‘What does that mean?’ asked Fitzgerald in a loud voice, determined not to ape the customs of the art dealers.
‘Why, my lord,’ said Martyn, ‘it makes it even more likely that it is a Leonardo. He was notorious for never finishing his paintings. He got bored, perhaps. Or another idea sprang into his mind. Very fertile brain, Leonardo, quite remarkable.’ Martyn made it sound as though he had dinner with Leonardo every other Tuesday at his Pall Mall club.
‘But come, Lord Fitzgerald, I fear that we must trespass further on your patience. Our managing director would love to see it. It is not every day that we are privileged to see such a great work, is it, Prendergast?’ He nodded at his younger colleague. ‘Perhaps you could accompany us to the next floor where our managing director’s office is. Our Mr Clarke, Mr Jeremiah Clarke, is the fourth member of his family to hold the position. We are fortunate to have such continuity in a changing world.’
Johnny guessed that Mr Jeremiah Clarke would be in his sixties if age followed the levels of the building. He was wrong. Jeremiah Clarke was in his mid-seventies, a sprightly old man with very red cheeks and a shock of white hair.
‘Well,’ he said, looking closely at the painting, ‘it is most remarkable.’ He walked to the far side of his enormous office and looked at it from a distance. He advanced to a mid-point, half-way across the room. Finally he placed himself a foot or two away and looked closely at the angel for a couple of minutes. Martyn and Prendergast stood solemnly on either side, as if they were two sidesmen bringing the collection to the front of the church for the presentation.
‘Remarkable,’ said Clarke. ‘Mr Martyn, what is your opinion?’
Martyn spoke in hushed tones. ‘It seems to me, sir, that there is a very strong possibility that this is indeed a lost Leonardo. But I would have to consult the documents. I think we should call in the experts.’
‘We could make you an offer for the painting now, if you would be prepared to consider that option.’ Jeremiah Clarke had seen so many people who brought valuable works to his firm in need of ready cash. Johnny Fitzgerald was having none of that.
‘What would you be offering now?’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m sure it’s a lot less than it would fetch once the world knows it is genuine.’
‘I’m sure we could run to four or five thousand pounds. Cash,’ said Clarke. Johnny had been told that if the painting was genuine the initial bidding would probably start at one hundred thousand pounds, with American millionaires to the fore. There were so few Leonardos left anywhere in the world, the thing was virtually priceless.
Clarke sensed that his visitor was not impressed. ‘However, Lord Fitzgerald,’ he purred on, ‘we would much prefer to wait. But it would help if you could leave the painting with us for a week, maybe longer, so that our experts can have a proper look at it.’
‘No,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald. The three men looked at each other in astonishment. This had never happened before in the one-hundred-and-seventy-year history of Clarke’s. A client refusing to leave his painting on the premises! It was impossible!
‘Why ever not?’ said Martyn sharply.
‘It’s not that I don’t mind the experts looking at it and doing whatever they do,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘But I’m going to take the painting away with me. When you have made the appointments for the experts, you let me know and I’ll bring it back. I’ll bring it back as many times as you like.’
‘But why? Don’t you trust us?’ said Jeremiah Clarke.
‘It’s my aunt,’ said Johnny, ‘the lady who owns the painting, you see. Five years ago she decided to sell a Van Dyck. She took it to one of your competitors around here – she was a lot more mobile in those days. The gallery said it was worthless and sent it back. Three years later her Van Dyck was sold for a very large sum of money. You see, the gallery hadn’t sent her back the original at all. They sent her back a copy. They kept the original and then sold it after a period of time. It’s as well my auntie reads all the papers and the magazines or she’d have never found out what happened.’
Clarke and his colleagues made sad and comforting noises. ‘What a breach of trust!’ ‘Abuse of clients!’ ‘Disgraceful behaviour!’ But they looked ever so slightly guilty. Johnny took up his picture, wrapped it in its thick brown paper, and made his farewells.
‘Just let me know when your experts want to see it, then,’ he said cheerfully, as he headed for the door. ‘I’ll bring it back myself, I promise you. I look forward to hearing from you, gentlemen. A very good day to you all.’
Out on the pavement Johnny Fitzgerald laughed loudly. The looks on their faces had been most enjoyable. He peered around the shopfronts of Old Bond Street. His eye fell on the offices of de Courcy and Piper, ‘art dealers of quality’, said the legend on the door.
‘Good morning,’ Fitzgerald 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 . . .’
‘What do you think she’ll wear, Lucy?’ said Lord Francis Powerscourt to his wife.
‘That’s a most unusual question for a man to ask,’ said Lady Lucy.
‘Well, she can hardly turn out in black, can she?’ said Powerscourt. ‘But then again, she wouldn’t feel happy in pink or something like that, would she?’
Lady Lucy laughed. ‘I’m sure you’d get it right, if you had time to think about it, Francis. Even you. I bet you anything you like she’ll be in grey. Probably in dark grey. Sad, but not actually mourning. Maybe a black hat.’
Mrs Rosalind Buckley had replied remarkably promptly to Powerscourt’s note inviting her to Markham Square. She was due in five minutes’ time. He had asked Lady Lucy if the conversation would be easier with another woman present. Lady Lucy had thought about it for some time.
‘I think she might say more about her private life to a woman on her own than she would to a man. In fact I’m sure of it. But talking to a man and a woman would be difficult for her. I think she would be more reluctant to speak in those circumstances. I think you need to speak to her on your own, Francis. Good luck!’
Mrs Rosalind Buckley was indeed wearing grey, dark grey, when she was shown into the drawing room on the first floor. She was tall and slim, an inch or two taller than Christopher Montague, Powerscourt thought, with curly brown hair, full lips and very sad big brown eyes. She looked about thirty years old, but it was hard to tell. Powerscourt thought that men of all ages could easily have fallen in love with her.
‘Mrs Buckley,’ he said, rising from his chair, dropping The Times on to the floor, ‘how very kind of you to come. Please sit down.’ He ushered her into the armchair opposite his own. She began to take off her gloves. The gloves, he noticed, were black.
‘Lord Powerscourt,’ she said, trying vainly to manage a smile, ‘it was the least I could do after what happened to Mr Montague. Please feel free to ask whatever you wish. I shall try to bear it.’
Christ, thought Powerscourt, she’s not going to start crying already, is she? Weeping women always upset him.
‘Perhaps I could begin with the simplest question of all, Mrs Buckley,’ he said. ‘How long have you been friendly with Mr Montague?’
They both knew what friendly meant.
‘About a year and a half,’ she said.
‘Really? As long as that?’ said Powerscourt. ‘How did you meet him, may I ask?’
‘We met at the preview of an exhibition of Spanish paintings in Old Bond Street. I’d gone with one of my sisters. Christopher, Mr Montague I mean, was entrancing about the paintings.’
‘And did you know about the article he was working on at the time of his death?’ asked Powerscourt.