Corduroy Mansions Page 0,122

in pretty much the condition it was when it left Poussin’s studio … Except the colours in just about all Poussins have faded rather badly.”

“Poussin!” exclaimed Caroline.

James turned to her and smiled triumphantly. “Yes, Poussin. Nicolas Poussin.”

Caroline, who had leapt to her feet in her excitement, now sat down again. “I don’t believe it,” she muttered.

“You don’t?” asked Marcia. She wondered whether she should have been incredulous too. The problem, though, was that she was not sure who Poussin was. Picasso, yes. But Poussin?

It was as if James sensed Marcia’s embarrassment. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Lots of people aren’t all that familiar with Poussin. There are so many painters!”

That helped. “Is he important?” Marcia asked.

James nodded. “Immensely. He was a great classical painter. He disapproved of other French painters of his time and went off to Rome. He did some wonderful paintings.”

William was frowning. “Do you really think that this is by him? And how can you tell?”

James placed the painting on the table in front of him. “It’s a question of style—principally. When you get to know an artist’s work, you’ll always recognise it—in much the same way as you’ll recognise a face. It’s just there, the flow and feel, the way of looking at the world—everything. It’s like a signature.” He turned to William. “It’s the same with your wine, surely? You know where a wine comes from when you first taste it. You may not be able to put your finger on the exact reason, but you know, don’t you?”

William agreed. But how could one tell, he wondered, whether something was the real thing, as opposed to an imitation or a copy? He raised this doubt now. “What about that chap who did the Vermeers during the war? If he could churn out Vermeers, then surely there could be somebody doing Poussins—in the same convincing way?”

James reached out and touched the picture lightly with his fingertips. “Of course you’re right,” he said. “This could be a copy by a follower of Poussin. A very good follower. It could be of the period, or it could be by a modern forger. It could be anything. But to me it looks like a Poussin—a very small Poussin. Mind you, I’m no expert …”

“James is only a student,” Caroline pointed out. “Nobody will listen to a student.”

“We’re listening,” said Marcia.

James smiled. “Thank you. But Caroline’s right. My opinion counts for nothing. We need to show it to somebody whose attribution will stand for something. We need to find an authority on Poussin.”

“Can you do that?” asked Marcia. “Can you just approach somebody out of the blue like that?”

“Of course,” replied James. “That’s what these people are there for. And there’s bound to be a Poussin expert in London. There was Anthony Blunt, of course, at the Courtauld …”

William looked up sharply. “The Fourth Man?”

James sighed. “That’s right. He’s dead now, of course. And people seem only to remember the fact that he was a spy. They don’t remember what he did for art history. Or for the Courtauld Institute. Or for all the students he helped.”

William raised an eyebrow. “He spied for one of the greatest tyrannies the world has ever known,” he said. “He lived in a democracy but spied for a tyranny.”

James was cautious. “He believed in his cause, I think. People really believed in communism; they thought that it was the only possible way out. And once he was recruited—as a young man—it might have been difficult to escape. I can imagine how easy it was to find oneself on the wrong side and then …”

William thought for a moment. “Yes. It’s not as simple as people think it is.”

“It never is,” said Marcia.

“Yet I don’t condone what he did,” added William.

“Nor do I,” said James.

They looked at Caroline. “He had no real excuse,” she said. “What a mess he made of his life. And then he was publicly humiliated.”

“Even if what he did seemed unforgivable,” said William, “perhaps we should still have forgiven him.”

“Well, we can’t ask Blunt,” concluded James. “But there’s bound to be someone. So what do you want us to do, William?”

Marcia now made a suggestion. “We’ve shown them the painting,” she said to William, talking as if Caroline and James were not in the room. “I think we should tell them about how we came to have it. About whose wardrobe it was in and so on. Then we can all decide what to do.”

Caroline had already guessed. “It was Eddie’s wardrobe,