A Family Affair by Michael Innes Read Free Book Online Page A

glanced again at the name of the man who had authenticated the picture. It was an odd fact about expertises that the eminent scholars qualified to make them made substantial fees at the same time. Indeed, it was a unique fact. Among top archaeologists, for example, anything of the kind wasn’t on; they grumbled about it, but were rather pleased with themselves all the same. So with the picture boys, you had to know your man. Appleby knew this man by repute; he was a respectable professor at Cambridge. Which meant that the Giulio Romano he inspected had been a real Giulio Romano. Or at least that was a good working hypothesis. Somewhere in the world (barring the intrusion of another cardinal in a morbid frame of mind) the thing existed still: Nanna and Pippa, two high-class tarts, done in oils by a painter who hadn’t, in fact, been too good with oils, but who was an extremely important figure in the history of Western art, all the same. This canvas, unknown for centuries, had suddenly turned up at the Da Vinci Gallery, transported thither by a person unknown and from a place unknown. Perhaps it had simply been whisked away briefly from an unsuspecting owner: the evident train of events required no more than that – an hour or two for the Da Vinci and the painfully hoodwinked Braunkopf; perhaps no more than two or three days for the attentions of an expert copyist. Alternatively, the owner of the Giulio had hit upon the bright idea of selling his painting twice over: once to Braunkopf and once to somebody else.
    But consider – Appleby said to himself – the context in which this deception appears to place itself. Lord Cockayne and the predatory August Personage. Sir Thomas Carrington and his Stubbs. The worthy Mr Meatyard and his visit to Sir Joshua Reynolds. It was a reasonable hypothesis that these three had been defrauded by a single far from unmercenary joker, thoroughly well up in the craft of peddling pictures. If this were so, then it was a fair bet that the business of the Giulio Romano tied in and followed the same pattern. Once more, that was to say, there had been a carefully planned operation against an ingeniously chosen victim. The ‘Nanna and Pippa’ was really extant; there could be no doubt of that. But as its whereabouts had been unknown, it must be supposed that its owner, somewhat oppressed by its dubious character, had kept entirely quiet about it. He had probably felt himself to be in the position of a gentleman who keeps a collection of erotic books in a cupboard. As a consequence, he had been in no hurry to make a fuss when something a little irregular had occurred. Yes – Appleby told himself – that might well be it. The Giulio had vanished from its discreet niche, but with some intimation that it had merely been borrowed – as a joke, it might be represented – and would be returned quite soon. Absolute theft might have nerved the owner to call in the police. But the appearance of a mere prank would make him hesitate – and then (the painting having been authenticated at the Da Vinci and copied meantime) back it had actually come. So the only substantially aggrieved person had been Braunkopf, and Braunkopf had no information which would provide the police with any sort of trail.
    So here, once more, was the formula: lucrative fraud perpetrated in such circumstances that ridicule or a fear of ridicule acted at least as an inhibiting force – as a kind of brake, one might say – upon the vigour and effectiveness of any comeback by the defrauded person.
    Having arrived thus far in reckless speculation, Appleby pulled himself to a halt. You really had to be a very retired policeman indeed, he told himself, thus cheerfully to run ahead of the evidence. Of the four undoubtedly curious affairs he had been reviewing he was equally without any first-hand information – without the slightest brush or contact with any of the personages concerned. One was no more than a yarn spun to him by a young