me. Last rites, was it?
'Lovejoy,' I grunted, hauling myself upright.
'He fell when I showed him those pot things.'
I didn't say, but should have done, that her 'pot things' would buy half her village.
'Hot sweet tea, he needs,' the housekeeper said. She was a nice old dear with the self-righteousness all women have when somebody's ailing. 'People don't eat right any more. It's not good enough.'
She poured tea into me until I was waterlogged. Then provided biscuits, cakes, buttered scones, jam. I began to recover.
'I'm Robert,' said the bloke. 'You saw Arthur's pottery?'
'Yes.' My mind called a halt to honesty. 'Er, is it for sale?'
Arthur? The most sought-after porcelain is 'schwarzlot'.
Collectors go mad for it. They're not all bobby-dazzlers, just mugs or other items decorated with rustic scenes depicting travellers at an inn, pipers playing for a drink.
Importantly, it's not at all flashy, just monochrome, black. Sometimes du Paquier's men touched up the figures' hands or cheeks with a dab of red, maybe with a little gilding for light relief. These still qualify as schwarzlot items, so don't go chucking any away (joke). One such mug will buy you a brand new car. A full schwarzlot drinking set will buy you a new house, plus a motor, plus a round-the-world cruise with a bawbee left over. Rare, they're out there waiting to be spotted.
'No, we can't sell them. They belong to a friend's son. Arthur's died, but gave them to us in trust for the boy. Only—' Here Robert paused, looked anxiously at his wife.
'Only what?' I was starting to piece things together. Mortimer, Arthur Goldhorn. But how come Arthur knew he was at risk? And why hadn't Colette taken any such steps? It was almost as if… I caught Gloria weighing me up, and stopped thinking. Women see through me.
'Only, lately we've had two people call.' He made a determined face when Gloria exclaimed. 'No, dearest. We must tell him. Arthur mentioned Lovejoy. I distinctly remember the awful name. He said that Lovejoy would call sooner or later and help us.
Now,' he intoned nobly, 'is the time.'
My head was splitting. 'Any chance of some more tea, love?' I asked the housekeeper.
'And an aspirin?'
She scurried. I dithered upright. They walked me about a bit until I got breathing organized, then we sat like decent folk while I told them what they'd got. If the antiques were Arthur's - read Mortimer's - I had to answer Gloria's question by my actions, and prove whose side I was on.
My own question came on its own. 'Look. If money could make Mortimer safe, would you borrow on those antiques?' And the most marvellous thing happened. Gloria smiled.
25
THINKING OF OLD Masters and skullduggery, as I was, you can't help thinking of one of the kindest, brightest blokes who ever was. Odd, but true.
Once upon a time it was 1819. A baby was born, eleventh of March, near where I was sprung. Slogging in Liverpool from his thirteenth year, little Henry Tate soared to financial fame through honest endeavour, in spite of being Unitarian Chapel. Soon he had several retail shops, and settled down to procreating babs with his missus Jane.
Deep inside Henry a dream lurked. It was nothing less than sugar. It became Henry's battle cry. Feed workers clean wholesome sugar!
Victorians like Henry Tate thought on a scale nobody's ever quite matched since. The Cecil Rhodes of saccharides, he invented the sugar cube, no stopping him. Sprinkling his sons around his factories -Jane doing her stuff- Henry Tate pondered Life. Reading, he finally decided, was another of Life's essentials, and Art was another. He developed another slogan. Give folk free access to Books and show them Art!
He started giving public libraries. Then he got some land on Millbank, by the Thames.
There, he stashed his art collection for people to visit and lift their spirits. So passed the wise Sir Henry Tate, leaving us the happiest, pleasantest of art galleries. Be careful, though. London never calls its bits by the correct name. Ask a taxi driver to take you to the 'National Gallery of British Art' he'll say, 'Eh?' You've to say, 'Tate, please.' Beats me.
Terms for con tricks, though, are etched in granite.
It was at the Tate that the peculiar con trick known as the Nicholson arose. It's very cunning. It's out to get you.
Great art galleries have archives. These are references, notes kept by old curators, artists' comments, auction receipts, letters. You want to authenticate an O'Conor painting of 1902? You delve in the archives, make a firm attribution the rest of us can trust. Eventual purchasers of O'Conor's paintings will then know when they're being offered a pig in a poke. Okay?
Well, nearly okay. As long as visiting scholars and art experts behave themselves, all alone down in your gallery's dungeons. By custom, from courtesy, you send copies of your own researches, catalogues, theses, publications, because fair's fair. The next generation of researchers will want accurate references. Decent people, art experts.
Yet - didn't I say? - fraud, like murder, will out. And crooks will in.
Enter the Nicholson, the 'Nick Trick' in dealer parlance.
It's called after Ben Nicholson, an honest modern painter.There's a vogue for his art.
See one, buy it. Before you fumble in your pockets for pennies, though, think a mo.
