by James Runcie
‘. . . with both your money and your reputation. I can see that it’s in your interest to make the authentication stick; but can you trust yourself to behave objectively as an art historian?’
‘I think, Sidney, you’d be just as squeamish if I asked you to behave equally objectively as a priest. I stand to make a mint on this.’
That Sunday it was Sidney’s turn to take the Harvest Festival service, a celebration of East Anglian bounty where apples, plums and pears, marrows, pumpkins, kale and cabbage were brought forward to be blessed along with tinned ham, salmon, baked beans, bottles of cider and home-made carrot wine. Sprinkled around the main display were harvest loaves, jam and treacle tarts, and unwanted cans of peaches, pineapple chunks and condensed milk.
Anna joined a parade of Brownies and Girl Guides, each carrying a corn dolly as they processed around the Nave of Ely Cathedral to a heartfelt rendition of ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’. Sidney preached on a text by Robert Louis Stevenson – ‘Judge each day not by the harvest you reap but the seeds you plant’ – offered prayers of gratitude and compassion, celebrated communion and sent the congregation on its way with the admonition to ‘Let All the World in Every Corner Sing’.
Sidney’s good mood after the service was lowered when the dean asked him for a quiet word over a pre-lunch drink. He had told his archdeacon to be particularly vigilant in counting the money donated during the offertory hymn, because several of the clergy had recently noticed discrepancies between the total entered into the account book and the amount subsequently banked by the head verger.
‘It’s like the Mrs Price Ridley situation in Murder at the Vicarage.’ (Felix Carpenter was an Agatha Christie aficionado.)
‘I don’t know if I recall it.’
‘She was convinced that she had put a pound in the collection, but when the total amount was posted she was pained to observe that one ten-shilling note was the highest amount mentioned. The vicar brushes it off, she complains to Colonel Protheroe, he creates a stink, the vicar wishes he was dead and the next thing we know the colonel is murdered.’
‘I think that’s where fiction departs from fact, Felix.’
‘And the vicar is a suspect! It’s a tricky situation. These things can get out of hand, Sidney. We all know Ted’s never been that good with numbers, so we have to establish whether this is a series of mistakes or if he really has been cooking the books.’
‘Or if it’s not him at all.’
The dean was not impressed by such a suggestion. ‘That would make one of the clergy culpable.’
‘I know that.’
The dean poured out Sidney’s glass of white wine, remembering, at last, that his guest couldn’t stand sherry. ‘I don’t think it’s likely. The recent decimalisation has, of course, confused matters. We are used to setting aside the old currency and people pretending they are still contributing by throwing in their old pennies and threepenny bits, but this has been going on for over a year now. The amount deposited in the bank is never quite what anyone remembers it being and because we do the vestry accounts in pencil, it’s easy enough to amend.’
‘So I imagine Miss Morgan is now suggesting we change to ink?’
‘Then, if you make a mistake you can Tipp-Ex over it, but an auditor can still spot if there have been alterations.’
‘How much has gone missing?’
The dean sank into his armchair and crossed his long legs. ‘None of us can be sure. It’s half a crown one week, but it might be as much as ten bob the next.’
‘I think we’re supposed to say fifty pence these days.’
‘Out of a total of twenty pounds it soon mounts up. Why do you think he’s doing it?’
‘We don’t know that he is, Felix. His sister’s been ill. And he does the pools. But Ted doesn’t look like a spendthrift.’
‘Although we probably don’t pay him very well. We need to be more vigilant, Sidney, that’s the thing.’
‘If we don’t suspect Ted then it has to be one of the canons, or the precentor.’
‘Anyone who celebrates and has time in the vestry.’
The dean put down his wine glass and leant forward in his chair. ‘I’ve delegated the investigation to Miss Morgan. She’s going over the accounts for the last three years and is planning to put a new system in place.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Envelopes. Everyone on the electoral roll will have them, and then they can put the money inside every Sunday. No one else can see how much other people give and there will be no more cash temptingly out in the open to steal. She’s also going to set up regular donations by standing order so the congregation can pay from their bank accounts.’
Sidney thought momentarily about the economics of the situation. The whole process of collecting money on open platters was a delicate exercise that alternated between the pride of the generous and the humiliation of the poor. Perhaps anonymity might help, and a standing order from the bank might make contributions more regular, particularly during the holiday season. But there were also disadvantages.
‘Do you think people will agree?’ he asked. ‘It means that during the offertory they will have to pass the plate on as if they aren’t giving anything at all.’
‘No. They put in their envelopes.’
‘Not if they are paying by standing order. They won’t want the embarrassment of seeming to give nothing.’
‘We could provide them with special badges.’
‘I don’t think so, Felix.’
‘Well, Miss Morgan is convinced that we need a new system and she will set it all up so we don’t have to worry. Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘Providing we can trust her.’
‘We do. And it’s one less thing for us. You know we’ve never been very good at all this.’
‘Money?’
‘We like to imagine we have our minds on higher things, but sometimes I think it’s just that none of us can be bothered,’ the dean admitted.
‘I suppose it is because the money is not our own.’
‘Perhaps if our salaries were dependent on the amount the congregation gave we’d be a bit more beady about it.’
‘They are.’
‘But not directly.’ Felix Carpenter stood up and made his way back to the bottle of white wine on the side-table. All this talk was giving him a headache. Like many clergy, he left the tedious business of domestic finance to his wife. ‘Anyway. Thank goodness for Miss Morgan. You know her last job was with an accountancy firm?’
‘That doesn’t make her an accountant.’
‘It gives her a start. And I don’t want the police involved just yet.’
‘The police?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Now Sidney realised why he was being drawn into the drama. There was no such thing as a free secretary. ‘So that’s why you are telling me all this?’
‘I am sure we can clear the matter up on our own, Sidney; especially if I let on at the next meeting of the Chapter that you might be involved.’
‘Please don’t do that.’
The dean pointed a finger at his archdeacon in mock suspicion. ‘Unless you are the culprit yourself?’
‘Felix . . .’
‘I am teasing you, Sidney.’
‘I have learned to be wary of any jokes involving crime. The situation always comes back to bite you . . .’
‘Very well. But you will keep an eye out, won’t you? Are you sure you won’t stay for lunch? Cordelia is experimenting with a new dish: Veal sine nomine.’
‘That could be anything.’
‘I think it’s a type of lucky-dip casserole with cheese on top. I haven’t dared enquire too closely. One can’t have one’s fingers in every pie.’
Sidney was intrigued. ‘I wonder about the origins of that expression, Felix. How many people eat with their hands these days? And what if the pie is hot?’
‘Doesn’t Shakespeare use the phrase? He seems to say most things. Isn’t
it about people going secretly into kitchens and tasting all the pies before they are served? I think it’s Cardinal Wolsey in Henry VIII. “The devil speed him! No man’s pie is freed from his ambitious finger!” You will need to be careful, Sidney.’
‘Wasn’t Cardinal Wolsey beheaded?’
‘Exactly. We don’t want people saying the same thing about you.’
Sidney wondered whether to tell Geordie about the problem with the collection money the next time they met in the Prince Albert but decided that police attention would only exacerbate the situation. Instead, he asked how much his friend knew of fraud in the art world.
‘Is this about Amanda?’
‘It might be.’
‘You mean you won’t tell me until I have given you a general answer to a hypothetical question?’
After a well-edited briefing, Geordie did not seem to think that Amanda was guilty of any wrongdoing. ‘It’s like getting good information on the horses and refusing to share it so the odds don’t drop. She’s betting on her own expertise.’
‘She says she’s also unearthed the documentation that proves it.’
‘As long as that hasn’t been faked or stolen then she should be all right. But I don’t know that much about it, Sidney. The art world has its own rules, just like the university.’
‘And the Church.’
‘Why don’t you ask that friend of your old curate – Simon Hackford? He knows a thing or two about the business.’
‘He’s more of a furniture man.’
‘But he deals in art. He’ll know. Then you could see Leonard at the same time. I’ve always thought it’s a pity he’s not a priest any more.’
‘He was better in the parish than he thought he was. You know, he was the kindest man I’ve ever worked with.’
‘Those who think they are good “people persons” are often the worst. His successor, for example . . .’
‘Malcolm? He’s not too bad.’
‘The thing is, Sidney, I never trust people who are relentlessly cheerful. They’ve always got something to hide.’
‘Or they’re heading for a deep depression in old age. But Malcolm means well. He has a good, honest faith.’
‘It’s a difficult business, sincerity. People go on about it as if it’s a good thing, but murderers are sincere when you think about it. Even Hitler was sincere. It didn’t do Germany much good. Not that I’d say any such thing to Hildegard.’
‘Please don’t. You know she doesn’t have much of a sense of humour.’
‘German.’
‘Stop it, Geordie. You know that sets her off.’
‘She’s stronger than you think.’
Sidney resisted the temptation to say that he probably knew his wife better than his friend did, and returned to the subject. ‘I’m still worried about Amanda.’
‘The art malarkey? Some of it doesn’t sound right, I’ll give you that. I don’t understand why the aristocracy would be so careless about a masterpiece. If it is a Goya, and they got it direct from the artist, they wouldn’t just give it away to a relative.’
‘Amanda says his paintings weren’t fashionable in the nineteenth century. His work took a while to catch on.’
‘Didn’t I read somewhere that the last time they had an exhibition in London they had to hide all the pictures in a container lorry filled with tomatoes? You wouldn’t want that crashing.’
‘It’s remarkable how often lost masterpieces turn up, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Sidney. But it’s not so extraordinary when a family needs a lot of cash at the same time. You’re sure they haven’t hinted at all this to Amanda so that she overbids on a painting that’s not a Goya at all? I don’t want her to be the victim of a sting.’
‘You think she could be being set up?’
‘If something seems too good to be true, Sidney, then it generally is.’
‘I trust Amanda.’
‘So do I, but when money’s involved, trust and judgement tend to go out the window.’
Sidney had wanted to ask Leonard and Simon Hackford over for lunch for a few months now and Amanda’s intrigue provided a useful excuse. Hildegard prepared a golden harvest casserole, with chicken marinated in cider, honey and soy sauce with sliced peaches added towards the end.
‘You wouldn’t think it would work, but it does,’ she said. ‘A bit like our relationship, my darling.’
‘Careful,’ Leonard warned as Sidney opened his mouth to reply.
Hildegard smiled. ‘My husband has been on very shaky ground recently.’
‘Another case?’
‘Not yet,’ said Sidney. ‘It’s Amanda. She thinks she has discovered a masterpiece that no one else knows about.’
‘Didn’t she once uncover a Holbein?’
‘This time it’s a Goya.’
‘Not her period,’ Simon warned. ‘She’ll have to be careful who to trust.’
‘I suppose it’s best not to trust anyone at all. But that’s not very Christian.’
‘What’s Beauvoir like?’
‘Almost bankrupt.’
‘And therefore desperate. Has Amanda told you much about the painting itself? Has it ever been restored or “improved”? How much of the original is intact?’
Sidney thought for a moment. ‘I’ve always wondered if, once they start retouching, you can still refer to the painting as having been executed by the hand of the master; especially if we can no longer tell what is original and what has been restored. When does restoration become an act of deception? Is the subsequent appreciation of the art any less real?’
‘When a woman wears make-up is she still the same woman?’ Hildegard asked. ‘Or is she, perhaps, even more of herself – herself perfected?’
‘It is a complex area,’ Leonard began, ‘the question of originality in an age of reproduction. A photograph has less value than an engraving and an engraving has less than a painting. But if the engraving was done first . . .’
‘Amanda says that is unlikely.’
‘But if it was, then the block for the engraving would be the original work of art and should therefore be worth more than the painting.’
‘The first work is not always the most valuable,’ said Simon. ‘Think of studies for paintings, preparatory drawings. You could argue that those works were the true originals, the beginning of the act of creation.’
‘But the finished work requires so much more effort,’ Sidney observed. ‘Surely labour, skill, time and application have their price?’
‘Isn’t the question of apprentices and assistants relevant?’ Hildegard asked. ‘If other people have helped, can the work of art still be called original?’
‘It depends on the execution,’ said Simon.
‘What if it is a great painting in its own right but doesn’t happen to be by Goya? How much does the name “Goya” add value, even though the painting without its attribution should already be valuable and might even be better?’
Sidney took up his wife’s argument. ‘How much does the context within an artist’s oeuvre add value? Can a work of art have an independent value, freed of its original setting and outside the biography of the creator?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why do people concern themselves so much with authenticity?’
‘I think it is all to do with the hand of the master,’ said Simon. ‘You are one step away from the flick of the artist’s brush. If you touch the surface of the painting it is as close as you can get to the indefinable spirit of the creator. It’s almost religious.’
‘And that’s just how the priesthood works,’ said Sidney. ‘You could argue, Leonard, that even though you have resigned the priesthood, you still retain your status because you have been ordained. You took part in a ceremony of blessing that goes back to Christ himself. Hands were laid upon you. That cannot be reversed. Other people may be able to dress up as priests, they may even be able to behave as priests, but they are not priests, just as a Goya painting by
another artist is not a Goya.’
Driving up towards Yorkshire, Sidney wondered what else he might have been doing instead of gallivanting off to an auction with Charles Beauvoir and his oldest friend. A couple of years ago he could have gone with Hildegard to hear Radu Lupu win the Leeds Piano Competition; in Lent he could have attended a retreat with the monks at Mirfield; or that very Saturday he could have taken his father to see Don Revie’s mighty Leeds United play Everton.
It was a glorious day for a trip on the road. The leaves on the trees were at that brittle yellow stage before they transformed themselves into the full autumn glory of russet, gold and burnt toffee. A gentle wind pushed the clouds so steadily that the flow of light across the hills was in constant flux. A murder of crows started up out of the fields.
Amanda explained how vital it was to retain an air of detachment during the auction. She didn’t want people to guess that they were going to target the one painting. ‘You’re my cover, Sidney. No one will think that a priest can afford any of this stuff.’
‘But once the bidding starts it’ll be obvious you’re interested.’
‘Never forget the art of surprise. I’ll come in as late as I dare. We should watch for the competition.’
‘I’ll be keeping a very low profile,’ said Charles, although Sidney found it hard to see how a tall, bulky aristocrat in a windowpane-checked coat and trilby could carry that off.
Charles explained about family tradition and the fear of forfeiting a country estate that had been theirs for generations. It made him who he was to such an extent that if he lost his home he would lose all sense of himself.
Sidney was about to ask how he had managed to accumulate such debts, if it was through gambling or incompetence, but Amanda headed off any further questions. ‘Death duties are so terrible,’ she said. ‘It’s almost impossible to pay them.’
‘I should have kept all my investments in property and antiques. But I’d always been taught to diversify,’ said Charles.
‘Have you had to sell up?’ Sidney asked.
‘I should say so.’
‘Only I once heard a man say that you should never convert a paper loss into a real loss. You wait for the market to come right.’
‘I’d expect a Christian to say that,’ Charles replied. ‘It’s your whole philosophy: waiting. Some people can’t and if you are forced to sell and unable to choose the moment then you are as stuffed as the proverbial turkey.’