Artistic License

by Edward Marston

Victor Fleetwood knew enough about art to be a successful dealer and enough about human nature to make an occasional killing. Business had been quiet all week at his Chelsea gallery. Plenty of people had stopped to stare at the pictures on display in the window and a few had ventured into the shop to browse, but there was only one sale to record. It was depressing. When the old lady appeared, however, he sensed that his luck was about to change. A disappointing week might yet be redeemed.

"Good afternoon," he said with a polite smile.

"Oh, good afternoon," she replied nervously. "Mr. Fleetwood?"

"Yes."

"We spoke on the telephone."

"Ah, then you must be Miss Plympton."

"That’s right. Geraldine Plympton."

"How do you do?" He offered his hand but she merely brushed his palm with her gloved fingers. "You found me, then?"

"Eventually, Mr. Fleetwood. Such a long walk from the tube."

"I assumed that you’d come by taxi."

"Taxis are far too expensive."

The remark confirmed his first impression of her as a woman of rather modest means. Geraldine Plympton was smartly dressed but her clothes had the faded look of garments worn far too often over far too long a period. Her grey hair was cut short and imprisoned beneath a hat out of which the remains of an ostrich feather sprouted. Her voice suggested breeding and she bore herself well. Underneath the scent of lavender, Victor Fleetwood detected the scent of genteel poverty.

"You’ve brought the painting, I see," he observed.

"Yes," she said with a wan smile. "Do you mind if I sit down for a moment? Carrying this has rather tired me out."

"Of course, dear lady." He held the back of the chair as she gratefully lowered herself down. "Take your time."

"Thank you."

"Wait till you get your breath back."

"I hadn’t realised that it was so heavy."

"Art has its own tonnage." He gave a brittle laugh. Fleetwood was a tall, sleek man in his sixties, well groomed and impeccably dressed. As he subjected his visitor to a more searching gaze, he stroked his beard. Geraldine Plympton was clearly not accustomed to art galleries. She was looking around with the wide-eyed curiosity of a child on her first trip to the zoo.

"What a lot of paintings you have!" she said.

"I like to keep a large stock."

"Most of them seem to be landscapes."

"My specialty."

"Why are there are no prices on them?"

"Price tags are rather tacky, I always think," he said airily. "This is a temple of art, not a supermarket. I sell quality, Miss Plympton, and it is not always easy to set a price on that. Everything you see here has only an approximate value. This allows for negotiation or, to use another word, haggling. The true price of a painting is the amount someone is prepared to pay for it. That’s what makes the world of art so fascinating."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, Miss Plympton. That, and the fact that you never know who’s going to walk through the door next. When you least expect it, a missing Old Master might turn up out of the blue." He glanced meaningfully at the painting that she held across her lap. Wrapped in brown paper, it was secured with pink string tied in an elaborate bow. She ran a proprietary hand around the edge of the frame as if reluctant to part with the object. Fleetwood prompted, "Over the telephone, you mentioned Wragby."

"That’s right, Mr. Fleetwood. Matthew Wragby. He was quite famous in his day, I’m told. They called him the Edwardian Constable."

"An unfair description, I always feel. There are similarities between the two, I grant you, but Wragby was no mere imitation of John Constable. He had a style and flair all his own. He was a genius."

"Edgar always said that."

"Edgar?"

"My brother," she explained. "The painting used to belong to him."

"Used to?" he probed.

She nodded sadly. "Edgar died last year. He left everything to Lucinda and I. Lucinda is my younger sister. We live together." She heaved a sigh. "Not that there was much to leave, I fear. Edgar was not a wealthy man. But he did know what he liked when it came to art. He bought the Wragby at an auction almost forty years ago and refused to part with it, even when times were hard. According to Edgar, its value has probably gone up tenfold by now."

"At least, Miss Plympton. If it’s genuine."

"No question of that. I have Edgar’s word."

"Was he an art expert?"

"No, Mr. Fleetwood. He was a tax inspector."

"The painting was bought at auction, you say?"

"Yes," she confirmed, resting it against the chair so that she could rummage in her purse. "I even have the receipt somewhere. Edgar never threw anything away. Tax inspectors know the importance of receipts."

"Quite so."

"I’m sure it’s here somewhere."

"While you’re searching for it, do you think I might take a look at the painting itself? I’m something of an authority on Matthew Wragby. It won’t take me long to authenticate it."

"I found it," she said, producing a scrap of paper and handing it over. "Crompton’s of the Strand. They went out of business years ago but they were very reputable in their day."

"I remember Crompton’s very well," he said, looking at the receipt before returning it to her. In my early days, I bought a painting or two from them myself. Well, Miss Plympton. If your brother only paid a hundred and fifty pounds back in 1961, then he got himself a bargain."

"Edgar bought it on impulse."

"May I see if that impulse was justified?"

Geraldine Plympton hesitated. Needing to sell the painting, she was somehow loathe to part with it. Fleetwood tried to contain his impatience, deciding that she must have a sentimental attachment to the heirloom—which would make it more difficult for him to prise it away from her. Finally, taking a deep breath, she picked up the painting and handed it over, wincing slightly as she did so. Fleetwood lay it on the table and undid the string. He removed the brown paper with great care, then gazed down with admiration at a stunning landscape.

"It’s Leeds Castle," said his visitor.

"I know that, Miss Plympton."

"We went there as children on a charabanc outing Edgar always remembered that trip. I think that’s what made him buy the painting. It brought back so many fond memories."

The painting was genuine. Victor Fleetwood needed little time to establish that. Wragby’s use of light and shadow was unmistakable. His creation of atmosphere set him apart from lesser landscape artists. The dealer feasted his eyes for several minutes. Then he became aware that Miss Plympton was standing at his shoulder.

"Well?" she said, hopefully.

He shook his head. "It’s a clever fake," he announced.

"It can’t be!"

"It is, Miss Plympton."

"But Edgar bought it in good faith. You saw the receipt."

"I’ve no doubt that Crompton’s sold it in good faith," he said, turning to see her stricken face. "This painting would fool most people. There are one or two tiny clues that prove it is not an authentic Matthew Wragby, but I won’t bore you with the details, Miss Plympton. Thank you so much for showing it to me," he said as he started to wrap it up again, "however, I’m afraid that I can’t make an offer for it."

"Oh dear!"

"Great pity. I had high hopes."

"Edgar swore that it was genuine."

"It’s an ingenious copy, Miss Plympton. Nothing more."

She was appalled. "Does that mean it’s worthless?"

"Not necessarily," he said, tying the string once more. "There are some dealers who might be interested. I can recommend one, if you like. He’d only be able to give you a fraction of what a real Matthew Wragby would fetch, but it would be something."

Geraldine Plympton was crestfallen. She went back to the chair and sank down into it with a glazed expression on her face. She looked hurt and betrayed. Victor Fleetwood manufactured a sympathetic smile. He took a card from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to her.

"Try this chap," he suggested. "You might have more luck."

Tom Holley described himself as an antique dealer, but his collection consisted mainly of reproduction furniture, half-hidden beneath an amiable clutter of warming pans, pewter mugs, chinaware, wind-up gramophones, stuffed animals, old postcards, assorted paintings, and general bric-a-brac. When the telephone rang, he had to move a pile of dusty books in order to get at the instrument.

"Holley Antiques," he said, removing the cigarette from his mouth. "Can I help you?"

"Tom? It’s Victor. Is this a good moment?"

"There’s nobody here, if that’s what you mean."

"Good," said Fleetwood on the other end of the line. "I want to send some business your way."

"Sounds promising."

"It’s more than that, my friend."

Holley replaced the cigarette and listened intently. Victor Fleetwood operated much further up the social scale than he did, but they had been partners in more than one lucrative deal. Holley was a small, fat, rather grubby man in a crumpled suit with an artificial carnation in its lapel. His eyes sparkled with interest as he listened. He was soon sniggering.

"Are you sure it’s a genuine what’s-his-name?"

"Wragby," said the voice. "Matthew Wragby. No doubt about it."

"How much should I offer the old bag?"

"Try her with two fifty but be prepared to go up to four hundred."

"Four hundred quid!" exclaimed Holley.

It’s worth over ten times that, Tom, believe me. Bring this one off and you’ll not only get your own money back but with your usual percentage of the sale price you can expect a hefty sum. We’ve hit the jackpot this time."

"Wheel her in!"

"Miss Plympton will be there any minute. I took pity on her and gave her the money for a taxi."

"Victor Fleetwood taking pity on someone?" said Holley with a harsh laugh. "That’ll be the day. You’d fleece your own grandmother."

"I can do without the sarcastic comments," chided Fleetwood. "I’ve just cut you in on a juicy deal. A little gratitude would not be amiss."

"I know. Thanks."

"We’re in this together, remember. All three of us."

"Three of us?"

"You, me, and Matthew Wragby."

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