by Ali Carter
Oliver laughed, not too much – that would have been rude.
‘Are they loaning their collection?’ said Zoe.
‘They have two great pictures but they’re reluctant.’
Zoe looked at Fergus. ‘Do we really want to loan ours, angel?’
Oliver spun on his heel. ‘You must,’ he said; he couldn’t afford to lose his one and only deal.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Fergus. ‘Don’t worry about that. Now tell us, what else does your job involve? None of us have met someone in your role before.’ Fergus smiled at me.
‘Managing nineteenth-century picture sales, but I do like a job associated with an exhibition. It means I get to see the paintings without the crowds. I feel very lucky about that.’
Fergus swelled with pride. ‘Well, you must just give us a call if you’d ever like to come and see our collection again. We’re very open to that, aren’t we, darling?’ He turned to Zoe, who nodded with a half-smile. I’m not sure she likes the cut of Oliver’s jib but then again it could just be she’s tired from a late night.
‘Which department do you work in, Oliver?’ she asked.
‘British Paintings, from early Tudor portraiture through to the early nineteenth century. I noticed you have one of Gainsborough’s dogs downstairs.’
‘Yes?’ said Fergus and I perked up. This was a painting I liked a lot.
‘There’s currently strong demand for eighteenth-century artists, the golden age of British painting. Gainsborough is a favourite. You’d get a pretty penny or two for your picture.’ Oliver’s eyes cast over the peeling plasterwork as they traced his thoughts. ‘And if you have any seventeenth-century portraits by, say, van Dyck, we’ve had record prices for these recently. Also, if I may…’
Fergus interrupted him. ‘It’s very interesting to hear about the current market but I want to stop you there as we Muchtons like to keep hold of our collection.’ He put his arm around Zoe’s shoulders. ‘It’s about the only thing in our family’s history, other than the house of course, which has survived the ups and downs.’
‘No problem, but our art dealership has an excellent relationship with both established collectors and new buyers.’ Oliver looked hopeful.
‘Not for us,’ said Fergus and Zoe shook her head. ‘Now if you’re happy being left alone, we shall leave you to it?’
‘Yes. I might need some time up here.’
‘Susie,’ said Fergus, ‘I should think you’d like to linger a bit longer?’
‘Yes please.’ I turned to Oliver. ‘As long as I’m not in the way?’
‘No, not at all.’
Fergus explained he was going to lock the door from the other side, he didn’t want people prying. He handed Oliver another key. ‘Use this if you need to get in and out. I’ll come back in a while, see how you’re getting on.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘thank you so much for letting me spend a bit of time in here. I’ll make sure I’m down for breakfast.’
‘Please do, Susie,’ said Fergus. ‘I’d hate to have to lie about where you are.’
Gosh, he was an honest man.
Oliver turned and asked me to point to my favourite picture.
‘The first one up there, Early Morning Stags on the Moor.’
‘Come then,’ he said. ‘Let’s stand in front of it.’
Side by side we gazed at the dawn scene.
‘What made you choose this?’
‘You.’
‘What?’
‘You made me choose one.’ I smiled but Oliver didn’t get the joke.
‘Why do you like it the most?’
‘To be honest, I’ve never really liked Landseer but I’d never turn down an opportunity to see his work.’
‘But you don’t like it.’ Oliver clearly wasn’t a painter himself.
‘One can learn a lot from well-known artists regardless of whether one likes their subject. I think Landseer’s rather brilliant at the craft. The way the morning mist parts around the stag in this picture and the coat of the dog in that one over there are extraordinarily masterful pieces of painting.’
‘Animal magnetism, that’s what we call it. You’re right, this is what makes his work popular.’
‘I meant the brush work not the subject.’
‘I see. That’s something I know all about too. But first how would you sum up his pictures?’
‘I’d say they were majestic Highland clichés skilfully portrayed.’
‘Hmmm. He does divide people and you’re correct in some sense, but the artwork’s misty mountain background was almost always added later – like a nineteenth-century Photoshop. And occasionally the animals weren’t even from Scotland.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, after the National Gallery had paid several million pounds for The Monarch of the Glen, it was proved the stag was part of a herd in Cambridgeshire where it was painted,’ Oliver sniggered.
‘Surely the point of the scene is its association with Scotland, not where the work was done?’
‘I disagree.’ Oliver shook his head.
‘So, if there was a picture of a Wiltshire man’s bagpipes, painted at his house in Wiltshire, then they wouldn’t be Scottish?’
‘That’s a different matter.’
I didn’t respond; I don’t want to bully this man.
‘Don’t you like any of Landseer’s work?’ he said.
‘I suppose I only meant his breast-beating Highland scenes. I like the loose brush strokes of his oil sketches in the corridor. I don’t know if you noticed them?’
‘I certainly did. Very much of their time. A much freer style but Landseer no doubt. Tell me, surely there’s a reason you chose this painting, Early Morning Stags on the Moor?’
‘I like the way that sprig of heather sparkles in the light and,’ I went up and touched the frame, ‘this gilded wood is lovely.’
‘Yes, his pictures are often presented well. You know the most famous frame, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said as I wiped some dust off my fingers.
‘That of Neptune, painted in 1824. It’s made of beams taken from HMS Temeraire.’
‘The warship that fought at the Battle of Trafalgar?’ I was confused.
‘Yes, in 1805.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, it ties in nicely with the subject of a black and white Newfoundland dog on the seashore.’
Oliver did his penny loafer sliding motion as he moved to the second painting in the row, Rutting Stags, and asked me what I thought of it.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Come on, you’re an artist, you must have more to say than that?’
‘I’ve always been a sucker for foreshortening so my favourite bit is the ridge of that barking stag’s spine. It leads one’s eye into the picture and I think it emphasises his dominance over the two less prominent ones.’
‘The triangular composition. Yes, Landseer liked that.’
Oliver held his face right up close to the canvas and inhaled deeply. ‘Hang on a minute.’
‘Does it smell funny?’
He didn’t laugh. Or speak for that matter.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I think there’s,’ he deliberated as he stepped back a bit, ‘something not quite right with this.’
‘The hanging of it?’
‘It is a little low, but no.’ He sounded irritated. ‘I took an extra module in Landseer of this period.’ His eyes were scanning the picture.
I have no idea what he’s thinking.
‘There’s something uncharacteristic,’ he began, moving his face back up close to the canvas, ‘it doesn’t look good enough to be by Landseer. It doesn’t have the authentic Landseer touch. Another version would have different elements but this is the exact picture and I suppose therefore it may be a copy, I can’t be certain.’
‘A fake?’ I said, instantly doubting the expert. Fergus is proud of his collection; there’s no way this
man can be right, we’ve barely been in here twenty minutes.
He cleared his throat. ‘These revelations can come as a surprise but, well, I presumed you were here to see how my job works and as you’re not the owner, or a close friend of the family, I thought I’d share my initial observations.’
‘Yes, yes. But it’s quite something to tell me they’re fakes.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting it’s a fake. I think something’s up. It could be a second version Landseer painted or a copy. Though I wouldn’t go as far as to say either yet.’
‘A copy or a fake?’
‘It might be a very accurate copy. Not a fake, no, not a fake. Only once a false signature has been added does it become a fake.’
‘Are they all…’ having already got in a muddle over fakes and copies I opted for, ‘…slightly dodgy?’
Oliver’s right arm shot out. ‘The final painting over there, Dogs in the Moonlight, has something odd about it too, but your favourite, Early Morning Stags on the Moor, and Horses at Bay are genuine Landseers, I’m pretty sure.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Identifying legitimate paintings is all about whether or not they’re good enough. The painter’s hand is the first thing you look at when deciding what is an original and what is not.’ Oliver moved along to the next painting on the wall, Horses at Bay. ‘I’m familiar with the brush work of Landseer and this one here is definitely by him.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘One has to be on an eye level to analyse paint. Come here.’ We went on to Dogs in the Moonlight. ‘Look, I’m not trained in art fraud, I’m here to value the pictures for insurance purposes, but I know Landseer well enough to see there’s something a bit wrong with these brush strokes.’
Once again, I wasn’t sure what he meant and I began to wonder if Oliver’s tentative suggestion it was a copy was because it’s incredibly difficult to ever be certain.
The oil sketches on the landing have very different brush strokes. Even I can see that. So perhaps Landseer was bridging the styles when he painted Dogs in the Moonlight. Or having a bad day. Us artists do from time to time. Some pictures work and others don’t. It’s a constant struggle trying to achieve the best.
‘Can you see,’ he said, ‘the brush strokes are all wrong in this picture, the texture of the paint with that plastic consistency is modern and I’ll bet you it’s on an acrylic ground – primer of that type has only existed since 1955. To me it doesn’t look like old nineteenth-century paint.’
‘Could they have had the pictures restored?’
‘That’s outside my remit but I don’t think so.’
I could see a sheen on the surface and when I asked, ‘Would you mind explaining the paint in more detail? It sounds interesting,’ Oliver took the bull by the horns.
‘When a painting has been around since 1840, and therefore it’s almost two hundred years old, the paint begins to dry – craquelure. It starts to crack on the surface. This is very important when looking for an old painting. If it hasn’t got the right craquelure it looks as if it’s not a nineteenth-century picture.’
‘Go on,’ I encouraged.
I live in an old house, my studio is cold and sometimes I worry commissions will crack if clients hang them in a warm room. Oliver might be about to help me out.
‘If you look at the first painting and the third, they both have a very obvious cracked surface, telling you the paint has been sitting on the canvas for a hundred years or more. Whereas, in this painting and the second one over there, there’s no cracking effect.’
‘Can one avoid paint cracking?’
‘In a hundred years from now we’ll know. Modern materials need to be tested over time, they haven’t been around long enough yet.’
‘I’ve heard of copiers baking the paint to make pictures look old. Much like dipping documents in tea. Is that true?’
‘Copiers try all sorts of things to produce a craquelure effect, but it doesn’t look right, you can always tell.’
‘Do you really think two of these are copies?’ My heartbeat rose as I said it.
‘I’m not making it up if that’s what you’re implying. It drives me mad when people undermine an art history degree.’
‘Oliver, I’m sorry, I honestly didn’t mean that.’
‘The Muchtons might well be thinking they can get away with submitting copies for public display.’
I tried to console him. ‘Zoe and Fergus wouldn’t do this to you.’
‘Well, I’ve seen the provenance of the originals. Fergus Muchton owns them and I’m pretty sure two of them aren’t here.’
‘Could they have been sold by one of his ancestors? Maybe they had them copied and never said. Or maybe they sold the originals by mistake? These do look just like Landseer to me.’
‘No fool would make that mistake. The owners will have sold the originals on the black market, it’s the only way they’d get away with it under the radar. That’s probably why Fergus has no idea.’
‘Surely if you’re going to be deceitful it’s better to fool the black market than your relations?’
‘Any underground specialists would have sniffed out a fake. By having them copied, they’re gambling with the likes of me that they can pass off these as originals.’ Oliver let out a long breath.
‘What are you going to say to Fergus?’
‘Nothing. I certainly wouldn’t do it face to face and anyway it’s not my job. When I’m back in the office I’ll mention it to my boss. He’ll give Fergus a call in a day or two to arrange a visit from Jamie Tumbleton-Smith, the current Landseer expert. It shouldn’t be a problem, I happen to know Jamie lives in Scotland, not too far from here in fact. He’ll come and give a definitive assessment and then we’ll all know where we are.’
‘Wow, I can’t actually believe you might be right.’
‘I’ve confided in you. I might be right, I might be wrong, these pictures are awfully good, but either way you mustn’t say anything to the Muchtons.’
Is Oliver backtracking? I think he might be doubting himself.
‘Yes, yes. I get that,’ I smiled. ‘Thank you very much for being so open with me. It is all rather fascinating.’ I looked down the wall of paintings. ‘Unfortunately I have to go to breakfast now. I’d so much rather stay and look a bit more. But at least you can get on without me asking more questions.’
‘Well, it was nice meeting you,’ Oliver smiled.
‘I wish they’d let the students I’m teaching in here.’
‘Nothing unusual about that. Quite a few owners closet their most valuable pieces of art away.’
‘Lucky me then.’ I hastily made my way to the door. I’m suddenly afraid Fergus might appear. I have been up here quite a long time.
‘Bye,’ said Oliver, retrieving the key.
He closed the door behind me and I paused on the landing. I wanted to know where Zoe had hidden the key last night. To the right of the door was a Landseer oil sketch and as no one was around, I thought, let’s see if it comes off.
My fingers were pressed against the frame but the picture didn’t budge until I released my hands and there was the sound of a click. I pulled at the bottom edge and to my amazement the whole thing hinged open to reveal a recess with a key pad. Easy as pie I’d found the hiding place. I clicked the picture shut again and took off downstairs.
‘Butteries for breakfast today,’ said Zoe, sitting at the head of the table and pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘Help yourself and pass the plate. I recommend Marmite on them.’
I sat down next to her. She reached across and stroked my arm.
‘Thank you,’ I said and she nodded with a smile. Phew, we’ve made peace over me seeing the paintings.
A plate of hot stodgy butter-drenched flat rolls came my way. Starting the day with a mouth full of calories is not my kind of thing but I had to try one and they did smell good.
‘Now,’ said Zoe, ‘I should have said this to you all at the beginnin
g of the week, we have a bandwidth allowance on the internet. I’ve had a warning to say we’ve almost used up our monthly allowance so please no more watching films online.’
‘The Young,’ tut-tutted Rupert, and Jane and Felicity nodded in agreement.
‘I haven’t been watching any,’ said Minty.
‘Nor me,’ said Giles.
‘Not me,’ said Shane, to which Lianne replied, ‘You have been Instagramming.’
‘So have you.’
‘Films will be the cause,’ said Zoe. ‘So please, no more.’
‘Miss,’ said Shane, ‘I looked you up on Instagram.’
‘And?’ I knew he had more to say.
‘Maybe you should be teaching us to draw hamsters.’ He burst into a fit of giggles and Louis, who had been drizzling Marmite around his buttery, ignoring Zoe altogether, gave me a giddy look across the table.
‘I draw people’s pets from time to time. Yes?’
‘Lots of pets @SusieMahl,’ said Shane. ‘Anyone got a hamster?’
‘I bet there’s good money in it,’ said Rupert. ‘And as we’re talking about it, I’ll commission you to draw our Labs right away.’
‘Oh thank you, but you’d better look at my style first.’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Shane, pulling his mobile out of his pocket.
‘Not at the table,’ said Rupert. ‘Later.’
‘You’re excellent at it,’ said Lianne. ‘I looked up your stuff too.’
‘If you want to draw animals,’ said Zoe, ‘we could organise a class amongst the Highland cows?’
‘I’d be up for that.’ Louis sounded keen.
‘As long as we keep to the right side of the fence,’ quivered Felicity.
The door to the dining room opened. ‘What’s all this?’ said Fergus, grabbing Haggis by the collar and booting him out.
‘Angel, there’s some interest for drawing the Highland cows.’
‘Well, I’ll see if Willie the farmer can cordon off a section of the field for you tomorrow if you’d like?’
‘I’m sure Willie will,’ said Zoe.
‘He’s a willing chap then,’ said Louis and I laughed.
‘I’ll go try him now.’