A Family Affair (17 page)

‘The half a crown crowd?’

‘That’s our usual charge for both house and grounds. It’s rather a moderate one – but, of course, Netherway isn’t one of the major attractions in that line.’

‘No elephants and camels.’

‘Quite so. And nothing in the way of Titians and Velazquezes. But we do have a certain amount of fine furniture, which repays inspecting at leisure. So we run one Connoisseurs’ Day a month – it’s a common dodge – at ten bob. That does mean an occasional well-informed person prowling round.’

‘I see. But there’s another thing. You seem not to have known about the value of the statue yourself, and presumably your father didn’t either. But somebody put you wise after the event, so to speak. That strikes me as rather odd. How did it come about?’

‘I can certainly tell you about that. But it was an irritating business. I’d just as soon not have known the stolen statue had been of any value. I’d thought, you understand, that it had been lifted much as somebody might lift a china gnome or rabbit or toadstool from a suburban garden. Souveniring, as they say.’

‘It would have been rather an unwieldy souvenir.’

‘Perfectly true. But it seemed reasonable to suppose that it had been a theft motivated, at the most, by very petty gain, if not by mere whimsy. And then this fellow from Cambridge wrote to me. He’d heard of the disappearance, he said, from some common acquaintance of ours, and gathered I didn’t know the thing was antique. So he’d felt I ought to be let know. Decent of him, wouldn’t you say?’

‘No doubt. But how did he come by any knowledge of the statue in the first place?’

‘He was a Professor of Art, or something of the sort, and he’d been round Netherway with a group of distinguished foreigners. On a Connoisseurs’ Day, I hope. He’d spotted the character of the statue at once, and been surprised to see such a thing simply standing about a garden, but he’d hesitated to make himself known to me and mention the matter – no doubt because of my father’s treatment of the thing.’

‘That seems reasonable enough. Who was this man?’

‘He was called Sansbury. I remember the name, because I’ve come across it from time to time since. Quite a chap in his own line, I imagine. I never met him, you know. But I came to take his interest in my small misfortune quite kindly.’

‘You mean you heard from Professor Sansbury more than once?’

‘Oh, decidedly. We had quite a correspondence.’

‘I find this a very strange business altogether.’ Judith glanced curiously at her host. They were now approaching her car, and it was clear that in a few minutes she must depart. She wanted to leave as little as possible that was merely foggy behind her. ‘What exactly was there to correspond about?’ Judith paused. ‘Perhaps he offered you an estimate of just
how
small your misfortune had been?’

‘An estimate?’ For the first time, Lord Canadine appeared a little put out. ‘Well, yes. And, if he was right, it wasn’t small, at all. The statue was quite surprisingly valuable. Indeed, as a poor man, I’d be inclined to say “fabulously”. So it was all very irritating, as I’ve said. Still, it was amiable of this chap to go on being interested.’

‘Just how did he go on?’

‘Well, he thought it might be a good idea to find out about the statue’s provenance. My father could have known no more about it than I did, but there might be a record of it somewhere in the family papers. Sansbury urged me to make a hunt. He’d be awfully interested, he said, to hear of anything. Odd, you think? It hasn’t struck me that way before, but perhaps you’re right. Learned chap, no doubt. That sort often likes collecting knowledge just for the hell of it. Scholarship, and so forth.’

For a moment, Judith said nothing. In his simpler vein, she somehow didn’t find Lord Canadine altogether convincing. But she mustn’t, she told herself, get imagining things. This sober resolution, however, was not very well answered by her next words.

‘Did it occur to you,’ she asked, ‘that it might have been this Professor Sansbury who stole the statue?’

‘My dear Lady Appleby, what an extraordinary idea!’ Lord Canadine had paused by the door of Judith’s car, and was staring at her in astonishment. ‘If he was the thief, why in heaven’s name should he deliberately bring himself to my notice? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It
might
make sense. It might be some kind of bluff. And he was seeking information, wasn’t he? If he was going to dispose of the thing on some sort of black market, it might be to his advantage to know something about its history. Suppose you had in fact hunted around, and found a record of a Canadine acquiring such a statue in, say, the mid-eighteenth century. You’d have let him know. And he’d have replied that the fact was extremely interesting from the point of view of a historian of art, and he’d be grateful if you’d lend him the document, or let him have a photographic copy of it. It would have enabled him to sell the statue to some clandestine collector, since he’d be holding virtual proof that it wasn’t any sort of modern forgery.’

‘But this Sansbury is obviously a most respectable character!’ There was something like consternation in Lord Canadine’s voice – as if before such suspicions as this one must feel the very bastions of society to be crumbling. ‘Dash it all, Lady Appleby, Cambridge and all that, you know.’

‘Perhaps I’m being fanciful. Such fantastic things used to come my husband’s way, that I have a kind of domestic inclination in that direction.’

‘Ah, yes – your husband. It would be a great pleasure to meet Sir John.’ Lord Canadine frowned, as if feeling that he had given this too conventional an inflexion. ‘I should like it very much. Might we make my unfortunate statue an excuse for a meeting? Or is he, by any chance, interested in railway engines? You really must both come over to lunch one day. Julia would be so pleased.’ Lord Canadine had now opened the door of Judith’s car. ‘And how kind of you to have dropped in.’

‘I did so enjoy seeing what Lady Canadine is doing.’

‘Did you? But of course. The best duckweed in England.’ Lord Canadine put out his hand. He was, after all, a peer of the realm, and accustomed to take such initiatives. ‘It’s best to turn right when you reach the village. Goodbye.’

The apartment in which Mr Praxiteles received Sir John Appleby had as its principal ornament a large El Greco of the most splendid sort. It was evident that to Mr Praxiteles the authenticity or otherwise of a lubricous painting by Giulio Romano would be a matter only of the most minor concern. The argosies of Mr Praxiteles sailed the seven seas; he was very well able to buy the Louvre or the Vatican if he took a fancy to it; his polite regard for his visitor alone seemed to prevent his declaring that the episode of Nanna and Pippa had been merely absurd and to be laughed at.

‘I would venture to emphasize,’ Appleby said, ‘that you are not alone in being victimized. Others have been defrauded in related ways.’

‘I am sorry to hear it, Sir John.’ Mr Praxiteles extended in front of him two shapely and finely-tended hands. ‘You recall La Rochefoucauld?
Nous avons tous assez de force pour supporter les maux d’autrui
. I have never concurred in so cynical a view. Every day, I am quite oppressed by the misfortunes I hear of as befalling total strangers. The philanthropic temper is a great misfortune, it seems to me. Reason, however, comes to one’s aid. One can do nothing whatever about such calamities. One sighs, one even drops a tear, but one passes on.’

‘I don’t drop a tear, and I don’t even sigh, Mr Praxiteles, over any of these frauds. There has been no robbing of widows and orphans–’

‘That indeed would be distressing.’

‘–and nobody is much worse off than he was before. But this has been going on for years – for a quite surprisingly long term of years – and it seems to me only common sense, and good citizenship too, to get rid of it. We owe some sort of duty to others who may be robbed in their turn.’

‘How much I admire your sentiments, Sir John. It quite pains me that I am unable to be of assistance to you. After all, it is the person Braunkopf who has been defrauded in this particular case.’

‘May I say that it is nothing of the kind? It was
designed
that it should be Braunkopf who was defrauded, and so in fact it was for a time. But financially speaking, Braunkopf has retrieved his position at your expense. He has the real Giulio, and will sell it for quite as much as he believed he gave for it. You have the virtually worthless copy.’

‘Yes, yes – of course.’ Mr Praxiteles was indulgent rather than impatient. ‘But what was this Giulio Romano? A not very proper picture, amusing to glance at now and then. And what is the copy? Just that. As I do not sell pictures, the matter of shillings and sixpences is quite indifferent to me. Have you a favourite charity, Sir John? I will give you a cheque for £12,000 for it this instant, and be wholly charmed. Such sums have no meaning for me. I hope I do not sound arrogant. It is the most detestable of vices, to my mind.’

‘You mayn’t sound arrogant, but you did look a fool. This fellow Braunkopf came along, had only to tell you that there might be humiliating publicity blowing up, and you obligingly handed over the real picture (which had been perfectly safely returned to you by whoever borrowed it for the purpose of swindling Braunkopf) in exchange for the worthless one. Doesn’t the whole thing annoy you? Haven’t you any impulse to fight back?’

‘Ah, Sir John – now I must take issue with you. I fear you are adopting a posture – shall I say a stratagem? – not wholly to be approved by a person of unimpaired moral perception like myself. You are seeking to stir up malice and revenge in me, to play upon wounded vanity. Surely this is deplorable.’

For a moment Appleby said nothing – perhaps because what he would really have liked to do would be to kick this insufferable millionaire from one end to the other of his resplendent mansion. But that, of course,
would
be deplorable – and a great sensation in the newspapers tomorrow morning. Appleby tried another tack.

‘I wonder,’ he asked, ‘whether you happen to know Lord Cockayne?’

‘Cockayne? Yes, indeed. A delightful man. As it happens, he is after a seat on one of my boards. On the strength, I seem to recall, of one of his great-grandfathers having been an admiral. No doubt it is an adequate qualification, but unfortunately I have not yet been able to accommodate him. Lord Cockayne is perhaps a little past it, shall we say?’

‘He is certainly an elderly man, and the first person I can trace as having been a victim of the series of frauds I am concerned with. Lord Cockayne is, of course, a person of consideration in English society.’

‘But of course.’ Mr Praxiteles was courteously acquiescent. ‘Every Englishman loves a lord, does he not?’

‘No doubt. But England has a great many lords.’ Appleby paused impressively. ‘And only one monarch.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ There was a fresh degree of attention in Mr Praxiteles’ voice.

‘Not that it is exactly a reigning monarch that was in question. Shall we say an August Personage, very close to the Throne?’

‘My dear Sir John, I am at a loss to understand what you are talking about. Please enlighten me.’

‘I am speaking of the first of these depredations – and, as I said, it was many years ago. There was an imposture, an impersonation. It involved an affront not merely to Lord Cockayne himself, but in the very highest circles. Quite properly, serious umbrage was taken at Court.’

‘Dear me!’

‘Lord Cockayne was persuaded to silence in the matter. A Special Messenger – I have no doubt he was a lord as well – was sent down to Keynes Court from one of the Royal Households. And the whole thing was hushed up.’

‘Very properly, of course.’ Quite suddenly, Mr Praxiteles was almost awed.

‘But these things are not forgotten. A just resentment remains. And if the criminal author of this affront were brought quietly and discreetly to book, there would be corresponding gratitude, Mr Praxiteles, to all responsible. I think I may say that Grace and Favour would be shown in the most Exalted Quarter. You will not mistake me.’ Appleby felt that he had not merely managed to cram, so to speak, a great many capital letters into this speech, but that he had virtually clapped the Royal Arms on top of it as well. ‘And now I wonder,’ he proceeded smoothly, ‘how many of the circumstances connected with the disappearance of your picture are still within your recollection?’

‘My memory is a very good one. Sir John. It is a faculty which the operations of ship-owning tend to strengthen. And I am, of course, charmed to help you in any way.’

But Mr Praxiteles, even when thus brought to a better mind, seemed not to have anything very useful to tell. That vanity had a fair share in his composition was clear enough; and vanity had persuaded him to make known to a good many people his proprietorship of an interesting cabinet of erotic paintings. He could by no means name everybody who had been conducted through it since its formation. He had been discreet, of course; not quite everybody appreciates that kind of thing; but there might have been occasions when some man familiarly known to him had dropped in accompanied by another man not known to him at all – and there had been a stroll through his little gallery without his having so much as noted the casual visitor’s name. But he would not forget Sir John Appleby’s, Mr Praxiteles urbanely added. And would Sir John care to make the little inspection now?

Appleby replied, perhaps a shade austerely, that nothing of the kind was necessary for his investigation, and that as a matter of pleasure it was something he would deny himself for the moment. He took it, on Mr Praxiteles’ word, that pretty well anybody could have known of Mr Praxiteles’ ownership of at least one painting which was fair game for the kind of operation under notice. And by ‘fair game’ was meant an artistic work of high monetary value, the subject of which made it probable that its owner would not make too public a fuss if somebody got monkeying around with it. Just this had happened to the Giulio; it had vanished, with some assurance that only a joke was involved, and that it would be returned again; fairly enough, it
had
been returned – and only the vigorous and unscrupulous action of the party whom it had actually been designed to defraud (Mr Braunkopf, to wit) was responsible for its not being snugly within its original proprietorship now. Mr Praxiteles – Appleby asked – would agree that this was a succinct statement of the matter? Mr Praxiteles agreed. So the main question, Appleby pursued, was how the picture had been borrowed, and how it had been restored again. He would be glad to hear what Mr Praxiteles had to say about this.