by Alan Jansen
Still, the jewel of the crown, or rather the pièce de résistance, was a medium-sized landscape painting covered in grime and dust. I blinked my eyes twice at what looked to me like a work of Constable or, if not, at least a very good copy, perhaps even an older reproduction from the war years. Constable fakes often find their way into the art world. It was hard to tell if the work was genuine or not. There are hundreds of paintings whose owners claim they are works of John Constable, and many are indeed even preposterously signed with a perfect, yet fake, signature.
I am, and never was, a dubious or cheating kind of man. Yes, yes. … I win at minor lotteries, raffles, and the like whenever I buy a ticket because of my Druid powers, but I never, ever accept the prizes, allowing the next fortunate number to win. I am wealthy far beyond what Julia and the very sharp Turtle imagine, and have always remained unostentatious about my good fortune. I had no need for more money. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have dreamt of taking advantage of the Darlingtons. My immediate reaction was to get the items thoroughly validated. And if my own quick appraisal proved correct, I would inform the old couple of their good fortune and make an offer to sell the objects through an established auction house, giving the Darlingtons the entire proceeds minus the auction house fees. I found it hard to tear my gaze away from the treasures and was much relieved when Darlington finished his little discourse about his failing gearbox. Not wanting to show my enthusiasm too keenly, I inquired casually if any of his objects in the barn were for sale.
‘Blimey! My dear Mister Cheroot! Anything inside this old barn is for sale, except of course the station wagon. Need the old car to get about, you know! There are some old chairs and cupboards that are whole, but they are so terribly old and dusty you would need to give ’em a good dusting and cleaning. Just take anything you fancy and give me a few quid if you want. I’m only too glad to be rid of ’em. I asked Mr Peters and even Blenkinsop at the bank to buy the lot, but they declined. Blenkinsop was quite cross over it all. People say he is an antiques collector of sorts, and those kinds of chaps always like dusty and broken old things. Told him I bought some of the stuff from Lord Sidcup’s jumble sale, but he said Sidcup’s secretary had sold off all the good stuff in some kind of private sale or another. Said the jumble sale was just to get rid of other old junk. I really have no use for all this stuff now, if junk is what it is! Might as well use that old furniture and those awful paintings for firewood, although I doubt Jane would allow it. Says old furniture smells bad in the fire.’
‘Ah! Well, you see, Darlington, I am almost certain that dusty and grimy picture and those two filthy pieces of furniture stored next to it are worth something. I can have the painting and the furniture appraised and then sold at auction, if you’ll allow me to manage the whole thing. I’m quite sure you will receive a tidy sum of money for it all. … I could take it off your hands, if you like and approve.’
I did not tell old Darlington that the furniture and the painting would make him a wealthy man if I was proven correct. I purposely saved that bit of information for later, once I was 100 per cent sure that the stuff was the real deal. I was almost sure the objects were genuine, but there were times in the past when I had made a mistake or two …
Darlington’s eager acquiescence to my request showed just how desperate he was to get hold of some ready cash.
‘Blimey! Mister Cheroot! You mean those old items can fetch us a few pounds? Crikey! Take anything you fancy, Mister Cheroot. Please do. That old picture and those two odd pieces of old furniture I remember distinctly buying at Lord Sidcup’s jumble sale. They were all covered in dust and dirt even then and nobody had wanted them. I don’t know why I did, but I suppose I didn’t want to go away empty-handed from that sale. The darn manager of the estate was only too glad to get rid of the lot for a tenner. If you can sell the furniture and the painting for anything more, the extra money will come in handy to pay off next month’s mortgage.’
I did not say anything to Darlington’s offer, nor did I comment on his ‘few pounds’ remark. I knew that the objects in question, if my appraisement proved correct, not only would pay off his monthly mortgage instalment but also could easily pay off the whole mortgage and leave enough in reserve for him and his wife to live on easy street – live in splendid comfort the rest of their lives. Perhaps their departed son was watching over them and their affairs from beyond the grave.
Mr Darlington looked on as I examined the lot once again before joining the ladies in the living room. I dutifully complimented Darlington on his work on the station wagon before we left the barn, knowing that Darlington was something of an amateur motor mechanic and that my words would please the old man. I even offered to buy an old hand plough and a rusty but repairable motor-driven lawn mower, intending to give the items to Jim, knowing that it would delight the latter no end. Jim had an insatiable love for any sort of farm machinery, even if old and rusty. He loved nothing better than pottering and tinkering about with such items, putting them back into shape. I put a few pounds into Darlington’s hand for the purchases and was rewarded to see the look of thanks on his anxious old face. It was obvious that the Darlingtons were in pretty much a bad way.
I easily put the painting, the dresser, and the chair in the large back compartment of Julia and Jim’s station wagon. Julia and I then drove off home after bidding the Darlingtons goodbye. On the way back home, I explained the purchase of the old lawn mower and hand plough to Julia and also explained to her why I had the taken the old painting and the furniture, saying what I intended to do with them. Needless to say, Julia was inundated with joy over the news.
‘Oh, Cheroot! You really think they are Chippendale? Why, they could easily go for several thousands of pounds apiece, perhaps even more. And if that picture is a real Constable and not a copy, it can fetch a fortune!’
(Here I must interrupt Uncle Cheroot’s narrative. I don’t know what Chippendale furniture prices were like in those days, but if today’s astronomical prices at auctions are anything to go by, I would say they were worth at least a tenth of the present-day prices.)
‘I’ve got to get a closer look at them, Julia. Just help me to bring them into the living room, where I can examine them further.’
Later on that night, after everyone had gone to bed, I examined the two furniture pieces carefully at my leisure. I saw instantly that they were genuine antiques and not reproductions. There were telltale marks that were distinguishable. For instance, the dovetails of the drawers were uneven, were few in number, and appeared handmade. The two pieces were also uneven in places and definitely not machine cut. The items had these trademark signs and were also made of different types of wood, showing clear signs of wear and tear in certain places due to contact. There was other stuff to check as well, like the stuffing, the glue used (if any), and screws and nails and things, but I didn’t do that now, not having the right tools or a proper eyeglass. The furniture pieces in all likelihood were genuine antiques, but the big question was, were they Chippendale? I had a gut feeling they were, but I needed to have a second opinion. The icing on the cake came when on closer scrutiny I found a bill of sale made out for the dressing table tucked away from prying eyes behind one of the small drawers, carefully nailed down with very small nails. I couldn’t find a similar invoice for the chair, but I was more than convinced it, too, was genuine. As for the painting, it seemed an original too. Antique furniture wasn’t my absolute area of expertise, but old paintings were. It was a landscape depicting a wagon being driven on a gravel trail by an old man, set against an open field with an overcast sky that was clearing up after a recent storm. It did indeed have the characteristic freshness of light and colour, and an unmistakable touch of Claude Lorrain, whom Constable admired so deeply.
Of course I could get my suspected treasures appraised by a few leading auction houses at Cirencester, the great citadel of the Cotswolds, but I knew nobody there personally and I wasn’t quite comf
ortable with that. I decided to put my trust in a person I knew very well instead. Exactly a week after I had discovered the find at the Darlingtons’, I took a train to London to visit Hans Gruthuenborg, a much celebrated Dutch art collector, appraiser, and wine expert, not necessarily in that order. I had made Hans’s acquaintance two decades ago, when he was a struggling auctioneer’s assistant in Hamburg, and since then I had seen his career soar to that of an esteemed art expert – especially art of the old masters. He also enjoyed a climbing reputation as a wine connoisseur of no mean repute, not only amongst his close circle of friends but also amongst professional wine experts. Hans was now middle-aged, slightly rubicund with strong Scandinavian features, and respectably married to a Swedish wife – Ingrid. The couple had a stunning daughter of eighteen who, as a matter of fact, had just turned eighteen just a few days prior to my arrival. I had the ‘suspected’ Constable with me and was hoping to get a first-class appraisal. At dinner that evening with Hans and his family, I was eagerly awaiting my friend’s appraisal of the painting I had left in his care that afternoon.
In the prelude to our evening dinner, Hans didn’t open the subject of the furniture and the painting directly. Instead he turned his attention to a side cabinet by the dinner table, where an uncorked bottle of wine with a somewhat dirty-looking printed label and a good deal of dust still intact on it stood in isolated splendour. Hans bade me sit by the table with his wife and daughter and then calmly turned his attention to the bottle of wine. He fussed around it like an old hen, peering into the bottle as though he could see some special nuance in the liquid, now and then chuckling to himself as though pleased with what he saw. He had earlier forbidden his wife and daughter from wearing any perfume at the dinner to ensure dominance of his maximum smelling acumen. He had also carefully placed a single Riedel Vinum Chianti/Zinfandel glass beside the bottle for his tasting pleasure. He then gently poured a little wine in his special glass and swirled it around and around, sniffing at it with his nose stuck inside the glass. The smelling process went on for a few minutes before he sampled a bit of the contents. He didn’t send it all directly down his throat, instead gently rolling some of the wine in his mouth with his tongue, before finally swallowing the lot. I had seen him perform this little ritual many times before, and I knew it wasn’t just show but a genuine wine-tasting effort. Wonderfully satiated by the taste of the wine, he turned around to face the rest of us at the dining table and announced in a pleased fashion that the wine was immaculate to his palate. His wife, Ingrid, with long traditions of destructive Swedish Viking drinking habits flowing in her veins, didn’t quite appreciate her husband’s almost sacramental ritual. Not a complete Philistine though, she had grown to tolerate it over the years and calmly waited until it was all over. She cared deeply for Hans, and her feelings were reciprocated, their love extending to their daughter, Emily, obviously the apple of both parents’ eyes.
After the wine ritual, Hans opened the dinner conversation promptly, ‘Ah, my good friend, you have not aged a bit! We others are getting fat and thin-haired, while you are still looking the same! It’s incredible! What’s your secret, eh?’
I decided right then and there that I would not visit Hans again. I rarely consort with anybody these days, but I had kept up a sporadic friendship with Hans over the years. His comments about me not ageing a bit made me realize it was time to bring our acquaintance to a close. This would be my last visit to my friend. Hans then commented on the wine he had just tasted.
‘An excellent wine, just as I imagined it would be. It’s from a small vineyard in the Médoc region south of the Gironde estuary to the north-west of Bordeaux.’ (I knew the district well enough, but the small vineyard he mentioned eluded me.) ‘This is celebration wine, my dear Cheroot. It is in your honour. Yes, you can celebrate, my dear friend. The painting, in my opinion, is a genuine John Constable, but the brushwork is a bit inconsistent, which could mean that he intended to work more on it later. But he has signed it and the signature is beyond reproof. You won’t get full price for it at an auction, even after I have given you a verification certificate, but it will still fetch a very handsome sum, a very handsome sum indeed!’ Hans continued, saying, ‘And now let us all drink a toast for the occasion.’ Saying thus, he poured us all a glass of wine from his precious bottle. Having partially drunk the toast, we settled down to a great dinner of a roasted leg of lamb, colourful vegetables, and steaming hot boiled potatoes. He had intentionally held his cook back from serving any heavy sauces, probably not to interfere too much with the taste of his famous wine, preferring instead the reddish juices that poured from the joint when the lamb was carved, which ran in little streams all over the carving dish.
Though the wine was exquisite, though the food was delicious, and though the news of the genuineness of the Constable dominated our dinner, I just couldn’t keep my eyes away from Emily, Hans and Ingrid’s young daughter. My scrutiny and interest was reciprocated. I always had the ability to attract women young and old, but only if I gave off a certain compelling vibe. And such a vibe I did indeed send now, targeting my young victim-to-be. Midway through the dinner, I knew I had young Emily in the palm of my hand, although it bothered me a good deal that I was attempting to seduce a good friend’s very young daughter. I was wrestling with my conscience throughout the dinner, in between chatting amiably with my host and hostess. If only they knew what my horrible thoughts and plans for the night were!
After dinner, Hans and I sat in his study sipping brandy and smoking cigars. As with everything with Hans, his choice of cigars was exquisite; the Bolivar brand we smoked was truly uplifting. An hour later, we said goodnight and retired for the evening.
The ladies in the household – Hans’s wife, Ingrid, and his daughter, Emily – had said goodnight earlier after knocking on the door of the study while we were still smoking. Emily had given me a fawn-like look of invitation that was not hard to misconceive. My room was at the end of the second-floor landing, adjoining Emily’s. As I entered, I found young Emily sitting on my bed, looking down at her lap with downcast eyes. Well, to make a long story short, we ended up making love that night. I was a bit worried right throughout and quite wary during the process, fearing Emily’s gasps and sighs were too loud and could wake her sleeping parents in the room farthest away from mine, also on the same floor. At around 3 a.m., after the final throes of our lovemaking, I put Emily under a hypnotic spell so that she would have no memory of what had happened that night. It was callous and evil, some may say, but then perhaps I am callous and evil, or at least part of me is.… I carried the subdued Emily gently and deposited her in her bedroom.
(I interrupt my slightly edited version of Uncle Cheroot’s diary entry here just to point out to my readers how depraved and utterly without conscience Uncle was when it came to matters of the opposite sex. He was animal-like, taking his pleasure with any woman he fancied, whether invited or not. In all other respects, Uncle, despite the occasional fear he instilled in me, was the most just and honourable man I’d ever known, but his lustful philandering spoilt and marred an otherwise excellent character. Emily was perhaps four decades younger than what he was, and he was carrying on with Mom besides, but that did not hinder him. Nor did it bother him in the least that he had in all likelihood taken the young lady’s virginity. Perhaps young Emily had intended to give that privilege to an intended husband in the future! I also wondered over Hans’s seemingly flippant comment about Uncle not ageing. I had always suspected that Uncle failed to age, and here was further proof!