Sir Frederick gazed sadly at his painting of the abandoned Ariadne. There had been no code of conduct for the behaviour of heroes, breaking all the rules as they swaggered across the ancient world.
‘The real problem, Powerscourt, is with what you might call the sleepers. Suppose you are the resident expert on Italian paintings at the Louvre. People come to you for attribution of the painting they have bought. You are a recognized authority on the subject. So far, so good. But what happens if the expert is also on the payroll of the dealer who is selling the painting? Then you are no longer impartial. You have a financial interest in the sale of the painting. You will receive a percentage of the final sale price. You are no longer impartial, you are a secret beneficiary of the sale. And a secret it had to be since your attribution would be worthless if the purchaser knew you were on the payroll of the dealer. The highest percentage I have heard of – rumour, alas, only rumour – was twenty-five per cent of the final sale of the painting. That may seem rather a lot, but, remember, the dealer still receives three-quarters of the money. I’m sure it has led to a general rise in prices in the art market.’
Sir Frederick paused again. Powerscourt felt that the proud old man would not welcome sympathy. ‘There must be a number of people who would have lost money if Christopher Montague had lived. He would have become the foremost authority on Italian paintings in Britain. Some people would have lost. A couple of the people at the National Gallery are said to go in for it. Or you can go to Germany. For some reason, Lord Powerscourt, people feel that German authentications are the last word, that they are bound to be right. If only they knew.’
A pale ghost of a smile passed across the sunken features.
‘There’s an elderly professor in Berlin,’ he began. Powerscourt remembered from his first visit how much the old man enjoyed telling his stories. ‘Wife dead, that sort of thing. Professor’s word is at least as good as the Pope’s in saying what’s true and what’s not true. A leading firm of art dealers in Berlin, no, the leading firm of art dealers in Berlin, employ two very pretty girls for one purpose only. Girls can hardly spell, let alone write, let alone compile a catalogue. They are sent, one at a time, with the attribution neatly written out, only waiting for a signature. God knows what they do with the old professor when they see him, but it always works. If the blonde doesn’t get it, the brunette will. Sort of Scylla and Charybdis of the Prussian art world. The dealers, Powerscourt, whether in Germany or here, will do anything to get what they want.’
The old man smiled as he thought of the irresistible frauleins on the Unter den Linden. Powerscourt wondered if the same tricks were current in London.
‘But in fact, Sir Frederick, as we both know, the article never appeared. The exhibition goes on. Those paintings may yet sell. Somebody has got what they wanted from the death of Christopher Montague, is that not so?’
‘Of course you are right, Lord Powerscourt. I suspect that may be very important for you in your investigation.’
‘Just one last question. We have talked about these Americans, flocking here like the sheep in your painting on the wall, to be fleeced by the greedy and the unscrupulous. Should they be warned? That they might be buying rubbish?’
Another coughing fit paralysed Sir Frederick Lambert. ‘Damned doctors,’ he muttered, ‘they said that new medicine would stop these fits. Doesn’t bloody well work. Forgive me.’ Another handkerchief appeared. More blood than last time, Powerscourt noticed as it vanished from sight.
‘I have written to my counterpart in New York, Lord Powerscourt, warning him of the possible dangers to his compatriots. He has not seen fit to reply. I do not know whether it would be wise to warn them from another quarter, business, perhaps, or politics. You may know those worlds better than I do.’
Sir Frederick looked very pale and frail all of a sudden. Powerscourt thought he should have been at home in bed. ‘Please believe me, Lord Powerscourt, when I say this. I know I am ill. I apologize to you for my spasms. But I would not want you to stop coming here with your questions. I am as anxious as you are that the murderer of Christopher Montague should be brought to justice. Even if we have to hold our last conversation on my death-bed, I still want you to come.’
Over a hundred miles away to the north-west the senior curator of Renaissance paintings at the National Gallery decided the hour had come. It was just after three o’clock in the afternoon. Roderick Johnston had spent three days in the house and in the company of James Hammond-Burke at Truscott Park in Warwickshire. He had completed his catalogue of the pictures in the main body of the house the day before. The previous day he had spent in the outhouses and the attics, climbing through dusty trapdoors into even dustier lofts in search of forgotten paintings. He had assembled them all in rows in a top-floor room, looking out over the river and the deer park. He could hear the shouts of the workmen above him, repairing the roof of Truscott Park.
Had Mr James Hammond-Burke been a more agreeable man Johnston might have stayed for a day or two longer. But he was not a good companion. His conversation was limited to complaints about the costs of the restoration work and the possible value of any paintings Johnston might discover in the bowels of his mansion.
Roderick Johnston placed one picture against a Regency chair where it would catch the afternoon light. The subject matter of the painting was slightly obscured by a thin film of dust it had accumulated over the recent days, resting paint side upwards in the dustiest attic Johnston could discover. It showed a man and a woman with their two daughters seated on a bench in the English countryside, a dog at their feet. Ordered fields stretched all around them. To their left a long avenue, flanked by trees, disappeared towards the horizon, and, presumably, towards the large house that lay at the end of the drive, property of the family in the foreground. Johnston knew the picture well. He had brought it with him in one of his long tubes.
The curator set off at a rapid pace down the stairs, through the drawing room with its fake Van Dycks, through the dining room with the Knellers. He was almost out of breath when he found James Hammond-Burke staring ruefully at one of the new windows in the morning room.
‘Bloody thing’s not straight,’ he said bitterly, his dark eyes flashing. ‘You’d think those bloody builders could manage to put a bloody window in straight, wouldn’t you?’ He stared accusingly at Johnston as if he were the foreman responsible. ‘Whole damned thing will have to come out again. Damned if I’m going to pay for that.’ He paused as if he had just realized who Johnston was.
‘What do you want?’ he said roughly. ‘Have you finished your damned catalogue or whatever it is?’
Johnston remembered the advice of William Alaric Piper. Don’t tell him all at once. Draw it out as long as you can. Make him wait before you tell him it might be a Gainsborough. Only might. Suspense makes them keener.
‘I think you should come with me, Mr Hammond-Burke,’ said Johnston firmly. ‘I’ve got something I want to show you.’
‘What?’ said Hammond-Burke. ‘What the devil is it? Is it worth anything?’
‘I think you should see for yourself, Mr Hammond-Burke,’ said Johnston, leading the muttering owner back through the house and up to the room on the top floor.
‘There!’ said Johnston at the doorway, pointing dramatically towards the painting by the chair.
James Hammond-Burke walked across the room and peered at the painting.
‘What do you think it is? Where did you find it?’
Roderick Johnston took a feather duster from a table and began to brush very lightly at the surface of the picture. He thought the dust should come off quite easily. It had only been in the attic for a few days.