The Property of a Gentleman: One House. Many secrets. Page 12
‘Ah, you’re here before us, Jo.’ Gerald’s voice behind me, and it had a tenuous quality about it, as if he wished he were elsewhere. I turned to see him and Askew coming down the room towards me.
‘It’s almost as hard to see as last night,’ I said. ‘It’s here in the shadow between these two windows.’
Askew sighed. ‘Yes ... well, I asked Tolson to bring it out of the room where he’s stored all the pictures, and we seem to have picked the worst place in the house to hang it. But Tolson insisted it should be this room, because of security ...’
‘Move it on to a chair facing the light,’ Gerald said.
It wasn’t a large canvas – about three feet by two. I brought a chair, and Askew lifted it down off the wall with ease. I propped it against the back of the chair directly facing one of the windows, and Gerald moved around to look at it.
The Rembrandt of old age was now fully revealed, the period when life had nothing more it could use to hurt him. Close to it was a daub of heavy ochre colours on a dark background; seen from a distance it was the marvellous face of a man who could even summon up a faint smile – almost a clown’s grin to reveal that the spark of life and creation was not yet extinguished. And yet it had been very near the end. The signature was there, almost obscured, and the date, 1669, the year he had died.
I glanced at Askew. At this moment, for all his sophistication, he was no different from all the others. Instead of looking at the painting, he was watching Gerald’s face. In the end, for him as for others, the waiting became too much, the impatience and the eagerness too much to control. ‘What do you think?’ he said.
Gerald spoke slowly. ‘Remarkable – very remarkable. An unrecorded self-portrait, but signed and dated. Perhaps it’s not so surprising that your grandmother’s family didn’t regard it very highly. Rembrandt, at the end of his life, had fallen from the height of being Amsterdam’s most fashionable portraitist, to the state of hardly being able to get a commission. They might well have regarded this particular picture as the portrait of a failure. This would have belonged to the period shortly after his son’s death – he survived him by only a year. Of course, in three hundred years opinions have changed about the best of Rembrandt’s work – this, at the time of his maturity and deepest suffering, says far more to this present age than his more facile works when his life seemed full of fruit and flowers and very theatrical costumes. Yes – very remarkable indeed.’ He turned to Askew. ‘Would there be any documentation for this – family papers, any record of its being bought, when it was bought – if anyone else had owned it or if it was acquired directly by the family and comes to you by descent?’
Askew shrugged. ‘I haven’t the least idea. There may be, but I’ve no way of knowing.’ He gestured helplessly back to the wall filled with the filing boxes. ‘That’s full of family papers – but there must be several hundred years of them – and mostly relating to estate matters. The estate once was quite sizeable – and then there was the mining. I haven’t any idea if Grandmother van Huygens brought over any papers relating to her own possessions. There may have been a marriage settlement. Dutch bourgeois families are pretty careful about such things, aren’t they?’
‘I would say they are. You see, any scrap of provenance – ’
‘But do we need that? It’s signed and dated.’
‘Yes,’ Gerald said. ‘That’s very significant. And it’s been here as long as you can remember, Robert?’
‘Of course, that’s how I knew it was a Rembrandt. They always said it was. But Grandmother van Huygens had it hanging in one of the passages upstairs – a passage she didn’t very often use. I told you she didn’t care for it. Coarse, she called it.’
‘That was the way he was painting at that time of his life.’
‘Excuse me, my lord.’
Startled, all of us looked up. None of us had been aware of Tolson’s appearance at the open door of the study; but I had the sense that he had been standing there for some time, listening as keenly as Askew to what Gerald had been saying.
‘What is it, Tolson?’
‘It’s Mr Birkett, my lord. He would like to have a word with you. I’ve put him in the library.’
‘Which Mr Birkett? The place is full of Birketts.’
It was plain from Tolson’s expression that for him there existed now only one Birkett apart from Lord Askew.
‘Mr Nat Birkett, my lord.’
‘Damn – can’t it wait? I’m busy now, Tolson. Ask him if he can come back. If he had telephoned first ...’
‘I should see him, if you can, my lord. It’s about the sheep and the dogs.’
‘Not again! We’ve been through all that. Last night. Tell him what you know, Tolson. You know these dogs – ’
‘It isn’t about our dogs, my lord. He’s found the one who’s been after the sheep. I think he’s come to apologise. Not easy to ask a man to come back again to do that, my lord.’ I was astonished to hear the tone of pleading in Tolson’s voice. Evidently Askew recognised it also. He shrugged. ‘Very well – I’ll come. Can’t have Nat Birkett forced to grovel. He was very sure last night, though. Won’t hurt him to apologise.’
‘Not at all, my lord. But you see, he’s a farmer ...’
Askew was striding up the room. ‘And you’re a farmer too, Tolson, and so are your sons. Well, I owe more than this to you. The library – ?’ He tossed a message back over his shoulder as he left the room. ‘Come and rescue me after a while, Gerald. Nat Birkett will welcome it as much as I will.’
We waited for Tolson to close the door after Askew left, but he stayed where he was, great round-shouldered figure, the grey-black head, and black mat of hair on his hands somehow more forbidding in the daylight. ‘Is there anything I can do, Mr Stanton?’
‘Do ...?’ Gerald looked bewildered. ‘Why – I don’t believe there is.’
‘Well, sir, perhaps you would like the picture hung up again.’
‘No, not for the moment, thank you. I’ll just look at it a little longer. If you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind, sir. It’s just that several of the grandchildren are about today – supposed to be helping, but really just having a good time. They’re not all as careful as Jessica. Just for safety, sir. ...’
‘Yes, I see. Well, I’m sure Miss Roswell and myself will see it safely back on the wall. And then we’ll do as Lord Askew suggests, and go and rescue him ...’
‘Very well, Mr Stanton.’ The door closed gently.
I turned at once to Gerald. ‘What’s the matter? The picture’s all right, isn’t it? I mean ...’
He didn’t even glance at me. His eyes were fixed on the painting, and his face was as grave as I had ever seen it.
‘Remarkable,’ he said again. ‘Very remarkable. A wonderful piece of work. Pity it had to be a Rembrandt self-portrait that Robert owned – and that it was signed and dated.’
‘But that makes it better, surely? It proves …’
‘It proves nothing, Jo. It’s a very remarkable painting. But I just don’t think it was painted by Rembrandt.’
‘Oh ...’ I felt the excitement leave me and a dull disappointment take its place – a sense of outrage too, that I had been so completely taken in, had believed in the man in the picture, had felt his life of suffering and joy. And then the second thought came. I turned swiftly to Gerald.
‘But it’s signed. And it’s certainly a portrait of Rembrandt.’
‘Yes, Jo, and I wish it weren’t. If it had been some other subject, one might have believed it had been painted in his studio perhaps by one of his pupils – which would explain why the van Huygens thought it a Rembrandt. Though I suspect when the real expert looks at it he’ll say something about the cracking of the canvas being not what it should be – and of course there are X-rays and the other tests. But that isn’t the main thing. Here and now I don’t, without anyone else saying a word, believe that Rembrandt painted it. There’s just something it hasn’t got – the qualit
y isn’t right. I have a feeling that I’m looking at a photograph of Rembrandt. Everything is here, and yet it isn’t the real thing. I hope to heaven I’m completely wrong. I hope our people will come up here and tell me that I’m wrong. But if I’m right, then we’re looking at the best piece of forgery I’ve ever seen.’ He shook his head, a gesture of sadness and wonder.
‘Yes – remarkable. Very remarkable indeed.’
II
We stayed looking at the painting for some time, Gerald’s face unhappy and pensive. Finally he shrugged. ‘It’s no use, Jo. I can’t say more than I’ve said. We’ll have to bring Lutterworth up here. In the meantime, what am I going to say to Robert? He believes it’s the real thing – I’m sure of that. It appears to be the painting that his grandmother brought from Holland, one that he’s grown up with. But I just don’t think that at the time it came here anyone would have been bothering to produce forgeries – at least not forgeries of this calibre. Anyone who could paint like that in the nineteenth century would have made a good living signing his own name. Even the greatest artists weren’t bringing such great prices then – I seem to remember as recently as the 1820s and ’30s there are records of Rembrandts selling at auction for as little as twenty pounds. What matters is fashion – and he wasn’t always very fashionable. But I don’t need to remind you of what has happened in the last ten years. When the Metropolitan bought Aristotle Contemplating the Bust of Homer for over two million dollars the rush was really on. Anyone who owned a Rembrandt was rich, Jo.’
‘Then if this is a forgery, you think it’s a recent forgery?’
‘Has to be.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d love to know who’s good enough to have done it. Remember Van Meegeren? He painted Vermeers that Vermeer had never thought of. Even though they discovered what he was up to, and tracked down some of the fakes, there still must be a few reputable museums and collectors through the world who are proud of their Vermeer – painted by Van Meegeren. When did he come out of jail, I wonder – or is he dead? Perhaps he – no, I don’t think so. It was quite another style. I don’t think this would be his work.’
‘But how, Gerald? And when? Has someone stolen the original and replaced it with this?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know. And it could be that I’m wrong. For Robert’s sake, for everyone’s sake, I hope I’m wrong. And perhaps you could try looking through some of those papers. With Robert’s permission, of course.’
I looked with despair and disbelief at the wall where the files were stacked. ‘Gerald, there seems to be a lifework for anyone who takes that on. I’ve no experience ...’
‘Oh, just make a game of it. Anything so I won’t have to tell Robert here and now what I think. Time enough to break his heart later, when we’re sure. We’ll leave tomorrow, and I’ll tell him I’m sending Lutterworth – and possibly someone else. Two opinions are better than one. If it’s even faintly dubious, we can’t touch it. But I wouldn’t bet that some dealer couldn’t sell it under the counter, without publicity. They can always make some story about avoiding the need to get an export licence. There are collectors mad enough and rich enough to lock a Rembrandt – or what they believe is a Rembrandt – in a safe for twenty years until there’s a convenient way of having it “discovered”. I don’t think I’ll tell Robert about that method. I’ll just urge him to sell his furniture and live off the proceeds. What he does with this canvas – unless our people vouch for it – will be his own business. Damn, damn shame!’
‘But who do you think ...? It’s been locked up here for so long ...’
He cut me short. ‘Don’t ask, Jo. Better leave it alone. We’ll go back to London tomorrow. I’ll make some soothing noises to Robert. And you had better forget you’ve ever seen Thirlbeck.’
‘I don’t think I ever can, Gerald ... but I think perhaps I never want to come back here. There’s so much I don’t understand. Vanessa and my father being here, and my never knowing ... Askew himself ... it all disturbs me.’
‘Jo – this isn’t like you.’ Gerald bent and looked for a moment into my face. ‘My dear, you’re looking a little forlorn ... and it certainly isn’t a very cosy or comfortable house. I’ll tell you what – while Robert is dealing with his Nat Birkett you and I will find where he’s hidden the car, and we’ll go off and find a pub in Kesmere.’
‘He has the keys. He didn’t return them last night, and I forgot to ask him for them.’
‘Trapped – as they say. Well, never mind – ’ He stiffened suddenly. ‘Yes?’
It wasn’t to me he spoke, but Tolson, again standing by the door which we had not heard open. ‘Mr Stanton, Lord Askew would like it if you and Miss Roswell would join him in the library. Shall I replace the picture?’
I wondered if he was so possessive of everything at Thirlbeck, and then again wondered why he should not be. After all, he had tended it alone for so many years, had accepted the responsibility of it all. How would a man not come to believe it was his own, and that we – and I included Askew in this – were interlopers in his closed-off world, his treasure house of beautiful things? If that was so, then Gerald and I must seem to him even worse, the appraisers who descended on his kingdom and began to put a price on everything, a price that valued beauty, but not the devotion or service which had preserved the beauty. I suddenly saw us with the eyes of a person like Tolson, and we did not wear such an acceptable look as we were accustomed to.
He was beside us already, lifting the picture and easily stretching to rehang it on its hook. ‘There – ’ he muttered. ‘Out of harm’s way now.’
It was as though Gerald and I were being driven off, like a pair of thieves, and the threat to the security of Tolson’s world was temporarily over.
The sound of the Condesa’s laughter greeted us in the library. She hardly turned at our entrance, calling a ‘good morning’ and then gave her attention once more to Nat Birkett. He stood in front of the fire, dressed in cavalry twill trousers and tweed jacket, a freshly laundered look about him, and the desperate air of a man who finds himself with a glass of champagne in his hand at eleven o’clock in the morning and wonders why he is where he is. He looked at Gerald with relief; they had made instant contact yesterday when we had encountered him at the back entrance to Thirlbeck, and it still endured.
Askew gestured to us with a bottle. ‘Champagne? Carlota’s tastes run to it at this time every morning. But we’ve had to buy this little lot – much to Tolson’s distress. We drank all there was in the cellars when Vanessa and Jonathan were here.’ He was holding a glass towards me. ‘Jonathan said it reminded him of the sun ... is that what you feel, Carlota?’
‘I feel gayer,’ she admitted. ‘I feel I shall very soon be on a terrace overlooking a blue sea, and the sun will be hot. But poor Mr Birkett here thinks all this is a waste of time, I’m afraid. He’d really rather be getting on with his farming.’ But she smiled at him, and the words had no sense of sarcasm.
‘Farmers never have enough time – but it’s sometimes a good thing to remind them that they’re never going to be caught up with work, and they should take a few minutes for ... well, for this.’ He gestured to include the room, the champagne bottle, and even, I thought, the Condesa herself. She looked this morning exactly like Gerald’s description of her as someone one saw in a glossy magazine; her pale cream slacks and the subtly toning cashmere sweater, Gucci shoes and the small Gucci travel bag that held her needlework tossed on the sofa beside her were the international badges of understated wealth and taste; if she was, as Gerald said, short of money, she didn’t betray it. But there were different degrees of being short of money. I wouldn’t have minded being short of money in the same way as the Condesa seemed to be. Nat Birkett’s eyes were on her appreciatively, and she was enjoying that.
Then he looked across at me. ‘You managed to find your way last night, then? I thought afterwards perhaps I shouldn’t have sent you over by Brantwick. The road’s breaking up a bit in places ...’
‘It was a great help,’ I said. ‘And spectacular views – before the mist came down. Formidable country, though. I wouldn’t like to be lost up there.’
He looked at me more closely. ‘You’d be surprised how many experienced walkers do just that. And this valley has the added attraction of being closed off – all private land, but bordered by the National Park. The trails on the maps lead them up near the top of the fells, and sometimes the temptation’s been too great to see what the valley of Thirlbeck looks like. A few times we’ve had searchers out for days on those fells looking for walkers. One wasn’t alive when we found him. Mostly it’s their own fault. People won’t believe how quickly the weather changes – some are not properly equipped or dressed, and they panic, try to find any way down they can. And they will cross over to this side, where the paths aren’t marked. Every summer the Tolsons and I do what we can about replacing the signs along the walls that tell them it’s dangerous, and to keep out – and every winter the snow knocks most of them down. And one or two people will always ignore a sign. This year we’re getting volunteers from the district – hand-picked, to see that no one does stray across, by accident or design.’