‘Bloody well should have been,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The fellow was on the same staircase as me at Cambridge.’
Pugh glanced curiously at Powerscourt. He looked as if he was about to speak. But when he did it was to do with events on the following day.
‘Friday tomorrow, Powerscourt. This judge likes to get away early on Fridays. He’s got some huge pile in Hampshire. Needs to catch the five twenty from Waterloo. Tomorrow morning I shall recall Johnston, the National Gallery fellow, then Edmund de Courcy I hope we can save the forger and all his works for the afternoon. I’ve had one of our people here speak to the newspapers, warning them that there may be a sensation in court.’
What Charles Augustus Pugh did not say was that widespread coverage in the press would publicize his name. Publicity was no bad thing for up and coming young silks.
‘As yet,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I have had no reply from the Chief of Police in Calvi, but I sent him another wire saying that it was vital we heard any news he had as soon as possible.’
Powerscourt set off from Pugh’s chambers to walk back to Markham Square. His route took him along the river, the dark waters of the Thames flowing swiftly towards the sea. Parties of gulls circled round the shipping. When he reached Piccadilly he passed the offices of the Royal Academy, all lights extinguished now, where he had first met Sir Frederick Lambert weeks before. He remembered the extraordinary classical paintings on the walls, the terrible coughing, the handkerchiefs covered with blood secreted away behind Lambert’s desk. He remembered his last visit to the old man, the ruined hands forming and re-forming the stamps from his correspondence on the table in front of him, the nurse in her crisp white uniform waiting to terminate his interview. He remembered his own promise to Lambert on that occasion, that he would find out who killed Christopher Montague before Sir Frederick died. Hang on, Sir Frederick, he whispered into the London evening, hang on. We might be nearly there. Nearly, but not quite. Just hang on for a few days longer.
24
Roderick Johnston filled the witness box when Pugh recalled him on the Friday morning. He seemed to tower above the rest of the actors in the courtroom, the clerk of the court taking notes in his place beneath the judge, Mr Justice Browne himself resplendent in his dark robes, gazing now at the jury, now at this giant witness come to his court, now at Charles Augustus Pugh collecting his papers and rising to his feet.
Powerscourt was in the row behind Pugh, Pugh’s young second sorting through more files in front of him. Behind him the court was packed. Word must have leaked out that there might be a sensation in court that day. At the back, pens poised over their deadly notebooks, were the gentlemen of the press, jackals come to entertain their readers with tales of vice and adultery, of murders committed by an unknown hand. Murder trials were guaranteed to cheer up the British public, battered by yet further news of British defeats in South Africa. Five days before Lord Methuen had been repulsed at Magersfontein, just a few miles from the besieged garrison at Kimberley.
‘You are Roderick Johnston, senior curator of Renaissance paintings at the National Gallery, currently residing at Number 3, River Terrace, Mortlake?’
Pugh’s voice was flat this morning.
‘I am,’ Johnston’s voice boomed out round the courtroom.
‘Could you tell us, Mr Johnston, how much you earn from your position at the gallery?’
‘Objection, my lord, objection.’ Sir Rufus Fitch was at his most indignant. ‘We are here trying the defendant for murder, not inquiring into the witness’s financial situation.’
‘Mr Pugh?’ Powerscourt remembered Pugh telling him that the score so far in this case was one objection each. So far the judge was even-handed. Pugh had a bet with his junior that he would lose heavily in the final score of objections.
Pugh smiled a slight smile at the judge, but his eyes roamed around the jury. ‘It is the contention of the defence, my lord, if we are allowed to present our evidence without interruption, that the financial situation of the witness is indeed germane to this case. We propose to show that if the unfortunate Mr Montague had not been murdered, Mr Johnston would have lost a very great deal of money. Mr Johnston was the last man to see Montague alive. We intend to show that he would have profited from Montague’s death. It would have saved him a fortune.’
‘I have to tell you, Mr Pugh,’ said the judge, with a slight air of menace in his voice, ‘that there had better be a sound basis for this line of questioning. For the present, Sir Rufus, objection overruled.’
‘I was going to suggest, Mr Johnston,’ Pugh carried on, ‘that your income from the gallery alone is not enough to sustain your lifestyle, the expensive house by the river, the frequent trips abroad. Perhaps we may take that as read?’
Johnston coloured slightly. ‘You may,’ he said grimly.
‘Please don’t misunderstand me, Mr Johnston,’ purred Pugh, ‘nobody here is suggesting that there is anything wrong with extra work giving a man a little extra income. Heaven forbid. But perhaps you could tell the court what the main source of your extra-curricular income, as it were, is?’
‘I have written a couple of books,’ said Johnston defensively. ‘I also advise on exhibitions, that sort of thing.’
‘Come, come, Mr Johnston, the gentlemen of the jury are too sophisticated to believe that such funds would be sufficient for you to move house from a humble dwelling in North London to a most desirable property in Mortlake looking out over the Thames.’ Pugh could see Sir Rufus Fitch beginning to rise to his feet. He hurried on. ‘But the details of your houses are not our concern today,’ Pugh sensed Sir Rufus beginning to sink slowly back into his chair. ‘Perhaps you could tell us what you do in the way of attributing paintings. Before you do, may I suggest to you and to the jury what is meant when we talk of the attribution of paintings?’
Sir Rufus Fitch was looking rather cross. He was telling himself that this was meant to be a murder trial not a tutorial at the National Gallery.
‘Suppose you are a rich American gentleman,’ said Pugh, looking carefully at the jury. ‘You have made millions from steel, or railways, or coal. You have magnificent houses in Newport, Rhode Island and Fifth Avenue in New York.’
‘Could I suggest, Mr Pugh, that you come to the point.’ Mr Justice Browne sounded rather irritated. ‘One minute you are implicitly criticizing a man for the size of his house. Now you are telling stories of American millionaires. Perhaps you could reach the point you wish to make?’
Two all, thought Powerscourt. Sir Rufus might not have intervened but that definitely counted against Pugh.
Pugh was unperturbed. ‘I am coming to the point, my lord.’ He smiled a deferential smile in the direction of the judge and carried on. ‘Many of these rich Americans come to Europe to buy paintings. They are keen to establish their own collections of Old Masters. They go to the galleries here and in Paris and in Rome. But how do they know whether a painting is genuine or not? How do they know whether they are buying the real thing or a forgery? This is how they find out. They, or their art dealers, go to an expert. They go to a man like Mr Johnston here for what is called an attribution. If he certifies that the painting is by Titian, they are satisfied. They pay large sums of money for the Titian. Without the attribution the picture is worthless. Is that a fair description, Mr Johnston?’
And Pugh turned another smile upon his witness.
‘By and large, I would say it was, yes.’
‘Tell me, Mr Johnston,’ Powerscourt sensed that Pugh was about to fire his heaviest artillery, ‘have you recently been involved in the attribution of a Raphael?’
Johnny Fitzgerald’s drinking sessions with the porters and the attendants of the galleries of Old Bond Street were now bearing fruit in the Central Criminal Court. Johnston turned pale. There was a pause before he replied.