Death of an Old Master by David Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page B

concern, to maintain the illusion. Titian once went all the way back from Venice to Ferrara, quite a journey in those times, to
readjust the final varnish on his Bacchus and Ariadne now on display in our own National Gallery. The art world, the dealers, the restorers, the curators in their galleries love to present
themselves like those paintings, the glossy surface, the impeccable clothes, the illusion of perfection. It’s as if they hope some small particles of the glories of the past will rub off on
to their own shoulders. But underneath, it is quite different. Beneath the surface, behind the fine paint and the varnish, there lurks a different world. Sometimes long ago, when painters mixed
their own paints rather than buying them in the shops, trying no doubt for ever more dramatic results, they would invent a paint that nobody had ever tried before. But the outcome could be
disastrous. The air, the dust, the surrounding atmosphere would erode the colours. After thirty or forty years, only the canvas would remain. The image upon it had vanished, like the smile of the
Cheshire cat. So to a newcomer to the art world, I would repeat the words of Horace, caveat emptor , let the buyer beware. All is not what it seems.’
    ‘Do you think, Sir Frederick,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that all of that could lead to a man’s death?’
    Sir Frederick rose from his chair and stood by his window. A thin October sun was falling on the courtyard beneath. ‘I am an old man, Powerscourt. I have not been able to paint at all for
the past three years. My doctors tell me that I have but a short time left to live. Soon I shall be swept away, just as the rubbish on our River Thames gets swept away by the tides to rest on some
riverbank far away. So I can speak freely. I know too much about this art world. I would advise you to think of it as you would an Oriental bazaar, or the trading rooms of an unscrupulous financier
in the City of London just up the road from here. I do not feel it appropriate to tell you of any of the dishonest activities that go on. But I make you this promise.’
    Lambert had turned round now, and looked down on Powerscourt like a benevolent uncle offering unwanted advice to a feckless nephew. ‘I hope very much that the world of art in this city did
not lead to Christopher Montague’s death. I hope there are other causes. But if, in the course of your investigations, you come across anything in the art world, anything suspicious or
dishonest, I suggest that you return to me and I will help you. I will give you all the assistance in my power. I rather liked Christopher Montague.’

4
    William Alaric Piper was going to a meeting with Gladstone. He descended from his train at Barnes railway bridge and set off beside the river. He was wearing a large overcoat
and a hat pulled well forward over his eyes. He peered about him furtively as if he thought he might be followed.
    Gladstone was responsible for the secrecy. Not for the cover name, of course. All of de Courcy and Piper’s most important agents in the field had their own sobriquets. You could never be
too careful, Piper had said to himself when he started his system. One word of who you had seen, one dropped bit of gossip, could lose business. More important, it could lose money.
    Only the authenticators, as Piper liked to call them, were named after former Prime Ministers. Some of these deceased statesmen had travelled further in death than they ever had in life.
Liverpool had made it as far as Florence, Disraeli was reliving former diplomatic triumphs in Berlin, Peel had only progressed to Paris. But the word of these men, written rather than oral, could
add tens of thousands of pounds to the value of a painting. If they said a Velasquez was a fake, it was worthless. But if they said it was genuine, William Alaric Piper’s bankers would be
delighted. Most important, there could not be any visible link between expert and art dealer. If it was known