king’s celebrated stammer disappeared when he was carried along by his enthusiasm. “Caravaggio, you know achieved dramatic effect by the interplay of light and shade. I have his Death of the Virgin. But this . . .” He sighed. “What is your secret, Master Rubens?”

  “I was much helped, sire, by the body you loaned me. As I made my sketches I fell to thinking, ‘Here is an anonymous bundle of flesh, muscle and bone that once was a living, breathing man. Someone, somewhere knows who he was. Is there a wife, children, th
ose who would grieve for him if they could?’ Then I imagined such people and how they would look, coming upon their loved one so cruelly slain.”

  “Ah yes.” Charles stepped forward to peer more closely at the painting. “And how masterfully you have captured their varied expressions. Now,” he turned abruptly, “I have a very important commission for you. You know that Whitehall Palace is to be completely rebuilt. The architectural centre point will be the Banqueting House Master Inigo Jones built for my father.”

  “A fine edifice, sire.”

  “Yes, yes, indeed. But it lacks ceiling and wall decoration to do justice to its excellent proportions. There are several large empty spaces which need to be filled by magnificent paintings. I want you, Master Rubens, to undertake the work. Your subject will be the peace and prosperity of the reign of King James.” Charles stepped across to the door. “In two weeks the court returns to Westminster. I will send for you and show you what I have in mind.” He held a kerchief to his nose and began to descend the staircase.

  Balthazar Gerbier’s quest for the identity of the murdered man became more and more determined as the days passed. The little Frenchman was cat-like in his stealthy pursuit of anything he wanted. It was a quality that had served him well in his work as an art agent for wealthy patrons. Many were the masterpieces he had wormed out of reluctant sellers or persuaded owners to part with at bargain prices. It was partly habit that impelled him to seek out information about the adulterous MP and his assignations at Chelsea. He was temperamentally unable to abandon a search once he had begun it. But there was also calculation in his persistent enquiries. Whoever had paid for the despatch of the anonymous Lothario was a man with a guilty secret and men with guilty secrets were always prepared to pay to avoid exposure.

 

‹ Prev