There were a couple of technical points I needed to clear with him. At the end of the conversation I mentioned trying to speak with Melville, but was on the receiving end of a tongue-lashing.
“Roger is more of a nightbird, Alan. He`s a bit sharp with people in the morning, particularly when you phone him at that hour.”
“Tell me, Ben, am I hard to get on with, to work alongside?”
“Good Lord no! Did he say that?”
“He said someone had told him I was an uncooperative bugger.”
“Well it certainly wasn`t any of us!”
“Ben, who was it who suggested I bring the Newlyn project forward?”
“Now I come to think of it… he was here, in the office, when we heard about Peter Soames. It was Melville himself.”
*
A couple of hours later I phoned Melville again.
He was in a more equable mood.
We spoke about several aspects of the project, before I posed the question. “By the way, I understand you were in the office when news of Peter`s accident came through. What prompted you to suggest bringing forward the Newlyn School programme?”
Did I detect an edge to his voice?
“It was merely a set of circumstances. I was there, and we are working on the Cornish piece together, are we not? It seemed a perfectly logical suggestion to make.”
“This is the first time we`ve worked together, Roger. Someone must know me, or thinks he knows me, to remark I was uncooperative?”
“Who told me? Do you know, I really can`t remember. Anyway, ignore my little outburst, Alan. I didn`t get much sleep last night.”
Nevertheless, it got me wondering.
*
I had forgotten how much I had already done on the Newlyn School project.
At Mead Court I sat in the orangery with all my notes, three quarters of the draft script, and the names of the people, who, in their various ways, could contribute to the programme. The research was almost complete; the exception being Penlee House in Penzance. I not only wanted to explore the records held in the museum`s archives, I also wanted to view the Newlyn artists` works they had on display and in storage.
One important aspect I had not got around to discussing with the people at Penlee House was their willingness to receive and safeguard paintings owned by private individuals and galleries. In the film I wanted to bring together many of the canvases depicting the everyday life of the fishing village at Newlyn, and the lanes around Lamorna, a short distance inland. They would all be worth a great deal of money; and while the BBC would pay the extra insurance, their safety was paramount. Such a sensitive request would be best achieved by going down to Penzance, and speaking to them face-to-face.
For the next four days I spent every waking hour on the project. The script was finished, the storyboard was finished, and the shooting sequences. I had listed the items to be photographed by the rostrum camera. – all, of course, subject to Melville`s OK.
Now to confront the people at Penlee.
I adopted Ben`s suggestion; but altered the aerial means of travelling to Cornwall. Early next morning, I drove out to Compton Abbas airfield and hired an Ikarus C42. During my holidays at Marlborough College, I had learned to fly small aircraft, and held what is termed a PPL - a private pilot`s licence.
The plane, a two seater, would get me there and back on one tank of fuel. Moreover, with a cruising speed of over a hundred knots, I would reach the landing strip at St. Just in less than two hours. I had arranged for a taxi to run me into Penzance.
At ten o`clock I was drinking coffee with the director and assistant director.
I had explained the many facets of the programme earlier in several lengthy emails; and both were keen to help. When I touched upon the extra insurance, and that it would be covered, there were nods of approval.
“What I was wondering about, and forgive me for raising the issue, is your security system up to the mark? Would it foil an ambitious burglar… and believe me, some are adept at bypassing the most sophisticated installations yet devised.”
“I don`t think you have to worry on that score, Mr Cleverden,” said the director. “It may not be the very latest, but it is more than adequate for what you have in mind. Moreover, when the paintings are brought here each evening, we would have a dedicated set of guards standing watch over them, and continuously patrolling the building.”
They were not fazed by the question. Indeed, the reply gave me peace of mind.
When I mentioned I had a taxi standing by to run me to Newlyn, the assistant director offered to accompany me – which turned out to be a blessing. The intimate knowledge of the Newlyn School, and the later shift to the village of Lamorna, saved a great deal of time when assessing the location shots.
It was late afternoon and dark by the time we returned to Penzance, and I stayed overnight in a small hotel. A taxi took me to the airfield early the next morning, and I was back at Mead Court again drinking coffee by ten o`clock.
Chapter 19
Over the weekend I completed an article for the Art Newspaper about the high prices achieved at a Christies` recent sale, and prepared a list of questions I was going to ask the director of the Rijksmuseum, who was visiting London. This would be recorded and shown on the Culture Show during the coming week.
I also phoned Roger Melville – at a sensible hour – and arranged to meet him in the office on Wednesday, when Ben Ashley would also join us.
*
Sophie answered on the third ring.
“Hello,” she said breathlessly.
“It`s me, Alan. How are you?”
“Fine. You?”
Mm… though things are a bit hectic at the moment. The director of the Vermeer project got himself caught up in a hit-and-run accident. So I`ve had to put that on hold, and bring a programme on the Newlyn School forward. That`s meant working day and night getting things organised.”
“Oh… I see. I thought you had abandoned me… having checked your paintings.”
“No, no, not at all. After a meeting next Wednesday everything should fall into place, then filming is scheduled to start in a couple of weeks’ time.”
“What in this weather? It`s not exactly ideal,” she remarked.
“It`s not so cold in Cornwall. But I have little choice in the matter. The Culture Show producer wants to transmit it in late April.”
“Right… well I`ll see you in April, then.”
“Well, what are you doing this coming weekend?”
“What, to examine the paintings in your apartment?”
“Yes and no. If you were able to take a look at them, that would be great. The thing is, now they`re down here at Mead Court.”
*
The meeting with Melville and Ben Ashley went well, almost too well.
Both the Culture Show producer and the director agreed the script, format, storyboard and the locations. If anything, I was a little perturbed by the ease with which all my proposals had been received.
Not with Ben. He and I had already gone through it all. Apart from a few minor adjustments, I was told to make sure Melville agreed everything as it was presented – and to get on with it.
As I reviewed the material that Wednesday, all Melville did was nod his acceptance. I began to worry. I waited to be challenged on some of the concepts: almost disappointed not to receive searching questions, suggested revisions, for the director to put his own gloss on the programme.
Then came the thought – perhaps he is holding back until we are on location. Then I could well be suffering his broadsides.
*
Melville went his own way after lunch, his carrying case bulging with the project material.
“See you in two weeks` time, then,” was his parting remark.
As Ben and I walked back to the office, he said, “What did you make of that? A rare departure from the norm. Melville is usually all over the material like a rash, making changes, demanding revisions, altering the script just
for the sake of it.”
“Something is up,” I remarked. “I haven`t worked with him before, but from what I`ve heard, he is the one who is usually an uncooperative bugger.”
“Hmm… well keep me posted if he starts playing up. At the end of the day he usually turns in a first-class production. Perhaps he had his mind on the Turner exhibition coming up at the Kelvingrove.”
“Why is that?”
“Apparently, he has been commissioned to direct a film showing how a gallery prepares to curate a major exhibition, and to capture visitors` interest. He and his crew have been running up to Glasgow a couple of days each week to capture the Gallery`s progress.”
“When does the exhibition open?” I asked.
“I believe it`s around the beginning of April.”
“Mm… that doesn`t leave a lot of time to get our filming completed,” I remarked.
“That`s why I wanted everything tied up today,” explained Ben.
I picked up Sophie on Thursday evening.
Although I was looking forward to seeing her again, I was hoping she would not raise once more how grandfather came by the paintings. It never arose in the conversation, until we passed through the gates at Mead Court.
“By the way, Alan, the Rousseau you`ve got, do you know its title?”
“Yes.. I believe it`s Struggle For Life. The second jungle painting he executed.”
“Yes, the one that went missing… to end up, eventually, in your grandfather`s hands.”
She won`t let it go, I realised. Yet how do I confront the situation, without exposing the family as art thieves.
Mother came out to greet us, and led Sophie into the house. Once again I followed with the bags.
*
Over dinner that evening we had finished the main course when Sophie glanced across at me and said, “I mentioned to Alan, Mrs Cleverden, that I have come across some interesting information concerning the Rousseau painting.”
Mother looked up sharply, and stared at me. I could see it in her eyes. `What is she about to say`?
“Apparently, it wasn`t the second he painted,” she paused dramatically, “but the fourth. I believe Rousseau produced the second in 1893 and another in 1895. Struggle For Life ostensibly disappeared soon after it was exhibited at the fourteenth Salon des Independants in 1898.”
My mother and I sat stock still, both wondering where this was going, and were we going to like the outcome.
Sophie leaned forward conspiratorially.
“I have been doing quite a bit of research into Ambroise Vollard, the art dealer Rousseau worked with. Trained as a lawyer, he took an early interest in dealing with up-and-coming artists. In 1893 he opened his own little shop on Rue Laffitte, the street in Paris where artists took their paintings to sell, and where art-lovers went to buy. Ambroise could not afford to buy paintings from the more established artists, so he started dealing with artists little known to the public, or welcomed by the more up-market art salons.
“Established dealers did not want to ruin their reputations by exhibiting these outcast artists, but Ambroise had nothing to lose. His career spanned forty five years, and he lived long enough to become rich and successful as one of the most well-known art dealers in France. Vollard died in a car accident at seventy three. At the time of his death in 1939, just before World War Two, he had literally thousands of paintings piled up in his house that were worth a fortune,. Of the many paintings he acquired from Henri Rousseau, there were three for which he paid one hundred and ninety Francs. I am convinced these were the second, third and fourth jungle paintings.
Mother rose from the table.
“I`ll just get the cheeseboard. I won`t be a moment.”
I thought, she is probably having a stiff drink in the kitchen to fortify herself.
A few minutes later she returned to the dining room bearing the board, and yes, a bottle of brandy.
I passed the board to Sophie, and we munched on biscuits and cheese for a time. I declined the brandy, but both women helped themselves.
Taking a sip from her glass, Sophie continued.
“This is where it becomes interesting. I contacted the French National Registry of Last Wills and Testaments, and managed to obtain a copy of the Vollard document. It appears that after his death, Vollard's executor, a fellow dealer called Martin Fabiani, was instructed to divide his collection between his heirs, Madelaine de Galea, his alleged mistress, and his brother Lucien.
“When the Nazi invasion of France began in May 1940, Fabiani hurriedly shipped five hundred and sixty paintings to the United States. However, the ship was intercepted by the British Navy, and the paintings were stored at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa. After the war, they were released to Fabiani, who returned the works to Vollard's sisters. These soon started appearing on the New York commercial art market, where they quickly sold. So, those we know about, their provenance is not in dispute.”
Another sip of brandy.
“However, before Vollard died, hundreds of works from his inventory ended up in the hands of one Erich Slomovic, a young Croatian Jew, who had come to Paris in the mid-1930s and befriended the now ageing dealer.
“Whatever the nature of that relationship, and it could well have been homosexual, Slomovic obtained numerous paintings, books and letters from Vollard. After Vollard’s death in the car accident, Slomovic continued acquiring art, probably with the help of Vollard’s brother, Lucien. He was a drug addict who always needed money, so was easily persuaded to sell to Slomovic. Moreover, Martin Fabiani, was not the fine friend Ambroise expected. Fabiani had links with the Corsican Mafioso and later became a Nazi collaborator.”
Sophie half-turned towards the cheeseboard.
“Could I try that Camembert, Mrs Cleverden?”
I passed the board along the table. She transferred a small amount to her plate, and added a few biscuits, before continuing with her revelations.
“Actually, many art insiders now believe that the accident which killed Vollard was, in fact, murder. Part of an elaborate plot concocted by Fabiani. Though, no one was ever investigated or charged with Vollard’s death.
“By 1940, the Nazi blitzkrieg had already struck Poland, and was about to crush France. Slomovic rented a safe deposit box, in his father’s name at the Société Générale, and returned to Yugoslavia. He took four hundred works of art with him, the original plan being to hold an exhibition of the works in Belgrade. But Slomovic eventually opted to mount the show of paintings, watercolours, drawings and books in a fine art centre in Zagreb instead. Many of these works are now held by the National Museum in Belgrade.
“Now, who actually owned these pictures when they left Paris? In a French court in the 1980s, Slomovic’s heirs claimed the works were a gift to the young entrepreneur, so he could launch a museum in Yugoslavia with Vollard’s blessing.
“According to Vollard’s heirs, the trove was no gift, but rather works put out on consignment. It was a common practice, they said, for Vollard to organise travelling exhibitions with other dealers, all of which were for sale as the `Vollard Collection`.
“Given, consigned, or just stolen -- the transfer of works of art from Vollard to Slomovic is shrouded in the fog of war. No living witnesses remain. However, it would appear from the submission by Slomovic`s heirs, that Hildebrand Gurlitt, before his appointment as one of Hitler`s four art raiders, was largely instrumental in creating unhindered passage from Paris to Munich, through Austria, and onwards to Yugoslavia – as it was then – and to Zagreb.
“Clearly, there was a price to pay for Gurlitt`s intercession; and for accompanying Slomovic on the critical leg of the journey to Munich. It is my considered belief that the three jungle paintings, together with other priceless works, were handed over by Slomovic for unhindered passage halfway across Europe.”
Sophie embraced my mother and I in her smile.
“Alan mentioned some time ago that your father was part of the British contingent attached to the Mo
numents, Fine Art and Archives programme during the Second World War, Mrs Cleverden. It`s not hard to conclude that he, as did many others in the MFAA, acquire certain works of art, shall we say, as compensation for their tireless work of restoring to their rightful owners much of what the Nazis expropriated during the conflict.”
There was a strained silence when she finished. We were both waiting to hear the demands she was about to press upon us.
It was my mother who eventually asked. “What is it you are seeking from us, Sophie?”
“Sorry? What am I seeking?”
She burst out laughing. “Did you think I was relating all that I have gleaned about the Rousseau, and the other paintings, to use in some form of blackmail?”
She shook her head. Then her face reddened as the notion she might be regarded as an opportunist dawned on her.
“Alan, please call a taxi to run me to the station. I had no thoughts of holding you or your mother to ransom. The very idea! If that`s what you think of me, clearly I am not welcome here!”
She pushed away from the table and walked stiffly from the room.
Chapter 20
We came down to breakfast together.
I had not called for a taxi the previous evening. Sophie had not left the house.
But it had taken a great deal of persuasion.
Whether my mother was aware that I never left Sophie`s room, I could not say. After an hour of calling me every name under the sun, and several bouts of tears, Sophie had finally fallen asleep in my arms. I gently eased her under the duvet, and slid in beside her. A situation calling for intimacy. Yet, nervous exhaustion prevailed. She slept soundly until seven thirty the next morning, when she awoke with a start.
Her first words were. “You bastard, Alan Cleverden. What are you doing in my bed?”
“Absolutely nothing. I was merely a shoulder on which you fell asleep.”
“Oh… in which case.” She leaned over me and kissed me hard on the mouth.
Then. “My God, what will your mother say?”
“She will apologise and kiss you on the cheek, as I did last night.”
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