So what was it about the small canvas? Why couldn’t Rebecca just claim it as rightfully hers or her father’s? Why go to these ridiculous lengths? Why accuse a girl who you knew must be innocent? Rebecca was a clear and strategic thinker – there would be good reasons to set up this chain of events. The answer had to lie with the picture.
Annie sat up on her bed and started to recall all that she had learned over the past months. She now knew that every painting had a unique fingerprint, starting with the artist and his or her intentions, skills, life choices and luck. The difference between a good and a great work of art was down to an almost indistinguishable series of largely unidentifiable factors: the élan of a brushstroke; the juxtaposition of colours; the collisions in a composition and an accidental stroke or two. Like a rolling stone gathering moss, a painting gathered history, comment and appreciation, all adding to its value. In its relatively short life, Annie’s little painting, all eighteen by twenty-four inches, had accrued so much admiration and history that it had become surrounded by a halo of accumulated desire, bumping its value up to dizzy heights. Somewhere in this story there were clues as to why Annie was being held. Only by unpicking this riddle could she regain her freedom.
Something had terrified Rebecca – something had caused her to invent a sequence of events that was final and brutal. Rebecca needed closure at any odds; she was set on avoiding any loopholes or ambiguities, even if it meant a perfectly innocent person being sacrificed. The innocent act of buying the picture had pitched Annie into the middle of the terrible secret that Rebecca and her father had to keep concealed.
Jesse was right: Annie had to replay every tiny conversation, examine every lead, think back to every situation to try and unearth clues. She thought back again to Trichcombe’s message – he had said something about provenance and Berlin. What did this have to do with anything?
Annie felt a bubble of frustration building up within her. How could she prove her innocence stuck away in prison? She had no access to books or the Internet, no opportunity to retrace her footsteps. Was this part of Rebecca’s master plan? Annie felt a shiver of fear. Rebecca must not find out that she had an accomplice on the outside. Annie had to get a message to Jesse quickly to warn him.
Jesse did not consider himself to be particularly brave or principled. He had lived life exclusively on his terms, eschewing responsibility and convention in the pursuit of his passion for painting. In some respects, he had little to show for his thirty-two years – no significant relationships, no children and no major exhibitions of his work. Jesse knew that his lack of drive and materialism frustrated his family and most of his friends; his idea of success did not tally with theirs. He did not want to be tied to a mortgage or an employment contract; he had no interest in possessions and could never understand his brothers’ relentless quest to upgrade their belongings – better television, better girlfriend, better car. Jesse’s job at the Wallace, combined with the odd sale of a painting, covered his basic living expenses. His possessions fitted into a couple of bags and included two suits, ten T-shirts, four pairs of trousers, a kettle, two pans, a radio, paintbrushes, paints and an easel. He neither needed nor desired anything else. This pared-down living suited him perfectly: until he met Annie McDee.
His thoughts turned to his father’s supposed suicide and he wondered if he was conflating Annie’s situation with the unresolved pain from his dad’s death. Perhaps the past contributed to his sense of injustice, his disgust with the way aspects of the art world operated. He knew that his feelings for Annie were real. He wanted to protect her and love her. For the first time in his life he saw the point of money. Wealth did not, he realised, guarantee happiness, but it did offer a measure of security and opportunity. Before Annie was arrested, Jesse dreamed of setting her up in a professional kitchen; since her arrest, he longed to engage a leading barrister to fight her case. The only thing Jesse could offer Annie now was every waking second and an absolute conviction that she was innocent.
Convinced that Trichcombe Abufel had stumbled on information relating to the painting, and unable to think of any other lead, Jesse found the deceased art dealer’s address in the telephone book, and persuaded the building’s caretaker that he was an associate of Trichcombe and needed to collect a book. Arriving at 8 a.m., Jesse had woken the snub-nosed red-faced man in striped pyjamas. The caretaker was surprisingly friendly and loquacious for someone wrestled out of sleep by an insistent doorbell – he had not yet had the opportunity to talk about the art historian’s death. Yes, it was sad that the old man had died after a sorry life devoid of friends, family and parties – all the old boy had done was work work work. His relations from somewhere in Wales never visited and only last night, his nephew had told the caretaker to ship everything off to a sale with no reserves. They didn’t want any mementos. Not even his clothes or one of those fancy cravats.
Jesse listened patiently, hoping that the caretaker would leave him alone to rummage. The apartment was on the top floor; the caretaker was sixty-plus with rattly breath. Jesse crossed his fingers in his pocket. Half an hour later, Jesse let himself into the dead man’s flat. It looked as if someone had just stepped outside: a half-finished cup of tea sat on the table; an open book sat by a chair; the bed was unmade and a pair of slippers waited expectantly for their owner. Jesse picked up the book – it was a monograph written by Trichcombe on Watteau, open on a section concerning provenances. Jesse held it up, hoping to find a scrap of paper or some explanatory notes. He went to the bedside reading table where there was a book of Montaigne’s essays and a biography of Catherine the Great. Again Jesse flicked through both in case Trichcombe had left any signs that might point him to the truth.
Walking over to the far wall, Jesse saw eight shelves crammed with books, endless monographs of artists, mostly from the Rococo and Baroque periods. It was as comprehensive as the Wallace Library and certainly better digested. Jesse wondered if he should tell one of his colleagues that these would be sold for next to nothing the following day at Lots Road Auction House. He thought about Annie’s frantic message that morning – no one must connect Jesse and Annie, let alone Jesse and the painting. Her concern for him had made him happy.
Jesse pulled out all the books on Watteau, hoping again for clues about Annie’s painting. But Trichcombe was a careful academic and hence would not mark his books. Occasionally there was a white piece of paper with a number and letter written in neat pencil, but if these were references, where were the corresponding file notes? Jesse went to a large cabinet in the corner – on the front were three labels – the top said ‘Personal’, the next said ‘Books Completed’ and the last said ‘Books Pending’. Each of the three sliding drawers was empty. It made no sense to Jesse that a man would clear out all his notes, professional and personal, erase his computer’s drive and then succumb to a fatal heart attack lying on his bed fully dressed.
Jesse went to the window and looked out over the communal garden. Below some ladies were having an exercise class with a muscled trainer in a string vest. In the far corner, two nannies chatted while their charges played in the sandpit. To the right of the sink there was a small noticeboard; on it Trichcombe had written some notes – the first said ‘Manuscript to Mold’; the Second said ‘Lunch Apollo; Fairy Liquid; thank you note to Larissa.’ Jesse took a photo of the noticeboard with his phone. Picking up the open book on Watteau, he let himself out of the flat and walked down the stairs.
The caretaker was waiting for him at the bottom.
‘Here it is!’ Jesse held up the book.
‘That’s good,’ the caretaker said, looking at Jesse. ‘A lady came here and asked me to call her if anyone came round. She was most insistent.’
Jesse didn’t miss a beat. ‘Tall, slim with short blonde hair, in her late forties?’ he asked, providing a description of Rebecca Winkleman.
‘That’s her.’
‘That’s my boss – she’ll be so happy that I have the book.’
&nb
sp; ‘So I don’t need to call her?’ the caretaker asked.
‘Oh no – I am going to the office now.’ Jesse tried to sound light and unconcerned. Waving at the caretaker, he slipped out of the building and, turning the corner, ran as fast as he could down the street.
Rebecca and Memling walked around the Italianate fountain in Kensington Gardens.
‘Are you happy with the way things have turned out?’ Memling asked, his voice tense and weary.
‘I had not predicted the extent of the media circus,’ Rebecca admitted. She did not need to tell her father that the press interest, which showed no sign of abating, was making her nervous. She had envisaged a small conference attended by some friendly arts journalists who would listen respectfully to Memling’s story. The following day Rebecca thought there might be a paragraph or two in the broadsheets, at worst a small segment on the graveyard slot of the Today programme.
Instead the family had been shadowed from sunup to sundown by a seemingly insatiable group of photographers and reporters. For three weeks, the story had been headline news – the words ‘art’ and ‘painting’ were even splashed liberally throughout the red-top press.
‘I am just concerned that this whole plan has spiralled out of control,’ said Memling.
‘You were the person who burned the shop and its unfortunate keeper. You and your heavies should be thanking me, not berating me.’
Memling looked around him to check that there was no one within earshot. ‘These things are better handled discreetly, not in a blaze of publicity.’
‘I might remind you, Father, that these things are entirely of your making – I am just trying to protect our heritage.’
Father and daughter walked on in silence. Rebecca noticed that her father was lamer than usual; she often forgot he was ninety-one years old.
‘There is just the documentary, the sale and then it’ll all blow over.’
‘No documentaries.’ Memling had a horror of photography and film, and had refused all requests for portraiture.
‘I need you to do this one.’
‘Why?’
‘The imprimatur of television will seal our innocence,’ said Rebecca.
‘You are like Icarus flying too close to the sun, Rebecca,’ Memling said, his voice rising. A passer-by looked at him curiously. ‘We need to keep our heads down, be discreet. You will see that sympathy soon turns to antipathy. Much better to pretend to have nothing, be nothing.’
‘Father – you got us into this, you are going to get us out.’
Instead of being angry, Memling marvelled at Rebecca’s transformation and her steely determination; in her hands, the Winkleman empire would continue and this was what he wanted most: posterity. Walking on, Memling was aware how his joints were stiffening up; this morning he had cancelled his tennis lesson and for the first time in his life, Memling felt desperately tired. Perhaps, he thought, this was nature’s way of preparing the body for death, an event he looked forward to. He imagined it was like slipping into a deep anaesthetic-induced haze of eternal blankness. He had had enough earthly delights; more than most could dream of.
‘Do you feel any remorse for the girl? She is looking at a lifetime behind bars.’ Memling didn’t care about Annie’s fate but wondered at his daughter’s sudden brutality.
‘She is a miserable specimen. Broke, single, in her thirties – her life is a kind of prison already. Anyway, once she is convicted, I’ll be able to breathe,’ Rebecca said.
‘No, Daughter – you are about to find out that you will never sleep easy again. There will always be a drip of fear that you are about to be discovered and that the whole pack of cards will come tumbling down.’
‘You don’t seem troubled by guilt,’ Rebecca said to her father.
‘I have had more than sixty years to learn how to manage it. You have a long way to go.’
It was a warm day but Rebecca shivered and pulled her cashmere coat around her. ‘Have you written the letter?’
‘You know I have – you, your husband and daughter are fully exonerated – none of you knew anything about my past or the pictures.’
‘Where is it?’
‘It is in a bank vault in Switzerland – I put it there myself two days ago. The details are in my will – there are twenty-nine different vaults in four different banks. The codename for this one is Mousetrap. The password is Love, followed by Marty’s birthdate backwards.’ Memling turned to his daughter. ‘I implore you one last time: we should not say any more about the case publicly. We should let the embers die down; maintain a dignified silence. It’s not up to us to talk about compassion or forgiveness – we are not God or the courts – we are two duplicitous, dishonest dealers, nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Do the interview – it’s non-negotiable. The car will pick you up at 4 p.m. and take you to the television studios.’ Rebecca turned and walked away.
Once again the Earl’s house was full of organic treats and Berry Brothers made regular deliveries. He even threw a little dinner the night before the sale. He didn’t ask his important clients to Balham (the borough probably didn’t feature on their chauffeurs’ sat-nav) – soirées took place in the gallery where the Watteau hung in its specially constructed bulletproof glass case. It was astonishing who would accept his invitation once the painting was mentioned: the Prince of Wales, the ambassadors of every important country, a few oligarchs, a few more billionaires, not to mention the deputy Prime Minister and his wife.
The Earl thought back to that cold April evening three weeks ago. He had eaten a stale bun covered in slightly mouldy jam, put on a dinner jacket and set off for his dinner in Little Venice. The Northern Line was, for once, working, as too was the dear old Victoria, but the Bakerloo ground to a halt at Edgware Road, spewing Beachendon out at one of the nastiest intersections in north-west London. He only entered Paddington Green Police Station to ask for directions and, to his astonishment, saw the picture propped on a ledge behind the duty officer. Were it not for the small square of cleaned canvas in the top left-hand corner, Beachendon would never have looked twice at the work. He was not the type to believe in coincidence or fate, but the whole way through an exceedingly dull dinner he could think of nothing else. Beachendon remembered the newspaper article and the telephone call only that morning from Rebecca Winkleman concerning a missing painting matching the description. On his way home, he stopped by the police station again and, using the last few hundred pounds in his current account, the Earl stood bail for Evie and persuaded her to let him take the painting home.
Arriving home Beachendon took his first long look at it. The painting was dirty but unmistakably fine. Slightly worse for wear after a few bottles of wine, the Earl insisted that the Countess get up and look at it. The Countess agreed that it was marvellous and suggested they talk about it in the morning. By 10.15 a.m. the next day, the Earl had left with the painting. By the time he arrived home at night, the painting had been declared by Monachorum’s an original lost work by Jean-Antoine Watteau. The auction house was granted temporary custody until the rightful owner stepped forward. The press already had the spark of a story; it didn’t take much to fan their interest. The Earl rather enjoyed the limelight and allowed Tatler to take a family photograph with Viscount Draycott and his daughters on the steps of their erstwhile ancestral home.
The Earl never could understand why it took the Winklemans a whole week to come forward and claim their painting. He could only assume that the old man was circumspect about revealing his dreadful past or that Rebecca wanted to wait till the publicity had died down. By the end of the week there was hardly a person in England who hadn’t heard of the painter Antoine Watteau and who did not have an opinion about the case.
The Winklemans took the difficult decision to sell the picture at auction to raise money for good causes and asked the Earl to represent their interests. Just when the publicity began to abate, their cook Annie McDee was arrested and charged with theft and murder. It helped th
e Earl that the thief was a beautiful woman and her accomplice, her mother, was a raddled old alcoholic. The press painted the pair as a modern-day Thelma and Louise. Hollywood grandes dames and ingénues lined up to play the parts. Beachendon didn’t remember that the same girl had cooked for him, twice.
Beachendon was given a promotion and a pay rise. Part of his condition for staying on was the immediate dismissal of the company lawyer, Roger Linterman, who had tried so hard to bring about his downfall.
Each time there was a lull in interest, some new, unexpected piece of information emerged. Every journalist turned art historian. The British Museum’s prints and drawings room was overwhelmed by an influx of new visitors and had to restrict numbers for the first time in its history. The Wallace Collection’s visitors shot up. Gradually the painting’s fascinating history began to emerge. As the Mail declared, even Hollywood could not have dreamed up its scenario. First they found the consumptive, destitute and desolate Antoine, who had fallen for the strumpet, Charlotte, who used her admirer like a devoted lap dog, occasionally throwing him scraps of affection but generally ignoring his entreaties, his damp looks, his tragically collapsing shoulders. Three hundred years after her death, Charlotte finally received the public attention she had so longed for in her lifetime.
The descendants of Dr Mead, the British physician who failed to cure Watteau of his TB, were traced to Guernsey, from where they issued a public apology.
Some bright hack traced the painting to Voltaire and his mistress, and from there to Madame de Pompadour. The Daily Gossip headlined with ‘Wot I Saw – The King, the Ho and the Handyman’. There followed pages of lurid speculation about the lewd acts the picture had witnessed over the last three hundred years. The broadsheets, considering themselves above the gutter, ran timelines of important treaties and bills that the picture might have glimpsed. When it turned out that Frederick and Catherine the Great had owned the painting, all niceties were dispensed with. Whippets, horses, catamites, sodomites, eunuchs, virgins, and dwarfs – every known variety of deviant or deviation were trotted out.
The Improbability of Love Page 42