Sir Frederick looked closely at Powerscourt. He looked as though he might be about to ask how the handwriting could help. But he didn’t. He rummaged about in the drawers of his enormous desk.
‘This should serve, I think.’ He handed over an envelope addressed to himself. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is Montague’s hand. I presume you would like to keep it.’
Suddenly Powerscourt felt absolutely certain that Sir Frederick Lambert knew the full name of the mysterious Rosalind. But, for reasons of honour or personal loyalty, he was not prepared to say.
‘Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘forgive me if I sound arrogant when I say that it should only take me a couple of days to discover the surname of this unfortunate lady. I know that you feel bound by honour and human decency to guard the secrets of your colleagues. I respect you for that.’ Powerscourt was trying to cut off Lambert’s escape routes. ‘But we are dealing with murder here. Garrotting may be the work of a professional assassin, hired by a person or persons unknown. The killer or killers may strike again. If, by any chance, you know the surname of this Rosalind, I beg you to tell me. I know it may have unfortunate consequences for the lady in question, but there are more important considerations than the manners and conventions of society. It may save lives.’
Powerscourt stopped. Then he went on quite suddenly, ‘I do not need to tell you, Sir Frederick, that the name would be treated with the utmost discretion.’
Sir Frederick Lambert looked sadly at Dido’s palace, shortly to be engulfed by the flames. He did not look Powerscourt in the eye but stared at his painting, as if he wanted to improve it.
‘Mrs Rosalind Buckley,’ he said very quietly. Powerscourt had to strain to catch the address. ‘64 Flood Street, Chelsea.’
William Alaric Piper was waiting for the American millionaire William P. McCracken in his office in Old Bond Street. Piper was wearing a dark blue pinstripe today over a cream silk shirt with a single rose in his buttonhole. The black shoes were polished to perfection. Eight days had passed since McCracken had offered him eighty thousand pounds for the Raphael Madonna. Piper had told McCracken that he had another buyer with the first refusal on the painting, that McCracken would have to wait.
And what a wait it had been. The American had grown increasingly impatient. At first the letters to Piper from the Piccadilly Hotel had come only twice a day. Then they turned into a flood, four, five, six, or even seven. Piper did not reply to any of them. McCracken began to call at the gallery in person. Mr Piper was not available. Mr Piper was at a meeting on the other side of town. Mr Piper was in the country. Mr Piper was at the National Gallery.
William Alaric Piper had indeed been to the National Gallery, in his brown check suit, three days before. The gallery were most flattered that de Courcy and Piper were prepared to give them the first refusal on Raphael’s Holy Family. They regretted that they were unable to offer more than seventy thousand pounds. The claims on the public purse, Mr Piper must understand, were many and various. The gallery director did not mention that an election was in the offing. Politicians were always reluctant to spend large sums on paintings before the voters went to the polls. It left them open to charges of extravagance, of wasting taxpayers’ money on foreign fripperies, sometimes scantily clad. The director wondered if the dealers would ever work out that the best time to tempt the National Gallery was in the period immediately following an election. Any purchases then would be forgotten by the time of the next one.
So Piper had resolved to put McCracken out of his misery. He knew the American was hooked. Once McCracken felt this overwhelming need, this passion for purchasing the Raphael, he could be lured into other purchases in years to come. McCracken looked perfectly healthy to Piper. Suppose he sold him two or three paintings a year at these sort of prices. A quarter of a million pounds a year. Two and a half million over ten. Five million pounds over twenty years. Piper would have to get hold of the paintings, of course, but two and a half million pounds profit out of one client over twenty years sounded rather good to Piper. And McCracken must have friends. Rich friends whose social jealousy might be aroused by the beautiful paintings on McCracken’s walls. Maybe McCracken would build a little gallery as an extension to his vast mansion.
Now William Alaric Piper faced a dilemma. McCracken had offered him eighty thousand pounds, cash, not stock, he remembered. Piper was always doubtful about American stock. Cash was safer. He felt sure that McCracken would go to a hundred thousand, maybe even a hundred and twenty, to secure the Holy Family. He could say his other potential client had raised his offer. Tempting, very tempting.
There was a knock on the door. William P. McCracken, in a blue check suit, shook Piper warmly by the hand. ‘Why, Mr Piper,’ he said, ‘I reckon it would be easier to get to see the President of the United States than it is to see you!’
‘Do you see your President often, Mr McCracken?’ said Piper with a smile.
‘Sometimes I have to see him when I feel my competitors are being unreasonable, Mr Piper,’ said McCracken, taking out a gigantic cigar. ‘And I usually see him six months before an election in case he needs any help with his campaign funds. But what of the Raphael, Mr Piper? I don’t mind telling you that I’ve lost more sleep about that painting than I ever did over the purchase of the Boston to Hartford railroad three years ago. And that could have left me a broken man!’
‘The Raphael is yours, Mr McCracken. I managed, not without some difficulty, to persuade my other client to withdraw. I have had to promise him something very special in return. And I had to agree a slight increase in the purchase price, unlikely to trouble a serious collector like yourself. For eighty-five thousand pounds in cash, Mr McCracken, one of the world’s most beautiful paintings is yours. I must say I envy you. The thought of being able to look at that Raphael every day for the rest of my life, in the morning sunlight, in the heat of the day, in the afternoon shadows, would fill me with such joy.’
William P. McCracken pumped Piper’s hand in a vigorous embrace. ‘From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Mr Piper,’ he said. ‘Why, we should celebrate. Let me take you out for a bottle of champagne!’
Piper pleaded the press of business. But he did agree to dinner at the Beaufort Club that evening. ‘Looking to the future,’ said Piper, ‘I cannot promise, Mr McCracken. But I believe I may shortly have something which would interest you. It may come to nothing, but the work is divine.’
‘I’d be very interested in any future propositions, Mr Piper.’
William Alaric Piper leaned back in his chair. ‘Let me offer a word of advice, now you have joined the ranks of the great collectors, Mr McCracken. As you know, there is no possible parallel between the world of business and the world of art. But a great businessman, a great industrialist such as yourself, will have a balanced portfolio of investments, not only railroads but steel, not only steel but mining and exploration, not only mining and exploration but banking and property and so on. When one goes down, the other goes up. In the same way the great collectors hold a wide variety of the great Masters in their portfolios. Not only Raphaels but perhaps Giovanni Bellinis from the great days of Venice, Gainsboroughs maybe, Holbeins, Van Dycks, some of the great Rembrandts.’
Piper did not mention that he had two Rembrandts in his basement which Mr McCracken’s compatriots refused to buy because they were too dark.
‘What might you get your hands on soon?’ asked McCracken.
‘It is a Gainsborough, Mr McCracken. A Gainsborough of the very highest quality.’
McCracken searched his memory. He found it hard to remember the names of the painters. ‘Gainsborough the guy who did all those aristocrats in their country parks? Lots of real estate behind them?’