The gallery of de Courcy and Piper in Old Bond Street was temporarily closed to the public that morning. Opening at eleven o’clock, said the sign outside. All the doors were locked. Edmund de Courcy and William Alaric Piper were in the basement. That door was also locked.
‘Only two more to go,’ said Piper, panting slightly. He placed a small piece of cloth over a nail on the bottom of a picture frame. He pulled very slightly. The nail did not move. He tried again, pulling fractionally harder. Again the nail did not move.
‘Damn these nails!’ said Piper. He was reluctant to pull too hard in case damage was done to the painting or the frame. And, as both he and de Courcy knew only too well, one day soon they would have to perform the operation in reverse.
He tried again. Very slowly the nail agreed to part from the frame. De Courcy had a piece of paper ready for it. Bottom row, first from right-hand corner, said the piece of paper. De Courcy placed the nail reverently into its new home. Then he put it into a box. The nails were ordered in the box in the same way they had been in the frame.
‘There!’ said Piper. The last nail had come out. De Courcy pulled the painting very carefully from its frame. He rolled it into a cylindrical shape and wrapped it in two sheets of linen, specially cut for the purpose. It joined another cylinder on the floor. These two paintings had been part of the de Courcy and Piper Venetian exhibition upstairs. Both had been sold and removed from the show.
‘How long has he got?’ asked de Courcy.
‘I should say up to three weeks. But he works very fast so it may be less,’ said Piper, wiping his hands and sliding the box with the nails into a shelf in a safe on the wall. ‘I told the new owners they were going off to be cleaned, but that it could take some time. Can he do it in three weeks?’
‘Well,’ said de Courcy, ‘he’s going to be pretty busy. I’m sending these two illustrations up there as well.’ He showed his partner the two pages he had stolen from the basement of the Beaufort Club.
‘The family of William P. McCracken.’ Piper peered closely at the page to make sure William P. McCracken and family had not been represented outside the main entrance of the Third Presbyterian Church, Lincoln Street, Concord, Massachusetts. They had not. He breathed again.
‘And so this is Mr Lewis B. Black, the king of steel,’ said Piper, eyeing up his other prey. ‘And Mrs Black! And the Miss Blacks! I can see, Edmund, why you were so excited about the feathers. It’s going to be magnificent!’
De Courcy wrapped the two illustrations up. The package would leave London that afternoon, bound for a secret destination known only to de Courcy and Piper. The Black and McCracken families would be accompanied on their journey by the Portrait of a Man by Titian and the Portrait of a Venetian Gentleman by Zorzi da Castelfranco, better known as Giorgione.
8
Lord Francis Powerscourt stared in disbelief at the paintings on the walls of Sir Frederick Lambert’s office. They had been changed around since his last visit. Powerscourt found himself wondering if Lady Lucy had a secret contract to rearrange the furniture here too, popping over from Markham Square to switch round the paintings in the President’s office. Hector being dragged round the walls of Troy had disappeared. It had been replaced by an even vaster canvas. In the courtyard of a huge palace servants were rushing towards the centre and placing household objects on a pyre. A magnificent bed was being brought out of a courtyard towards it. Hiding behind a pillar upstairs a distraught Queen stared down below. A courtier was whispering in her ear. In the bottom left a huge man, clad only in a loincloth, his dark skin glistening with oil, was carrying a flaming torch towards the pyre. Dido, one-time lover of Aeneas, reigning Queen of Carthage, was preparing her own immolation.
‘Happens every month, Powerscourt.’ Sir Frederick had observed Powerscourt looking at the walls with amused interest. ‘We change the paintings round. Get fed up with looking at the same thing, even if you’ve painted it yourself. Maybe especially if you’ve painted it yourself.’
‘A very dramatic work, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt politely.
Sir Frederick looked rather ill. His huge frame seemed to be collapsing inwards. The suit was now several sizes too large. The great moustache was still perfectly trimmed but it was drooping. He looked at Powerscourt’s letter on his desk.
‘Let me begin with these art dealers you asked about, Lord Powerscourt.’ He paused and looked up at the pyre on the opposite wall, wondering perhaps about his own more peaceful obsequies. ‘What you must realize about these art dealers is that they are in a permanent state of conflict and competition with each other. Clarke’s and Capaldi’s have been around a long time, of course. De Courcy and Piper are new. I believe de Courcy spends most of his time wandering round the great country houses looking for people who are almost bankrupt but could be saved by selling some of the Old Masters on their walls.’ Sir Frederick shook his head sadly. ‘Capaldi’s have a member of staff whose main job is to read the obituaries in all the major newspapers looking for families who may have to sell up.’
‘What about the people who work in these places?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘What manner of people are they?’
‘I wish I could say that they were all devoted lovers of art, Powerscourt. Some of the people at the top are very knowledgeable, of course. For the rest they are just salesmen, but salesmen disguised beneath the finest suits and shirts of Jermyn Street. Younger sons who failed the army examinations – can you imagine? – are quite prevalent. They sound convincing. They look good. They learn the patter and the patois. One of Capaldi’s most successful operatives used to sell central heating systems to the aristocracy. But often, the porters who carry the pictures in and out of the building know more than the salesmen.’
‘What about the Americans?’ asked Powerscourt, surprised at the cynicism of such a leading artistic figure as the President of the Royal Academy. He supposed it came with experience.
‘The Americans, my dear Powerscourt, may be starting the biggest change in the art market in living memory.’ Sir Frederick paused as he was racked by a terrible coughing fit. His face turned red. He was obviously in considerable discomfort. Powerscourt wondered how long he had left to live. Lambert waved away his sympathy.
‘Sorry, Powerscourt. It’s part of my illness. Now then, these Americans. They bring enormous amounts of money. I suspect we may be at the very beginning of the biggest buying spree in history. The New World is returning to carry off the artistic heritage of the Old. For the dealers, the opportunities are huge.’
Sir Frederick’s face had faded now. The red had turned into a chalky white, the eyes sinking into his head.
‘Two last things, Sir Frederick, before I take my leave,’ said Powerscourt. ‘This magazine that Christopher Montague was going to found with Jason Lockhart of Clarke’s. What would the purpose be?’
Sir Frederick laughed. It sounded as if another coughing fit might overcome him. ‘War, in Clausewitz’ words, is merely the continuation of politics by other means. The magazine would be the same sort of thing, a vehicle for Clarke’s to rubbish their opponents, the genuineness of their paintings, the reliability of their attributions. No doubt the other two dealers would shortly have to start magazines of their own. Very good for the printers, no doubt, but unlikely to advance the cause of art.’
‘My last question concerns the private affairs of Christopher Montague, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I now know the Christian name of the woman concerned. She was called Rosalind. But I have no surname. Would you, by any chance, have a letter written by Montague? A signature perhaps? An example of his handwriting would be very helpful.’