‘I hope this explains why. I should have had it for £5,000, maximum. But for that lunatic Japanese, I would have.’
The Duke of Gateshead read the report carefully in the sunlight from the window, and his expression changed. His ancestors had murdered and plundered their way to prominence, and, as with Benny Evans, old genes die hard.
‘Different complexion, old bean, entirely different complexion. Who else knows about this?’
‘No-one. I received the report at my home last month and kept it to myself. Stephen Carpenter, me, now you. That’s it. Fewer the better, I thought.’
‘And the owner?’
‘Some idiot Scot. To cover our backs, I offered him £50,000. The fool turned it down. I have my letter and the tape of his rejection. Now, of course, I wish he had taken it. But I could not foresee that crazy Japanese this morning. Damn near robbed us of it.’
The duke thought for several moments. A fly buzzed on the pane, loud as a chainsaw in the silence.
‘Cimabue,’ he murmured. ‘Duccio. Good God, we haven’t had one of those in the House for years. Seven, eight million? Look, settle up with this owner without delay. I’ll sanction. Who do you want for the restoration? The Colbert?’
‘It’s a big organization. Lots of staff. People talk. I’d like to use Edward Hargreaves. He’s among the best in the world, works alone and is silent as the grave.’
‘Good idea. Get on with it. In your court. Let me know the moment the restoration is complete.’
Edward Hargreaves did indeed work alone, a dour and secretive man with a private studio in Hammersmith. In the restoring of damaged or overpainted Old Masters, he was peerless.
He read the Carpenter report and thought of contacting the professor for a conference. But the senior restorer at the Colbert would be less than human if he were n
ot deeply offended that the fascinating commission had gone to someone else, so Hargreaves decided to stay silent. But he knew the Colbert stationery and the professor’s signature, so he could use the report as a base for his own labours. He informed Slade, when the Vice-Chairman of Darcy delivered the Scottish still life to his studio personally, that he would need two weeks.
He set it on an easel beneath the north light and for two days he simply stared at it. The thick Victorian oil paint would have to come off with extreme delicacy so as not to damage the masterpiece beneath. On the third day he began to work.
Peregrine Slade took his call two weeks later. He was agog.
‘Well, my dear Edward?’
‘The work is finished. What lay beneath the still life is now fully exposed to view.’
‘And the colours? Are they as fresh as the day they were painted?’
‘Oh, beyond a doubt,’ said the voice down the phone.
‘I’ll send my car,’ said Slade.
‘I think perhaps I should come with the painting,’ said Hargreaves carefully.
‘Excellent,’ beamed Slade. ‘My Bentley will be with you in half an hour.’
He phoned the Duke of Gateshead.
‘Splendid work,’ said the chairman. ‘Let’s have an unveiling. My office, twelve hundred hours.’
He had once been in the Coldstream Guards and liked to pepper his talk to subordinates with military phrases.
At five to twelve a porter set up an easel in the chairman’s office and left. At twelve sharp Edward Hargreaves, carrying the tempera-on-panel wrapped in a soft blanket and escorted by Peregrine Slade, entered the room. He placed the painting on the easel.
The duke had cracked open a bottle of Dom Perignon. He offered a glass to each guest. Slade accepted, Hargreaves demurred.
‘So,’ beamed the duke, ‘what have we? A Duccio?’
‘Er, not this time,’ said Hargreaves.
‘Surprise me,’ said Slade. ‘A Cimabue?’