Flushed with his success with Cornelius P. Stockman, Piper sought out Lewis B. Black in his hotel. He repeated his denunciation of Edmund de Courcy with even greater vigour than before. He protested his own ignorance of the forgeries in de Courcy’s house in Norfolk. He told Black that he was trying to start again, to recover from this terrible setback to his gallery. He offered Black a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds, two and a half thousand more than he had paid for Orlando Blane’s fake Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Black had consulted a leading firm of London solicitors that morning. They pointed out the length of time it would take for any case to come to court. They told him that he would, most probably, have to remain in England for the duration. They pointed out that the details of the case would be splashed all over the newspapers in Britain and America. Such publicity might be disagreeable. They pointed out, with all the delicacy they could muster, that the defence counsel would do their utmost to make Black look at best an innocent American abroad, more likely a fool.
‘That’s two and a half thousand more than I paid for the painting, Mr Piper,’ Black said, looking at the cheque.
‘I felt it was the least I could do, Mr Black, after all de Courcy put you through. Now, if you let me have the painting, I will take it away and have it destroyed.’ Piper had noted that the fake Reynolds was hanging in pride of place above the mantelpiece in Black’s private sitting room. Black looked up at his very own forgery.
‘Do you mind, Mr Piper, if I keep the painting? I did pay for it. I’ve gotten rather attached to it.’ Black was putting the cheque into his breast pocket.
Piper was backing away towards the door, keen to escape with so little damage.
‘Tell me, Mr Piper,’ asked Lewis B. Black, ‘who should I say the painting is by? Back in America, I mean.’
William Alaric Piper smiled. ‘Say it’s of the school of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr Black,’ he replied. ‘The country houses of England are full of paintings described like that. Most of the time, they leave out “of the school of”. I can’t think why.’
‘Congratulations, sir. Magnificent performance in court!’ The clerk of Pugh’s chambers was clapping him on the back. His junior was skipping up and down for joy. An impromptu celebration party was taking place in the room lined with files where Powerscourt and Pugh had first discussed the trial. Imogen was whispering to Orlando not to drink too much champagne. Johnny Fitzgerald was drinking Pugh’s health perched on the side of his desk.
‘Don’t mind telling you, Powerscourt,’ Pugh had dispensed with glasses and was quaffing deeply from a great magnum of Bollinger, ‘I wasn’t sure we were going to make it at the start. Not sure at all.’ He laughed his enormous laugh and took another swig. Powerscourt hoped it wouldn’t sit too unhappily alongside the gin and water he had consumed throughout the trial.
Two more people joined the party. Lady Lucy had taken pity on Mr Buckley, his eyes still red from weeping. She gave him a glass of champagne. He was a free man.
‘Could I just have a private word, Mr Pugh?’ said Buckley quietly. Pugh brought him over to the corner of the room by the window. A couple of blackbirds were hopping about on the lawn outside. ‘If they bring my wife to trial, Mr Pugh, could you defend her? I would pay for it, of course.’
Charles Augustus Pugh placed his magnum on a shelf and put his arm round Buckley’s shoulders. ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to undertake the case personally,’ he said. ‘It might be thought that I had been instrumental in bringing her to trial in the first place after the events of the last few days. But I promise you I shall find for you the best defence lawyer in London.’
Buckley looked reassured. Lady Lucy came back to take him under her wing once more.
‘I’m going to drink one more glass,’ Powerscourt said to Pugh, ‘and then I must go. I promised to tell the President of the Royal Academy what happened. He’s at death’s door, poor man.’
‘Of course,’ said Pugh. ‘I hope you realize, Powerscourt, that the people here may be drinking my health this afternoon. But the real credit, the real congratulations should be with you. You provided the bullets. I merely fired them.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Powerscourt with a smile and slipped from the room. Two minutes after his departure the party was interrupted. A bulky-looking man banged his cane on the floor and asked for silence.
‘I am a Government Messenger,’ he announced. ‘I am looking for a certain Lord Francis Powerscourt. I have reason to believe he is here. I have a letter for him from the Prime Minister.’
The curtains were tightly drawn in Sir Frederick Lambert’s study. Powerscourt noticed that the piles of foreign stamps were still lined up in rows on the table in front of him. He thought the President of the Royal Academy was looking slightly better this evening. He was still deathly pale but his eyes were bright. Maybe it was the drugs.
‘Only ten minutes at most,’ said the nurse, ‘he gets tired so quickly now.’
Powerscourt told the old man the details of the trial, the acquittal of Horace Buckley, the unmasking and discovery of Orlando Blane.
‘How strange that it should have nothing to do with the art world at all. Just a jilted lover. Hell hath no fury.’ Sir Frederick paused and began to cough. It had turned into a dry hacking cough now. There were no handkerchiefs stained with blood secreted down the side of his chair.
‘Tell me about Orlando,’ he said. ‘Did you say he was married now? That might settle him down.’
Powerscourt replied that Orlando seemed to be enjoying most of the benefits of the married state without actually going through the ceremony itself. A feeble laugh came from Sir Frederick. ‘Nice girl?’ he said.
‘Very beautiful,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I think her parents forced her into a marriage she did not want. Mama did not want her to marry Orlando.’
‘Some mothers in the past have been very taken with young Orlando, Powerscourt,’ said Sir Frederick. ‘Pity he didn’t find the right one.’ The old man suddenly heaved himself up in his chair. He reached over to his desk and brought over a number of sheets of his headed notepaper.
‘Could you write a letter for me, Powerscourt? As you did that affidavit? I might just be able to sign it.’
‘Of course, Sir Frederick, I’m more than happy to do that.’
Powerscourt began taking down the old man’s words. ‘To Signor Pietro Rossi, Senior Director, Rossi’s Picture Restoration Company, 217 Via Veneto, Rome.’ The old man paused, panting slightly. ‘Rossi’s are the leading picture restorers in Italy,’ he said, ‘do a lot of work for the Vatican.’ He paused again. Powerscourt thought his time must be nearly up.
‘Dear Signor Rossi, I would like to recommend most highly a young Englishman of my acquaintance called Orlando Blane. He was one of the most brilliant students we ever had at the Royal Academy. I believe you would find his talents most satisfactory in your business. With best wishes to you and your family . . .’
Powerscourt passed the letter and his pen over. Sir Frederick paused before he signed it. He hoped his hands would do what they were told. In the end he took it at a gallop. Frederick Lambert, he wrote as fast as he could and sank back exhausted in his chair. The nurse was looking angrily at Powerscourt.
‘And tell young Orlando,’ the President of the Royal Academy said, ‘that I’m going to change my will. Don’t see why I should give that much money to the Society for Distressed Watercolourists. Tell him I’m going to leave him twenty thousand pounds. That should set the two of them up in Rome.’