Free Death of an Old Master by David Dickinson Page B

people’s necks and pulled until their victim could
breathe no longer. He didn’t think that was very good manners. Somebody had to do the dirty work to keep the world secure for society and its rituals.
    But he didn’t. He smiled apologetically at the assembled company. ‘My apologies for being late,’ he said. ‘I had very important work to do in the London Library across
the Square. I must have the food of the penitent if you have such provision. Bread and cheese perhaps? Humble pie and pickles?’
    Edmund de Courcy believed he could compile a selling manual based entirely on the talents of William Alaric Piper. Piper was a maestro in his field. He had different voices,
different styles depending on his victim. He could cajole. He could bribe. He could bully. He could inspire. He could flatter. He could rhapsodize about the beauty of paintings he was selling. He
could be scornful about the ones he was buying. Often the painting would be the same.
    Now de Courcy and Piper were sitting with James Hammond-Burke in the morning room of Truscott Park. De Courcy
and Piper were on the sofa to the left of the fireplace, Piper in a dark blue suit and sparkling black boots. Hammond-Burke faced them in an armchair with horse hair falling out of the side.
Paintings of previous Hammond-Burkes stood on either side of a vast mirror. There was a large crack running down the left-hand side of the glass. The Raphael, still in its wrapping paper, sat
incongruously between de Courcy and Piper.
    ‘Mr Hammond-Burke,’ began Piper, purring in his most ingratiating tone, ‘let me tell you what a pleasure, nay, more than a pleasure, what an honour it has been to have enjoyed
the company of your Raphael for the brief period it has been our privilege to care for it. The curves! The colours! The innocence! The beauty! Truly we are blessed that this masterpiece has
survived the ravages of time.’
    Hammond-Burke made as if to speak. Piper pressed on. ‘We have, of course, brought this beautiful object back to you. Only you can be the final arbiter of its fate. We have consulted the
finest experts in London about its provenance. Neither you nor I, of course, would doubt for a second that it is a genuine Raphael, but I do not need to tell you that we live in suspicious times.
There is always some charlatan prepared to gainsay, to contradict the evidence of our own eyes and our own hearts, our very souls, in fact, that this Holy Family is really the work of
Raphael. The experts have only confirmed what we knew – that it is genuine. And that means, demeaning though it is to mention money in the presence of such glory . . .’ William Alaric
Piper paused to cast a reverential glance of worship at the brown paper and string beside him, ‘. . . that the painting will be valued at its true worth.’
    Piper paused again. Hammond-Burke seized his moment ‘How much?’ he said. It was, de Courcy remembered, exactly the same phrase Hammond-Burke had employed on his previous visit. This
was a perfect moment for connoisseurs of the Piper style. De Courcy doubted if the high-flown rhetoric, the gushing Piper would serve now. Hammond-Burke was not a man to be moved by the rhetorical
tricks of a Demosthenes or a Cicero or a William Alaric Piper. But he could scarcely change character in mid flow.
    Piper did not hesitate for a second. His reply was as blunt as the question. ‘Forty-five thousand pounds,’ he said. Then he paused briefly. He fiddled about in his breast pocket and
passed over a cheque to his host.
    Hammond-Burke looked at it. It was probably the largest cheque he had ever seen in his life. Pay James Hammond-Burke, it said, the sum of forty-five thousand pounds. De Courcy wondered if Piper
had a series of cheques in his pocket, made out for smaller, maybe even larger, sums. How did he know he was pulling the right cheque out? It would be, to say the least, unfortunate if the written
figures were ten thousand pounds less