Enter Pale Death(9)

“I’m glad to hear that. I was well briefed.” The glancing look, complicitous, humorous, was meant to suggest that his informant was Dorcas and invited comment. Joe gritted his teeth and wondered how much more the wretched girl had confided about his life and character. He glowered and maintained a cold silence.

Truelove took a catalogue from his briefcase and handed it to Joe. “Page twenty-seven.”

Before opening it, Joe inspected the cover and read:

Messrs. Christie, Manson & Woods

respectfully give notice that they have been instructed by

Mr. J. J. McKinley

to sell at auction his renowned collection of Miniature Portraits at the

Great Rooms, King Street, London SW1 on Wednesday June 21st 1933

at 11.00 A.M.

This collection makes one of the finest galleries of miniature portraits formed in modern times,

comprising over three hundred examples of the best works by British and Continental artists

from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century. There are examples of the work of Nicholas Hilliard,

Samuel Cooper, Richard Cosway, George Engleheart, J.H.Fragonard and other eminent artists.

The collection will be on view throughout the week preceding the sale and for one hour before

bids are taken.



“Wednesday the twenty-first? That’s tomorrow,” Joe commented in puzzlement. “Thinking of taking a punt on a Hilliard, are you?”

“No indeed! Nothing so grand, I’m afraid. If you’ll just turn to page twenty-seven … There. Well down the listing. Thrown in at the end with no fanfare. Unattributed, you see. Artist unknown. What do you make of those two?”

Joe looked carefully at the matched pair. Watercolour on ivory, the description said. The illustration was in black and white, but the quality of the oval portraits set within simple gold frames shone out. The lady on the left was a beauty. Fair hair curled naturally around her forehead, pale eyes—blue?—held a touch of mischief reflected in the slightly curving mouth. Pearls, lace, satin and plump silken bosom seemed all to have found favour with the anonymous artist. The lord on the right, presumably her husband, had an equal glamour. He wore his own dark hair sleekly combed about his neat head, his eye was commanding, his mouth firm. A velvet coat, a swagger of gold epaulette, a flash of more shining braid on a striped revere framed a froth of expensive lace at his throat. A diamond pin glinted in its depths. Joe was enchanted and intrigued. He remembered Truelove had thrown down a challenge. The man would do that.

What did he make of them? Not difficult to return an answer. “Delightful,” he said. “I advise going straight down there and putting in a bid. Unattributed as they are, some lucky devil could get these for a song. Portraits, miniature or full-size, are not exactly going like hotcakes in today’s market. It’s all photography and cubism these days. One does rather wonder at the wisdom of unloading an entire collection on to the market in one fell swoop. The whole exercise in itself risks further devaluing the art form.”

“I dare say.” Truelove clearly didn’t share Joe’s concern about fluctuations in the art market. “But the standard of the painting? And the sitters? What do you make of them?”

“The quality is of the very highest as far as I can make out from these reproductions. The sitters themselves, husband and wife, I’m presuming, are people of some rank. They would naturally have employed the best talent Europe could offer to take their likeness. No wigs, you see—hair not even powdered—and by the style of the clothes and the jewellery, I’m guessing Regency. The second decade of the 1800s. There is an artist—and the best available at this time—who sometimes failed to put his signature on his work … Um …” Joe searched his memory.

“You’re thinking of George Engleheart. The chap painted nearly five thousand of these things during his life. You’ll find his name on the back, mostly, but it wouldn’t be surprising if he failed occasionally to sign his work, particularly when he was getting on a bit. By the time he painted these, George would have been an old man of nearly seventy. It’s my theory that they were done by a much younger artist. Any more thoughts?”

“The sitters themselves are intriguing. Very attractive pair. Young. The fashion of the times was to have one’s likeness preserved on ivory as a betrothal or a marriage gift. I’d guess that’s what these are. Betrothal, most probably.”

“Why do you say that?”

Why had he said that? Truelove was listening with flattering attention. Joe plunged on, with a strong feeling that he was running in blinkers. He tapped the face of the young man. “The girl looks too innocent and happy to have been long in harness with this sour-puss opposite. Oh, handsome, certainly, but …”