Death of an Old Master (15 page)

The ball was slowing now. ‘Which colour, Professor?’ whispered the manager. The Professor looked at pages and pages of equations beside him. ‘Black,’ he said
sorrowfully.

There was a murmur in the crowd as the ball hovered over the wheel. The Englishman is broken. He is finished. Can he pay? It seemed to be a choice between a black 2 and a red 25. Orlando looked
at his last chip, sitting on the table. Grandad’s Little Friend had her two hands on the old man’s shoulders, straining for a better view.

The last rattle. The ball settled into its compartment.

‘
Deux
,’ said the croupier. ‘
Noir
.’

Orlando waited for half an hour at the table. He noticed bitterly that the next four rotations all ended in reds. He wondered about Imogen, their dreams of happiness lost in the spin of a wheel.
He wondered what he was going to say to the cashier. He wondered if he would be sent to prison, left to rot like the Count of Monte Cristo in a miserable cell deep inside the Chateau d’If. He
wondered how he could tell Imogen. He knew she wouldn’t be angry, only sad that their plan had failed.

At a quarter past two he left the table. His French friend followed him. The little old lady embraced him. ‘My poor boy, ’ she said, ‘my poor boy.’ The Pirate saluted
him. ‘What courage,’ he said. ‘What bravery.’ The croupier shook his hand. ‘
Au revolt, monsieur.
I hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you
again.’

Orlando’s friend led him to a quiet alcove off the main reception. Three Greek philosophers seemed to be having an argument on the walls behind them.

‘Mr Blane,’ said the Frenchman, ‘my name is Arnaud, Raymond Arnaud. Before we come to the business, let me ask you one question. Can you paint as well as you can
draw?’

Orlando stared at the man. Paint? Paint? What on earth was he talking about? ‘Of course I can paint,’ he said, ‘I paint better than I can draw. I was trained at the Royal
Academy and in Rome. But what of it? It does not matter now. I owe this casino ten thousand pounds. I do not have ten thousand pounds.’

Raymond Arnaud put his arm across his shoulders. ‘Mr Blane, my friends and I, we have been looking for a man like you. We will pay your debt. It does not go well with those who do not pay
here. In France they are more lenient. But in Monte Carlo the authorities feel they have to make examples of those who gamble and cannot pay. Otherwise their casino would sink under a mountain of
unpaid debts.’

Orlando could hardly believe his ears. Escape was being offered by this improbable Frenchman. ‘What do I have to do in return?’ he said.

‘You paint,’ said the Frenchman ‘you come and work for us in the world of painting. When you have earned enough to pay off your debt, we let you go!’

Raymond Arnaud did not say that he was the French associate of a firm of London art dealers, based in Old Bond Street. He did not say that they had been looking for somebody like Orlando Blane
for eighteen months.

Orlando came back from his reverie. A flock of starlings was flying past the house, heading for the lake. He walked back down the Long Gallery to his stretcher and looked at
his Gainsborough. He took the illustration from the American magazine out of its folder. Just the children, his instructions said. Don’t worry about a likeness for the parents, it might seem
too much of a coincidence. Just the children, not too perfect a likeness. He reached for his brushes and began to work.

Orlando had never discovered where the instructions came from, or who sent them. He presumed they came from London. All he had to do was to work every day in the Long Gallery. In the evening he
played cards with his jailers.

They played for matchsticks.

Lord Francis Powerscourt was having trouble with a letter. He stared gloomily at the full extent of his composition so far.

Powerscourt was writing to the lover of the late Christopher Montague, one-time art critic, recent inheritor of a very large sum of money. He stared out at the trees in Markham Square.

‘Please forgive this intrusion on your privacy,’ he began.

He read it through again. Was it too cold? Did he sound like a solicitor about to impart bad tidings? Should he have said more than he had? Should he have mentioned the possibility of further
deaths? No, he would leave it as it was, he decided.

But one fact worried him more than anything else. Lady Lucy’s intelligence system had revealed that Mr Buckley was a solicitor, partner in the well-known firm of Buckley, Brigstock and
Brightwell. And that Mr Buckley was at least twenty years older than his wife. And that Mr Horace Aloysius Buckley had not been seen in his office for over three weeks. He had not been seen there
since the day following the murder of Christopher Montague.

Johnny Fitzgerald decided he was going to enjoy his outing to Old Bond Street. He had a large parcel under his arm. He peered enthusiastically into the windows of the
galleries, paintings for sale on offer, further exhibitions due to open shortly promising a cornucopia of artistic treasures.

He entered the offices of Clarke and Sons. The reception looked like a London club, he thought, portraits of previous Clarkes, drenched in respectability and sombre colours, hanging proudly on
the walls.

‘Good morning,’ Johnny said cheerfully to the young man behind the desk.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said the young man. ‘How can we help you?’

‘It’s this Leonardo here,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘it belongs to my aunt. She’s thinking of selling it. I wonder if you could tell me what it’s worth?’

The young man had sprung to attention at the mention of the word Leonardo. He had only been with the firm a few weeks but even he had absorbed enough to realize that a Leonardo was the ultimate
prize. He would be remembered as the man who secured the da Vinci for Clarke’s. He would become famous. Other, better paid jobs would surely follow.

‘Very good, sir. How wise of you to bring it to us.’ The young man pressed a small bell on his desk. ‘If you would like to come with me, sir, one of our experts will talk to
you and examine the painting.’

Fitzgerald was escorted up a half flight of stairs and shown into a small room looking out on to the back of Old Bond Street. There was an easel by the window and a couple of rather battered
chairs. A bowl of fading flowers sat sadly on a side table.

‘Mr Prendergast will be with you in a moment, sir.’ The young man bowed slightly and made his way back down to reception, thinking about the tale he would tell his friends later that
evening. ‘Just walked in off the street, calm as you please, a Leonardo under his arm.’

Johnny Fitzgerald wondered how old you had to be before you became an art expert. The answer was not long in coming. Another young man announced himself as James Prendergast and shook Fitzgerald
warmly by the hand. Fitzgerald thought he must have been in his late twenties. ‘Good morning, sir. Perhaps we could have a look at the painting?’

Fitzgerald unwrapped his parcel and placed it on the easel. ‘Fitzgerald’s the name, Lord Fitzgerald of the Irish peerage, to be precise,’ he said. ‘Here you are,
Leonardo’s
Annunciation.
’

Most Italian Annunciations took place in broad daylight. The Leonardo happened at first light. A beam of strong sunlight came through a window and lit up the face of the Virgin. Her green robe
fell in shadowy folds towards the floor. Just inside the window, leaning on a table, was the angel of the Lord, dressed in light blue. Careful examination showed the rest of the contents of the
room, a humble single bed, a washing table with a bowl. The scene was mysterious, the expression on the Virgin’s face apprehensive, as if she could not quite believe what was happening to
her.

‘The shadows, Lord Fitzgerald, the shadows,’ said Prendergast reverentially, ‘how beautifully he handles the shadows.’ He paused, trying to imagine the price if the thing
was genuine. It certainly looked genuine. A faint note of greed came into his voice with his next question.

‘How long has it been in your possession, might I ask? How was it obtained?’

‘It’s not mine, actually,’ said Johnny. ‘It belongs to my aunt. Some distant relation of hers bought it in Milan on the Grand Tour years and years ago. She’s got
lots of this kind of stuff lying about the place.’

The young man’s face lit up at the prospect of further treasures. He was not an expert on Leonardo, in truth he might have had difficulty telling a Corregio from a Caravaggio, but he did
know that Leonardo had lived in Milan. He was fairly certain about that. Or had that been Titian who lived in Milan?

‘It is a most excellent work, sir. Perhaps you could come with me to one of our senior partners on the first floor. I’m sure he would love to see it.’

They get older as you go up the stairs, Johnny said to himself, as he followed young Prendergast to the next floor. It seemed to be the wrong way round. They should make the young ones walk up
all the stairs. Maybe the views were better higher up.

‘Mr Robert Martyn, Lord Fitzgerald. Lord Fitzgerald’s Leonardo.’ Prendergast made the introductions. Johnny felt pleased that the Virgin had attained human status in
Clarke’s Gallery. Robert Martyn was a small man in his forties, with a prosperous paunch and very powerful glasses.

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘And so this is the Leonardo.’ The same reverential tone, Johnny noticed. It’s as if the entire
staff of Clarke and Sons, art dealers, think they’re in church when they look at an Old Master. Martyn took out a magnifying glass and examined the painting carefully. ‘The handling of
the paint is very similar to that in Leonardo’s
Virgin of the Rocks
in the National Gallery,’ he said. ‘And the green is very similar. And look at the bottom left-hand
corner. Everything is very vague down there, as if the painter hadn’t quite finished it.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Fitzgerald in a loud voice, determined not to ape the customs of the art dealers.

‘Why, my lord,’ said Martyn, ‘it makes it even more likely that it is a Leonardo. He was notorious for never finishing his paintings. He got bored, perhaps. Or another idea
sprang into his mind. Very fertile brain, Leonardo, quite remarkable.’ Martyn made it sound as though he had dinner with Leonardo every other Tuesday at his Pall Mall club.

‘But come, Lord Fitzgerald, I fear that we must trespass further on your patience. Our managing director would love to see it. It is not every day that we are privileged to see such a
great work, is it, Prendergast?’ He nodded at his younger colleague. ‘Perhaps you could accompany us to the next floor where our managing director’s office is. Our Mr Clarke, Mr
Jeremiah Clarke, is the fourth member of his family to hold the position. We are fortunate to have such continuity in a changing world.’

Johnny guessed that Mr Jeremiah Clarke would be in his sixties if age followed the levels of the building. He was wrong. Jeremiah Clarke was in his mid-seventies, a sprightly old man with very
red cheeks and a shock of white hair.

‘Well,’ he said, looking closely at the painting, ‘it is most remarkable.’ He walked to the far side of his enormous office and looked at it from a distance. He advanced
to a mid-point, half-way across the room. Finally he placed himself a foot or two away and looked closely at the angel for a couple of minutes. Martyn and Prendergast stood solemnly on either side,
as if they were two sidesmen bringing the collection to the front of the church for the presentation.

‘Remarkable,’ said Clarke. ‘Mr Martyn, what is your opinion?’

Martyn spoke in hushed tones. ‘It seems to me, sir, that there is a very strong possibility that this is indeed a lost Leonardo. But I would have to consult the documents. I think we
should call in the experts.’

‘We could make you an offer for the painting now, if you would be prepared to consider that option.’ Jeremiah Clarke had seen so many people who brought valuable works to his firm in
need of ready cash. Johnny Fitzgerald was having none of that.

‘What would you be offering now?’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m sure it’s a lot less than it would fetch once the world knows it is genuine.’

‘I’m sure we could run to four or five thousand pounds. Cash,’ said Clarke. Johnny had been told that if the painting was genuine the initial bidding would probably start at
one hundred thousand pounds, with American millionaires to the fore. There were so few Leonardos left anywhere in the world, the thing was virtually priceless.

Clarke sensed that his visitor was not impressed. ‘However, Lord Fitzgerald,’ he purred on, ‘we would much prefer to wait. But it would help if you could leave the painting
with us for a week, maybe longer, so that our experts can have a proper look at it.’

‘No,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald. The three men looked at each other in astonishment. This had never happened before in the one-hundred-and-seventy-year history of Clarke’s. A
client refusing to leave his painting on the premises! It was impossible!

‘Why ever not?’ said Martyn sharply.

‘It’s not that I don’t mind the experts looking at it and doing whatever they do,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘But I’m going to take the painting away with me. When you
have made the appointments for the experts, you let me know and I’ll bring it back. I’ll bring it back as many times as you like.’

‘But why? Don’t you trust us?’ said Jeremiah Clarke.