Blood on the Wood (3 page)

As I was thanking him and declining more lemonade, Adam came in at the front door, looking annoyed.

‘Uncle, have you got the key to the schoolhouse? Some of Daniel's confounded Scipians have arrived already and they want to get it aired.'

Mr Venn rummaged in his pockets.

I asked Adam, ‘Who are these Scipians?'

‘So the news hasn't spread yet? They're a breakaway group from the Fabians that my dear brother seems to have got himself involved with. He's invited them to hold a summer camp on Uncle's land.'

I knew that Oliver and Philomena Venn, as good middle-class socialists, had been among the founders of the Fabian movement and guessed that Adam was of the same persuasion.

‘Philomena would have wanted it,' Oliver Venn said sadly, still failing to find the key. ‘She'd have liked to think of young people from the factories having a few days of sunshine and country air.'

Adam gave me another of his looks that implied he and I knew things weren't as simple as that, but his tone with his uncle was patient.

‘Don't worry, I'll see to them. We must hope Daniel remembers they're coming and gets home in time. Now, has somebody called the gig for Miss Bray?'

He said good afternoon to me and disappeared into the back of the house. Mr Venn came out to see me off and make sure the picture was safely stowed in the gig. As we turned into the road I looked back and there he was still standing there, like a fond parent watching his first-born going away to school.

*   *   *

I caught the train with ten minutes to spare and paid extra to go first class, so that the Odalisque could travel upright on two seats. For the first part of the journey my mind was on her and Philomena, but as we got nearer London I started worrying about the unexpected result of my trip. The news about the Fabians and the Scipians was not good because it meant more campaigning work when we all had more than enough. All right, I know reformist groups are always splitting like seed pods on a hot day. It's one of life's little unfairnesses that while alliances of the cynical and greedy seem to rub along quite happily for decades, put three idealists in the same room and you immediately get at least two different parties. To those outside it usually doesn't matter one way or the other. But if – like the Suffragettes – you're a group fighting for one particular issue, you have to pick up allies wherever you can, from moderate Liberal to anything this side of revolutionary anarchist. It had taken us a lot of time and work to get the ever-cautious Fabians to put votes for women high on their agenda. Since, for my sins, part of my job for the WSPU was to know what was happening in other political groups, I'd been aware that two factions within the Fabians were fighting each other – one more radical, the other less so. A split had been on the cards for some time, but now it had happened and I hadn't known about it, which was careless. I'd have to spend some time finding out who'd ended up on which side of the split and whether the Scipians were worth cultivating from our point of view. This was where my mind was as we drew into Paddington and I realised I'd have to move fast if I intended to get the Odalisque into the safe hands of Christie's before it closed.

*   *   *

I let a porter carry her to the cab queue for the sake of speed and managed to get to Christie's as the doorman was just shutting up for the day. He wasn't impressed with me or my package, but as luck would have it the beautiful young man was coming downstairs on his way out, soft felt hat in his hand.

‘Miss Bray, is that it?' Far more enthusiasm in his voice than when we'd last met. ‘Since we spoke I've made some enquiries among my older colleagues. It seems Mr Venn may have bought some quite interesting pictures.'

I'd propped the brown paper parcel by the porter's chair. His eyes went to it as eagerly as they might have done to the lady herself.

‘It's a version of the
Blonde
Odalisque,' I said. ‘Is she worth much?'

From the little shiver that went through him, I could tell the question was indelicate. ‘There's never an easy answer to that,' he said. ‘I shall have to see the picture, check its condition and provenance.'

From the hungry look in his eyes I expected him to start tearing at her wrappings there and then, but I'd misjudged him. He wanted to be alone with her when he did it. The long-suffering doorman, annoyed at being kept late, was sent to find a porter. The porter carried the parcel upstairs with the young man watching every step. When they were out of sight at last he remembered I was there.

‘I'll be in touch with you tomorrow, Miss Bray. Where may I find you?'

I'd given him the address already but I gave it to him again – 4 Clement's Inn – and left. As the door closed behind me I could hear his feet practically running back upstairs.

*   *   *

When Emmeline asked about it next morning I was able to tell her that Christie's seemed quite excited about our picture. The Fabian split was not such good news and I had the feeling – not for the first time in our acquaintanceship – that Emmeline blamed me for it. ‘You'd better go down to this camp, Nell. Find out who the leaders are and bring them in line.'

‘Must I?'

The fact was, I'd already survived one Fabian summer school that year. It took place on the Welsh coast, involved debates and lectures on things like housing and poor law from morning to night, an hour of Swedish drill before breakfast and sea bathing along with George Bernard Shaw in any spare moment. I'd enjoyed it, up to a point, but wasn't eager to repeat the experience so soon.

‘Somebody has to and it might as well be you.'

I didn't argue, as it's always a waste of time with Emmeline, but decided privately that I'd find things that would keep me in London. I spent the morning doing various odd jobs, mostly concerned with organising meetings, waiting all the time for the message from Christie's. It came around two o'clock in the afternoon, by special messenger. The elegant young man would be very grateful if Miss Bray would come and see him as soon as convenient. I put my hat on and walked at a good hiking pace along the Strand, across Trafalgar Square, past the gentlemen's clubs and gentlemanly little shops of Pall Mall, weaving in and out of the crowds strolling in the late summer sun. All the time I was looking forward to bearing the good news back to them all at Clement's Inn. The face and voice of the young man the evening before had suggested that Philomena's windfall might be a lot bigger than any of us had guessed.

*   *   *

When one of the porters showed me into his office, the first thing I saw was our Odalisque propped on an easel. I felt proud of her and the lazy pink curves that would translate into so much useful activity for us. A hundred and fifty years ago she'd laid herself down on soft cushions, never dreaming that her flesh would be translated into leaflets, marches, speeches at factory gates. I smiled at the thought of it and looked up, expecting to see an answering smile on the young man's face. No smile. Instead the expression – half pity for you, half pride at his own knowledge – of a specialist about to give bad news.

‘Have … have I hurt her?' I was filled with sudden guilt about the gig, the train ride. She'd deserved to be treated more respectfully.

‘No, Miss Bray. The picture's in very good condition.'

‘What's wrong. Isn't it by Boucher after all?'

He gave a long sigh and walked out from behind his desk like a man coming to lay a wreath.

‘May I ask, when the picture was left to your organisation, was there any mention made in the will of its being a copy?'

‘Copy?' I stared at the Odalisque. She stared back, unconcerned.

‘I'm afraid there's no doubt about it. I was certain as soon as I unwrapped it, but I asked several colleagues to look at it this morning. I'm afraid there is no doubt at all.'

‘Poor Philomena. I'm glad she never knew.'

It was the first thing that struck me. I was disappointed for all our sakes, of course, but money comes and goes. The young man was looking at me as if I'd said something stupid.

‘You think she didn't?'

‘I'm sure not. Her husband bought it for her on honeymoon in Paris. They must have lived with it all those years, thinking it was genuine.'

‘All those years?'

‘Forty at least, I'd say. They'd been married for a long time.'

‘Your understanding is that Oliver Venn bought this picture in Paris around forty years ago?'

‘Of course. He said so.'

He walked three slow steps to his desk, picked something up and paced back to the picture on the easel.

‘May I show you something?'

The thing he'd picked up was a magnifying glass. He held it over the bottom right hand corner of the picture and beckoned me to look.

‘What do you see?'

‘Initials, very small ones. It looks like JVD in a monogram.'

‘John Valentine Dent.'

‘Is he a well-known faker?'

‘He's not a faker at all. John Dent is a very expert copyist of pictures. He's quite a young man – no older than his late twenties, I'd say.'

‘But…'

‘And he's only been doing work of this quality for the past two or three years.'

‘But that means they … he…'

I stared at him, hoping that he'd say something that made sense of this – or at least some different sense from what was in my mind.

‘Had it copied within the past two or three years? Yes. It's not uncommon, especially if people are worried about art theft. They commission a good copy and store the original somewhere safe.'

‘He must have known.'

‘Mistakes can occur, especially if a household is in some confusion.'

Oliver Venn's household had been one of the most orderly I'd seen in a long time.

‘Of course, it's not my place to advise you on this, but if the will made no mention of a copy I'd suggest that you get in touch with the executors and let them know that a mistake has occurred. Naturally if you receive the original, we should be more than pleased to handle the sale on your organisation's behalf.'

‘What would it be worth?'

This time I got an answer out of him, though it was given reluctantly and with many qualifications, but …

‘It could be as much as two thousand guineas. Possibly considerably more than that at auction if the Americans took an interest, as they tend to do these days.'

‘How can I get in touch with Mr Dent?'

‘I can assure you, it's his work.'

‘I'm not doubting it. I just want to speak to him.'

His eyebrows went up, but he sat down at his desk, consulted an address book, wrote something on a slip of paper.

‘His studio's in Highgate.'

I took the slip of paper, thanked him and turned to go.

‘Are you taking the picture with you?'

I looked at her. It struck me for the first time that there was a hint of mockery in those wide eyes.

‘No. We'll send for it.'

*   *   *

John Valentine Dent lived in a road leading to the Highgate bathing ponds, on the east side of Hampstead Heath. I went there by horse tram, not bothering to go back to Clement's Inn first. Bad news would keep. There were two women on the lawn in front of the house playing with a plump baby on a rug, one of them in nursemaid's uniform, the other presumably the lady of the house, though she looked no more than about twenty. I said I'd come to see Mr Dent, trying not to scare them by looking as angry as I felt.

‘He's up there.' She pointed to an open window on the first floor and raised her voice. ‘John, somebody to see you.' Then, to me, ‘Do walk up. First on the right at the top of the stairs.'

From the look of the house, Mr Dent was making a decent living from his copying. When I knocked on the first door on the right, a cheerful voice told me to come in. Mr Dent had a face like a friendly Afghan hound, bright brown eyes, sharp nose, blond wispy beard. He was standing by a still life of fruit with beetles and butterflies.

‘One hundred and thirty-four, not counting the spider.'

‘What?'

‘Insects. I think some of the Old Masters enjoyed making life difficult for copyists.'

He didn't seem to need any introduction, but I told him who I was and mentioned I'd been given his name by the man at Christie's.

‘Decent chap. Sends me clients occasionally. Are you one?'

‘No. I've come to ask about one of your other clients. A Mr Oliver Venn.'

‘Nice old boy. Is he well?' he asked. But he was more intent on the picture, stepping back from it then making little darts at it all the time we were talking.

‘Look at that, now. Can you imagine the technique you need to paint a lacewing? You might say it looks simple enough, but one brushstroke wrong and…'

‘You did a copy for him. A Boucher.'

‘He showed you? One of the best things I ever did, although I say it myself.'

‘I've seen it, yes. When did you do it for him?'

He had to stop and think about it.

‘June or July, it must have been. June, probably. I seem to remember the dog roses were out and the barley was still green.'

‘June this year?'

‘Yes.'

Philomena had died in March.

‘You went to his home to copy it?'

‘Yes, some clients prefer that. I stayed there for ten days or so. Very hospitable they were too. Some places treat you like the man who's come to see to the plumbing.'

‘Did he say why he wanted it copied?'

‘Not sure. I think I gathered he had to sell it or something and wanted a copy to keep. I get a lot of work that way – families feeling the pinch and having to keep up appearances. You have to be a bit discreet about these things, of course.'

He was about as discreet as a five-year-old. I thanked him and left him still staring at the beetles and was sure that by the time I'd got to the tram stop he'd have forgotten he'd spoken to me. Now all I had to do was break the news to Emmeline.