‘You paint,’ said the Frenchman ‘you come and work for us in the world of painting. When you have earned enough to pay off your debt, we let you go!’
Raymond Arnaud did not say that he was the French associate of a firm of London art dealers, based in Old Bond Street. He did not say that they had been looking for somebody like Orlando Blane for eighteen months.
Orlando came back from his reverie. A flock of starlings was flying past the house, heading for the lake. He walked back down the Long Gallery to his stretcher and looked at his Gainsborough. He took the illustration from the American magazine out of its folder. Just the children, his instructions said. Don’t worry about a likeness for the parents, it might seem too much of a coincidence. Just the children, not too perfect a likeness. He reached for his brushes and began to work.
Orlando had never discovered where the instructions came from, or who sent them. He presumed they came from London. All he had to do was to work every day in the Long Gallery. In the evening he played cards with his jailers.
They played for matchsticks.
10
Lord Francis Powerscourt was having trouble with a letter. He stared gloomily at the full extent of his composition so far.
1st November 1899.
Mrs Rosalind Buckley,
64 Flood Street,
Chelsea.
Dear Madam,
Powerscourt was writing to the lover of the late Christopher Montague, one-time art critic, recent inheritor of a very large sum of money. He stared out at the trees in Markham Square.
‘Please forgive this intrusion on your privacy,’ he began.
I have been asked by his family to investigate the death of the late art critic Christopher Montague. I have been given to understand that you were a friend of his. I would be most grateful if you could spare me the time for a brief conversation about Christopher. Any such conversation would, of course, be entirely confidential. I would be happy to call on you in Flood Street at a time of your own choosing. Alternatively, should business take you in the direction of Markham Square, my wife and I would be pleased to receive you here. Yours, Powerscourt.
He read it through again. Was it too cold? Did he sound like a solicitor about to impart bad tidings? Should he have said more than he had? Should he have mentioned the possibility of further deaths? No, he would leave it as it was, he decided.
But one fact worried him more than anything else. Lady Lucy’s intelligence system had revealed that Mr Buckley was a solicitor, partner in the well-known firm of Buckley, Brigstock and Brightwell. And that Mr Buckley was at least twenty years older than his wife. And that Mr Horace Aloysius Buckley had not been seen in his office for over three weeks. He had not been seen there since the day following the murder of Christopher Montague.
Johnny Fitzgerald decided he was going to enjoy his outing to Old Bond Street. He had a large parcel under his arm. He peered enthusiastically into the windows of the galleries, paintings for sale on offer, further exhibitions due to open shortly promising a cornucopia of artistic treasures.
He entered the offices of Clarke and Sons. The reception looked like a London club, he thought, portraits of previous Clarkes, drenched in respectability and sombre colours, hanging proudly on the walls.
‘Good morning,’ Johnny said cheerfully to the young man behind the desk.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the young man. ‘How can we help you?’
‘It’s this Leonardo here,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘it belongs to my aunt. She’s thinking of selling it. I wonder if you could tell me what it’s worth?’
The young man had sprung to attention at the mention of the word Leonardo. He had only been with the firm a few weeks but even he had absorbed enough to realize that a Leonardo was the ultimate prize. He would be remembered as the man who secured the da Vinci for Clarke’s. He would become famous. Other, better paid jobs would surely follow.
‘Very good, sir. How wise of you to bring it to us.’ The young man pressed a small bell on his desk. ‘If you would like to come with me, sir, one of our experts will talk to you and examine the painting.’
Fitzgerald was escorted up a half flight of stairs and shown into a small room looking out on to the back of Old Bond Street. There was an easel by the window and a couple of rather battered chairs. A bowl of fading flowers sat sadly on a side table.
‘Mr Prendergast will be with you in a moment, sir.’ The young man bowed slightly and made his way back down to reception, thinking about the tale he would tell his friends later that evening. ‘Just walked in off the street, calm as you please, a Leonardo under his arm.’
Johnny Fitzgerald wondered how old you had to be before you became an art expert. The answer was not long in coming. Another young man announced himself as James Prendergast and shook Fitzgerald warmly by the hand. Fitzgerald thought he must have been in his late twenties. ‘Good morning, sir. Perhaps we could have a look at the painting?’
Fitzgerald unwrapped his parcel and placed it on the easel. ‘Fitzgerald’s the name, Lord Fitzgerald of the Irish peerage, to be precise,’ he said. ‘Here you are, Leonardo’s Annunciation.’
Most Italian Annunciations took place in broad daylight. The Leonardo happened at first light. A beam of strong sunlight came through a window and lit up the face of the Virgin. Her green robe fell in shadowy folds towards the floor. Just inside the window, leaning on a table, was the angel of the Lord, dressed in light blue. Careful examination showed the rest of the contents of the room, a humble single bed, a washing table with a bowl. The scene was mysterious, the expression on the Virgin’s face apprehensive, as if she could not quite believe what was happening to her.
‘The shadows, Lord Fitzgerald, the shadows,’ said Prendergast reverentially, ‘how beautifully he handles the shadows.’ He paused, trying to imagine the price if the thing was genuine. It certainly looked genuine. A faint note of greed came into his voice with his next question.
‘How long has it been in your possession, might I ask? How was it obtained?’
‘It’s not mine, actually,’ said Johnny. ‘It belongs to my aunt. Some distant relation of hers bought it in Milan on the Grand Tour years and years ago. She’s got lots of this kind of stuff lying about the place.’
The young man’s face lit up at the prospect of further treasures. He was not an expert on Leonardo, in truth he might have had difficulty telling a Corregio from a Caravaggio, but he did know that Leonardo had lived in Milan. He was fairly certain about that. Or had that been Titian who lived in Milan?
‘It is a most excellent work, sir. Perhaps you could come with me to one of our senior partners on the first floor. I’m sure he would love to see it.’
They get older as you go up the stairs, Johnny said to himself, as he followed young Prendergast to the next floor. It seemed to be the wrong way round. They should make the young ones walk up all the stairs. Maybe the views were better higher up.
‘Mr Robert Martyn, Lord Fitzgerald. Lord Fitzgerald’s Leonardo.’ Prendergast made the introductions. Johnny felt pleased that the Virgin had attained human status in Clarke’s Gallery. Robert Martyn was a small man in his forties, with a prosperous paunch and very powerful glasses.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘And so this is the Leonardo.’ The same reverential tone, Johnny noticed. It’s as if the entire staff of Clarke and Sons, art dealers, think they’re in church when they look at an Old Master. Martyn took out a magnifying glass and examined the painting carefully. ‘The handling of the paint is very similar to that in Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks in the National Gallery,’ he said. ‘And the green is very similar. And look at the bottom left-hand corner. Everything is very vague down there, as if the painter hadn’t quite finished it.’