The Napoleon of Crime (15 page)

The identity of the sitter was disputed as vehemently as the question of who had painted it; some contended that this was indeed a Duchess of Devonshire, but not
that
Duchess of Devonshire. One Mrs. Ramsden, “
who had known both of these ladies personally, expressed her opinion most strongly … that the portrait was not that of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, but of Elizabeth Foster, who afterwards became Duchess of Devonshire.” The painted
Duchess
, in other words, was the other corner of that strange aristocratic love triangle.

“
There thus arose constantly the most lively discussions before the picture,”
The Times
reported. When the auction house put it on display in the weeks before the sale, “to convince those who were disposed to be sceptical as to the right naming of the portrait, there were placed in the room two small engravings from portraits of the same personage, one of which bore the name plainly engraved on it, and was taken from a small whole-length sketch or study in grisaille by Gainsborough which had been in the possession of Lady Clifden for a great length of time. This corresponded precisely with the picture.”

The grisaille in question, now in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., has been convincingly attributed to Dupont, Gainsborough’s son-in-law. Measuring some two feet by just under sixteen inches, the monochrome shows the Gainsborough portrait before it was cut down and gives a tantalizing glimpse of the full, balanced portrait before the vandal Mrs. Maginnis got to work with her scissors. It belonged to the First Baron Dover, who was married to Lady Georgiana Howard, granddaughter of our own Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. Perhaps the most convincing proof that it does, indeed, depict Georgiana is the fact that the family in whose possession it remained until 1922 (when it was sold to the great collector Andrew Mellon) were never in any doubt that it represented their famous ancestor.

In a magisterial vein,
The Times
summed up the dispute: “
So much interest has arisen over this remarkable picture that we may endeavour to state something of the various opinions that have been expressed upon it during its exhibition. There were the two opposite opinions which divided the numerous admirers of the picture, and in which more than one distinguished academician agreed, either that it is the work of Gainsborough’s highest quality, and entirely authentic, or that it is not by his hand at all.” The debate over the painting’s authenticity continued for many years, and it continues still. Some rightly insist that the face in this painting is rather different from other portraits of Georgiana, not merely by other artists, but by Gainsborough himself. Those who disliked the painting claimed it lacked the artist’s characteristic subtlety of expression, and maintained that “
the solid surface of flesh could not have been painted by the master.” Defenders of the portrait, however, have responded that “
this is simply one of the many instances in which two portraits of one individual, painted by the same artist after a lapse of a decade, may be made, quite unconsciously, to appear as two totally distinct personages. The change is not so much in the sitter, as in the artist, who may have effected a revolution in his style, or whose views may have undergone a very considerable change.” Certainly it is true that in the years between the first full-length portrait executed by Gainsborough and the second, the duchess’s reputation had evolved from dutiful ducal wife to society’s premier coquette. Perhaps Gainsborough was merely reflecting this, by painting Georgiana as the sex symbol she had become.

One writer claimed: “
The answer is that it is an experiment in solid painting: but look 1) at the delicate cracks; 2) at the eyes; 3) at the marks of the sable brush (not hog’s bristle) at the end of the nose and at the turn of the chin, and you see the unmistakable handling of Gainsborough.”
The Times
, after discussing the pros and cons, hedged. “
The Doctors, though they differ as to authorship, agree as to the high merits of the picture.” That was probably the view taken by all but the most adamant nay-sayers; even if the portrait was not by Gainsborough, or had been completed by another hand, or even if it depicted not the famous duchess but someone else entirely, it was still a very remarkable painting. “
The majority,” in any event, “were captivated by its beauty,” and the Duchess “well nigh monopolized the conversation of the day.”

The auction began to take on the appearance of a public courtship, and as the day of the sale dawned amid intense speculation, at least three very wealthy men had decided that, authentic or no, they wanted the
Duchess;
these were the Earl of Dudley, Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild, and William Agnew, art dealer, who thought that Georgiana would be just the personage to grace his new gallery at 39, Old Bond Street.

The sale itself, on Saturday, May 6, 1876, “
created such a sensation as has never been experienced in the picture world of London,”
The Times
reported.

Throughout the week the pictures had attracted considerable numbers of visitors, but on the day preceding the sale the interest came to a climax, and crowds filled the rooms of Messrs Christie, Manson and Woods all day.

By the standards of the day, the newspaper’s account of the occasion verges on the hysterical:

Any one passing the neighbourhood of St James’s Square might well have supposed that some great lady was holding a reception, and this, in fact, was pretty much what was going on within the gallery in King Street. All the world had come to see the beautiful Duchess, created by Gainsborough, and, so far as we could observe, they all came, saw and were conquered by her fascinating beauty.

The sale was a public spectacle, the social event of the season, attended by every follower of fashion, including various doyennes of the chattering classes clad in replica Duchess of Devonshire outfits.

When the portrait was placed before the crowded audience, a burst of applause showed the universal admiration of the picture.

Like a master of ceremonies introducing his leading lady, the auctioneer, Mr. Woods, offered a short history of the painting, and the battle was joined.

The biddings then commenced at 1,000 guineas, which was immediately met with one of 3,000 guineas from Mr Agnew and, amid a silence of quite breathless anticipation, the bids flowed in quick succession, at first by defiant shots across the room of a thousand guineas then, as if the pace was too severe, the bids were only 500 up to 6,000 guineas, when again another thousand-pounder was fired by Mr Agnew, making it 7,000 guineas. Still the fight went on briskly with 500’s, till there was a shout of applause at 10,000 guineas, and then a serious pause for breath between the combatants, when Mr Agnew was the first to challenge “any further advance” with his 10,000 guineas and won the battle in this extraordinary contest. The whole affair was, of its kind, one of the most exciting ever witnessed; the audience, densely packed on raised seats around the room and on the “floor of the house,” stamped, clapped and bravoed.

Uncertainties about the painting’s authenticity would linger on, but for the time being, with such a vast price-tag attached to the portrait, “
the doubters were put to the rout.”

The Wynn Ellis collection was sold for a total of £56,098 2 shillings, and eightpence, but the price of the Gainsborough alone—the equivalent of some $600,000 at today’s prices—set a record that would stand unchallenged until 1893. The underbidder was Lord Dudley, who was traveling abroad at the time of the sale and had left an agent with orders to bid up to 10,000 guineas. Dudley had assumed that such a massive sum would be more than sufficient to see off any rivals, and went into a three-day rage when informed otherwise.

Exhausted by his own eloquence, the
Times
writer concluded:

The sale will long be remembered as much for the extraordinary price of the Gainsborough portrait … as for the very interesting questions [of authenticity] which have arisen in connexion with it, and which we imagine must for some time afford matter for discussion.

These were prophetic words. As William Agnew bore the painting back to his gallery in triumph, the duchess’s travels were about to begin again, this time in the company of a man who knew more about counterfeiting than any other in London.

ELEVEN

A Courtship and a Kidnapping

W
orth read about the sale but did not attend it. When not moping around London lamenting the departure of his beloved Kitty, he was preoccupied by a series of pressing considerations. With an expensive life-style to maintain and a gang of crooks dependent on him, Worth was rapidly running out of money. According to one account, he “
lived at the rate of £20,000 a year for many years,” and since the Turkish debacle, precious little money had been coming into the crook’s coffers but a great deal had been going out.

To make matters worse, early in 1876 Worth’s younger brother John, who had participated in Worth’s first, botched heist back in New York, arrived in London without a penny to his name. John Worth was a notably ineffectual criminal, “
a damn fool for a crook,” in Worth’s words. A credulous, weak fellow, John was liable to brag and easy to manipulate. Worth saw him as a serious menace, but since both their parents were dead, he seems to have felt a strong, almost paternal bond with his siblings. His sister Harriet had married in America, and Worth had sent his brother-in-law enough money to launch his own corrupt legal business in Buffalo. John Worth would have to be added to the payroll.

Charles Becker and Little Joe Elliott were anxious to go on an other forgery spree. Since his escape from the Turkish jail, Little Joe had returned to the United States and fallen hopelessly in love with Kate Castleton, an English comic star of the American stage. He had become a theatrical groupie and spent most of his ill-gotten gains financing disastrous American productions. “
He has generally followed in the wake” of Castleton’s touring theatrical company, the police noted, “and under its cover, beaten banks, and taken a trick on the sneak, when opportunity offered.” Why Kate Castleton, this “
rose cheeked girl,” as William Pinkerton remembered her, should have had anything to do with the reptilian robber is a mystery, but Elliott pursued her with astonishing energy and lavish expense and she finally agreed to marry him. “
Joe courted the lady with lightning speed and married her within three days,” according to Eddie Guerin. Little Joe persuaded Kate to leave the stage, and for a while “
they settled down in elegantly furnished apartments on 21st Street,” in New York. But by 1876 Elliott had tired of domesticity and was reunited with his bent buddies in London, having abandoned Kate in New York.

All of which left Worth in a bind: money was short, but his life-style was increasingly lavish; the gang was clamoring for work, but Inspector Shore of Scotland Yard was itching for him to make a false move. The policeman knew he was being made to look foolish in the eyes of the underworld, and his determination to catch and jail Worth had become a personal vendetta. Worth complained bitterly that Inspector Shore “persecuted him
like a human tiger”—a bizarre and peevish grievance (Shore would hardly be expected to do otherwise), but he was so wrapped up in his own grand invented world that he took personal offense when the forces representing the law tried to stop him from breaking it. On one occasion when Worth noticed he was being tailed by John Shore himself, he suddenly “
turned on him in the streets and denounced him.”

William Pinkerton was also back in London and had warned Shore, his police colleagues, and the country’s banks and brokerage houses to be on the lookout for another wave of forgeries. By now the authorities were acutely aware of Worth’s methods. Pinkerton warned: “
To prevent detection and avoid arrest, after obtaining money on the forged paper, the thieves would at once flee to the Continent and get the money changed at broker’s offices, banks or exchange offices for notes of other numbers before the numbers of the stolen notes were published.”

Worth began his new counterfeiting campaign cautiously, telling Becker to forge checks for small sums only. But over the months, as the gang got into gear, the forgeries grew larger and more audacious. Worth’s coffers were again becoming pleasantly full when, in April 1876, the Scratch made up a counterfeit check for £3,500 which Little Joe, as insouciant as ever, promptly cashed at the London and Westminster Bank. It was now necessary to get the money to France and change it fast before the bank realized what had happened and the police sent word for cashiers to be on the lookout for notes with certain numbers.

Instead of relying on one of his minions at the bottom of his pyramidal organization, on this occasion Worth dispatched his brother to Paris with instructions to change the money at a busy currency-exchange office on the Grand Boulevard and return by the next boat to London. The inept John Worth proved unequal even to this simple task. He did not go to the
bureau de change
as directed, but for reasons that remain obscure went instead to the Paris office of Meyer & Co. on the rue St.-Honoré. Meyer had already fallen victim to one of Becker’s scams and had been alerted by John Shore to watch for English notes of large denomination. An eagle-eyed clerk spotted one of the notes and John Worth was arrested.

Back at Scotland Yard, Inspector Shore was ecstatic when a telegram arrived announcing the arrest. Although the bovine John Worth looked quite different from the rat-like Little Joe Elliott, John himself was charged with carrying out the forgery. John Worth was extradited to England after a brief but fierce legal tussle, and lodged in Newgate jail. Whatever the imprisoned man might call himself (John had had the wits to give a false name), Shore was convinced that the forgery had to be the work of Adam Worth, alias Henry Raymond, or his associates. Worth threw one of his rare tantrums when informed of his brother’s arrest and pledged to get even, not just with Shore but also with Monsieur Meyer, the director of Meyer & Co., who would eventually feel the full force of Worth’s wrath. But first Worth had to get John out of prison, preferably on bail, and send him back to America, where he could do no more damage. This was no easy task.