Death of an Old Master (8 page)

Lady Lucy was shown into the grand drawing room on the first floor. Rosalind, Lady Pembridge greeted her effusively. ‘Lucy, my dear, how very nice to see you! How are the children?’
Lady Lucy had barely started to reply when the other two sisters chimed in, almost in unison.

‘Where is Francis?’ said Mary Burke and Eleanor, Powerscourt’s youngest sister, married to a sea captain in the West Country.

‘Francis? He said he’d be here in a moment,’ said Lady Lucy, knowing all too well there was nothing Powerscourt’s sisters enjoyed more than complaining about him.

‘He’s disappeared again. Honestly!’ said Rosalind.

‘I thought he’d grown out of all that by now,’ said Mary, looking at Lady Lucy as if she should have taught him better manners after seven years of marriage.

‘How very inconsiderate. Typical Francis, spoiling a nice luncheon party,’ said Eleanor.

‘He must have a new case,’ said William Burke who knew rather better than the three sisters how difficult Powerscourt’s job could be. ‘Is that so, Lucy?’

‘It is,’ said Lady Lucy, smiling gratefully at her brother-in-law. ‘He does have a new case. And at the moment, he’s completely in the dark.’

‘Luncheon won’t wait,’ said Rosalind imperiously. ‘The soup might keep but the lamb will not. Will Francis be here for the soup, do you think, Lucy?’

‘I’m sure he will,’ said Lucy bravely. Privately she rather doubted it.

Her husband had reached the inquiry desk that ran round half the entrance hall of the London Library. Portraits of Carlyle and Dickens, founder members, lined the walls. In
the centre of the room a flotilla of index cards, housed in great wooden containers, filed away the secrets of the library’s contents. Was the librarian available to speak to him, he
inquired? He assured the young man that he, Lord Francis Powerscourt, had been a member for many years. He wished to consult the librarian on a matter of the utmost delicacy. Michael Stock, the
librarian, he was told, could speak to him in a few minutes. Powerscourt glanced anxiously at his watch. The first course was only minutes away.

‘How can we help you, Lord Powerscourt?’ Stock was a slim man of middle years with a worried expression and very strong glasses. He pulled from time to time at the corners of his
large moustache.

‘I am an investigator, Mr Stock,’ he began. ‘At present I am looking into the death of a young man called Christopher Montague who was a member here. He was murdered. You may
have read about it in the papers. I know he was a regular visitor here. One of his friends told me the reading room upstairs was his favourite place in London.’

‘I was truly sorry to hear of his death,’ said Stock. ‘The library sent a wreath, you know. He was very popular here with all the staff.’

‘The reason for my visit is this,’ Powerscourt went on, casting a surreptitious look at his watch. Damn! They must be on the first course by now. ‘I wonder if it would be a
simple matter for you to discover which books he had recently borrowed from the library. Some of his books and all his papers were removed from his rooms when he was murdered. If I knew what he had
been working on at the time of his death, then it might advance my cause. At present,’ he smiled a deprecating smile, ‘I am operating rather in the dark.’

‘I do hope’, said Stock, rather fiercely, ‘that none of our books were among those removed from his quarters. Members are only permitted to keep them for a month.’

Powerscourt wondered if the London Library had a system of fining deceased members for the books they had not returned.

‘It is not the normal library practice to disclose what volumes have been borrowed by individual members.’ Powerscourt suddenly wondered if there were secret stacks of erotica hidden
away in the bowels of the building. ‘However,’ Stock hurried on, suspecting that his earlier comments might not have been altogether appropriate, ‘I am sure we can make an
exception in this case. If you can give us a few minutes, I am sure we can help you.’

Stock hurried out into his entrance hall. Powerscourt could hear him giving instructions to his staff.

Across the square the soup plates had been cleared away. ‘Lucy,’ asked Rosalind Pembridge, ‘one course down, only three to go. Any prospect of Francis putting in an appearance,
do you suppose?’

‘Too bad, too bad,’ chorused the other two sisters.

Lady Lucy was not going to join the accusations against her husband. She would stand by him, whatever barbs were thrown. ‘I think we should just carry on,’ she said. ‘As if he
wasn’t here.’

‘That’s just the point.’ Eleanor was quick off the mark. ‘He isn’t here. Perhaps he’s been abducted by some villains.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said William Burke. ‘This is St James’s Square, not Shoreditch.’

Stock trotted back into his office, a pile of borrowing slips in his hand. ‘Now then, Lord Powerscourt. This is what we’re looking for. And I think Garson here may be able to help
further.’ Garson was the young man Powerscourt had first talked to in the entrance hall.

‘Life of Giovanni Bellini. German author. Life of Giorgione. Another German author. Both translated. Life of Titian. Italian author. Vasari,
On Technique.
And there were two volumes
he asked us to obtain from a good Italian source in London. He collected those shortly before his death.’

‘Forgive me for asking for yet more information when you have been so helpful already,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but do you have dates for these borrowings?’

Powerscourt was taking notes now. He saw that all the volumes had been taken out the day after the preview of the de Courcy and Piper Gallery’s exhibition of Italian Old Masters. He
inquired about the Italian books on order from another source. Had they been ordered on the same day?

‘Yes, sir,’ said Garson the young assistant. ‘They were.’

‘And what,’ said Powerscourt eagerly, ‘were their titles?’

‘Roughly translated, they were called
How to Make Your Own Old Masters
,’ said Garson, ‘and
The Art of Forging Paintings.
Both published in Rome in the eighteenth
century, believed to be contemporary manuals on how to forge Old Masters for English visitors on the Grand Tour, sir.’

‘Were they indeed?’ said Powerscourt, feeling pleased that a thin shaft of light had opened up on his investigation. ‘And what was the other intelligence you have, Mr Garson?
Not that you haven’t been very helpful already.’ He took another surreptitious look at his watch. Christ! They must be on the pudding by now.

‘Only this, my lord,’ said Garson nervously. ‘Mr Montague talked to me quite a lot when he was here. I used to help him find books and that sort of thing. He told me the
morning he took those books out,’ Garson shuddered slightly, ‘that he was going to be the co-founder of a new magazine. He wanted to know if the library would take out a
subscription.’

‘Did he tell you who the other founder was, Garson?’ Powerscourt was feeling rather hungry now. He wondered if Rosalind would have saved him any lunch.

‘He did not, my lord. I’m afraid I have no idea.’

Powerscourt thanked the librarians and hurried across St James’s Square. It was almost half-past two.

‘How very nice of you to put in an appearance, Francis,’ said Lady Rosalind, surveying him severely from the top of the table, ‘only two hours late.’

‘Such a pity we have to leave in a moment,’ said Mary.

‘And to think that you used to lecture us when we were small about being punctual and the importance of good manners,’ said Eleanor. ‘You were always going on about being on
time and good manners.’

Lady Lucy sensed a sudden wrath coming over her husband. Francis very seldom lost his temper, the last occasion about four years ago. She patted him affectionately on the knee. For a fraction of
a second Powerscourt wanted to shout at his three sisters. He was trying to find a murderer who might strike again. They were merely concerned with punctuality. Beyond the safety of their front
doors and the railings around the square there was a dangerous world where people put pieces of picture cord or piano wire round other people’s necks and pulled until their victim could
breathe no longer. He didn’t think that was very good manners. Somebody had to do the dirty work to keep the world secure for society and its rituals.

But he didn’t. He smiled apologetically at the assembled company. ‘My apologies for being late,’ he said. ‘I had very important work to do in the London Library across
the Square. I must have the food of the penitent if you have such provision. Bread and cheese perhaps? Humble pie and pickles?’

Edmund de Courcy believed he could compile a selling manual based entirely on the talents of William Alaric Piper. Piper was a maestro in his field. He had different voices,
different styles depending on his victim. He could cajole. He could bribe. He could bully. He could inspire. He could flatter. He could rhapsodize about the beauty of paintings he was selling. He
could be scornful about the ones he was buying. Often the painting would be the same.

Now de Courcy and Piper were sitting with James Hammond-Burke in the morning room of Truscott Park. De Courcy
and Piper were on the sofa to the left of the fireplace, Piper in a dark blue suit and sparkling black boots. Hammond-Burke faced them in an armchair with horse hair falling out of the side.
Paintings of previous Hammond-Burkes stood on either side of a vast mirror. There was a large crack running down the left-hand side of the glass. The Raphael, still in its wrapping paper, sat
incongruously between de Courcy and Piper.

‘Mr Hammond-Burke,’ began Piper, purring in his most ingratiating tone, ‘let me tell you what a pleasure, nay, more than a pleasure, what an honour it has been to have enjoyed
the company of your Raphael for the brief period it has been our privilege to care for it. The curves! The colours! The innocence! The beauty! Truly we are blessed that this masterpiece has
survived the ravages of time.’

Hammond-Burke made as if to speak. Piper pressed on. ‘We have, of course, brought this beautiful object back to you. Only you can be the final arbiter of its fate. We have consulted the
finest experts in London about its provenance. Neither you nor I, of course, would doubt for a second that it is a genuine Raphael, but I do not need to tell you that we live in suspicious times.
There is always some charlatan prepared to gainsay, to contradict the evidence of our own eyes and our own hearts, our very souls, in fact, that this
Holy Family
is really the work of
Raphael. The experts have only confirmed what we knew – that it is genuine. And that means, demeaning though it is to mention money in the presence of such glory . . .’ William Alaric
Piper paused to cast a reverential glance of worship at the brown paper and string beside him, ‘. . . that the painting will be valued at its true worth.’

Piper paused again. Hammond-Burke seized his moment ‘How much?’ he said. It was, de Courcy remembered, exactly the same phrase Hammond-Burke had employed on his previous visit. This
was a perfect moment for connoisseurs of the Piper style. De Courcy doubted if the high-flown rhetoric, the gushing Piper would serve now. Hammond-Burke was not a man to be moved by the rhetorical
tricks of a Demosthenes or a Cicero or a William Alaric Piper. But he could scarcely change character in mid flow.

Piper did not hesitate for a second. His reply was as blunt as the question. ‘Forty-five thousand pounds,’ he said. Then he paused briefly. He fiddled about in his breast pocket and
passed over a cheque to his host.

Hammond-Burke looked at it. It was probably the largest cheque he had ever seen in his life. Pay James Hammond-Burke, it said, the sum of forty-five thousand pounds. De Courcy wondered if Piper
had a series of cheques in his pocket, made out for smaller, maybe even larger, sums. How did he know he was pulling the right cheque out? It would be, to say the least, unfortunate if the written
figures were ten thousand pounds less than the spoken word.

‘Thank you,’ said William Hammond-Burke, his eyes drawn magnetically to the figures on the cheque. ‘But I have a few questions for you, Mr Piper.’ He looked as if he
might be going to ask for more money. ‘Is that your final offer?’ he said.

Piper leaned forward confidentially in his sofa. ‘Mr Hammond-Burke,’ he went on, ‘believe me when I tell you this. I have loved paintings all my life. In many ways they are my
life, my inspiration.’ Get on with the business, thought de Courcy to himself. ‘It has always been our policy to offer the possessors of such masterpieces the very highest prices. Only
on the train on the way down here Edmund was suggesting a lower figure. A considerably lower figure, Mr Hammond-Burke.’

Piper waited to let the thought of a lower figure take centre stage in Hammond-Burke’s mind. Then he leaned back into the sofa once more. ‘But I overruled him. That is the figure I
propose. Not a penny more, but certainly, undoubtedly, not a penny less.’

De Courcy was watching Hammond-Burke’s face very closely. Greed and anxiety, in equal portion, passed across his features.

‘What will you sell it for?’ he asked.

De Courcy sat back and watched the play unfold. He had the best seats in the house. Which Piper would come forth now?

‘I have no idea,’ he said. De Courcy knew that was a lie. Piper had at least one American millionaire, William P. McCracken of the Boston railroads, in his sights. Maybe there were
more.

‘It is impossible to say.’ Piper shook his head rather sadly. ‘It depends on the market, on who wishes to buy at any given time. Sad and regrettable though you and I would
regard it, Mr Hammond-Burke, objects of great beauty like your exquisite Raphael are as subject to the whims, the ups and downs of the market as any other commodity like wheat or potatoes. It might
sell for fifty thousand pounds. I should be surprised if it did.’

I’ll bet you’d be bloody well surprised, you old fraud, thought Edmund de Courcy, you’re already thinking of seventy-five or eighty thousand for the contents of the brown paper
and the string.

‘Equally it could sell for forty thousand, or thirty-five thousand, even as low as thirty thousand. Sometimes it takes years to find the right buyer. My honest advice to you, Mr
Hammond-Burke, would be to take the forty-five thousand now.’