‘I shall do my best, Sir Frederick.’ Powerscourt suddenly got up and took the old man’s two hands in his own. They were very cold. The surface felt like marble. ‘I shall do more than my best to find the answer for you. The next time I come, I pray you will be better than you are today. And I shall tell you who killed Christopher Montague.’
As he walked home through the wet squares of South Kensington, the light fading fast from the streets of London, Powerscourt thought he now had two deadlines. One was to find the murderer before Horace Aloysius Buckley was wrongly convicted of the crime and hanged by the neck until he was dead. The other was to find the murderer before death came to call for the President of the Royal Academy, Sir Frederick Lambert, arranging the stamps of the Great Powers of Europe into neat piles on his table.
Part Four
20
The carriage stopped. A harsh wind hit Imogen Foxe full in the face as she was ushered towards a house she could not see. They took her to a darkened room, where the shutters were drawn and no lights were lit. Very gently her escort removed all the bandages and the wrapping from her eyes.
‘You may find the light difficult at first,’ he said. ‘I suggest you wait here for about five minutes. It should seem easier then.’
Orlando Blane was peering out of one of the windows of the Long Gallery. A full moon had come out from behind the clouds. The wind was rustling through the trees, blowing the leaves across the unkempt lawns. To his left the surface of the lake was uneven, small waves driven in towards the shore.
Imogen winced as the man opened the door and shafts of light fell across the room. It was, she saw, a small sitting room with pictures lining the walls and a great globe standing inscrutably by the window. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the light. She stepped into the hall, a huge high chamber with a great staircase leading to the upper floors.
‘May I go to him now?’ she asked meekly. Great humility, she had decided, must be her watchword at the beginning with these guards, the keepers of Orlando. When she knew them better, other policies might prove more fruitful.
‘Up the stairs and turn left,’ the man said, ‘keep going to the end of the corridor. Then it’s the door in front of you.’
Orlando was wondering how he could escape from his prison. His recent letters requesting release, pointing out how much money he must have earned from his captors, had gone unanswered. He wished he knew where he was – after a couple of weeks he had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t bothered to notice anything else.
Imogen passed a couple of stags’ heads, dust lying across the antlers, at the top of the stairs. She checked the doors on her way down the corridor. They were all locked. She could see a little beam of light coming under the door at the end.
Orlando moved away from his window and began walking the hundred and forty feet towards the far end of the Long Gallery. His footsteps echoed off the floorboards, small pieces of plaster still lying on the ground. He didn’t hear the first knock. The second was louder.
‘Come in,’ said Orlando, not bothering to turn round. He presumed it was one of the guards making sure he was still here. They usually checked every hour.
The footsteps kept coming, very quiet footsteps now as if their owner was crossing the floor on tiptoes. Should she speak? Imogen saw that Orlando would reach the end and turn about in less than a minute. She stopped by the fireplace half-way up the Long Gallery. She was breathing very fast. Now, surely he must turn now. But he didn’t. Orlando stopped at the far window, gazing out at the bent trees around the lake, the dark water glistening in the moonlight.
Imogen could bear it no longer. ‘Orlando,’ she called out very quietly. ‘Orlando.’
Orlando Blane turned. He couldn’t believe what he saw, an Imogen in dark grey travelling clothes, an Imogen with red eyes, a weary Imogen after her long journey, but Imogen. His Imogen.
‘Imogen, is this really you?’ He walked very slowly down the room to take her in his arms, fearful that the wraith by the fireside might suddenly disappear into the night.
‘It is, my love,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, it is.’ She broke the spell. She ran as fast as she could and fell into his arms. They remained wrapped around each other for over a minute, neither daring to speak. Then it came in a great rush.
‘Imogen, did they wrap your eyes up . . .’
‘Orlando, what are you doing here . . .’
‘You must be tired after your journey . . .’
‘Are you a prisoner here . . .’
Orlando laughed and clapped his hands together. ‘Stop, stop,’ he said, trailing his fingers through Imogen’s left hand. ‘Let’s do it like this. You can ask me three questions. Then I can ask you three questions. All right?’
Imogen nodded. She wondered briefly what she should ask first. Then it came to her.
‘Orlando, do you still love me?’
Orlando Blane laughed again. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘You didn’t need to ask that one. You know it already.’ He kissed her very gently on the lips.
‘Second question then,’ said Imogen, drawing Orlando over to a small sofa by the fireplace. They heard a sudden scurrying across the ceiling.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Orlando, pointing above his head, ‘that’s only the rats taking their evening exercise. They usually run about at this time of day. They’re quite harmless.’
‘Second question, then,’ said Imogen. ‘What are you doing here? Are you a prisoner or something like that?’
‘That’s two questions.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘Very well,’ said Orlando, ‘I’ll let you off just this once. One question. What am I doing here? I’ll show you.’
He walked down the gallery and pulled a selection of canvases from the wall. ‘Portrait of a Man by Titian,’ he said. He pulled another one into the light. ‘Portrait of a Man by Titian. You don’t have to be the director of the National Gallery to see that they’re the same. Which one is the real one, Imogen?’
Imogen looked at them carefully. The same Venetian nobleman, his body at right angles to the artist, the same blue doublet, the same dark blue cloak thrown across the shoulders.
‘That one is the real one, Orlando,’ Imogen said, pointing at the one furthest away.
‘Wrong,’ said Orlando triumphantly. ‘That one is a Blane. This one is a Titian. This is what I do. I’m a prisoner here. One Sergeant Major and three of his men guard me round the clock. If I go for a walk one of them comes with me. I don’t know where I am – they brought me here with my eyes wrapped up so I was as blind as a bat. It all has to do with that ten thousand pounds I lost in Monte Carlo. When I’ve paid that back, I will be set free on certain conditions. I don’t know what they are. But I am certain they have made much more than ten thousand pounds out of me by now.’
Orlando paused and pointed his hand up and down the Long Gallery. ‘This is my prison cell. It must be the finest cell in the whole of Europe – maybe they imported the rats to remind me that it is only a prison cell after all. This is where I do my work. I fake to order. I forge what others tell me. I do not know where the instructions come from, somewhere in London, I suppose. Sometimes they send paintings up here for me to copy. Recently they have been sending me illustrations of various American families. I have to turn them into Gainsboroughs or Reynoldses, people like that. I mean, I take the modern face and drop it into my version of a Gainsborough.’
‘What happens to them, Orlando? Is there something very wicked going on here?’
‘That was your third question, my love,’ said Orlando, giving her three rapid kisses. ‘It’ll be my turn in a minute. I can only guess what happens to them, but I think it must go something like this. Somebody goes to an exhibition where this Titian is for sale. A price is agreed, quite a steep price, I should think. The dealer tells the purchaser he must clean the picture and make sure the frame is in good condition. The picture comes up here. I make a copy. Both go back to London. The purchaser takes away, not the real thing, but my copy. The dealer hides the real one away for a couple of years. Then he brings it on to the market.