by Amy Myers
‘There wouldn’t have been as much of a market for a fake Rossetti as for a Vermeer,’ she said obstinately. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Anyway, Antonio says he doesn’t want to know if it’s a fake or not.’
‘I find that strange considering his former career, from which I doubt if his mind has retired, even if he professes to have done so physically. What seems to me unlikely is that both Lance and Antonio could be moving in circles where the chances of its being fake were so high, and yet neither of them appears to have taken steps to check it.’
‘The painting could be genuine,’ Georgia said defensively, ‘even if the goblet is a figment of Rossetti’s imagination.’
‘The rumours about the goblet predate the painting,’ Peter pointed out to her annoyance. ‘And there’s no mention of it on the blogs, only references to scripts that might or might not still be around. After all, Dover Priory had a highly regarded library at the time of its dissolution, which disappeared after the priory obediently submitted its catalogue to His Majesty’s men. Some of its treasures turned up later in other libraries; many did not, but weren’t necessarily destroyed.’
He grinned at her, furthering her irritation. ‘I think we need a clearer timetable,’ he continued.
She guessed what might be coming. ‘You think I should talk to Antonio again.’
‘I’ve already done so,’ Peter said smugly.
‘You might have told me,’ Georgia exploded, unreasonably perhaps. He was implying that she felt a rapport with the Benizis which blinded her to the fact that they were clearly not coming entirely clean over Lance Venyon.
‘I’m telling you now,’ Peter rejoined placidly. ‘A fresh eye or rather ear was needed. Madeleine answered, and I asked whether Venetia was right about Jago not liking boats or water. She confirmed it without hesitation.’
‘She didn’t mention it to me,’ Georgia said.
‘Perhaps you didn’t ask her. She sounds to me like a lady who isn’t forthcoming unless pushed.’
‘It’s possible,’ Georgia reluctantly agreed. ‘What about the sticky relationship between Jago and Lance? Did she confirm that?’
‘She didn’t answer me. She handed the phone to Antonio.’
‘And he said?’
‘Ask that nice Mrs Georgia to come to Paris again. We talk. But this time,’ Peter added, obviously noting her pleasure at the suggestion, ‘take some ammunition with you.’
‘Against Zac?’
‘No.’ He gave her a withering glance. ‘But find out what he was doing there.’
*
A typical Monday morning. Despite the fact that June had arrived, the Gare du Nord presented its usual grey face to Georgia as she descended from the Eurostar five days later. She had carefully packed her ammunition. Jennifer, as well as Madeleine and Antonio, would take centre stage in this discussion, together with Venetia. There was one other shot she could fire. Their website had thrown up another contact – a Barry Hoskin whose father, Professor Richard Hoskin, now in his nineties, had known Lance and would be willing to see them, although the phrase ‘not in good health’ had sounded ominous.
Her journey to meet Antonio and Madeleine proved shorter than she anticipated, because they were waiting to welcome her with beaming faces.
‘I didn’t expect this treatment,’ Georgia greeted them cautiously, somewhat taken aback, as they led the way to their car – complete with chauffeur, of course.
‘We make a visit somewhere first, then we have lunch, then we take you to Vincennes,’ Antonio announced. What was in store this time, she wondered, aware that the initiative had been swept away from her – no doubt intentionally. Antonio, for all his bonhomie, was the sort of person who never did anything without good reason, and in her case, she realized, that would not be for her company, but to do with Lance Venyon. So much for the ‘now we talk’. Control had been taken out of her hands, which was an unwelcome position – as was the rear of this car. She was constantly being thrown against Antonio as they shot along the pavé road straight over minor crossroads at which the driver gave not a blink to right or left.
‘Does he race at Le Mans?’ she joked.
‘No. Nürburgring,’ Antonio answered, so seriously that she was inclined to believe him.
She was aware that she was already relaxing in response to the Count and Countess of Orvona’s delightfully informal company and that she should be on her guard. Trust Antonio to take her by surprise again, however. When their destination was reached, she saw that they were outside the Louvre. Antonio issued instructions to his madcap driver, they descended, and she followed in the wake of the Benizis as they strode off for the entrance.
They were hardly the only visitors, and it was difficult for Georgia to keep up with her hosts let alone enquire what they were here for. Stealing a painting, perhaps? Swapping a Rubens for a copy rolled up in Antonio’s jacket? To look at a Rossetti? Who knew with this pair? She hurried behind them as they took the stairs at the double, and noticed a sign she recognized. Her heart sank. She had a strong suspicion that was where they were heading, although goodness knew why Antonio and Madeleine would want to show her La Gioconda. Georgia had seen the Mona Lisa at least three times before, and magnificent though it was, she hadn’t planned to spend her precious time here today admiring it. Sure enough, she was right. Antonio and Madeleine were joining the usual crowd surrounding this well-guarded and surprisingly small painting.
Antonio craned over the heads of the crowd. ‘Voilà,’ he said. ‘You see, Mrs Georgia?’
‘I do, but I don’t understand.’
‘That’s just the point,’ Madeleine said softly. ‘One doesn’t.’
‘I have a clever wife,’ Antonio said. ‘Look at this lady. What is she smiling at? Is it at a joke? Is it sadness because she does not like being wife of Francesco del Giacondo? Is it ennui because she does not like this painter Leonardo?’
‘There are no answers to that,’ was all Georgia could think of to reply.
‘Non. But there are more questions. Do we look at this lady and ask: are you true, are you fake?’
‘No,’ Georgia admitted.
‘Yet why not?’ Antonio said. ‘Some say this is a forgery. A copy. There are other Mona Lisas in the world. There was big law case once from American lady who said she had real Mona Lisa, but this painting won. Suppose the judgement wrong? Or suppose the real Mona Lisa still lives under bed of the men who stole her in 1911? Do we ask that as we look at her smile?’
‘No,’ she said again, feeling remarkably helpless.
‘I tell you why not. Because what we see in this lady is not just what is on the canvas but the soul of the painting. Always there is the soul in every picture. And if soul shines out, we need not ask more. It satisfies everyone.’
‘Not everyone,’ Madeleine objected, to Georgia’s relief, since she had had much the same thought. ‘Some want money, and that’s where the artist’s name is important.’
‘Yes, but we –’ Antonio struck himself on the chest – ‘you, my Magdalena, you, Georgia and I, Antonio Benizi, we want soul first, then money, and that is good. Come,’ he beckoned, ‘we will look at the soul of Goya, the soul of Venus de Milo. That lady has great soul, even if she have no arms. True?’
‘Yes, but—’ Georgia broke off, because Antonio was already bustling away on his high-speed tour. This was ridiculous. She began to feel like Alice and the Red Queen, rushing faster, ever faster, to she knew not where. What was all this about? To pave the way for confessing that his ‘Rossetti’ was a fake? Or that it didn’t matter even if it was? Either way, what had it to do with Lance Venyon?
At last Antonio came to a halt. ‘That is the end of souls, so now we will see forgers. Then lunch.’
The latter sounded an extremely good idea, and forgers at least struck a more relevant chord with her. Nevertheless it was severely cutting down on the ‘now we talk’ time she would have with them.
She had no sooner walked out of the Louvre
with them than as if by magic the car reappeared, and another high-speed terror drive took place. This time their destination wasn’t an art museum but a street hardly a stone’s throw from the Champs-Elysées. It was so narrow that the car took up almost the entire width. ‘You come back ten minutes,’ she heard Antonio instruct his personal Formula One driver. At the rate he drove, Georgia thought, that would give him time to reach Vincennes, have lunch and be back again.
The street resembled those to be found in any large town. Always behind the facade of the broad boulevards were the working people’s apartments, grey anonymous exteriors, large old wooden doors, tiny balconies where only pigeons added life. No sun could creep into this narrow road to breathe life into green plants. The trees of the Champs-Elysées seemed a world away from here where every dwelling looked the same and gave no clue to what went on within. Perhaps that was the point – it was ideal for forgers.
‘It’s been a long time, Antonio,’ Madeleine remarked. She still looked the ultra-respectable Englishwoman, and Georgia couldn’t imagine how and where Madeleine could ever have known this place. But then did she know the real Madeleine? According to Venetia Wain, obviously not.
‘Yes,’ Antonio agreed. ‘Which is the number? I forget.’
‘Number 13,’ his wife replied quietly.
‘Of course.’
Number 13 was a few paces along from where they were standing, a door like all the rest with only a brass number on the wall beside it to indicate its individuality.
‘Gloomy,’ Antonio remarked.
‘Are we going in?’ Georgia asked.
‘No. I do not know who lives here now, but inside once upon a time was the Louvre.’
‘Scusi?’ Georgia thought she had misheard.
‘Here were all the paintings of the Louvre, all the precious objects. Here was a palace, all the glories of the world. You have heard of Kranowski?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Great artist. Great faker. He had a family business here in the 1950s. He loved the past, did legitimate copies on commission, but preferred making his own. That way he created new great works. Domenico Kranowski was a great friend of mine.’
‘Although he was a faker?’
‘Is necessary to know fakers and forgers in antiques trade. I study their style, so I recognize them if they try to sell work to me. Domenico knew that. “I never fool you,” he tell me. “You are too clever.” So I know the Rossetti painting is not his. Kranowski was a lovely man. His father was a faker and his son. Kranowski wanted revenge on a country that did not protect his father. Jewish, you see,’ Antonio said matter-of-factly. ‘So he became an even better faker than his father, so that he could laugh very hard at all French experts.’
‘Was he finally exposed?’
‘Si. In 1961 and the family disappeared like magic. But it was not I who betray him. No one trust me if I do that.’
She saw what he meant. If Antonio was, as he claimed, a bridge between the legal and illegal art worlds, then he was right – although the bridge claim hardly tallied with Mike’s information from Interpol. ‘Could Lance have exposed him?’ Georgia asked. ‘If so, there could be a motive for a revenge killing.’
‘No, no. Lance was also great friends with Domenico.’
It all sounded very chummy. ‘Even though Lance’s job was to track down forgeries and fakes?’
‘Not like that at all. The villains not always the fakers. The fakers like their work. The bad men are those who set up con, find buyers, do deals. You heard of Israel Ruchomovski? He was master faker, great artist.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He was a gold- and silversmith, over hundred years ago. He loved objects of the past, so fake his own. He was not a bad man, he was a very good man. He created the ancient Persian Tiara of Saitaphernes, a big golden helmet which the Louvre bought. You know what he said when he was praised for this lovely fake? He said, “This not good at all. My sarcophagus is much better.” This sarcophagus was on exhibition in Paris as ancient relic and winning much praise. Very funny, eh?’
‘Are you suggesting Ruchomovski might have forged the golden goblet?’ Georgia asked, confused.
Antonio gave her a charming smile. ‘Who knows? But I think not. Fifty years too early. I only point out that there is soul in fakes too. There is soul in the tiara, soul in the sarcophagus. What’s in a name, your Shakespeare says. You know the old joke, there are twice as many Monets in the world as Monet ever painted. So now we have lunch, eh? And then we go to look at Gawain painting again. We will look to see if it has soul.’
She had been counting on an informal lunch at Vincennes to shoot off her ammunition, but once again control had been taken out of her hands. In the small Italian restaurant with crowded tables Antonio had chosen, it was impossible to hold a meaningful conversation and Antonio was in good form cracking joke after joke. It was equally impossible to be annoyed. He reluctantly agreed she could pay the bill in return for their hospitality on her last visit, but when she asked the waiter for it, it appeared that there wasn’t one. It was apparently an honour for the restaurant to supply them with copious food and drink (on which she went more carefully than last time). Nevertheless she managed to fire one shot in the car on the return to Vincennes.
‘Have you seen anything more of Zac?’ she asked.
‘No, Mrs G.’ Antonio chuckled. ‘He only came to see me for news of Roberto. He our youngest son, who work in Vienna.’
‘A lovely city,’ Madeleine immediately replied. ‘Have you visited it?’
Georgia hadn’t and Madeleine’s prompt account of it carefully took the subject away from Zac, and try as she might she couldn’t work the conversation back again.
Once in Vincennes, Antonio was intent on rushing her straight up for her date with King Arthur, but he wasn’t getting away with this one so easily. She was going to use all her ammunition this time.
‘Before I see it again,’ she said firmly, ‘I have to confess to a problem with it.’
Both Madeleine and Antonio looked surprised. Too surprised?
‘If Lance dealt with fakes and you were both so knowledgeable about the world of fakes in Paris, Antonio, how can it be right that you can’t tell immediately whether it’s a fake or not, only whether it has soul.’
‘We do not recognize the style in this case,’ Antonio said promptly. ‘Even fakers have styles, brushwork, care of detail, use of colours. Chrome yellow is one. In a fake that shows more clearly than in a straight copy. This one very good, and could be Rossetti. We study Rossetti carefully, see no difference. And yet, not quite sure, you know?’ He flashed her a beaming smile, but she stood her ground.
‘But I still don’t understand why Jago wasn’t brought in on this?’
Antonio considered this. ‘We live in Rome when Lance show us painting, so maybe that M. Jago not see it. We told your papa on the telephone that he is right. Lance did not like Jago because of Jennifer. Jago probably never noticed and thought they were great friends. He was only interested in King Arthur, and thought Lance was too.’
Georgia pounced. ‘Thought? So Lance’s interest in Arthur wasn’t as genuine as Jago believes?’
‘Lance,’ Madeleine took over, ‘was interested in all sorts of things. He would pick up interests and drop them as new ones came along. Arthur stuck, because Jago was always so obsessed with it.’
‘Then why didn’t he show him the painting?’ Georgia persisted. ‘He told him it existed, but apparently Jago never knew it was actually in his hands, otherwise Lance would have been forced to show it to him before bringing it to you in Rome.’
‘Why?’ Madeleine asked guardedly.
‘Because of Jennifer.’ Their faces were expressionless as she continued: ‘You agreed that Lance still loved Jennifer and vice versa, and that he kept up the relationship with Jago because of that. So he would not have risked being banned from the household through keeping Jago in the dark over something he was so obsessed
about. He’d told him about the painting. Why not show it to him too?’
Antonio heaved a sigh. ‘This is a clever lady, Madeleine. We tell her, yes?’
Madeleine nodded, watching her husband closely.
‘The reason he did not tell Jago he had bought the painting is that he wanted to save it so we could all get a higher price from Jago when he found Mr Ruskin’s letter and script proving the goblet really existed. Jennifer agreed. Great joke. So Lance said he loved King Arthur too, and wanted to help him find the goblet.’
‘So Jennifer still loved Lance?’ Georgia asked.
‘She never spoke a word against Jago, but I think she did,’ Madeleine replied. ‘She sounded devastated when she wrote to tell us of Lance’s death. The last time I heard from her she was pregnant again and then we fell out of touch.’
Two shots left but these could easily be dud bullets. ‘Does the name Richard Hoskin meant anything to you?’ Georgia asked. ‘A professor, who says he knew Lance? Or have you heard of a young man called Michael? He was a visitor not long before Lance died, so Venetia Wain told us.’
She thought she saw a flicker of reaction in Madeleine’s expression, but if so it was gone so quickly that she could not be sure.
Antonio shook his head. ‘Sorry, Mrs Georgia, many people know Lance.’
‘Neither of them?’ she asked.
‘What lady Venetia tell you bound to be wrong,’ Antonio replied briskly. ‘Now we see picture. We decide if it true or false. Whether it speak to us like Mona Lisa.’
Georgia followed them upstairs and into the bedroom again. The painting impressed her as much as before. This time, she ignored the dying knight and King Arthur, and studied the goblet first. It seemed to glow with a life of its own, its relief just faintly discernible upon it, including something that might conceivably be an animal. It was the whole goblet that drew the attention, though. Both Sir Gawain’s and the King’s eyes were on it, not, it seemed to suggest, for the gold but for what it symbolized for them. It was, she recognized, the painting’s soul.
‘True or false, Georgia?’ Madeleine asked gently.