‘That is true.’
‘And did you say that this picture was genuine, Mr Johnston?’ Pugh was staring intently at his witness now.
‘I did,’ said Johnston, obviously wishing fervently that he was somewhere else.
‘Perhaps you could tell the court how much the Raphael was sold for?’
‘I believe the figure was eighty-five thousand pounds,’ said Johnston. There was a murmur of astonishment from the spectators. The newspapermen at the back were writing furiously.
‘And, what, Mr Johnston, was your commission for pronouncing the work genuine?’
‘I am not sure of the exact figure,’ Johnston began.
‘I put it to you,’ said Pugh, ‘that your commission was twelve and a half per cent of the eighty-five thousand pounds. To translate it into hard cash, ten thousand six hundred and twenty-five pounds, for looking at a painting and saying it is genuine.’
Ten thousand six hundred and twenty-five pounds was more money than the entire jury would earn in their lifetimes. They stared in amazement at a man who could command such sums.
‘I put this to you, Mr Johnston,’ Pugh could sense the judge getting restless again, ‘that had Christopher Montague lived, you would have lost your position as a leading attributer. He would have replaced you. Your extra-curricular earnings, these fabulous sums for inspecting a few Old Masters, would have dried up. You would have lost your main source of income, would you not?’
Pugh picked up a piece of paper from his desk. ‘I have here, my lord, a statement from the President of the Royal Academy. Sir Frederick Lambert has been very unwell. He is, at present, being nursed round the clock in his home. This document only reached me very recently. I propose to see, Mr Johnston, whether you agree with it.
‘“Christopher Montague was on his way to becoming the foremost expert on Italian paintings in Britain, probably in Europe.”’ Pugh read the statement very slowly, as if in respect to the dying man. ‘“His first book established him as a scholar of rare distinction. His second, which is about to come out, together with his article on the Venetian exhibition, would have consolidated his position. The dealers would have flocked to him for attributions of their paintings. Other practitioners in the field,”’ Pugh paused to look directly at Roderick Johnston, leaning heavily against the side of the witness box, ‘“would have been sidelined. That element of their income would have evaporated, more or less instantly.”’
Powerscourt had drafted the statement with the President’s approval two days earlier. Charles Augustus Pugh saw no reason to refer to that.
‘So, Mr Johnston,’ said Pugh, pausing only to hand a copy of his document to the clerk of the court, ‘with Christopher Montague alive, you would have been finished. No more little extras, what did we say the figure was, ten thousand six hundred and twenty-five pounds, for the attribution of a single painting?’
Johnston spluttered. ‘I cannot agree with that assessment – ’ he began.
Pugh cut in. ‘I would remind you, Mr Johnston,’ he said, ‘that we are dealing with the President of the Royal Academy here, not some twopenny ha’penny scribbler who writes for the art magazines.’
Johnston said nothing.
‘I put it to you again, Mr Johnston. With Christopher Montague alive, you become poor. With Christopher Montague dead, you carry on becoming richer, year after year after year, is that not so?’
Johnston said nothing, staring unhappily at the back of the court. Small boys, employed for a few pence as runners, were crouching down beside the newspapermen, waiting to rush their copy to the presses.
Sir Rufus Fitch rose to his feet to salvage Johnston from the onslaught. ‘Objection, my lord, objection. My learned friend is practically accusing the witness of murder.’
‘Mr Pugh?’ The judge looked up from his notebook.
‘I was merely concerned with the question of motive, my lord. It is only proper that the jury should be acquainted with the facts, that there are, however unfortunate it may appear, a number of people who might have wished Montague dead.’
‘Objection overruled. You may carry on, Mr Pugh, but on more orthodox lines.’
‘No further questions, my lord.’
Charles Augustus Pugh sat down. Sir Rufus was on his feet again. ‘Mr Johnston,’ he began, ‘perhaps we could clear up the main point here, without all these pieces of interesting but irrelevant detail.’ Sir Rufus looked sternly at the jury as he spoke, as if he was reminding them of what their duty was. ‘Did you kill Christopher Montague?’
‘I did not.’
Just before the court resumed Powerscourt handed Pugh a cable from Corsica. It came from Captain Imperiali. As the jury filed in for the last session before the weekend, they were confronted by a most unusual sight. A pair of empty easels sat towards the front of the court, clearly visible to judge, jury and witnesses.
‘Terrible time I had getting the judge to agree to the bloody things,’ Pugh had said to Powerscourt, tucking into an enormous steak for his lunch. ‘Thank God my young colleague here had found a previous trial in 1884 when an easel was permitted in court. Even then the old bugger couldn’t see why we wanted two of them. I had to say that we had evidence of forgery directly pertaining to the case, that we proposed to demonstrate how one of the forgeries referred to in the Montague article was carried out. Sir Rufus was snorting like an old war horse. Didn’t seem able to come up with any relevant objections for once. Only hope the old bastard isn’t saving them up for the afternoon. Bloody judge made some crack about a most unorthodox defence. Well, he hasn’t seen anything yet!’ With that, Pugh laughed his enormous laugh and helped himself to a small glass of claret.
He began the afternoon with Jason Lockhart, the young man from Clarke’s Gallery who had been going to found the new magazine with Christopher Montague. Pugh established that the main argument of the article was that a number of the paintings in the de Courcy and Piper Venetian exhibition were fakes, and that some were recent forgeries. And that news of the article was quite widely known in the little world of the art dealers and picture restorers of Old Bond Street.
Sir Rufus raised an objection, claiming the article was irrelevant. Pugh was quick on the rebuttal.
‘It is our contention, my lord, that it may have been this article and the message within it that led directly to Montague’s death.’ Sir Rufus was overruled.
Powerscourt looked briefly behind him. Two rows to the rear, clearly placed where the judge and jury could see him, Orlando Blane was fiddling nervously with his tie. Imogen had bought him a most respectable new suit for the occasion.
Edmund de Courcy was recalled to the witness box. Charles Augustus Pugh collected a large sheaf of papers and rose to his feet.
‘You are Edmund de Courcy, joint proprietor of the de Courcy and Piper Gallery in Old Bond Street?’
‘I am.’ De Courcy was wary, very wary. He had seen what Pugh had done to Johnston that morning.
‘You are also the owner of de Courcy Hall in the county of Norfolk?’
‘I am.’ De Courcy was staring at the empty easels.
‘Tell me, Mr de Courcy, I presume you were aware of the article Christopher Montague was writing at the time of his death, an article which was going to say that many if not most of the paintings in your exhibition were forgeries or fakes?’
‘I was.’
Powerscourt looked at the jury. They were concentrating hard. Over to his right Horace Aloysius Buckley stood very straight in the dock.
‘Perhaps you could tell the court what impact this article would have had if it appeared. I presume it would have been bad for business?’
‘I fear it would have been bad,’ de Courcy began.
‘Worse than bad perhaps?’ Pugh cut in very quickly. ‘A disaster? A catastrophe?’