Nothing Ventured

‘Thank you,’ said William.

‘Were you ever in uniform?’ asked Beth.

‘I spent a couple of years on the beat in Lambeth.’

‘And are the public always as appreciative and polite as you?’

‘Not always,’ said William quietly, before bowing his head.

‘What did I say?’ asked Beth, suddenly anxious.

‘You brought back the memory of an old friend who should have been out on the beat this morning,’ said William as they turned the corner.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Beth. She took his hand, aware that they still had so much to learn about each other.

‘You weren’t to know,’ said William.

As they strolled into Abbots Road, William spotted a colourful sign swinging in the breeze.

‘Try not to sound like a policeman,’ whispered Beth as they entered the gallery.

A man dressed in an open-neck pink shirt, blazer and jeans stepped forward to greet them. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Zac Knight. I’m the proprietor of the gallery. May I ask if you were looking for anything in particular?’

Yes, thought William, but said nothing.

‘No,’ said Beth. ‘We were just passing, and thought we’d take a look around.’

‘Of course,’ he said, giving her a warm smile. ‘The gallery is on two floors. Here on the ground floor are some remarkable paintings in the style of the modern masters.’

‘I’m surprised that’s legal,’ said William.

Beth frowned as Knight gave William a closer look. He then lifted a picture off the wall and turned it around to reveal the word FAKE daubed on the back of the canvas in large black letters. ‘I can assure you, sir, that if you tried to remove the words, you would damage the painting beyond repair.’

William nodded, but as Beth was still scowling at him, he didn’t ask another question.

‘And in the basement,’ continued Knight, placing the picture back on the wall, ‘you’ll find copies of well-known masterpieces by some extremely talented artists.’

‘Is “fake” printed on the back of those as well?’

‘No, madam. However, the paintings are always unsigned, and are all either one inch smaller, or one inch larger than the original, so that no serious collector would be fooled. Please, enjoy both exhibitions, and don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions.’

‘Thank you, Zac,’ said Beth, returning his smile.

As they strolled around the ground floor, William was surprised by how convincing some of the fakes were. If you wanted to own a Picasso, a Matisse or a Van Gogh, it could be yours for under a thousand pounds. Even Hockney’s A Bigger Splash was on display, a print of which hung on his bedroom wall. But as they stood in front of a Rothko that might even have fooled an expert, he told Beth that he’d still rather have a Mary Fedden, a Ken Howard or an Anthony Green for about the same price.

‘Have you spotted your man?’ whispered Beth.

‘No. But he’s far more likely to be downstairs.’

‘Why don’t you pop down and take a look? If Mr Knight reappears, I’ll keep him occupied.’

‘Good thinking,’ said William and disappeared downstairs to find another large gallery filled with paintings, many of which he recognized. Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire for two thousand pounds, and van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait, which hung alongside a familiar nude by Goya.

But it was when he saw A Dance to the Music of Time by Poussin that he had to catch his breath. He had seen the original in the Wallace Collection, and could only marvel at how the artist had created such a likeness. A rare talent that shone in the presence of rude mechanicals. Some of the other copies were excellent, but none of them in this class. William wasn’t in any doubt that he’d found his man, but there was no clue to the identity of the artist on the accompanying label.

After standing in front of the canvas for some time, he reluctantly returned upstairs, where he found Beth deep in conversation with the proprietor.

‘I think you’ll find Renoir’s The Umbrellas rather proves my point,’ Knight was saying when William joined them. He gave Beth a nod.