turned out to be a bit of a connoisseur, told Canadine it was probably quite devilishly old – Graeco-Roman, as the art wallahs say – and probably worth a tidy sum. You see what I mean?’
‘I think I do.’ Appleby had put down his glass, and was staring at Cockayne. ‘And would I be right in supposing that the present Lord Canadine was rather reluctant to make a fuss?’
‘Quite right. Or rather, he had been, at the time the statue was made off with. He’d just made a speech in the Lords, as it happened, about pornography and so on. You know the kind of thing. Lady Chatterley’s Mother .’
‘ Lover ,’ Oswyn said.
‘Exactly, my dear boy. So it would have been rather embarrassing to call in the coppers. But when he was tipped the wink that this Venus, or Diana, or whoever she was, might be valuable – ’
‘He regretted his delicacy of feeling.’ Appleby didn’t venture to glance at Oswyn, who was clearly deriving keen satisfaction from this colloquy between his elderly companions.
‘Just that, Appleby. And I’m dashed if I don’t feel rather the same about my picture. Of course, one wants to do the decent thing by these people–’
‘Of course,’ Appleby agreed gravely. It was obviously the Royal Family who were being thus described.
‘But there are limits, after all. If this dashed daub was by Duccio–’
‘Or Pollaiuolo,’ Oswyn said, ‘or Mariotto Albertinelli, or Pietro Berretini da Cortona.’
‘Any of those.’ It was not without suspicion that Lord Cockayne glanced at his youngest son. ‘It would be a different matter, eh? I certainly think we should have the thing back. And let the long-haired chaps have a look at it.’ Lord Cockayne finished his third glass of port and looked quickly at Appleby. ‘How long will it take?’ he asked briskly.
‘To recover your painting? Not, I hope, as long a time as it has been lost for. But you must consider that, if it is really valuable and was stolen because it was designed to make money out of it, then it probably passed through various hands long ago.’
‘Very true, of course.’ Cockayne nodded with a great appearance of sagacity. ‘But you must come down and have a look round on the spot. Fingerprints and so forth, eh? Get that boy of yours to bring you. He knows our ways.’
Appleby, although doubtless gratified at having thus attributed to his son a familiar acquaintance with aristocratic courses, produced only a cautious reply. Only the day before, he had been announcing to Judith a positive determination to penetrate to Keynes Court. But now, as his old professional instinct was rekindled in the face of this whole bizarre affair, he had an impulse to preserve for himself a complete freedom of action. Moreover the notion of the slightly dotty Lord Cockayne breathing down his neck while he pottered round Keynes Court looking for fingerprints carelessly disposed there a generation ago was ludicrous rather than appealing. Moreover, just at the moment, he had a strong sense that Mr Hildebert Braunkopf of the Da Vinci Gallery was his immediate quarry. It was true that the anti-pornographic Lord Canadine, so awkwardly circumstanced because of his father’s indelicate comportment with a Graeco-Roman antique, constituted another beckoning presence. His small misfortune certainly belonged with the series, and enforced the conclusion that somebody variously well versed in artistic matters had been masterminding the whole thing. But Appleby didn’t know Lord Canadine, and he did know Mr Braunkopf. There had been a time when he was almost an authority on the workings of Mr Braunkopf’s mind.
So Appleby got up with appropriate murmurs, and took his leave of the Lywards.
Something had happened to the Da Vinci Gallery since his last visit. On that occasion Mr Braunkopf had assembled a number of works by Pietro Torrigiano – a surprising number, considering the known paucity of anything portable by that celebrated contriver of
‘I think I do.’ Appleby had put down his glass, and was staring at Cockayne. ‘And would I be right in supposing that the present Lord Canadine was rather reluctant to make a fuss?’
‘Quite right. Or rather, he had been, at the time the statue was made off with. He’d just made a speech in the Lords, as it happened, about pornography and so on. You know the kind of thing. Lady Chatterley’s Mother .’
‘ Lover ,’ Oswyn said.
‘Exactly, my dear boy. So it would have been rather embarrassing to call in the coppers. But when he was tipped the wink that this Venus, or Diana, or whoever she was, might be valuable – ’
‘He regretted his delicacy of feeling.’ Appleby didn’t venture to glance at Oswyn, who was clearly deriving keen satisfaction from this colloquy between his elderly companions.
‘Just that, Appleby. And I’m dashed if I don’t feel rather the same about my picture. Of course, one wants to do the decent thing by these people–’
‘Of course,’ Appleby agreed gravely. It was obviously the Royal Family who were being thus described.
‘But there are limits, after all. If this dashed daub was by Duccio–’
‘Or Pollaiuolo,’ Oswyn said, ‘or Mariotto Albertinelli, or Pietro Berretini da Cortona.’
‘Any of those.’ It was not without suspicion that Lord Cockayne glanced at his youngest son. ‘It would be a different matter, eh? I certainly think we should have the thing back. And let the long-haired chaps have a look at it.’ Lord Cockayne finished his third glass of port and looked quickly at Appleby. ‘How long will it take?’ he asked briskly.
‘To recover your painting? Not, I hope, as long a time as it has been lost for. But you must consider that, if it is really valuable and was stolen because it was designed to make money out of it, then it probably passed through various hands long ago.’
‘Very true, of course.’ Cockayne nodded with a great appearance of sagacity. ‘But you must come down and have a look round on the spot. Fingerprints and so forth, eh? Get that boy of yours to bring you. He knows our ways.’
Appleby, although doubtless gratified at having thus attributed to his son a familiar acquaintance with aristocratic courses, produced only a cautious reply. Only the day before, he had been announcing to Judith a positive determination to penetrate to Keynes Court. But now, as his old professional instinct was rekindled in the face of this whole bizarre affair, he had an impulse to preserve for himself a complete freedom of action. Moreover the notion of the slightly dotty Lord Cockayne breathing down his neck while he pottered round Keynes Court looking for fingerprints carelessly disposed there a generation ago was ludicrous rather than appealing. Moreover, just at the moment, he had a strong sense that Mr Hildebert Braunkopf of the Da Vinci Gallery was his immediate quarry. It was true that the anti-pornographic Lord Canadine, so awkwardly circumstanced because of his father’s indelicate comportment with a Graeco-Roman antique, constituted another beckoning presence. His small misfortune certainly belonged with the series, and enforced the conclusion that somebody variously well versed in artistic matters had been masterminding the whole thing. But Appleby didn’t know Lord Canadine, and he did know Mr Braunkopf. There had been a time when he was almost an authority on the workings of Mr Braunkopf’s mind.
So Appleby got up with appropriate murmurs, and took his leave of the Lywards.
Something had happened to the Da Vinci Gallery since his last visit. On that occasion Mr Braunkopf had assembled a number of works by Pietro Torrigiano – a surprising number, considering the known paucity of anything portable by that celebrated contriver of
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