Artistic License
by Edward Marston
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The line went dead and Holley replaced the receiver. Crossing to a large gilt-framed mirror on the wall, he smartened himself, then took out a comb to slick his hair into a semblance of order. He did not have long to wait. A few minutes later he saw the taxi pull up outside. Dropping his cigarette to the floor, he ground it out with his heel, then pretended to examine a mezzotint engraving. A bell rang as the door opened. Tom Holley looked up and saw the diminutive figure of Geraldine Plympton coming towards him. He gave her an oily smile of welcome.
"Can I help you, madam?" he cooed.
"I hope so. Mr. Holley, is it?"
"That's right. Thomas Holley, Esquire, at your service."
"Mr. Fleetwood sent me here."
"Victor Fleetwood?"
"Yes. Such a considerate man."
"And one of the finest art dealers in London. Victor really knows his stuff. He's a true specialist. Whereas, I," he confessed with a glance around the room, "have more general interests." He put the mezzotint aside. "Do you have something to sell? Is that why Victor sent you?"
"It's rather a long story," she sighed.
"Then at least be comfortable while you tell it."
Holley moved a feather boa from a bentwood chair. Miss Plympton sat down and launched into her tale of woe. Although he had already been given a shortened version of it, Holley listened carefully and nodded encouragingly. He exuded sympathy throughout.
"What a letdown!" he concluded. "You think you have something of real value and it turns out to be a fake. Great shame! But it's an all too familiar story, I can tell you. There are lots of unscrupulous dealers around unloading bogus paintings and antiques."
"But my brother bought the painting at auction."
"So you said. Crompton's of the Strand."
"I have the receipt."
"That won't be needed."
"I've even brought a copy of the will, Mr. Holley."
"Will?"
"Edgar's. Just to prove that the painting is legally mine. Well, the joint property of my sister, Lucinda, and I, to be more exact. I don't expect you to take me on trust. I want everything to be open and aboveboard."
"If it were a genuine Matthew Wragby, I'd need to see your documents in order to establish provenance. That's the origin of the painting. How it came to be in your possession. In this case, since it's not the real thing, we can forget about the niceties. All I need is a sighting of it."
"Of course."
"I never buy a pig in a poke."
"No, I don't suppose you do."
Miss Plympton handed over the painting with a mixture of sadness and apprehension, sorry to part with it, yet fearing it would be rejected. She was patently shaken by her setback in Chelsea. When she gazed around her, she was not reassured by what she could see. The place was a mess. A distant smell of mildew troubled her. Holley Antiques had none of the class evinced by the Fleetwood Gallery. Clearly, she had come several steps down the food chain.
Holley unwrapped the painting and propped it on a sideboard so that he could scrutinise it. He mumbled quietly to himself.
"Leeds Castle," she said, proudly.
"That's down in Kent somewhere, isn't it?"
"Yes. Did I tell you about the charabanc outing?"
"In detail." He stood back and pondered. "It's good," he said at length. "I have to admit that. It's very good. First-rate, in fact. It may not be an authentic Wragby, but it's the next best thing. Only an expert like Victor would know the difference."
"Does that mean you'll buy it?"
"Possibly. That depends on the price." He turned to face her and tried to sound casual. "What sort of figure did you have in mind?"
"I don't really know."
"You must have some idea."
"Edgar always said the value would run into four figures, if not five. But now . . ." She gave a hopeless shrug. "I haven't a clue."
"Would two hundred and fifty pounds tempt you?"
Miss Plympton recoiled. "Is that all?"
"Let's make it three hundred, shall we?"
"I was expecting a lot more than that, Mr. Holley," she said, getting to her feet. "Lucinda and I manage on our pensions and the little we've put aside. We have no other source of income. To be honest, that's the only reason we're willing to sell the painting. We need the money. It's as simple as that."
"Three fifty," he offered.
"Lucinda will be horrified. Edgar would turn in his grave."
"So would Matthew Wragby," he argued, "if he knew that someone was turning out fake copies of his work. Artists have their integrity." He took out his wallet. "Four hundred. Not a penny more."
"Then we're wasting each other's time," she said with sudden determination, crossing to wrap up the painting again. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Holley. But I think I'll try elsewhere."
"You won't get a better deal. I promise you."
"We'll see."
"Most dealers wouldn't touch a fake like that."
"Stop calling it a fake," she protested. "It's embarrassing."
"Four fifty."
"Can't you go any higher than that?"
"I'm already into philanthropy! Four fifty or nothing."
She paused. "Is that really all it's worth?" she murmured.
There was such a look of despair in her eyes that Holley softened. He also remembered Victor Fleetwood's estimate of the true value of the painting. If he allowed it to slip through his hands, he would get no more lucrative commissions from Fleetwood. Besides, if his visitor took the painting to an honest dealer, it might be recognised for what it was and then she would suspect collusion between Holley and Fleetwood. There could be awkward repercussions. The antique dealer was in a real quandary. Miss Plympton was starting to re-tie the string when his hand stopped hers. "Five hundred pounds," he blurted out. "Take it or leave it."
Victor Fleetwood was delighted by the turn of events. As he locked up his gallery for the day, he congratulated himself on his stage management. Thanks to his guile, he had acquired a painting for less than a tenth of its real value. Even allowing for Tom Holly's percentage, he would make a sizeable profit. Not that he would rush to part with Matthew Wragby's painting of Leeds Castle. It would join his own treasured collection at home for a while so that he could savour ownership.
The rush hour delayed his taxi, but he eventually drew up outside Holly's Antiques. After paying his fare, he peered in through the window and saw his friend pulling on a reflective cigarette as he appraised his latest purchase. Fleetwood let himself into the shop.
"You got it, then?" he said with a complacent smile.
"Eventually," replied Holley.
"What do you mean?"
The old duck wouldn't let it go for less than five hundred."
"Five hundred? I told you to stick to four."
"You wanted the thing, didn't you?"
"Yes, but at a maximum profit."
"What's another hundred quid to you, Victor? She needs the money. You don't. Poor thing had her heart set on getting a lot more. A nest egg for her and her sister. She had to cut her losses."
"I suppose so," said Fleetwood irritably. "And we do have it. Leeds Castle by Matthew Wragby. The Edwardian Constable."
"Why? Was he a policeman?"
"No, you idiot! He is often compared to John Constable. How on earth do you make a living at this game when you know so little about art?"
"I know more than the mugs who come in here."
Fleetwood grinned. "Like little Miss Plympton."
"A lamb to the slaughter."
"Rather a sweet old lamb, I think, but there's no room for sentiment in this business. Now then, give it here," he said, lifting the painting up. "Let me gloat."
Victor Fleetwood chuckled quietly as he studied the landscape. It had all of Matthew Wragby's distinctive hallmarks. Holley looked over his shoulder, beaming vacuously. The mood of contentment soon passed. Fleetwood tensed, twitched violently, then spluttered with rage.
"You paid five hundred quid for this!" he yelled.
"Yes, Victor."
"You fool! You maniac!"
"What are you on about?"
"This painting. It's a fake."
"But you told me that it was genuine."
"It was when I examined it at my gallery. I was absolutely certain."
"Then you must have made a mistake."
"I never make mistakes."
"Then how come this is a dud?"
Victor Fleetwood needed only a few seconds to work it out. "We've been duped, Tom," he growled. "She beat us at our own game. She must have switched the paintings on her way here. The cunning little devil! Miss Geraldine Plympton was no lamb to the slaughter. She pulled the wool over our eyes good and proper."
Edgar was still at his easel when she got back. He heard Geraldine singing happily to herself as she let herself in. It was a good omen. He reached for a cloth to wipe the end of his brush. She swept in with a painting under her arm-wrapped in brown paper and tied with pink string. There was a real spring in her step. Edgar went over to give her a kiss.
"How much did you get this time?" he asked.
"Five hundred quid."
"Not bad for an afternoon's work."
"It took you longer than an afternoon to paint the fake," she reminded him. "You're the real hero, Edgar."
"What was I today?"
"My dead brother."
"That makes a change. Last time I was your dying father."
"You're neither brother nor father," she said fondly. "You're my Edwardian Constable. My partner in every sense."
Geraldine Plympton put down the painting, took off her coat and hat, and shook out her hair. In that one gesture, she lost over ten years. Edgar, a big, shambling bear of a man in his fifties with silver hair and beard, gave her a broad grin.
"You should have been an actor, my love," he said.
"I am. Where's the champagne?"
"On ice."
"How long will you be?"
"I've just finished," he said, pointing to the easel. "It's a view of Leeds Castle by an artist called Matthew Wragby. My tenth version. By now, I can practically turn them out with my eyes closed. They get better each time."
"So do I," she boasted with a laugh. "Fetch the bottle."
"Where are we going to celebrate?"
"Where else?" She kissed him on the lips.
Edgar backed away and pretended to be shocked. "You'd kiss your own brother like that?" he asked.
"My dead brother," she corrected, "which is probably even worse. But the person I really want to share this triumph with is Matthew Wragby."
She kissed him again. "How can I manage that?"
"Artistic license."
The End
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