“What do you want, exactly?”
“I want to sell paintings. There’s not much point being a dealer otherwise. That’s about it. I mean, I don’t particularly want to make untold millions or anything like that. But I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Byrnes said kindly. “No one is selling anything at the moment. Not for a profit, anyway. Of course, that may be the trouble.”
“What?”
“Not doing anything wrong. Honesty is a great virtue normally, but a bit of a handicap in the art trade. And I do think that sometimes you take the upright posture too far. Remember that Chardin?”
Byrnes was referring to a small painting that Argyll had bought in a sale a year or so previously. He thought, but wasn’t sure, that it was a Chardin, and persuaded a buyer to take it for a considerable amount of money. The following week he had discovered it was not by Chardin at all, and had been painted by someone very much less reputable.
“It was a clean, honest deal,” Byrnes said disapprovingly. “And you went straight round, presented the man with the evidence that he would never have found for himself, proved it wasn’t by Chardin and took it back, giving a full refund. Now, frankly, I admire your integrity. But not your acumen.”
But I thought it was a good idea,” Argyll protested. “He was an important collector and I was building up his trust. He would have bought more from me…”
“Had he not himself been arrested for corruption and links with organized crime three weeks later,” Byrnes pointed out gravely. “You were being scrupulous with his money. Splendid. Except for the tiny little fact that it wasn’t his money to start off with.”
“I know, I know,” Argyll said glumly. “But I just don’t like that part of the business,” he confessed. “I know I should shave as many corners as possible. But when an opportunity to be cunning or a bit sharp presents itself, my conscience mans the barricades. And there’s no point your telling me all this. You’re exactly the same yourself.”
“There is a difference, though. I hate to have to point it out, but I have a lot more money than you do. I can afford to indulge my conscience. And it’s an expensive luxury.”
Argyll looked even glummer, so Byrnes hammered on. It was, he thought, necessary. He’d been meaning to say it for some time. He liked Argyll and had a high opinion of him, but he did need educating in the realities of life a little.
“You have to face the facts, Jonathan,” he said kindly. “You like your clients and you like pictures. Both are rare attributes in dealers and, frankly, neither is very helpful. Your job is to get as much money as possible and give as little as possible in return. It is to spot things and keep quiet about them. Telling the world that a Chardin is not a Chardin is fine for a connoisseur or an historian; not so smart for a dealer. You have to choose between your scruples and your income. You can’t have both.”
And so the conversation went on, Byrnes being kind, sympathetic and saying everything that Argyll knew perfectly well already and didn’t want to hear. Ultimately, Byrnes concluded that Argyll’s only real option, if he didn’t want to take up the offer of a job teaching, was simply to wait until the market recovered again. “It’ll never be like the good old days,” he said. “But it’s bound to pick up eventually. If you can survive another year or so, you’ll be fine.”
Argyll wrinkled his nose with dissatisfaction. Obviously, he’d been foolish to think that Byrnes—who was well disposed towards him—was going to come up with a magical solution. As the man said, a major discovery, preferably cheap, would do the trick. Dream on, he thought.
“Oh, well,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it some more.”
“I’m not being much help, I’m afraid,” Byrnes said sympathetically.
“Nothing you can do, really. Except maybe order another bottle of wine…”
No sooner said than done. For some reason, knowing that even Byrnes couldn’t think of anything slowly began to cheer him up. Partly because it confirmed that at least he wasn’t missing anything. And secondly because even Byrnes, it seemed, was going through a lean period. If you’re going to suffer, then it’s somehow better not to be on your own.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said when the bottle had come, a glass had been poured out and he’d drunk half of it. “I can’t take any more reality today. Does the name Forster mean anything to you? Geoffrey Forster?”
Byrnes looked at him cautiously. “Why?”
“Flavia. Somebody said he stole a painting. Decades ago. She wanted me to see if I could find out who he was. It doesn’t really matter, but I’m sure she’d appreciate anything I can dredge up. It’s nothing hugely important, I think, but you know what she’s like. Who is he?”
“A dealer,” Byrnes said. “At least, he was once. I haven’t seen him for years. When the end of the eighties hit, he diverted into freelance expertise.”
“Oh yes? What does he do?”
“Vulturing mainly,” Byrnes said half admiringly. “Picking over the semi-dead bodies of old families. You know, advising impoverished aristocrats and selling off their collections for them. He’s got a sort of half-permanent post with some old lady in Norfolk. Lives up there now. As an example of how to sit out troubled times, it’s a line of business you might investigate.”
“Lucky him.”
“Yes. Useful sideline. His great problem is that he’s a bit difficult.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I didn’t like him. Quite charming, in a way, if you like that sort of thing, but not many clients could stand him over the long-term either. That was why he was never very successful. There was something a bit insidious about him. Hard to describe, really.”
“Crooked?”
“Not that I’ve heard, no. And if he was, then no one would have been reticent about saying so. What is this picture?”
Argyll explained the circumstances.
“Youthful indiscretion?” Byrnes suggested. “Perfectly possible. Does Flavia want to nail him?”
Argyll shrugged. “Not desperately. But if it was something that could be wrapped up quickly I’m sure she’d love to give him a hard time. Although as far as I can see there’s not much chance of doing anything else.”
“No. Not after so many years. Even if you could prove it. Are you meant to be skulking round and finding out?”
“Not really. But, on the other hand, I’ve not got anything else to do, and I have a day or so here, so I might as well contact him, at least. Do you know what his address is?”
Byrnes shook his head. “No. But he rents space from Winterton. Just to give him a respectable address and telephone number, really, and I don’t think he’s ever there. It’s only five minutes from here. You could walk up and see. They’d know.”
The older man’s benign sympathy and good taste in wine, if it was of no practical help, had ultimately managed to lift his spirits off the floor, and the prospect of doing something which had no connection to his own career furthered this process. By the time he got to Winterton Galleries, he was almost in a decent mood, even though it was very much on probation.
He explained his business, or part of it, to the secretary inside. Was Geoffrey Forster around?
No, he wasn’t.
Did she know where to get hold of him?
Why?
Business. He was on a flying visit from Italy and wanted to talk to him before he flew back.
Very grudgingly, she said he was undoubtedly at his house in Norfolk. He virtually never came here. If Argyll thought it was really important, she could ring him.
Argyll did think it was really important.
Forster had one of those voices which are very much the stock in trade of a certain sort of English art dealer: the type of accent and intonation that can make a nineteenth earl feel socially inferior at a distance of several miles. It was one reason Argyll quite liked Italy. Even over the phone, he felt his hackles rising when Forster asked him, in a tone of drawling impatience, what exactly he wanted.