Once the outcry had died down, attention began to focus on the man who had made the claim. He remained standing in his place.
"I believe you are mistaken, sir," said Simon firmly. "As I can assure you, this painting has been known to the gallery for some years."
"And I assure you, sir," replied the man, "the painting is an original, and although I do not accuse the previous owner of being a thief, I can nevertheless prove it was stolen." Several in the audience immediately glanced down at their catalogues to see the name of the most recent owner. "From the private collection of Sir Charles Trumper" was printed in bold letters along the top line.
The hubbub, if anything, was now even louder, but still the man remained standing. I leaned forward and tugged Simon's trouser leg. He bent over and I whispered my decision in his ear. He banged his gavel several times and at last the audience began to quiet. I looked across at Charlie who was as white as a sheet, then at Daphne, who remained quite calm and was holding his hand. As I believed there had to be a simple explanation to the mystery, I felt curiously detached. When Simon had finally restored order he announced, "I am advised that this lot will be withdrawn until further notice."
"Lot Number 39," he added quickly as the man in the brown tweed jacket rose and hurriedly departed from the room, pursued by a gaggle of journalists.
None of the remaining twenty-one items reached their reserve prices, and when Simon brought the gavel down for the final time that afternoon, although we had broken every house record for an Italian sale, I was only too aware what the story in the next day's papers was bound to be. I looked across at Charlie who was obviously trying his best to appear unruffled. Instinctively I turned towards the chair which had been occupied by the man in the brown tweed jacket. The room was beginning to empty as people drifted towards the doors and I noticed for the first time that directly behind the chair sat an elderly lady—sitting bolt upright, leaning forward, her two hands resting on the head of a parasol. She was staring directly at me.
Once Mrs. Trentham was sure she had caught my eye, she rose serenely from her place and glided slowly out of the gallery.
The following morning the press had a field day. Despite the fact that neither Charlie nor I had made any statement our picture was on every front page except that of The Times alongside a picture of the little oil of the Virgin Mary and Child. There was hardly a mention of the Canaletto in the first ten paragraphs of any report and certainly no accompanying photograph.
The man who made the accusation had apparently disappeared without trace and the whole episode might have died down if Monsignor Pierre Guichot, the Bishop of Reims, hadn't agreed to be interviewed by Freddie Barker, the saleroom correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, who had uncovered the fact that Guichot had been the priest at the church where the original picture had hung. The bishop confirmed to Barker that the painting had indeed mysteriously disappeared during the Great War and, more important, he had at the time reported the theft to the appropriate section of the League of Nations responsible for seeing that, under the Geneva Convention, stolen works of art were returned to their rightful owners once hostilities had ceased. The bishop went on to say that of course he would recognize the picture if he ever saw it again—the colors, the brushwork, the serenity of the Virgin's face; indeed the genius of Bronzino's composition would remain clearly in his memory until the day he died. Barker quoted him word for damning word.
The Telegraph correspondent rang my office the day the interview appeared and informed me that his paper intended to fly the distinguished cleric over at their expense so that he could study the painting firsthand and thus establish its provenance beyond doubt. Our legal advisers warned us that we would be unwise not to allow the bishop to view the painting; to deny him access would be tantamount to acknowledging we were trying to hide something. Charlie agreed without hesitation and simply added, "Let the man see the picture. I'm confident that Tommy left that church with nothing other than a German officer's helmet."
The next day, in the privacy of his office, Tim Newman warned us that if the Bishop of Reims identified the picture as the original Bronzino, then the launch of Trumper's as a public company would have to be held up for at least a year, while the auction house might never recover from such a scandal.
The following Thursday the Bishop of Reims flew into London, to be greeted by a bank of photographers whose flashbulbs popped again and again before the monsignor was driven off to Westminster, where he was staying as a guest of the archbishop.
The bishop had agreed to visit the gallery at four the same afternoon, and anyone walking through Chelsea Terrace that Thursday might have been forgiven for thinking Frank Sinatra was about to make a personal appearance. A large gathering had formed on the curbside as they waited keenly for the cleric's arrival.
I met the bishop at the entrance to the gallery and introduced him to Charlie, who bowed before kissing the episcopal ring. I think the bishop was somewhat surprised to discover that Charlie was a Roman Catholic. I smiled nervously at our visitor, who appeared to have a perpetual beam on his face—a face that was red from wine, not sun, I suspected. He glided off down the passage in his long purple cassock as Cathy led him in the direction of my room, where the picture awaited him. Barker, the reporter from the Telegraph, introduced himself to Simon as if he were dealing with someone from the underworld. He made no attempt to be civil when Simon tried to strike up a conversation with him.
The bishop came through to my little office and accepted a proffered cup of coffee. I had already placed the picture on an easel, having at Charlie's insistence refitted the original old black frame on the painting. We all sat round the table in silence as the priest stared at the Virgin Mary.
"Vous permettez?" he asked, holding out his arms.
"Certainly," I replied, and handed over the little oil.
I watched his eyes carefully as he held the painting in front of him. He seemed to take just as much interest in Charlie, whom I had never seen so nervous, as he did in the picture itself. He also glanced at Barker, who in contrast had a look of hope in his eyes. After that the bishop returned his attention to the painting, smiled and seemed to become transfixed by the Virgin Mary.
"Well?" inquired the reporter.
"Beautiful. An inspiration for any nonbeliever."
Barker also smiled and wrote his words down.
"You know," the priest added, "this painting brings back many many memories"—he hesitated for a moment and I thought my heart was going to stop before he pronounced—"but, hélas, I must inform you, Mr. Barker, that she is not the original. A mere copy of the madonna I knew so well."
The reporter stopped writing. "Only a copy?"
"Yes, je le regrette. An excellent copy, peut-être painted by a young pupil of the great man would be my guess, but nonetheless a copy."
Barker was unable to hide his disappointment as he placed his pad down on the table, looking as if he wished to make some protest.
The bishop rose and bowed in my direction. "It is my regret that you have been troubled, Lady Trumper."
I too rose and accompanied him to the door, where he was faced once again with the assembled press. The journalists fell silent as they waited for the priest to utter some revelation and I felt for a moment that he might actually be enjoying the experience.
"Is it the real thing, Bishop?" shouted a reporter in the crowd.