Messrs. Christie, Manson & Woods
respectfully give notice that they have been instructed by
Mr. J. J. McKinley
to sell at auction his renowned collection of Miniature Portraits at the
Great Rooms, King Street, London SW1 on Wednesday June 21st 1933
at 11.00 A.M.
This collection makes one of the finest galleries of miniature portraits formed in modern times,
comprising over three hundred examples of the best works by British and Continental artists
from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century. There are examples of the work of Nicholas Hilliard,
Samuel Cooper, Richard Cosway, George Engleheart, J.H.Fragonard and other eminent artists.
The collection will be on view throughout the week preceding the sale and for one hour before
bids are taken.
“Wednesday the twenty-first? That’s tomorrow,” Joe commented in puzzlement. “Thinking of taking a punt on a Hilliard, are you?”
“No indeed! Nothing so grand, I’m afraid. If you’ll just turn to page twenty-seven … There. Well down the listing. Thrown in at the end with no fanfare. Unattributed, you see. Artist unknown. What do you make of those two?”
Joe looked carefully at the matched pair. Watercolour on ivory, the description said. The illustration was in black and white, but the quality of the oval portraits set within simple gold frames shone out. The lady on the left was a beauty. Fair hair curled naturally around her forehead, pale eyes—blue?—held a touch of mischief reflected in the slightly curving mouth. Pearls, lace, satin and plump silken bosom seemed all to have found favour with the anonymous artist. The lord on the right, presumably her husband, had an equal glamour. He wore his own dark hair sleekly combed about his neat head, his eye was commanding, his mouth firm. A velvet coat, a swagger of gold epaulette, a flash of more shining braid on a striped revere framed a froth of expensive lace at his throat. A diamond pin glinted in its depths. Joe was enchanted and intrigued. He remembered Truelove had thrown down a challenge. The man would do that.
What did he make of them? Not difficult to return an answer. “Delightful,” he said. “I advise going straight down there and putting in a bid. Unattributed as they are, some lucky devil could get these for a song. Portraits, miniature or full-size, are not exactly going like hotcakes in today’s market. It’s all photography and cubism these days. One does rather wonder at the wisdom of unloading an entire collection on to the market in one fell swoop. The whole exercise in itself risks further devaluing the art form.”
“I dare say.” Truelove clearly didn’t share Joe’s concern about fluctuations in the art market. “But the standard of the painting? And the sitters? What do you make of them?”
“The quality is of the very highest as far as I can make out from these reproductions. The sitters themselves, husband and wife, I’m presuming, are people of some rank. They would naturally have employed the best talent Europe could offer to take their likeness. No wigs, you see—hair not even powdered—and by the style of the clothes and the jewellery, I’m guessing Regency. The second decade of the 1800s. There is an artist—and the best available at this time—who sometimes failed to put his signature on his work … Um …” Joe searched his memory.
“You’re thinking of George Engleheart. The chap painted nearly five thousand of these things during his life. You’ll find his name on the back, mostly, but it wouldn’t be surprising if he failed occasionally to sign his work, particularly when he was getting on a bit. By the time he painted these, George would have been an old man of nearly seventy. It’s my theory that they were done by a much younger artist. Any more thoughts?”
“The sitters themselves are intriguing. Very attractive pair. Young. The fashion of the times was to have one’s likeness preserved on ivory as a betrothal or a marriage gift. I’d guess that’s what these are. Betrothal, most probably.”
“Why do you say that?”
Why had he said that? Truelove was listening with flattering attention. Joe plunged on, with a strong feeling that he was running in blinkers. He tapped the face of the young man. “The girl looks too innocent and happy to have been long in harness with this sour-puss opposite. Oh, handsome, certainly, but …”
“Grim? Forceful?”
“Not someone you’d choose to down a pint with. Look, sir, if you really don’t know the identity of the gentleman, I can give you a clue. If this jacket should prove to be red—” Truelove nodded. “— and the edging a dark blue grosgrain striped in gold …” Another nod. “Then he’s wearing the uniform of an officer in the East India Company. An army man who’s served in India. He’s either married, or is on the point of marrying, an English heiress. If you look carefully, you’ll see through the open window in the background a piece of bravura miniature painting.” He produced a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and handed it to Truelove. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a freshly planted avenue of lime trees marching off into the distance. The kind of landscaping you often see defining wide acres of opulent estates a century or two ago. I don’t recognise it, but I think you might. I’d say an inquisitive man could stroll along to the record room at the War Office and check the army lists, collating names of officers serving in India and match one of them with that of a Suffolk landowner of the period.”
Truelove grinned. “Someone told me you were a detective, Sandilands. I shall heed the warning. It is, indeed, in Suffolk. The lime avenue is still there. And the lady and her gentleman are my great, great, I forget how many greats, grandparents.”
“Congratulations, sir! Are you going to tell me how your ancestors have fetched up in a London auction house on view to the world and on sale to the highest bidder?”
“They disappeared from their display case at the family seat before the war. One of those long golden Edwardian summers: 1906 was it? Something like that … I wish I’d paid more attention. I was a boy, just home from Eton, more interested in snaring rabbits and popping off my airgun than works of art, but I can just remember the hoo-ha and the excitement of having the Plod on the premises. The pictures were assumed to be stolen, by person or persons unknown. But all that unpleasantness is behind us. It was investigated, of course, without result. No one was ever arrested or even came under suspicion at the time. Family members, staff and a company of friends assembled for a shoot were present, among whom, a royal personage.”
“And you don’t rush about the place shrieking, ‘Stop thief! Let the dogs loose and bring in the Bobbies!’ with King Edward on the premises. Too embarrassing.”
“No. You wait until the guests have departed and then you invite the local force to attend and allow them to grill the servants. There are hoops to be jumped through for insurance and other purposes. Tedious stuff. But it was thought better to make light of the loss. Whoever did pinch the pair was employed by the family, was known to them, perhaps even was one of the family. Really—kinder and more discreet not to find out.”
“The local force, you say?”
“No, in fact.” Truelove shrugged. “Apple-scrumping and poaching are as bad as it gets in the peaceable county of Suffolk, Sandilands. We are stirred by the odd outbreak of fisticuffs in a dockside tavern in Ipswich at the other end of the county occasionally, perhaps. Anything more demanding is dealt with by the Cambridge force. The city’s only twenty-odd miles away, they have a smart detective section and a well-equipped crime laboratory.”