‘Where has it come from?’ he asked, turning the roll in case the visible part of the painting offered any clues.
‘The National Gallery,’ was the gruff reply. ‘Room nine.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, oh,’ the earl said and marched to the fireplace. ‘It’s the sort of thing affected pansies like you admire in such places, which is why I sent for you. It is mine. It was given to the gallery on permanent loan by my father and has hung there ever since. This afternoon, it arrived here by post, out of its frame, as you see, and… Well, open it, you idiot.’ He tugged at the bell-pull and marched back to the window.
Ignoring the insults, and fascinated by the story so far, Archer unrolled the canvas, securing one end with a paperweight and the other with a volume of Debrett’s. The painting was roughly three feet wide by four tall and painted in oils, some of which had cracked either over time or in transit.
Two men stood either side of a stone plinth in a classic pose. They could have been ancient Greek warriors or mythological demigods, their lack of clothing made it hard to tell. They were clearly men, their manly physiques and muscled bodies attested to that, as did their soldier’s sandals and sword belts. Their genitals were covered by a swath of cloth, although it left little to the imagination. Around them, the landscape rose to a rugged hill on the right and a ruined castle atop a crumbling cliff edge on the left. The sky was unmistakably turbulent and dark with angry storm clouds through which a few shafts of moonlight fought to reach the grove. Those that did lit the figures as if the moon was shining from the front when in fact, it was behind them as if to tell the viewer that these men were heroes permanently bathed in another light. The light of righteousness perhaps, or some other ethereal notion that singled them out as worthy. Were it not for them, the picture would have been gloomy, depressing even, but with them, it was dramatic and suggested a story.
The soldiers, if that’s what they were, could have been related, so similar were their features, and the older-looking one was in the process of speaking to his companion who listened, his hand resting on the plinth, the other on the hilt of his sword. The speaking figure, on the right and more shadowed by the trees behind him, offered his right hand, palm up, while his left was dropped towards the plinth as if explaining what might be written there. It might have been a classic David and Jonathan, or Castor and Pollux, and clearly, the meaning of the painting came from its focal point, the front of the plinth.
Which was where the mystery deepened, because the focal point was not there. Part of the painting was missing, and the table showed through in a rectangle which not only took away the older figure’s left arm but the entire meaning of the image.
‘Heavens,’ Archer whispered. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ the earl replied.
‘Me? This has been stolen and damaged. It is a matter for the police.’
‘If we are sure none of my guests brought it, then no, it is not. Not for our local idiots in any case.’
‘You said it arrived by post, Sir. So, unlikely to have been a guest.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The earl cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, the shock of seeing such damage has clouded my reason.’
The man had overreacted, and having assured him that no-one present in the house would be capable of stealing an artwork let alone damaging it and bringing it to the house, Archer sensed the earl had calmed enough to think rationally.
‘And this has what to do with me?’ he probed carefully, not wanting to set the man off again, his face had only just returned to its traditional colour. ‘Apart from being a man who appreciates art.’
The earl was about to let out another insult when there was a knock at the door, and he yelled, ‘Advance’ as though he was ordering troops on a battlefield.
Harvey appeared with Joseph standing attentively behind.
‘You rang, My Lord?’ Forbidden to look directly at the earl, Harvey addressed the far wall.
‘Brandy.’
It irritated Archer that the earl ordered his staff with the click of his fingers as he did to Harvey, but it infuriated him to see the footman called when another had been just outside the door. Worse was the fact that Harvey had been sent for just to pour a glass of brandy from a decanter not two feet away from its owner. The footman did it with grace and silence, however, and Archer was about to ask after Mr Wright when Joseph drew his attention with a cough.
‘Lord Clearwater’s valet,’ he announced as though he couldn’t think any less of the man, and Archer detested him on the spot.
‘Out!’ the earl boomed. ‘We are to be alone.’
James was waiting a pace behind the pompous footman, and Archer was impressed to see he showed no signs of having just returned from a two-hour ride and had even managed to change his boots and jacket.
‘I asked Mr Wright to join us,’ Archer said. ‘If you want my help, then his comes with it.’
‘Are you mad, Clearwater?’
‘Are you in need of assistance, Kingsclere?’
‘But the man’s a servant. What does he know?’
‘Invite him in, and you will find out,’ Archer replied, as Harvey offered him a glass of brandy on a salver.
‘Damn irregular,’ the earl blustered. ‘But have it your way.’
‘I usually do,’ Archer whispered, winking cheekily at Harvey as he took the glass.
After a moment of surprise, Harvey pursed his lips to keep back a smile of admiration and stood to attention.
‘Will there be anything else, My Lord?
‘Will you take a brandy, Mr Wright?’ the earl derided as James entered ‘Perhaps you would care to dine with us, or take my daughter’s hand in marriage?’
‘A gracious offer, My Lord,’ James said as if the man had been serious, and stole the wind from his sails. ‘But no, thank you.’
‘Go.’
Harvey was dismissed with another click of the fingers, and seeing James’ shock, Archer jumped in before he said anything untoward.
‘His Lordship is perplexed, Wright. He has taken delivery of a damaged artwork that should hang in the National Gallery. As it arrived by post, I thought you might be able to assist.’ To the earl, he explained, ‘Before joining my staff, Mr Wright served in the Post Office for a number of years and is quite the expert on these matters. He may be able to tell us where it was sent from. That, at least, might offer us a clue to who sent it.’
Kingsclere grimaced from James’ shoes to his hair, his moustache twitching and his fingers tapping his breeches while the valet stood to attention awaiting instructions. When the earl had finished his sceptical examination, he grumbled something about Archer being soft and strode to the bookcase beside the fire. There, he turned his back to open a drawer, and gave Archer a chance to mouth ‘Sorry’ to James who, in turn, silently replied, ‘It’s alright.’ Archer rolled his eyes and James smirked, resetting his face as the earl returned. To give him his credit, James didn’t flinch when he was invited to the table with a double-click of fingers and stood impassively gazing at the painting until he was handed a sheet of brown paper.
‘It arrived in this,’ Kingsclere said, his sneer still apparent. ‘You shan’t be able to tell anything from it apart from my address.’ The earl swiped up his brandy glass and emptied it with one gulp.
He was crossing to the bell-pull when Archer intervened.
‘Allow me, My Lord,’ he said, reaching for the decanter, and when Kingsclere opened his mouth to protest, added, ‘Think of me as your orderly.’
The suggestion appeased the earl somewhat, and his moustache stopped dancing as he held out his glass, a gesture that bought back unpleasant memories. When a junior lieutenant, Archer had often volunteered to stand in for the earl’s orderly because the man had been too bea
ten to carry out his duties.
It crossed Archer’s mind to give James a glass just to put the cantankerous earl in his place, but that wouldn’t have been good politics. Much as he disliked Kingsclere, there was no benefit in antagonising a man who stood against him in the House.
‘Mr Wright?’ he said when the brandy was poured, and the decanter back in its place. ‘Are you able to tell us anything?’
‘About a piece of paper?’ the earl scoffed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It is an American import, My Lord,’ James said, unfolding the sheet to its full size and holding it with his arms apart. ‘Machine produced, probably by the Columbia Paper Bag Company of Massachusetts, as they are currently the largest exporters of brown paper. This was not an SOS as there are no printed folds, but it is of the same material.’
‘An SOS?’ Archer queried.
‘A self-opening sack, Sir, developed by a man called Stilwell a few years ago and printed on an M E Knight bag machine. This piece was originally intended for the production of paper bags, but it’s a second or offcut. See here…’ James offered the sheet, but Archer just shrugged. ‘These lines of imperfection running through the pressing suggest irregularities in the pulping, making the product suitable only for wrapping and not for use as a receptacle.’
The earl stood with his brandy halfway to his open mouth as James flipped the paper over and rolled it until he reached the address label.
‘May I?’ he said, stretching for a ceramic oil lamp.
‘Allow me.’ Archer held it closer while James examined the address.
‘Ah,’ the valet said. ‘It was posted from London. Five Dials and the sender has overpaid the postage.’
Archer shivered and moved to stand beside James with their shoulders touching.
‘Does that remind you of anything?’ he whispered.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Quill had once sent a communication from the same post office and used too many stamps, but why he should steal a painting and post it to Lord Kingsclere was such a mystery, Archer could only see Five Dials as a coincidence.
‘Here’s something.’ James held the paper closer to the lamp. ‘It left London yesterday afternoon, which sounds about right for the delivery time, but…’ Flipping the roll over, he pressed the label to the lamp glass allowing more light to filter through. ‘But London wasn’t it point of origin. It was originally posted from… Can you read that stamp, Sir?’
James pressed closer to Archer and turned the paper a fraction as the viscount leant in, squinting.
‘My eyes are not what they were, Wright, but it looks like Delft to me. Could that be possible?’
‘It could. The paper has been reused. Hold this.’ James was so intent on his investigation, he forgot to add Sir as he thrust the roll into Archer’s hand.
The earl’s disapproval was apparent. When the valet dipped a finger in the viscount’s brandy glass, it was audible, and when the valet rubbed the brandy long the edges of the label, it was given a voice.
‘What the hell are you doing, man?’
James ignored him, and thinking that was a step too far, Archer nudged him to remind him where he was.
‘I beg your pardon, My Lord,’ James smiled affably across the table. ‘The alcohol weakens the rubber-based glue.’ Returning to his meticulous work, he carefully peeled the label from the paper, and holding it between thumb and fourth finger, set it aside.
‘Good Lord!’ the earl exclaimed, peering closely at what James had uncovered, ‘”BQ one-hundred-and six, GPO, WC2.” What does that signify, Clearwater?’
To Archer, the initials screamed Benjamin Quill, as did the postal code.
‘I am at a loss,’ the viscount said. ‘Mr Wright?’
‘I can’t be sure, Sir, but I would guess that this was sent from a place called Delft to a security box at Five Dials GPO, and from there, directed on to here using the same paper with a label stuck over the original address. It’s a common enough practice.’ Looking at the earl, he asked, ‘Was there anything else with it? String perhaps?’
‘String?’ The earl glared as if James was mad and threw him a length of twine. ‘Here. I suppose you are going to tell me it was produced by Mendicant Nuns in Tipperary.’
James sniffed the twine. ‘No, My Lord. Bradford.’
The earl’s bluster vanished in a gawp but returned when Archer beamed and slapped James on the back.
‘Don’t be so smug, Clearwater. It’s just a valet.’
The viscount considered beating his old captain unconscious on the Oriental rug, but James calmed him by ignoring the remark.
‘May I turn this over?’ he asked, distracting both men by helping himself to the painting before being given permission.
‘You might as well,’ Kingsclere muttered. ‘You’ve already had your paws in my best cognac. What can you tell us about that, then, eh? Valet?’
Archer put the paper to one side and placed the lamp where it threw more light on the image, his mind trying to find a connection between Quill, the National Gallery and Lord Kingsclere. The only one he could find was himself.
‘Be careful!’ the earl protested as James scraped a fingernail over the ridges of oil paint. ‘That’s a Wolfgang Vaine, one of his last great works and valuable beyond measure.’
‘Not any more it ain’t,’ James mumbled loud enough for Archer to hear.
‘What’s that?’
‘Mr Wright correctly points out that its value is much reduced by the damage,’ Archer said, poking James in the back and trying not to laugh.
‘Bloody disgrace. What are you doing now, man? It has already suffered enough at the hands of thugs.’
James was turning the canvas over to examine the back, and either chose to rise above the earl’s continued insults or was too engrossed to hear them.
‘Have there been any reports of an art theft?’ Archer asked, to distract Kingsclere.
‘Not yet,’ the earl replied. ‘But I’ll be blowed if we don’t read of one in the evening paper. Perhaps we should send for the police after all, Clearwater. The attempt to shock the life from me may have failed, but another crime has clearly been committed. I shall dispatch one of the footmen, the exercise will do it good.’
‘I shouldn’t yet,’ James said, standing back from his examination.
‘Send that servant to your dressing room, Clearwater. The upstart has overstepped his mark and is an embarrassment to you. If he was one of mine, his insolence would have earned him the cat long ago.’
They were words Archer’s father would have used. Perhaps it was the similarity between the two men that made the stay at Kingsclere House so unpleasant.
‘How old is this painting?’ James asked, his restraint swelling Archer’s pride.
‘It was painted in eighteen-eighteen.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, I’m bloody sure.’ Kingsclere exploded and appealed to Archer, his face once again the colour of raw beef. ‘Clearwater, really! The insolence of your man.’
Archer raised the palm of his hand for patience.
‘Why do you ask, Mr Wright?’
‘Well, Sir,’ James said. ‘I don’t know much about art, but I can tell you this painting is a forgery.’
Four
Archer was stunned. The painting, if real, would have been priceless before it was vandalised, and James’ deduction, if accurate, was good news for the art world. Privately relishing the earl’s outrage, he returned his attention to the painting. Wolfgang Vaine was not an artist he knew well, but as he had visited the National Gallery on many occasions, and seen everything it offered, he must have seen this one before, and yet it rang no bells.
‘How can you be sure it is a forgery?’ he asked, si
pping his brandy and preparing to be impressed.
James, as usual, didn’t let him down.
‘Parker and Hobbs, Sir,’ he said, lifting the lantern carefully over the canvas. ‘Stationers and makers of paper, parchment, canvas and envelopes. See, here?’ His finger touched a dark patch on the material before moving across two inches where he pointed again. ‘And here. All the way through in regular pattern? It’s the maker’s mark. You can just about read it says Parker and Hobbs.’
To Archer, the stamp was blurred, but he trusted James, although he still didn’t understand. ‘And that makes this a forgery, why?’
‘Because the company only came into existence in eighteen-fifty-six,’ James replied without looking up. ‘Mr Hicks, my old boss at the telegraph office, used to work for them until they closed their works in the city and moved elsewhere. So, if your artist painted this picture in eighteen-eighteen, he couldn’t have done it on this make of canvas. It wasn’t produced in his lifetime.’
‘No, indeed,’ Archer agreed. ‘Which only adds to the mystery. Can you tell us anything else?’
‘I can.’ James stood straight from bending over. ‘It’s never been framed, so I doubt it was stolen.’
‘And how do you know that?’ the earl mocked as he looked James up and down. ‘What is he, Clearwater, a soothsayer?’
‘I’m only guessing really,’ James continued undaunted. ‘But if it had been in a frame, wouldn’t there be creases? Don’t they bend the edge back around the wood and nail it in place?’
‘You’re right, of course,’ Archer said, glowing with pride. ‘It’s canvas, and so yes, it would leave a fold. You agree, Kingsclere?’
Reluctantly, the earl did.
‘So, what you have,’ Archer said, ‘is a forgery of a masterpiece, sent to you from Delft via London. That is one mystery. There are more.’
The earl was glowering at James, presumably thinking of more insults, but Archer’s words distracted him.
Artful Deception Page 4