Willow was about to reply when the gallery door opened.
″I′m afraid we′re closed,″ Lampeth called out.
A man came in. ″It′s all right, Mr. Lampeth,″ he said. ″My name′s Louis Broom—we met the other day. I′ve had a call to say that the half-a-million has been paid back. Is that true?″
Lampeth looked at Willow, and they both smiled. Lampeth said: ″Goodbye, South America.″
Willow shook his head in awe. ″I have to hand it to our friend Renalle. He thought of everything.″
IV
JULIAN DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH the quiet Dorset village, steering the hired Cortina carefully along the narrow road. All he had by way of an address was Gaston Moore, Dunroamin, Cramford. Dunroamin! It was a mystery how the most discriminating art expert in the country could have called his retirement home such a banal name. Perhaps it was a joke.
Moore was certainly eccentric. He refused to come to London, he had no telephone, and he never answered letters. When the bigwigs of the art world required his services, they had to trek down to this village and knock on his door. And they had to pay his fees in crisp one-pound notes. Moore had no bank account.
There never seemed to be anyone around in villages, Julian reflected. He turned a bend and braked hard. A herd of cattle was crossing the road. He killed the engine and got out. He would ask the cowhand.
He expected to see a young man with a pudding-basin haircut chewing a stalk of grass. The cowhand was young; but he had a trendy haircut, a pink sweater, and purple trousers tucked into his Wellington boots.
The man said: ″You lookinʹ for the painter man?″ The accent was a pleasantly rich burr.
″How did you guess?″ Julian wondered aloud.
″Most furriners want ′un.″ The cowhand pointed. ″Back the way you come, turn down the road by the white house. ʺTis a bungalow.″
ʺThank you.″ Julian got back into the car and reversed down the road until he reached the white house. There was a rutted track beside it. He followed the track until he reached a wide gate. ʺDunroamin″ was written in faded Gothic lettering on the peeling white paintwork.
Julian patted his pocket to make sure the wad of notes was still there; then he took the carefully packed painting from the backseat and maneuvered it out of the car. He opened the gate and walked up the short path to the door.
Moore′s home was a pair of ancient thatched workingmen′s cottages which had been knocked into one. The roof was low, the windows small and leaded, the mortar between the stones crumbling. Julian would not have called it a bungalow.
His knock was answered, after a long wait, by a bent man with a cane. He had a shock of white hair, thick-lensed spectacles, and a birdlike tilt to his head.
″Mr. Moore?″ Julian said.
″What if it is?″ the man replied in a Yorkshire accent.
ʺJulian Black, of the Black Gallery. I wonder if you would authenticate a picture for me.″
ʺDid you bring cash?″ Moore was still holding the door, as if ready to slam it.
″I did.″
″Come on then.″ He led the way inside the house. ″Mind your head,″ he said unnecessarily—julian was too short to be bothered by the low beams.
The living room seemed to occupy most of one of the cottages. It was crammed with oldish furniture, among which a brand-new, very big color television stuck out like a sore thumb. It smelled of cats and varnish.
″Let′s have a look at it, then.″
Julian began to unpack the painting, taking off the leather straps, the polystyrene sheets, and the cotton wool.
″No doubt it′s another forgery,ʺ Moore said. ″All I see these days is fakes. There′s so much of it going on. I see on the telly some smart-alec got them all chasing their behinds the other week. I had to laugh.″
Julian handed him the canvas. ″I think youʹll find this one is genuine,″ he said. ″I just want your seal of approval.″
Moore took the painting, but did not look at it. ″Now you must realize something,ʺ he said. ″I can′t prove a painting is genuine. The only way to do that is to watch the artist paint it, from start to finish, then take it away with you and lock it in a safe. Then you can be sure. All I do is try to prove it′s a fake. There are all sorts of ways in which a forgery might reveal itself, and I know most of them. But if I can find nothing wrong, the artist could still turn around tomorrow and say he never painted it, and you′d have no argument. Understood?″
″Sure,″ said Julian.
Moore continued to look at him, the painting face-down on his knees.
″Well, are you going to examine it?″
″You haven′t paid me yet.″
ʺSorry.ʺ Julian reached into his pocket for the money.
″Two hundred pounds.″
″Right.″ Julian handed over two wads of notes. Moore began to count them.
As he watched, Julian thought how well the old man had chosen to spend his retirement. He lived alone, in peace and quiet, conscious of a life′s work expertly done. He cocked a snook at the pressures and snobbery of London, giving sparingly of his great skill, forcing the art world princes to make a tiresome pilgrimage to his home before he would grant them audience. He was dignified and independent. Julian rather envied him.
Moore finished counting the money and tossed it casually into a drawer. At last he looked at the painting.
Straightaway he said: ″Well, if it′s a forgery, it′s a bloody good one.″
″How can you tell so quickly?″
″The signature is exactly right—not too perfect. That′s a mistake most forgers make—they reproduce the signature so exactly it looks contrived. This one flows freely.″ He ran his eye over the canvas. ″Unusual. I like it. Well, would you like me to do a chemical test?″
ʺWhy not?″
″Because it means marking the canvas. I have to take a scraping. It can be done in a place where the frame will normally hide the mark, but I always ask anyway.″
″Go ahead.″
Moore got up. ″Come along.″ He led Julian back through the hallway into the second cottage. The smell of varnish became stronger. ʺThis is the laboratory, ʺ Moore said.
It was a square room with a wooden workbench along one wall. The windows had been enlarged, and the walls painted white. A fluorescent strip light hung from the ceiling. On the bench were several old paint cans containing peculiar fluids.
Moore took out his false teeth with a swift movement, and dropped them in a Pyrex beaker. ″Can′t work with them in,″ he explained. He sat down at his bench and laid the painting in front of him.
He began to dismantle the frame. ″I′ve got a feeling about you, lad,″ he said as he worked. ″I think you′re like me. They don′t accept you as one of them, do they?″
Julian frowned in puzzlement. ″I don′t think they do.″
″You know, I always knew more about painting than the people I worked for. They used my expertise, but they never really respected me. That′s why I′m so bloody-minded with them nowadays. You′re like a butler, you know. Most good butlers know more about food and wine than their masters. Yet they′re still looked down on. It′s called class distinction I spent my life trying to be one of them. I thought being an art expert was the way, but I was wrong. There is no way!ʺ .
″How about marrying in?″ Julian suggested.
″Is that what you did? You′re worse off than me, then. You can′t drop out of the race. I feel sorry for you, son.″
One arm of the frame was now free, and Moore slid the glass out. He took a sharp knife, like a scalpel, from a rack in front of him. He peered closely at the canvas, then delicately ran the blade of the knife across a millimeter of paint.