As the Crow Flies

elegraph, who had uncovered the fact that Guichot had been the priest at the church where the original picture had hung. The bishop confirmed to Barker that the painting had indeed mysteriously disappeared during the Great War and, more important, he had at the time reported the theft to the appropriate section of the League of Nations responsible for seeing that, under the Geneva Convention, stolen works of art were returned to their rightful owners once hostilities had ceased. The bishop went on to say that of course he would recognize the picture if he ever saw it again—the colors, the brushwork, the serenity of the Virgin’s face; indeed the genius of Bronzino’s composition would remain clearly in his memory until the day he died. Barker quoted him word for damning word.

The Telegraph correspondent rang my office the day the interview appeared and informed me that his paper intended to fly the distinguished cleric over at their expense so that he could study the painting firsthand and thus establish its provenance beyond doubt. Our legal advisers warned us that we would be unwise not to allow the bishop to view the painting; to deny him access would be tantamount to acknowledging we were trying to hide something. Charlie agreed without hesitation and simply added, “Let the man see the picture. I’m confident that Tommy left that church with nothing other than a German officer’s helmet.”

The next day, in the privacy of his office, Tim Newman warned us that if the Bishop of Reims identified the picture as the original Bronzino, then the launch of Trumper’s as a public company would have to be held up for at least a year, while the auction house might never recover from such a scandal.

The following Thursday the Bishop of Reims flew into London, to be greeted by a bank of photographers whose flashbulbs popped again and again before the monsignor was driven off to Westminster, where he was staying as a guest of the archbishop.

The bishop had agreed to visit the gallery at four the same afternoon, and anyone walking through Chelsea Terrace that Thursday might have been forgiven for thinking Frank Sinatra was about to make a personal appearance. A large gathering had formed on the curbside as they waited keenly for the cleric’s arrival.

I met the bishop at the entrance to the gallery and introduced him to Charlie, who bowed before kissing the episcopal ring. I think the bishop was somewhat surprised to discover that Charlie was a Roman Catholic. I smiled nervously at our visitor, who appeared to have a perpetual beam on his face—a face that was red from wine, not sun, I suspected. He glided off down the passage in his long purple cassock as Cathy led him in the direction of my room, where the picture awaited him. Barker, the reporter from the Telegraph, introduced himself to Simon as if he were dealing with someone from the underworld. He made no attempt to be civil when Simon tried to strike up a conversation with him.

The bishop came through to my little office and accepted a proffered cup of coffee. I had already placed the picture on an easel, having at Charlie’s insistence refitted the original old black frame on the painting. We all sat round the table in silence as the priest stared at the Virgin Mary.

“Vous permettez?” he asked, holding out his arms.

“Certainly,” I replied, and handed over the little oil.

I watched his eyes carefully as he held the painting in front of him. He seemed to take just as much interest in Charlie, whom I had never seen so nervous, as he did in the picture itself. He also glanced at Barker, who in contrast had a look of hope in his eyes. After that the bishop returned his attention to the painting, smiled and seemed to become transfixed by the Virgin Mary.

“Well?” inquired the reporter.

“Beautiful. An inspiration for any nonbeliever.”

Barker also smiled and wrote his words down.

“You know,” the priest added, “this painting brings back many many memories”—he hesitated for a moment and I thought my heart was going to stop before he pronounced—“but, hélas, I must inform you, Mr. Barker, that she is not the original. A mere copy of the madonna I knew so well.”

The reporter stopped writing. “Only a copy?”

“Yes, je le regretted. An excellent copy, peut-être painted by a young pupil of the great man would be my guess, but nonetheless a copy.”

Barker was unable to hide his disappointment as he placed his pad down on the table, looking as if he wished to make some protest.

The bishop rose and bowed in my direction. “It is my regret that you have been troubled, Lady Trumper.”

I too rose and accompanied him to the door, where he was faced once again with the assembled press. The journalists fell silent as they waited for the priest to utter some revelation and I felt for a moment that he might actually be enjoying the experience.

“Is it the real thing, Bishop?” shouted a reporter in the crowd.

He smiled benignly. “It is indeed a portrait of the Blessed Virgin, but this particular example is only a copy, and of no great significance.” He did not add a word to this statement before climbing back into his car to be whisked away.

“What a relief,” I said once the car was out of sight. I turned round to look for Charlie, but he was nowhere to be seen. I rushed back to my office and found him holding the picture in his hands. I closed the door behind me so that we could be alone.

“What a relief,” I repeated. “Now life can return to normal.”

“You realize, of course, that this is the Bronzino,” Charlie said, looking straight at me.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “The bishop—”

“But did you see the way he held her?” said Charlie. “You don’t cling to a counterfeit like that. And then I watched his eyes while he came to a decision.”

“A decision?”

“Yes, as to whether or not to ruin our lives, in exchange for his beloved Virgin.”

“So we’ve been in possession of a masterpiece without even knowing it?”

“It would seem so, but I’m still not sure who removed the painting from the chapel in the first place.”