Death of an Old Master by David Dickinson

than the spoken word.
    ‘Thank you,’ said William Hammond-Burke, his eyes drawn magnetically to the figures on the cheque. ‘But I have a few questions for you, Mr Piper.’ He looked as if he
might be going to ask for more money. ‘Is that your final offer?’ he said.
    Piper leaned forward confidentially in his sofa. ‘Mr Hammond-Burke,’ he went on, ‘believe me when I tell you this. I have loved paintings all my life. In many ways they are my
life, my inspiration.’ Get on with the business, thought de Courcy to himself. ‘It has always been our policy to offer the possessors of such masterpieces the very highest prices. Only
on the train on the way down here Edmund was suggesting a lower figure. A considerably lower figure, Mr Hammond-Burke.’
    Piper waited to let the thought of a lower figure take centre stage in Hammond-Burke’s mind. Then he leaned back into the sofa once more. ‘But I overruled him. That is the figure I
propose. Not a penny more, but certainly, undoubtedly, not a penny less.’
    De Courcy was watching Hammond-Burke’s face very closely. Greed and anxiety, in equal portion, passed across his features.
    ‘What will you sell it for?’ he asked.
    De Courcy sat back and watched the play unfold. He had the best seats in the house. Which Piper would come forth now?
    ‘I have no idea,’ he said. De Courcy knew that was a lie. Piper had at least one American millionaire, William P. McCracken of the Boston railroads, in his sights. Maybe there were
more.
    ‘It is impossible to say.’ Piper shook his head rather sadly. ‘It depends on the market, on who wishes to buy at any given time. Sad and regrettable though you and I would
regard it, Mr Hammond-Burke, objects of great beauty like your exquisite Raphael are as subject to the whims, the ups and downs of the market as any other commodity like wheat or potatoes. It might
sell for fifty thousand pounds. I should be surprised if it did.’
    I’ll bet you’d be bloody well surprised, you old fraud, thought Edmund de Courcy, you’re already thinking of seventy-five or eighty thousand for the contents of the brown paper
and the string.
    ‘Equally it could sell for forty thousand, or thirty-five thousand, even as low as thirty thousand. Sometimes it takes years to find the right buyer. My honest advice to you, Mr
Hammond-Burke, would be to take the forty-five thousand now.’
    Hammond-Burke stared at the floor. We could lose it all, thought de Courcy, the whole thing could unravel rather like the string on the parcel in the next few seconds.
    William Alaric Piper was equal to the task. ‘We have a further proposition to put you, Mr Hammond-Burke,’ he continued, ‘if you decide to sell, that is. We would like to send
down one of our experts to make a proper catalogue of your paintings. Maybe there are other masterpieces hidden away. I have often known it to happen. Work by an unknown English artist may turn out
to be a Gainsborough, some obscure Venetian may turn out to be a Giorgione after all. Our man would conduct a proper search of the house and examine everything. The results would be bound and
presented to you with the family crest on the front. Gainsboroughs and Giorgiones might not fetch as much as a Raphael, but they certainly run into tens of thousands of pounds.’
    Piper paused to gauge the effect of a possible second bite of the cherry. Hammond-Burke looked down at the cheque in his hand.
    ‘Very good, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You have persuaded me. I accept your offer.’

6
    Lord Francis Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald, recently returned from Spain, were playing chess at a small table by the window in Markham Square. Bright shafts of sunlight
were falling across the room, casting Lady Lucy’s face into deep shadow on the sofa. Powerscourt and Fitzgerald had served together in the army in India. They had the special closeness of men
who had saved each other’s life in battle.
    Nobody could have accused