Death of an Old Master (46 page)

If scandal broke, the whole London art market would be plunged into chaos. Clients would go elsewhere, to Paris or to Rome. The Americans who were reviving the market and bringing enormous
prices to Old Bond Street would go elsewhere. Nobody would believe a word the London art market said. They would have the mark of Cain upon them. It could take years to recover, if they ever did.
So far, Hopkin admitted to himself, Piper had extricated himself from his first two Americans rather well. But the third had paid the most money. Eighty-five thousand pounds for a Raphael was a
world record at the time. Another fifteen thousand for an Orlando Blane purporting to be a Gainsborough. So, at whatever cost, William P. McCracken had to be placated.

The opening exchanges were not propitious. ‘What about these bloody forgeries then?’ said McCracken, no longer a rich foreign visitor in the National Gallery, but an American rail
tycoon, a ruthless millionaire. He unwrapped a parcel and placed the two paintings on a chair beside him.

Piper went through his customary routine of how the rotten apple had been removed, the boils lanced, the Augean stables cleansed, how a bright new dawn had arrived for The Salisbury Gallery.

‘I’m seeing my lawyers in the morning,’ said McCracken. ‘That thing,’ he pointed to the Gainsborough, sitting innocently on their chair, ‘is a
fake.’

‘Let me assure you, Mr McCracken,’ the director of the National Gallery thought that McCracken might respond better to a man with clean hands, ‘that if you wish to back out of
the deal, Mr Piper here will refund you the money immediately.’

‘I have a cheque here, Mr McCracken. Made out to you.’ Piper fished about in his jacket pocket and produced a cheque made out to William P. McCracken for fifteen thousand pounds. He
laid it on the table.

‘That’s peanuts,’ snarled William P. McCracken. ‘You took eighty-five thousand pounds of my money for this other forgery, conceived in your gallery, Mr Piper, and
executed by your confederate, the forger, up there in Norfolk.’

‘That’s not a forgery, that Raphael, Mr McCracken, it’s real,’ said William Alaric Piper.

‘After what we heard in court these last few days, gentlemen,’ McCracken was scornful, ‘no jury anywhere in the world is going to be convinced that it’s real.’

‘I wouldn’t be sure about that,’ said Piper carefully. ‘In any case I have prepared a further cheque for you for eighty-five thousand pounds.’ Piper laid down a
second cheque beside the first as he might lay down a hand of cards.

‘That is a very fair offer,’ said Gregory Hopkin. ‘As for the authenticity of the Raphael, Mr McCracken, I think you would have considerable difficulty in establishing it as a
forgery. Mr Johnston here on my left is the foremost authority on Renaissance paintings in Britain, if not in Europe. He believes it to be genuine. So do other experts here in the National Gallery.
So do I. We would all testify in court that it is a genuine Raphael. You would have to find other witnesses to attest to its false provenance. That might be difficult.’

Something snapped in William P. McCracken. He was tired of the smooth talking, the sophisticated veneer of all these wretched English people. Suddenly he wanted the clearer air of New York and
Boston and the simpler certainties of the society of Concord, Massachusetts. Art was something he thought you could acquire like houses, or racehorses or yachts. Now all he could see was a
kaleidoscope of mirrors with these slippery people trying to bamboozle you at every turn. No more.

‘I think I’ll take the cheques, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of the whole lot of you. I’m going back to the States. You can keep your lousy pictures,
real or not. I couldn’t give a damn.’

With that McCracken picked up his cheques and strode angrily from the room. He slammed the door behind him.

‘Mr Piper?’ said the Director of the National Gallery. Two terrible thoughts had just occurred to him. ‘That Raphael. Real or fake?’

‘It’s real,’ said Piper.

‘And the cheque,’ Gregory Hopkin went on, ‘the cheque for eighty five thousand pounds. Is that real ? It’s not one of your fakes or forgeries or anything like
that?’

‘The cheque, Mr Director,’ Piper was wondering if there was any money left in his bank account, ‘the cheque, like the Raphael, is genuine.’

‘Don’t take off your coat, Francis.’ Lady Lucy was waiting for Powerscourt at the front door of Markham Square. ‘This letter came for you just after
you left the party in Mr Pugh’s chambers. It’s from the Prime Minister.’

Lady Lucy did not say how close she had come to opening it. Powerscourt picked up a paper knife and slit the envelope open. He read it aloud.

‘“My dear Powerscourt,”’ he began, ‘“the Prime Minister is most anxious to see you, this evening if possible. He has a most important mission to discuss. I
hope we shall see you very shortly, Schomberg McDonnell, Private Secretary to the Prime Minister.”’

Powerscourt looked pale. He held Lady Lucy very closely for a long time. After he had gone Lady Lucy glanced absent-mindedly at the evening papers. They were full of dramatic accounts of the
closing day of the trial. A headline on the opposite page caught her eye. ‘Further disasters in South Africa,’ it said.

Oh no, Lady Lucy said to herself. Please God, not that. Anything you like, but not that.

‘I’ll come straight to the point, Powerscourt.’ The Prime Minister was sitting at an enormous desk in his study on the first floor of 10 Downing Street.
Schomberg McDonnell was hovering in an easy chair by the fire.

‘Damn it, man,’ the Prime Minister went on, looking closely at Powerscourt, ‘we’ve met before. In this very house, if I’m not mistaken, when you sorted out those
German fellows trying to bring down the City at the time of the Jubilee.’

‘I did have that pleasure, Prime Minister,’ said Powerscourt, wondering if he had been called to sort out another financial scandal.

‘Not bloody Germans this time, Powerscourt,’ the Prime Minister went on, ‘bloody Boers. Bloody Boers!’ He repeated himself angrily.

‘This is the problem, Powerscourt,’ said the Prime Minister with real passion in his voice. ‘The whole structure of military intelligence in South Africa is wrong. War Office
can’t sort it out. Useless bloody generals can’t sort it out. They think the Boers are here. They’re not. They’re over there. The generals plod over there. By the time they
arrive, Mr bloody Boer has disappeared again. Difficulties in the terrain, they keep telling me. Rubbish. Faulty intelligence, maybe no intelligence at all.’

Powerscourt thought he knew now what was coming.

‘I’ve had enough, Powerscourt. If we don’t sort out the intelligence, we’re in danger of losing this war. Losing a war to a couple of tinpot South African Republics
populated by a lot of fanatical Protestants with long beards who don’t even have a regular army. For God’s sake! Our international reputation is in tatters. I don’t mind if the
French and the Germans are jealous of this country. I don’t mind if they’re afraid of us. What I take exception to is that they should laugh at us, that we should become a figure of fun
among the Great Powers of Europe. It’s intolerable.’

The Prime Minister paused. Powerscourt saw that the portrait of Disraeli was still there on the wall, the one that had inspired him on his last visit to 10 Downing Street. Wellington was on the
other side of the room. Wellington, he felt sure, would have been pretty angry abut this military and political debacle. But then Wellington had always been fanatical about the importance of
intelligence.

‘I asked McDonnell here,’ the Prime Minister continued, ‘to find me the best intelligence officer, serving or not, in the country. His inquiries led him directly to your good
self, Powerscourt. Will you undertake this mission for me? Find out what’s wrong with the bloody intelligence. Make a plan to get it right. Report directly to me. I want you to leave
immediately. There is a fast destroyer sailing from Portsmouth this Thursday. Will you do it?’

Powerscourt paused. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave his family for months, maybe years. ‘My service was almost entirely in India, Prime Minister. I have served
only once in Africa, and then in a very different country.’

‘Nonsense, man,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘doesn’t matter where you’ve been. What’s needed is brains, intelligence applied to the problems of intelligence.
You’ve got all that. Why, only today, McDonnell tells me, you’ve solved another bloody murder mystery here in London.’

Powerscourt felt encircled. He knew he had no choice. But then, he had known that all along. ‘I accept, Prime Minister. I hope I can be of service to you. Might I make one small
request?’

‘You may indeed,’ said the Prime Minister.

‘I would like to take two or three former colleagues with me, men who have served with me in India, Prime Minister.’

‘Powerscourt,’ the Prime Minister smiled at him, ‘you can take whoever you want. Just give McDonnell the details. He’ll sort everything out. You can take the bloody
Landseer Lions from Trafalgar Square with you, if you think it’ll help.’

Two days later Powerscourt took his children on another visit to the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. Sergeant Major Collins who had served with him in India was waiting to greet
them.

‘So your Papa’s going off to war,’ he said, crouching down to a lower level. Powerscourt had sent him a note the day before.

‘Yes, he is. He’s going to sort out the intelligence,’ said Thomas, proud of his big new word.

‘He has to write a lot of letters to the Prime Minister,’ said Olivia whose knowledge of letters was largely confined to the ones she received from her grandmother.

‘Did you know,’ said the Sergeant Major, smiling at the children, ‘that they looked all over the country to find the best man for the job? They looked everywhere.’

Thomas wasn’t quite sure who ‘they’ would have been. Hundreds and hundreds of Sergeant Major Collinses, he suspected, searching the country day and night.

‘And they found Papa?’ said Olivia. ‘Mama could have told them that in the first place.’

‘Look, children,’ said the Sergeant Major. ‘I’m going to show you something.’ He took them along a corridor of rooms inhabited by the Chelsea Pensioners. Thomas and
Olivia peered inside, fascinated as they had been before by the beds that folded into the wall. ‘This man here, Corporal Jobbins, he went off to India where your Papa was with me. He’s
come back. Next room, Lance Corporal Richardson, he went away to Africa, he’s come back. This man in here, Private Jenkinson, he went off to Egypt, he’s come back. This one at the end,
Gunner Bishop, he went off to Afghanistan, he’s come back.

‘And,’ he went on, ‘see this big room here where we’re going to have our tea, all of these soldiers have been sent away. They’ve all come back.’

Sergeant Major Collins put Olivia on his knee and helped her to bread and butter. Over a hundred veterans looked on in envy and delight. Thomas said the bread and butter was the best he had ever
tasted. They had slices of an enormous chocolate cake, Sergeant Major Collins intervening personally to secure a second helping.

‘Wish I was going with you, sir,’ said the Sergeant Major to Powerscourt as they left.

‘I’ve got the next best thing, Sergeant Major,’ said Powerscourt. ‘William McKenzie and Johnny Fitzgerald are coming with me.’

‘God help them Boers,’ said the Sergeant Major. ‘They should give up now if Major Fitzgerald is on his way.’

On his last night in England Lord Francis Powerscourt put his children to bed. He found Olivia in the kitchen, watching the cook preparing grown-up dinner.

He took her in his arms. She snuggled into his shoulder. Olivia said goodnight to every room in the house on her way upstairs.

‘Goodnight, cook, goodnight, kitchen,’ she said.

‘Goodnight, Olivia love,’ said the cook with a smile.

‘Goodnight, dining room, goodnight, chairs,’ said Olivia.

‘The dining room bids you a very good night, Olivia,’ said her father solemnly.

‘Goodnight, drawing room, goodnight, sofa.’

‘Both drawing room and the sofa wish you pleasant dreams,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Goodnight, stairs,’ said Olivia, still clinging to her father’s shoulder.

‘The stairs wish you a very good night too,’ said Powerscourt.

He was putting her into bed now. She was nearly asleep. ‘Goodnight, Papa,’ she said, almost disappearing underneath the covers.

‘Goodnight, Olivia.’ Powerscourt bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight.’ He waited quietly by the side of the bed. Olivia was asleep. He waited another ten
minutes, watching the innocence on the face of his daughter, praying for her future.

Thomas wanted a story. Thomas was very fond of stories. Powerscourt reached for a book on the table and began to read:

‘What’s a pinnace, Papa?’ asked a sleepy voice.

‘It’s a little ship, Thomas, a messenger ship,’ Powerscourt whispered back.

Thomas stirred again. He was nearly off. ‘The Dons are Spaniards, aren’t they, Papa?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Powerscourt.

Thomas had not stayed until the end of the conflict. He was gone. Again Powerscourt watched and waited a full ten minutes by the bedside of his sleeping child. He prayed for Thomas. He prayed
for his mother. Then he tiptoed slowly from the room.