The Fraud (48 page)

‘I did not tell them, Gracie, where he lived.’

She knelt down quickly. ‘What? What are you saying? What has happened?’

‘The boy . . . Claudio . . . he came back to the cock-fighting this evening and I was there, he . . . he was boasting to them - you do not boast to those men, Gracie - I came right up to him quickly and listened, for I saw he was in Trouble . . . I stood right beside him . . . he told them he would be getting very much money immediately, that it was all arranged but—’ Tobias suddenly seemed to choke blood or cough blood as he tried to speak further.

‘Never mind that now, Tobias, it does not matter, just rest, just be still.’

‘. . . the boy saw by their faces that he had to have the actual money in his hands to pacify them, he disappeared pretty quick - but they’d seen that I looked so like him, they said that I must know him . . . said I would know where he lived . . . they wanted the money from him now . . .’ the shallow harsh breathing, ‘he shouldn’t have returned . . . but I did not tell them, Gracie.’ She put out her hand to him, the blood through the jacket still ran, there was blood everywhere on her hand and on her gown and on the doorstep.

‘What did you . . . how did you get here?’

‘They . . . thought they had - done me . . .
cut off their tails with a carving knife
, wasn’t it, Gracie? . . . they left me and when they were quite gone away I walked to here.’ She could hardly hear him, bent right down close to his face. ‘Tell him . . . he must not go back there . . . they’ll kill him true . . . he does look like me, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, he does - from the moment he was born - just like you.’

‘I didn’t have any children, so I’m glad.’ A whisper. ‘You’ll remember me then, Gracie?’

‘
O God
I have always, always remembered you, dear Tobias,’ and she held him, and as she felt him flickering away from her, terrible harsh sobs came out of her body as she knelt there:
grief; guilt; the Vandal that is Time
, and she saw a thin shadow of the blue of the beautiful
lapis lazuli
against the stars
,
not misty but shining so bright:
cut him out in little stars.

And Grace Marshall understood all that her Destiny had cost.

She knelt beside the body for a long time. The manservant, and then Euphemia, had come to the door and they had to look away for they saw her face, they saw tears fall on to the dead tramp and all the blood and they had never seen her cry before. When she had contained herself she said to Euphemia, ‘Fetch Filipo,’ and when the
signore
came they saw his shocked face also before he turned away, made brisk arrangements.

Perhaps one of the reputed, drifting ghosts in the dark danger of one of the alleys heard it first? Where the fog that hung over London lay always: grey, and dank, and secretive.

It started as a whisper in the dark: there down the alleys somewhere in Covent Garden perhaps, somewhere close to one of the dingy passageways of tailors and ale houses and bordellos and dubious prints of Old Masters; or in a Mayfair drawing-room perhaps; or down by the docks perhaps where the big ships sailed back and forth to the West Indies with their special trade; whatever: the whisper traversed London, passed the Royal palaces, crossed the
piazza
, sped up St Martin’s Lane and down again to Leicester Fields and the Strand.

So that even as Signore Filipo di Vecellio luxuriated still in his new fame as art collector
extraordinaire
- accepting as his due the many compliments that came his way, as the
Morning Advertiser
wrote of THE GREAT ART AUCTION, mentioning the Italian portraitist several times; ignoring the occasional scurrilous new Pamphlet (obviously penned by the Evangelists) admonishing of Waste and Shame and Greed in the big city - even then the ghosts had drifted. Nobody understood how the rumour began, but it was repeated at dining-table after dining-table like wild-fire, there with the meat-bones and the wine and the beer and the fish and the cabbage.

The newly-acquired Rembrandt painting
Girl Reading
, which had been bought for seven hundred guineas and quickly become the toast of London, was a Fake.

Filipo di Vecellio heard the rumour in horror: he immediately sent a message to his banker.

James Burke heard the rumour in horror: he sent an immediate note to Signorina Francesca di Vecellio. No answer was forthcoming. He then went at once to Covent Garden to divulge the news to the Frenchman and the Jew-men in the attic; on his way there, quite by accident, he found Claudio di Vecellio on the
piazza
and imparted the news, holding on to the boy’s collar angrily, not caring who might see:
Was it you, Claudio?
But Claudio heard the rumour from the Art Dealer in such unbelieving horror that James Burke understood it could not be so: Claudio realised at once that all his plans would be ruined. He had talked so boastingly to the vicious cock-fighting men (not knowing that he had an uncle watching close by who would later pay to save him); telling the men jauntily that all was arranged, that the money owing was forthcoming and more with it - in fact so great had been his excitement and his confidence that although he quickly realised he was not yet welcome at Broad-street, he had borrowed from a money-lender to bet on an illegal boxing match near the
piazza
and had later lost another five guineas. When he heard Mr Burke’s words he looked back across the
piazza
in utter terror, clung almost to the older man. James Burke shook him off: Claudio ran home to Pall Mall as fast as his thin legs would carry him, not daring to look behind.

Isabella di Vecellio cared not one jot about any rumour, all she wanted was to marry Mr Bounds, but her Father had most rudely ejected Mr Bounds from the house; she kept to her room, would not speak to her father, and seemed never to find her aunt available for consolatory purposes. Isabella decided to starve herself to death, and then everybody would be sorry; she also contrived to still meet with Mr Bounds, who insisted he would come back and speak to her father again and again until his permission was obtained.

The rumour grew and grew and ran through the city like a fever. Finally the gentlemen of the press heard the rumour: this delicious twist to the story of the painting was also published, causing even bigger headlines. Several hacks appeared at the house in Pall Mall, causing great distress to the owner. Signore di Vecellio was informed by his banker that his bank draft had been cashed: however, Mr James Burke did not seem to be part of the scandal for he appeared through the evening light at the house in Pall Mall, banging angrily on the door, large as life, furious, and ready to refute all rumours.

In the big hallway the Dealer and the Italian stood beneath the object in question; the girl reading looked, just slightly, amused as she looked up, past the book she was reading: she looked past the two gentlemen below her as if she remembered something.

‘I presume you think I am both an ignorant Dealer, and an ignorant Businessman, Filipo,’ said Mr Burke icily to the man who used to be his friend. ‘I understand perfectly well what is occurring here. An old Trick indeed! Perhaps you are already in cahoots with the original Seller? One of you has started this Rumour: I know that. Either
you
think the Painting is worth less than you paid for it, and wish to return it, or the original Seller thinks it worth
more
than he got for it, and wishes to re-sell it. So you start a Rumour, one of you. I myself refuse to be a Pawn in either Strategy, and I particularly resent my Honesty and fine Judgement about a work of Art of Genius being questioned in this way.’

Filipo di Vecellio was outraged. ‘That is a gratuitous Slur!’ he was heard to shout at his erstwhile close companion. ‘How
dare
you accuse me of such Subterfuge! I have no idea how such a story, so damaging to me and my Reputation, has suddenly erupted! I insist that you remove yourself from my house at once and return my money until this matter is settled!’ and Roberto the parrot screeched from the drawing-room.

The reading girl looked past them.

‘The money has of course already been dispatched to my Client in France. Let him return it if he is not part of this Subterfuge!’

‘I will take you to the Courts, you may count upon it!’

Mr James Burke bowed wrathfully and, just as he turned away, his eye was caught by a movement above him; he looked upwards, looked past the painting of the reading girl which hung there, so beautiful, in the big hallway. The sister of the painter stood on the stairs above him; she looked down upon the two men in silence.

He gave a formal bow. ‘Signorina Francesca.’

She bowed back from the staircase. ‘Good evening, Mr Burke.’

And it almost seemed to him (he could not be sure: the light was not good) that, very faintly, she smiled.

‘Take this Painting down immediately!’ thundered the
signore
to his servants. ‘I will not be made a poltroon by Tricksters!’

sang the street balladeers barging past the milkmaids in the
piazza
; along the Strand the penny patterers declaimed poems about foolish daubers who were really nothing but drunken debauchers. The balladeers sang all along Pall Mall, past the Temple of Health and The Celestial Bed; they sang again up into Covent Garden where the inns overflowed and the bawds plied their trade; and along St Martin’s Lane so that Sir Joshua Reynolds could hear them as he sat in Leicester Fields with his eagle and his ear trumpet. And a ghost - Mr William Hogarth’s ghost - laughed in derision from the other side of the Square where he had once pleaded so passionately for British Art.

The balladeers were enjoying themselves as they always did come a scandal:

And some wag had thought to add as a little chorus:
which had deliciously obscene connotations so that the ballad sounded extremely saucy and all the beggars and gin-drinkers and pickpockets and scoundrels and ladies of the town who had heard in amazement of seven hundred guineas being paid for a
picture
, took enormous delight: ‘IS IT ALL JUST A FART, IN THE STORY OF ART?’ they sang all over London to the tune of Th
ree Blind Mice
. There was a cartoon in the
Morning Advertiser
depicting Signore Filipo di Vecellio with dark greasy foreign hair, painting money.

And Claudio di Vecellio cowered once more in Pall Mall and dramatic thoughts disturbed his mind,
This painting must not be considered a Fake by anyone but me, else I am doomed.
His aunt had been so odd, so pale: she had spoken to him only once, ‘I have been advised that it is even more dangerous for you to go anywhere near’ (as if he did not know it himself) ‘Broad-street,’ but she had said it to him as if he was not really there. She arranged the dinners as usual, he tried to catch her eye but she never looked at him now, never, nor addressed him: it was as if he was not present. Had Mr James Burke told her of blackmail? Had he been overheard speaking so wildly to the dealer and so the rumour started? Claudio’s heart kept lurching in his chest: only he must know it is a Fake. What had he done?
What have I done? Who heard me say it? They will surely kill me!

The picture in question had been removed from where it had hung in the hall, so when Mr Gainsborough whistled in, in his usual cheery manner, escorting, to everyone’s surprise, Miss Ffoulks whom he had met at the door, the whistle stopped in the middle of a bar and he stared at the blank wall in disappointment.

‘Lud, my friend!’ he called to Filipo, ‘You have not, I presume, let the fools persuade you? I loved that Painting.’

‘Then you pay the seven hundred guineas,’ growled Filipo; he had decided to hold dinner, as usual, to show that he was not intimidated by rumours, but he was more surly than his guests had ever seen him.

Miss Ffoulks could hardly hide her disappointment. ‘I hoped I might be welcome, I so longed to see what I have heard so much about,’ she said. John Palmer took her hand with pleasure and said how glad he was to see her returned. Miss Ffoulks and the Signorina Francesca did not speak privately to each other, not a word, but a very, very careful observer might have noted that they caught one another’s eye once, and they both smiled. It seemed the dinner might restore everybody’s spirits but Filipo di Vecellio sat morosely at the head of the table. He felt this to be a terrible turning point in his life, and here was everyone cheerfully drinking his wine and eating his food. The dastardly James Burke had cheated him: very well, he would be revenged, he would ruin
him
. He had heard that Sir Joshua Reynolds was specialising in full-length portraits, could now command for them almost two hundred guineas: Filipo did not paint full-lengths, only portraits, was lucky now to command much less than one quarter that sum, he had to work like the very devil to keep up his opulent life-style. And now: was his reputation as a collector to be laughed at also? Lady Dorothea could do nothing with their host, finally turned to Mr Gainsborough for respite.