Page 37 of The Art of Theft
He had never been naked in a room with two women present, and certainly not two women whose sole focus was undressing a different man—he almost laughed as he came out from behind the screen.
Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes already had Mr. Marbleton, also in a robe, in a chair near the potbellied stove. They’d put hot water bottles—pressing into service their canteens and even a few wine bottles wrapped in pillow cases—around him. Mrs. Watson set Miss Holmes to rubbing his feet. She herself pulled Lord Ingram into another chair, thrust a hot water bottle into his hands, and rubbed his feet.
“I would think myself in Heaven, Miss Olivia, if I could feel anything in my feet,” mumbled Mr. Marbleton.
Lord Ingram let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The young man was going to be all right.
They were both going to be all right.
?In the morning, Charlotte and Lieutenant Atwood visited the offices ofLe Temps, the Parisian newspaper of record, where Lieutenant Atwood had made an appointment for them to consult the archives. They worked quickly, checking indexes, pulling volumes, one person copying down relevant information while the other moved on to the next article.
After lunch, taken at a café, they went to their next appointment, a consultation with Monsieur Sauveterre, a mostly retired art dealer who remained highly respected for his encyclopedic knowledge. They hoped to find out what an expert thought of the art sales at Château Vaudrieu, though they planned to approach the subject obliquely.
They arrived in disguise, Lieutenant Atwood as Mr. Nariman, a scion of a prominent and wealthy Bombay Parsi family, and Charlotte as his rotund, bespectacled English friend Mr. Hurst.
Normally Monsieur Sauveterre might not be inclined to grant an audience to two strangers, but Lieutenant Atwood, along with his request, had sent along two bottles of vintage claret from Hôtel Papillon’s cellar. For that, they were received warmly.
After some pleasantries, Charlotte, as Mr. Hurst, got to the gist of the matter.
“You see, Monsieur, my friend here has put me in something of a dilemma. We have been traveling together, trying to see as much of the world as possible. I am not as well funded as he is and would have been obliged to stop soon, but for the fact that I recently inherited some paintings.
“I have no eye myself and little expertise in the arena. Those I’ve asked to appraise my new possessions have said anything from a thousand pounds for the lot—a dozen paintings in all—to four hundred pounds for this piece alone.”
She brought out a large envelope and extracted from it a watercolor measuring eighteen inches by twenty-four inches. Monsieur Sauveterre perched a pair of glasses on his nose and leaned in for a closer look.
“Ah, a work by Monsieur Turner. Very English.”
“My late aunt had very English tastes,” said Charlotte. “Mr. Nariman has grown impatient, waiting for me to affix a value to this Turner, and offered to buy it for sixteen hundred pounds.”
“Sixteen hundred pounds?” Monsieur Sauveterre’s brow raised. “That would be forty thousand francs.”
“Indeed, a small fortune—which is why I declined his offer.”
“And yet, from what I understand, a similar work exchanged hands for fifty thousand francs right here in Paris a few years ago,” pointed out Lieutenant Atwood, as Mr. Nariman.
This they did not glean from the archives ofLe Temps, but fromLieutenant Atwood’s mother, who, according to him, had purchased two Turner pieces some time ago and was pleased to inform him, about a year ago, that she’d heard, via private channels, that a similar Turner watercolor in Paris had gone for twice what she had paid, no doubt presaging a rise in value for her own acquisitions.
“I have heard of that myself,” Monsieur Sauveterre admitted. “Although personally I would not take prices achieved at Château Vaudrieu as a benchmark.”
Aha, so that particular transactionhadtaken place at Château Vaudrieu.
“Château Vaudrieu?” repeated Charlotte. “Is that the name of a Parisian gallery?”
“No, it is an actual château not far outside the city. In recent years, it’s become well-known for an annual December ball. But the ball is also the occasion of an art sale—and at times the prices fetched there have been spectacular.”
“Hmm,” said Charlotte. “Is everything there sold at prices you would consider inflated, Monsieur?”
“No indeed!” cried Mr. Sauveterre. “Sometimes pieces go for reasonable prices. Sometimes there are excellent bargains to be had—or so I’ve heard.”
He rather hastened to give the appearance of even-handedness, to make sure that on the whole, he could not be accused of having pronounced Château Vaudrieu’s prices too high.
“In other words, exactly as it would be at any other marketplace for art.” Lieutenant Atwood turned to Charlotte. “Art isn’t corn, my friend. There is no fixed price. For me to pay you anything less than the highest price your Turner could fetch would be highway robbery.”
“Ah, but Monsieur,” said Monsieur Sauveterre, now more unhurried in his speech, “you did come seeking my opinion. Château Vaudrieu notwithstanding, my professional honor would not allow me to let anyone pay forty thousand francs for a forty-five-centimeter-by-sixty-centimeter watercolor.
“On the other hand, the trend in favor of Mr. Turner’s work has been clear. In the thirty-odd years since his passing, his reputation has grown and the value placed on his oeuvre has appreciated considerably. I see no reason why that should come to an abrupt halt: England is wealthy, and there remains a large supply of men and women willing to pay premium prices for one of the country’s foremost artists.
“Everything considered, I would decree twenty-one thousand five hundred francs as a fair price for this transaction between friends.”
