Chapter 24 : July 2009
The day after Ced’s return from Rome, he and Sally drove north to the Lake District. Ced was distinctly uncomfortable with Sally’s plan to use her savings to buy several John Andrews paintings and throughout the drive he continued to try to change her mind.
“Maybe I should lean on some of my art contacts and persuade them to set up a John Andrews exhibition. That way we could get a number of his paintings in one place and I could do the imaging when it was closed for the night.”
“Hon, we really need answers now. It would take months to set up an exhibition like that, even if Andrews would agree to having one. And the chances are that he wouldn’t if he’s a master forger – he’s not going to want to draw attention to himself.”
“Well, he draws attention to himself by running a gallery and openly selling his work.”
“Good point,” said Sally. “If he were a master forger, he could command huge money for his work. Why would he need to run a gallery when it would be better to work quietly from an isolated house somewhere?”
Ced shrugged. “Perhaps he does it to throw off suspicion. A sort of double bluff.”
“You’ve been watching too many spy movies.”
“You know, Sal, I don’t get it. Here we are, we’re both fairly clever people; good at research; good at solving problems and as forensic scientists we’re lateral thinkers. But neither of us can get our heads around this problem. Every avenue we go down, there are perfectly good and reasonable objections to continuing. There’s simply no logic in any of it.”
“There is,” replied Sally, staring out of the passenger window at the motorway traffic, “it’s just that we’re missing it. But at least we’re not the only ones confounded by this puzzle – Claw is tearing her hair out in frustration and from what you say, your two art experts Forbes and Verdi are doubting every opinion they’ve ever given.”
“Yeah, it’s baffling them and it’s baffling my program. It’s ridiculous. You can pick any number of artists and compare them with Andrews or Perini or the others – artists with the same sort of style, same period in history – and the program can make perfectly good and accurate observations about their work and distinguish them one from the other. But for a few artists scattered at random down the centuries, you can compare them until you are blue in the face and find there are no differences of any significance.”
“Are they scattered at random? I mean, the ones you’ve identified were all Italian or French, weren’t they?”
“Yes, but does that mean anything?”
“It might,” persisted Sally. “There’s something else – none of them overlaps, do they?”
“Hard to say since they all seem to appear at more or less the same stage in their lives with no known history, no mentors or references, no home town or rich fathers pouring money into their education. They’re just there. But if you take the case of Giovanni di Luca –”
“The one in Venice in the early sixteenth century?”
“That’s the one. Well, he beavered away for thirty years, but where he came from, no one knows, and then he suddenly upped sticks and sailed off into the sunset with his wife and family, never to be heard of again. But his life must have overlapped with Tommaso Perini since Tommaso was about thirty when he started working in Arezzo soon after di Luca disappeared. So he was around when di Luca was working.”
“No, he wasn’t around. He was alive, but not around.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that there’s no record of their working lives overlapping.”
“What does that mean?”
“I haven’t got a clue,” sighed Sally in exasperation.
They arrived in Grasmere at eleven thirty and spent a frustrating ten minutes searching for a parking place – it was a sunny Saturday in mid-July and the village was packed with tourists. Eventually Ced spotted someone leaving and squeezed the SUV into the vacant spot.
Sally turned to him. “We need a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yes, a plan. Of action. I mean you’re not intending to go with me to Andrews’ gallery, are you? You said you didn’t part on the friendliest of terms last time, especially with your broadside about Moretti.”
“No, I can’t go back, but I’d like to have a look at some of the paintings before you lay out vast sums of money.”
“OK, I’ll do a recce. Perhaps he’s out today producing a perfect copy of the Mona Lisa. Actually, do you think he’d recognise you? He must have hundreds of people passing through his gallery.”
“If he’s half the artist I think he is, yes. He’ll have an excellent memory for faces.”
“False moustache and glasses?”
“Go and do your recce,” he said, kissing the top of her head and locking the car. “I’ll sit on a bench on the village green and wait for you.”
He paused. “No, I’ve got a better idea. There’s a pub over the road and I’m starving. I’ll go and look at the lunch menu while you browse. But don’t buy anything!”
Sally walked along the street to Andrews’ gallery. The large landscape and the smaller one with the country house were still there in the window. They were both now very familiar from the photographs Ced had taken. She was relieved to see that it was the larger painting that was marked up at seven and a half thousand pounds; the smaller one – the one she was interested in, given the subject matter was closer to a Moretti – was three thousand.
Taking a deep breath, she walked into the gallery. She looked around for any sign of John Andrews, but there was only a thirty-something dark-haired woman who was in the middle of a sales pitch with two customers. Sally walked over to the nearest display stand to take a closer look at the work of the man who was confounding her boyfriend’s art world. A self-confessed philistine regarding art, even she couldn’t help but be impressed by everything she saw. She moved around the displays of Lakeland views, and then on to the stands devoted to portraits.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
It was several minutes later and the crowd in the gallery had thinned.
Sally turned from where she had been studying a portrait of a young girl. She was a good six inches taller than the woman and she smiled as she looked down at her.
“I’m really interested in the views with the country houses over there, but I became quite entranced with these portraits. They are all so beautiful. This little girl is simply gorgeous.”
“Thank you. She’s my daughter, and a bit of a charmer.”
“Are you the artist’s wife?”
“Yes, I’m Lola. Lola Andrews,” replied the woman offering her hand.
“Sally Moreton. Your husband really has the most remarkable talent.”
“Thank you,” smiled Lola.
Sally studied Lola’s face and made a guess.
“Are you an artist too? Are any of these works yours?”
“Yes, I am, and no, they aren’t,” laughed Lola. “John is always telling me he wants to make space for my work here, but although I’m not bad, if I say so myself, I’m not in John’s league. I sell my work through a friend’s gallery in Ambleside. It sits much more comfortably against the other work on sale there.”
“I’m sure it’s far better than you’re giving yourself credit for,” replied Sally.
“No, really, I’m not being falsely modest. John is better than anyone else working in the Lakes today.”
Sally picked up the portrait of Phoebe Andrews from the display stand and turned it over to see the price tag. Two thousand pounds. She gulped silently to herself.
“This is so beautiful; don’t you just want to keep it for yourself?”
“It’s not the first of her or her sister that John’s painted, and it won’t be the last. It was one of several he completed earlier this year. We’ve kept some, but there’s only so much wall space in the house.”
“Are her eyes really as pale grey as that?” ask
ed Sally in what she hoped was an innocent tone. “They’re very unusual.”
“Yes, they are. Exactly like her father’s.”
“What’s her name? I hope you don’t mind my asking.”
“Her name’s Phoebe. It’s on the back, but you were probably distracted by the price tag.”
“What a lovely name,” said Sally as she put the painting back on the display stand.
“Look, Ms Moreton,” said Lola, “why don’t I let you browse? Call out if you want to ask anything.”
Lola walked to the counter where she made a pretence of busying herself with some papers, but, as she often did with customers, she kept a discreet eye on Sally. There was something about this tall, athletic-looking young woman that didn’t add up. She didn’t give the impression of someone who regularly visited galleries to pore over their contents.
She let Sally continue her viewing for a few more minutes and then walked over to her again.
“Seen anything you like?”
Sally shook her head. “I haven’t seen anything I don’t like,” she sighed. “Every one of these paintings is a masterpiece.”
Lola smiled at her enthusiasm.
“Does your husband often come to the gallery, or does he spend all his time in his studio producing these wonders?” asked Sally.
“Oh, he’s normally here all the time. His studio is through there – that’s where he produces all his work. But this morning he’s in Keswick. There’s an exhibition of local artists starting there next week and John has been persuaded to show some of his work.”
“Persuaded? I should have thought an artist would always enjoy the possibility of an exhibition.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But not John; he hates exhibitions, says he can’t stand the fuss. As far as he’s concerned, the gallery is enough for showing his work. It drives me crazy: he’s so good that he should be up there among the modern artistic elite, but he’s simply not interested.”
“How strange,” said Sally quietly. “Tell me, when does the exhibition start?”
“There’s a reception next Friday evening and then it’s on for a month. The organisers want it to cover the really busy part of the summer season.”
As they were talking, Sally had made her way indirectly to the rear of the gallery so she could get a view into the studio.
“What a lovely environment to work in,” she said, nodding towards it.
Lola followed her gaze. “Yes, it is. It has very good light, even in the winter. Have a look if you want, John won’t mind. Perhaps you’ll find something he’s working on irresistible and reserve it before he’s even finished it.”
Sally laughed. “Thanks, I’d love to. I’m fascinated to think that all this amazing work is down to the skill of the artist in transferring what he sees in real life into his brain and then through his arm and hand to his brush.”
“That’s very analytical.”
“I’m a scientist,” said Sally without thinking. “I like to know how things work.”
“What sort of scientist?” asked Lola, snapping her response more forcefully than she intended, her suspicions aroused immediately.
Sally realised her blunder and thought fast. “I’m a sort of … physiologist,” she replied.
“Physiologist?”
“Yes,” said Sally thinking of the work one of her triathlete friends did. “I study motion, running, athletic performance. It’s all linked with designing the best shoes, using the best materials, that sort of thing.”
She watched for Lola’s reaction, wondering if she had been convincing, but Lola had lost interest.
Sally checked her watch. “Look, I really must go. But thanks so much, especially for the peek at the studio. I’m very interested in buying something. Can I come back tomorrow? I’m staying up here overnight.”
“Of course,” said Lola. “John will be here. You can talk to him directly.”
“Ced, it was absolutely amazing, even for an artistic no-man’s land like me. I’ve never seen anything like it. You know how it is when you go to most galleries, you like one or two things but for the others, you wonder why the artist bothered? Well, in John Andrews’ gallery, there was nothing, absolutely nothing that I didn’t fall in love with. Even those landscapes with big houses, which I don’t really go for, were incredible. I could have bought the lot.”
“Just as well that I stole your credit card when you weren’t looking,” replied Ced as Sally paused for breath.
They were in the pub Ced had spotted earlier, his empty plate pushed to one side so he could reach Sally’s chips.
Sally checked in her purse and found he was kidding. “I wonder what my credit limit is,” she said, taking out her card and studying it.
Ced leaned across the table and kissed her.
“That’s rather presumptuous, young man,” said Sally, a mock look of shock on her face.
“I love you, Sal.”
“Shut up and finish my chips. And close those big eyes before I drag you onto this table and ravage you.”
He grinned and wolfed down the rest of the chips.
Sally sipped her fresh lemon soda. “You know, hon, the more I learn about John Andrews, the less inclined I am to think of him as a forger. I mean, his studio is there in the gallery, the door wide open. His wife let me go in and look around. There’s nothing in there except his work, no old masters propped up in the corner that he’s copying.
“Oh yes, there’s an exhibition next weekend in Keswick, with some of his work in it.”
“Really, that’s great. I wonder if there’s a catalogue.”
“Dunno, but his wife said that he’s incredibly reluctant to put stuff in exhibitions. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“Not if he’s a forger, no. But look, if there’s an exhibition next weekend, there’s no need for you to splash out on paintings. We can go there.”
“And do what, hon? Andrews is hardly going to let you set up your cameras in front of his paintings, is he? And since you don’t know the organisers, you’re not going to be able to sneak in under cover of darkness. No, we’ve come here to buy, and buy we will!”
She looked at her watch. “OK, here’s the plan. We’ll find a nice romantic B&B to check into. Then we’ll go for a run in the hills. This evening, once Mr A’s gallery is closed and he’s gone off home to his family and daughter with the pale grey eyes just like his–”
“Did you see her, the daughter?”
“No, I only saw the painting. I think it’s the one that you showed an interest in and he wouldn’t let you buy. It’s back on sale.”
“We must get that one; it will really define his style,” enthused Ced.
“Put it on the list, hon, it’s a mere two grand. OK, when the gallery’s closed, you can put on your disguise and we’ll saunter along the street like a couple of Russian secret agents to check the place out. You can see well into the gallery from the window so I can point out the paintings I think would be useful and you can say ‘da’ or ‘nyet’.”
“Sounds good. Then what?”
“Then I put on the fishnets and parade the streets of Grasmere to sell my body so I can pay for the paintings tomorrow.”
Ced glanced at her sceptically. “The paintings cost more than a fiver, Sal. Ow!”
The following morning, after a hearty full English breakfast that Ced demolished while the landlady of the B&B looked on in rapture, they took a walk around the village to check if the gallery had opened. They were about a hundred yards away when they saw an ageing Volvo draw up outside the gallery. John Andrews got out of the passenger side, waved to Lola as she drove off and unlocked the gallery door.
“That was close,” whispered Ced. “If we’d been a couple of minutes earlier, we’d have been right outside the gallery.”
“I told you to wear the moustache and glasses, hon.”
“Let’s give it fifteen minutes. I could do with a decent cup of coffee; that B&B only had instant.”<
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John Andrews lifted his eyes from the counter when he heard the doorbell ring and looked appreciatively at the tall and attractive short-haired blonde who had walked in.
Instead of heading to one of the displays, she walked straight to the counter.
“Hello,” she said. “I was in here yesterday. I spoke to your wife.”
“Ah, yes,” smiled John, “she told me a physiologist had been studying my paintings.”
He held out his hand. “John Andrews.”
“Sally Moreton,” she said taking his hand and laughing at his comment. “Pleased to meet you. I’m in awe of your work.”
“Thank you very much. Now, Lola said you were interested in the landscapes. Is there any particular one you have in mind?”
“There are two, actually. And there’s this.” She pointed to the painting of Phoebe. “It’s so beautiful, so delicate. I’d really like to put it on the list.”
John smiled. “Yes, it’s incredible how angelic they can look when they’re not charging around.”
“She’s such a beautiful little girl,” said Sally, picking up the painting again. “She’s got your eyes. They’re very unusual.”
“Yes, I suppose they are,” he shrugged.
They walked over to the landscapes. She’d agreed with Ced the previous evening that she would buy one with a country house set in parkland north of Windermere that reminded Ced strongly of a Moretti painting he knew. The other view she wanted was very different in style. It was a more abstract picture than most of Andrews’ work, a view of Derwent Water in the northern Lakes, painted at sunset. Apart from loving it the moment she saw it, she astutely pointed out to Ced that given it was superficially very different in style, it would be a good test for his program.
“You’re picking this up fast, Sal. You’ll be programming next,” Ced had commented.
“Well, that was easy,” smiled John. “Any more?”
“I think three is more than enough. If I spend any more, I’ll have my bank manager demanding I return my credit card before it melts.”
“I think you deserve some sort of discount for three purchases. Let’s see, the overall tag price is, what, ten thousand. I think I could knock that down to, say, seven and a half?”
“Seven and a half?”
“OK, let’s call it seven, shall we?”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t trying to bargain. I was surprised at your generosity.”
Andrews laughed. “Don’t worry, seven thousand is fine. I hope my paintings will give you a great deal of pleasure.”
“I’m sure they will,” said Sally, suddenly feeling rather nervous about how much money she’d just agreed to spend.
“I’ll go and wrap them up for you. Why don’t you have another look around in case there’s something else you like?”
“All of it?” she said, pulling a hopeless face.
John returned a few minutes later with the paintings wrapped. He had an envelope in his hand which he held up to her. Her eyes widened.
“I’ve put a description of the paintings in here for your reference, in case you ever want to sell them or insure them.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever want to sell them,” she said.
He held out the envelope. It was unsealed.
She stared at the flap. Lick the damn thing, she thought, willing him. Lick it!
But he continued to hold it out.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked, noticing her staring at the envelope.
“Er, no, that’s fine, thanks,” she said, taking it.
“I’m intrigued to know about your interest in the Windermere view, the one with Malton House in it,” he said as they walked to the gallery door. “Is it somewhere you know well?”
“No, I don’t know it at all.”
“It seems a bit of an odd choice, that’s all. I can understand the portrait and the Derwent Water view: one is modern and the other classical; they appeal to all ages. But the Windermere view, it’s the sort of painting that tends to be bought by my older clients.”
She smiled. She’d thought of an explanation.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Not at all. You’re just young and there’s a certain type of painting that young people buy.”
“It’s a present for my grandfather.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“Yes, when I saw your work, I knew he’d like it. His father, my great grandfather, used to collect paintings and when he died, they were passed onto my granddad. He’s got something of a collection now because he’s added to it. Anyway, some of the ones he inherited were landscapes and views of big houses painted in England in the nineteen forties and fifties.”
She paused, chewing her lip and hoping this fairy story was sounding plausible. She realised she should have stopped, not said so much, but she was committed now.
John said nothing.
“Well, when I saw your paintings, they reminded me of some of my granddad’s paintings. The Windermere view is really quite like one he has, only I think yours is a lot better.”
John smiled cautiously. “Who was the artist? Let me see. Philip Johnston? Bernard Collins? They are both quite well-known English landscape artists from that period who worked extensively around here.”
“No, not the painting I have in mind. He’s got one by Philip Johnston,” she ad-libbed, “but it’s quite different. I’m trying to think of the artist’s name. It’s not an English name.”
She paused, pretending to think about it. “Oh, of course. It’s quite like our family name; Granddad’s commented on it before. He jokes that the artist must have been a foreign relative.”
“I don’t understand,” said John, suddenly reminded of the various events of the past few weeks and no longer convinced by this girl in front of him stuttering her way through her story.
“Well, my surname’s Moreton. So’s my granddad’s. He used to play around with the pronunciation. Say it as More-ret-on, with the emphasis on the RET. Then it became similar to the artist’s name.”
“Moretti?” said John, his voice cold.
“That’s it, Mr Andrews. Moretti. Francesco Moretti.”
She held out her hand. “Thanks so much. I’m thrilled with these paintings. I’ll treasure them. And I know my granddad will be over the moon.”