Maestra

by L. S. Hilton

  “Don’t worry, your assessment was fine. I went back to have a look at it myself. Couldn’t have expected the intern to pick up a Stubbs!”

  I hadn’t picked it up because it wasn’t a Stubbs. And I wasn’t an intern anymore, as Rupert knew perfectly well. I’d worked hard to be able to make that kind of judgment. I tried again.

  “You didn’t say—”

  Rupert cut me off with an awkward laugh.

  “Wanted it to be a surprise. Now—”

  I interrupted. “But I was certain. I took photos.”

  “The picture was cleaned, Judith, after I brought it in. The details you correctly identified were later overpaintings. Is there a problem?”

  I knew better than to challenge him again. “No, of course not.” I forced myself to look enthusiastic. “How thrilling!”

  A two-week view was planned for September, to precede the sale. Rupert thought the picture sufficiently important for a stand-alone auction, Oliver thought it should be integrated into an assembled sale, and Laura talked about which collectors to alert. Frankie took notes. I was too shocked even to amuse myself with what thoughts might be tumbling through the vast and empty expanses of Angelica’s brain. I managed to ask a few diligent questions at the end as to arrangements for the private view, so I could memo the events girls, and then casually asked if they were hilling in the warehouse that afternoon.

  “I thought I could take Angelica down to have a look,” I suggested in a friendly voice.

  Hilling, as I explained to Angelica as we made our way through the dusty confusion of passages that was the basement, was the house slang for unloading works, so called because they had to be wheeled up a slatted ramp into the warehouses. It was an opportunity for the juniors to see the pieces up close as they were unpacked in the viewing room before the experts came down. It was really extraordinary, I explained, to see masterpieces displayed on an everyday wooden bench instead of in the sanctity of a gallery. Angelica was engrossed in her phone.

  “Yah,” she managed, raking a hand through the blond mass. “I saw loads in the Uffizi. Like, uh, Branzini?”

  “I think maybe you mean Bronzino?”

  “Yah. Him.”

  As I’d hoped, Dave was there. He and a colleague were hilling ten Pompeo Batonis for the upcoming “Grand Tour” sale.

  “Looking good, Judith, looking good. You got a new fella?”

  “You know you’re my only boyfriend, Dave,” I flirted back. I’d ordered a whole bagful of true crime from Amazon and bashed the paperbacks around a bit; as I introduced Angelica I handed them over and said I’d found them as a job lot in the Marylebone Oxfam.

  “What’s on today?” I asked, for Angelica’s benefit, as what passed for her concentration was still focused on her phone.

  “Batoni in Rome.”

  “Italy!” I squawked. “Perfect, Angelica! Why don’t you help with the measuring?” I made a smoking motion to Dave and he limped out into the butt-filled basement area with me for a fag.

  Quickly, I filled Dave in on my trip to Warminster. Rupert had explained he’d had a call from a pal who had an antiques place in Salisbury, who had seen the picture at a dinner party and thought it might be the real thing. I’d been sent originally only because Rupert had been off shooting. The owner of the house, an ex-Guardsman who introduced himself without irony as Tiger, explained that his family had been there for about a century; he thought the picture had been bought by his great-grandfather. I didn’t ask too many questions, as Rupert had enjoined me strictly not to even hint that we thought the picture might be genuine.

  I had taken the picture from the dining room wall and repositioned it in the window seat for the best light. At first, I could see what Rupert’s friend had been so excited about. The composition was arranged rhythmically, with a group of ladies, gentlemen, and grooms occupying the left background, watching three horses that seemed to be galloping across the down toward the spectator. The horses were beautifully rendered, two chestnuts and a gray, their limbs spread in racing symmetry; the colors were muted, as though on a misty morning, with only the red liveries of the grooms competing for the light with the sheen on the horses’ coats. Looking closely, though, I had been less impressed by the group of spectators, who seemed lifeless and fussy, their space cluttered with the accoutrements of an elaborate eighteenth-century picnic. They threw the composition off balance, distracting from the graceful descent of the animals, the people dominating the canvas in a way which had seemed to me uncharacteristic of Stubbs. Uncertain, I had found what seemed like a too-positive signature, then turned the canvas around to check the backing. A small label was glued to the frame, with the name Ursford and Sweet, a long-defunct London gallery. The label carried a title, The Duke and Duchess of Richmond Watching the Gallops, and also a date, 1760. Behind the figures in the picture was a signpost that read Newmarket. Stubbs was the finest equestrian painter of his day, perhaps of all time, but so far as I knew he had never worked at Newmarket racecourse. I had brought a catalogue raisonné with me, the latest compendium of all known Stubbs works, so I flipped through the plates until I found another representation of the same duke and duchess watching horses exercising at Goodwood, dated 1760. There was a similarity between the faces, though it was more period generic than personal—I supposed now that must have been what convinced Rupert. It was quite possible that Stubbs should have painted his patrons at Newmarket, though the catalog made no mention of it, nor of the existence of the picture before me. A newly discovered Stubbs would have been a major event, and majorly profitable, so it was with regret that I had photographed the picture carefully and made a thorough summary in my notes, adding my own opinion, that it was a period mock-up, at the bottom. Then I had had an hour before my train, and Tiger had offered to show me the stables. I didn’t think Dave needed to know about my own jolly little gallop around the paddock.

  “So it’s weird, Dave. I wrote it up in January as a ‘school of’ and now in summer it turns up as a Stubbs. And the Newmarket signpost is gone—Rupert said it was an overpaint that was removed at cleaning—and the signature’s in a different place.”

  “Where did you say it came from?”

  “The owner said his great-grandfather bought it—it was labeled from Ursford and Sweet in Bond Street; they’ve not been there since the war.”

  “Well, you say it was eighteenth century, though?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “So Ursford’s must have got it from somewhere.”

  “Not here. Rupert would have put that in the catalog if the provenance was ours.”

  “The other place?”

  Like Oxford and Cambridge, it was taboo for the two leading auction houses in London ever to mention each other’s name.

  “It could have been a private sale, of course, but there’s a good chance it was them. It would take forever to get the permission to use their archives, though.”

  “Well, I’ve got a mate in the Old Masters warehouse there. He can get you into their archive, no problem. You could do it today, on your lunch. Why are you so keen, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I just wouldn’t like there to be a mistake.”

  I couldn’t tell Dave that my sudden transformation into Nancy Drew was because I thought I saw a way to finally get some recognition in the department, by saving their faces from a very public error. Stubbs was news; the British always preferred their masterpieces to have an animal in them. I felt excited, I was imagining my brilliant disclosure at the next departmental meeting, maybe even a congratulatory lunch in the boardroom, a real promotion. To show that I was worth something more than getting the likes of Colonel Morris hot under the collar. It would be a chance to succeed for the right reasons, talent and application, a chance to prove that I could do a proper job.

  Officially, I had an hour for lunch, but it was easy to go over, as the other members of
British Pictures seemed to consider it their ancestral right to take three, and I made it across Piccadilly to New Bond Street with forty minutes in hand.

  “You’re Mike? Dave’s friend? I’m Judith Rashleigh. Thanks so much for letting me do this—we’ve got a bit of a rush on in the department.”

  I smiled when I saw the paperback sticking out of the back pocket of Mike’s jeans: Shattered: The True Story of a Mother’s Love, a Husband’s Betrayal, and a Cold-Blooded Texas Murder.

  “I can get you in, then I’m off on my lunch. Fine that you’re in a hurry, but if anyone asks why you haven’t got a permission slip from the department head, it’s nothing to do with me, okay?”

  “Sure. We really appreciate it. As I said, we’re a bit manic. Thanks again.”

  Our rival’s archive was housed in a beautiful paneled gallery, with a view over Savile Row. They hadn’t been computerized yet either, and looking over the long rows of heavy double bookcases dating back to the early 1700s, it was difficult to believe that the most impressive mechanical brain might not melt into a sulking puddle at the prospect of such chaos. There were several other people working, most of them around my age, interns and assistants longing for their lunch, surreptitiously messaging. None of them paid any attention to me.

  If the painting’s original dating of 1760 was accurate, there were about 150 years between its creation and the closing of Ursford’s in 1913. Ursford had opened about 1850, but the label on the picture had been typed, which would place the gallery’s acquisition no earlier than 1880, so it was logical to start there and work forward. Luckily, the two houses used the same system, so I started with the index cards, each of which recorded a single painting, often with a photograph, and details of the sale date and price. Updating the index was one of the dreary jobs I was used to. There were many Stubbs sales, but none of the descriptions corresponded to the painting I had seen. There were also several “school of” classifications, pictures in the style of the named painter and of the period but not necessarily by the artist, five of which were dated between 1870 and 1910. One of these did correspond to the possible Stubbs, identification code ICHP905/19, meaning that it had been an “Important Country House Pictures English Paintings” sale in 1905 with the picture as the nineteenth lot. I rushed back to the stacks and gripped the handles of the case labeled 1900–1905 with both hands, hauling until a wide enough gap appeared. The cases were on castors and it was a hard job to force them far enough apart to get into the stack to read. I sidled in and moved quickly down the row until I came to 1905, in search of “Important Country House Pictures.” There it was. Property of an Earl: The Duke and Duchess of Richmond Watching the Gallops, sold to W. E. Sweet, Esq., knocked down at 1,300 guineas. The Earl of Halifax, I guessed, one of the largest Stubbs collections in the country. So it was genuine. I couldn’t help feeling perversely disappointed. My brilliant plan to rescue Rupert from a catastrophic misattribution was a nonstarter. It was quite respectable—some earlier expert had misjudged the real thing for a “school of,” that was all. It had been my mistake. Still, at least I could contribute some useful information about the provenance. Rupert would have to be pleased with that.

  • • •

  I WALKED BACK along the Burlington Arcade, looking into the windows of the cashmere shops and the enchanting gilded jewel box of the Ladurée macaron shop. I thought I might get myself a good classic jumper with some of my club money. Still, there was something nagging at me. Thirteen hundred guineas was a significant sum in 1905, yet in the excitement about the Stubbs in the department, no one had mentioned the reserve. I visualized the catalog, the numbers printed discreetly on the back page. 800K. Absurdly low. It didn’t make sense. If the picture was as genuine as it appeared to be, why would Rupert have agreed to set such a small minimum asking price?

  Only Frankie was in when I got back to the department, munching a vast cheese toastie from the greasy spoon in Crown Passage. It was damp outside, as per usual, and I couldn’t help noticing that her jacket, slung over her chair, smelled strongly of Labrador. It made me feel affectionate toward her.

  “Frankie,” I asked, “do you remember where you put the notes I brought back from Warminster a few months ago? The Stubbs research?”

  “They should be with the material for the upcoming sale. Rupert’s so excited!”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I just wanted to have a quick squiz.”

  She reached behind her and picked up a file, which she leafed through, shaking her head. “No, they’re not here. Just Rupert’s own notes and the photos after the cleaning. Shall I have another look?”

  “No, no worries. Sorry to disturb your lunch.”

  Something about this was still scratching at me. I checked a number in the office diary and went to make a call in the dingy departmental loo. Mrs. Tiger answered. I hadn’t met her, she had been visiting her sister in Bath, which was perhaps just as well, given what Tiger could do with a riding crop. She sounded pleasantly floral.

  “This is Judith Rashleigh. I came down to Warminster in January. Your husband was kind enough to let me have a look at your equestrian painting.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, we were pleased. What can I do for you?”

  “You must be very pleased with the attribution?”

  “Yes, well, we always knew in our hearts that it wasn’t really a Stubbs. The chap gave us a jolly good price, though.”

  “The buyer?”

  “The man who came down.”

  “Of course,” I said quickly, “Rupert.”

  Mrs. Tiger hesitated. “No—I don’t think that was the name.”

  “Oh.” I tried to sound casual to cover my confusion. “My mistake. Well, I was just wanting to make sure you had our details in case there’s anything else you’d like us to look at. We like to follow up.”

  “You’ve been very kind, suggesting another gallery.”

  “That’s, um, no trouble. I don’t want to take up any more of your time, but you don’t happen to remember the name of the man who came down, do you?”

  Her voice became slightly wary.

  “No. Why?”

  I muttered something full of jargon, thanked her, and hung up. I sat down on the loo to think. Mrs. Tiger had ruefully acknowledged that their picture was not a genuine Stubbs. She had sold it, and had been pleased to get a decent price for a “school of.” Yet the picture we were selling in the department was the same one.

  I took another look at the catalog we were preparing. The picture was to be listed, in the conventional style, as “Property of a Gentleman.” I had naturally assumed the “gentleman” was Mr. Tiger, but apparently not. Rupert’s story tallied with my research at the other archive: the picture had been misattributed, so whoever had discovered it was real had to be the mysterious “chap” who had bought it from the Tigers and now planned to sell it through us. Bad luck for the Tigers, though I was hardly going to be stupid enough to tell them that. If the “chap” had fiddled them, it wasn’t our business—he had apparently paid fair whack on a hunch and was getting his reward. Still, it didn’t sit right. I felt antsy, oddly apprehensive, a feeling that stayed with me until Rupert breezed in at about three, after what had obviously been yet another good lunch, and muttered something about a meeting at Brooks’s. They actually provide pillows there for the members to nap in the library in the afternoon.

  “I’ll see you tonight, then, Angelica,” he said on his way out.

  Angelica didn’t even bother looking up from her urgent texting. “Yuh, sure, Rupes.”

  I was wondering what “tonight” was when Rupert paused at my desk, fumbling in his briefcase.

  “Er, Judith. Thought you might like to come to this,” he said, handing me a stiff envelope. “Angelica’s coming along. Bit of socializing. Look smart!”

  “I’ll do my best, Rupert.”

  “I’m sure you will. You always l
ook—er—very nice. See you later, then!”

  I left the envelope where he’d dropped it for a bit, in case Angelica thought I didn’t know what I’d been asked to, but when I opened it I had a hard time keeping the grin off my face. Rupert had given me an invite to the Tentis party at the Serpentine Gallery. Tentis & Tentis was a huge architecture firm that had just finished a conversion in the City, which contained some of the most expensive flats in London. The celebrity magazines at the Gstaad Club had been full of it. Rupert had managed to flog them a job lot of uncollected sale remnants dating back to the eighties to adorn the billionaires’ walls. It had taken me a week to cobble together the provenances. The party was to celebrate a forthcoming collaboration with the Frieze Masters art fair. Rupert had actually asked me. There would be photographers—the girls at the club might see it. Maybe even the slags I’d been at school with would see it.

  The dress code at the base of the thick, classic cream board said “Black Tie.” I didn’t have a long dress, but this was no time for economy. I clock-watched until exactly five p.m., ran up to the bank on Piccadilly, then hailed a cab. By six I was back at my flat, via Harvey Nicks, with a cotton dress bag containing a plain Ralph Lauren black silk column that fastened over one shoulder with an almost invisible gold chain. It had been stupidly expensive, but I wouldn’t think about that. I could make it good at the club. I wasn’t terribly interested in Rupert’s opinion of my fashion sense, but this was the first real opportunity I’d had to network with serious people. I wanted to look perfect.

  But I dithered over jewelry. The dim little diamond studs my mother had given me for my twenty-first had been pawned in Hatton Garden ages ago, so I took the view that no jewels would always be more stylish than bad jewels and went without. The dress didn’t need a thing underneath it, just simple heels. I begged my flatmate Pai’s black Gucci clutch to finish it. Hardly any makeup, just mascara and a berry stain on my lips. I ordered a taxi so as not to arrive feeling ruffled. The expression on the cabbie’s face as I got in told me everything I needed to know.