Chapter Three
Otto was still on the phone when Darcy knocked on his door sixty minutes later, but he beckoned her in and she took a seat opposite him, listening to him ‘mm’ and ‘mm-hmm’ down the line as someone else did all the talking.
A colour printout of the portrait lay on his desk and he reached over, handing it to her to study as the one-sided conversation continued.
Darcy stared at the image, trying not to feel dismay at the minimal uplift in clarity. The woman’s long hair was, unusually, not worn up in the fashion of the day, but seemed to be simply pulled back; her dress was high-necked and modest, not a society gown; a simple necklace gleamed at her throat. And it was impossible to read actual colours under the ultraviolet light. She couldn’t tell if the woman had black hair or brown; blue eyes or green or hazel. Normal identifying characteristics weren’t available to her and she was going to have to do this blind. No name. No face. And while she was experienced enough to know that if this woman had been painted by one of the country’s greatest painters, then there would be some sort of record of it somewhere, it was nonetheless almost a hundred years old. If the portrait had been hidden for all that time – if no one else had known it existed, even – what supporting evidence might have been destroyed or lost in the interim?
It was another moment before she realized Otto had finished his call and was watching her. Was her concern evident?
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘...Daunted.’ It pained her to give a negative answer, but her area of expertise was lost female artists, not their famous male counterparts.
‘Good. That’s the appropriate response,’ he nodded. ‘There’s no point in pretending it will be easy.’ He reached for the top file on his stack and handed it to her. ‘This is the standard bio we have on file for Trier. I assume you’ll be starting your search through him?’
‘I’ll have to,’ Darcy agreed. ‘He’s the only fixed point at the moment.’ She scanned the material. ‘Born 1895 in Aalborg; died 1974 in Paris, aged seventy-nine. Never married, no known children...’
‘That list shows his complete works – or rather, his known works – in chronological order.’
‘Okay. It says Her Children was painted and sold in August 1922, so he would have been...’ Darcy quickly did the maths. ‘He was twenty-seven when he painted it. Still pretty early on in his career.’ She looked up at Otto. ‘Logic would dictate that the portrait was painted first, before Children . Trier must have rejected it, turned the board over and then produced Children .’
‘I agree. Which gives us a fixed end date – the portrait was painted before August 1922.’
‘Great. So then, we’ve got our first fact,’ Darcy mused. ‘And would you agree that if the portrait couldn’t have been painted after 1922, it’s also unlikely to have been painted very long before that? Artists are invariably broke or tight. I doubt he’d have let the board go to waste for years and years, taking up
space in the studio. It was probably painted no more than a few years before Children .’
‘We can’t be as certain of that, but yes, it’s more than likely. You should at least start with that narrow scope and widen it if nothing yields from those dates.’
‘Okay. Well, I assume Margit Kinberg’s involvement means I’m well placed to gain access to the National Gallery’s archives?’
‘The National Gallery?’
‘Yes – they must hold extensive material on Trier.’
‘They will, but actually, there’s somewhere better. Have you heard of the Madsen Foundation?’
‘No.’
‘Bertram Madsen was Trier’s patron back in the day; a rich industrialist. He gave Trier his big break. His daughter was a noted society beauty and he commissioned numerous portraits of his family for their many houses. He introduced Trier to all the great and good here and put him on the map – until they had a falling out, over Her Children no less.’
‘What kind of falling out?’
‘As patron, Madsen had first refusal on all his work. He had set up a studio for Trier at his summer house in Hornbaek, on the coast, and when Madsen saw an early draft of Her Children , he wanted it for the drawing room of his new mansion on Toldbodgade.’
‘I sense a but .’
‘But Trier sold it to a German tourist who was passing by the Hornbaek house – admiring the garden, of all things. Supposedly they got talking and by the time Madsen knew otherwise, Her Children was already across the border and in a private collection in Munich. It remained out of the country for the next thirty years.’
Darcy sat back, intrigued. ‘I never knew any of this.’
Otto shrugged. ‘It ended Madsen’s patronage at a stroke and things quickly soured for Trier here. The upper class closed ranks at what was seen as his betrayal. No more profitable society portraits were commissioned and he eventually ended up moving full time to France, where he lived between Paris and Languedoc.’
Darcy bit her lip. ‘It seems an extraordinarily short-sighted decision, selling Children to a random tourist.’
‘He must have made him an exceptional offer. Artists aren’t usually known for their long-term financial planning.’ Otto shrugged. ‘But perhaps Trier was also tiring of being Madsen’s puppet. Portraits were his cash cow but it was clear from everything he did afterwards that his heart lay with plein air landscapes. Her Children was his key out of those golden handcuffs, whether he had intended it or not.’
‘It sounds very bitter. Will they want to help out now? Especially when it concerns the painting that caused the split in the first place?’
‘Everything’s been long since forgiven. There was a rapprochement of sorts, albeit many years later. It was in the sixties, I believe. Bertram Madsen was long dead by then, but the eldest son, Frederik – I think seeing rising prices for Trier’s work on the international market – established an art foundation. They built a gallery on Stockholmsgade and have spent the past fifty years buying every Trier they can get their hands on. It’s a vanity project, I suppose: they were the original patrons, and with Trier now held in such high esteem in the Danish canon, they want that connection to be maintained. They’re the self-appointed gatekeepers of the Trier legacy once more.’
‘So they hold most of his source material, then? Not the National Gallery?’
‘Yes. They’ve got a very good archivist, Viggo Rask. He’s the man to see. I’ve put a call in already. He’s expecting you there tomorrow.’
‘Wow. Thanks.’
‘Time is against us,’ Otto said simply.
Darcy looked again at the printout of the portrait. Her eye kept falling to an indistinct shape on the woman’s left shoulder. ‘What do you think that is?’
Otto reached for the sheet and studied it too.
‘Hmm...Possibly a fox stole? They were fashionable at the time.’
Darcy grimaced. The shape was rounded. ‘So that would be its head?’
He shrugged. ‘They kept everything on back then: paws, head—’
‘Ugh, please don’t.’
‘Different times, Darcy.’ He watched as she slipped the printout into the Trier file and went to hand it back to him. ‘You can keep that, it’s for you.’
‘Thanks. Well, I guess I’d better make a start, then—’ She started to get up but he shook his head.
‘Before you go, there’s something else. Margit’s hosting an event tonight at the National. I appreciate it’s short notice, but you really should attend now you’re on this special project. Do you have plans?’
She hesitated. Erik the Property Developer had wasted no time in being first off the starting blocks and had asked her out tonight; he had to go to Dubai on business on Thursday and wanted to meet her before he left. ‘...Nothing firm.’
‘Good. It’s a private Patrons and Friends benefit – just drinks, but it will be a useful networking opportunity. Some of the executive team from the Madsen Foundation will be there, so it’s a good opportunity to show your face.’
‘Okay.’ She began to move again, but once more Otto shook his head.
‘One more thing. You should be aware of the political landscape.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Things will appear friendlier than they actually are. Everyone will be all smiles tonight, but you should know there’s underlying friction. In any difficult economic climate, arts funding is always the first to be slashed, and the Ministry of Culture keeps announcing budget cuts. Margit’s under pressure to raise funds however she can.’
‘Hence the drinks party.’
‘Exactly. It keeps the benefactors sweet. But of course, the easiest and most effective way to raise a large sum of cash quickly is to sell assets, and Margit is under increasing pressure to compensate for the cuts in her budget. The Madsen Foundation is circling her.’
Darcy’s mouth opened a little as she realized where he was heading with this. ‘She’d sell them Her Children ?’
‘Not if there’s breath in her body – so she says.’
‘Well thank God. It’s a national treasure. It belongs to the Danish people.’
‘On that we all agree. But the Madsen Foundation sees anything and everything to do with Johan Trier as theirs, and this discovery of a new painting is really going to get their blood up.’ He inhaled slowly. ‘They’ve worked closely with us on the retrospective, providing access to their collection, but don’t think it’s out of the goodness of their hearts. The parent company, Madsen Holdings, is preparing to float on the stock exchange in the new year, and they want whatever good publicity they can get to boost their list price. When you’re dealing with them, just remember that self-interest lies at the heart of everything they do. Ostensibly we’re all on the same side, but that doesn’t mean we’re on the same team. So tread carefully, and watch what you say. Never forget we have something they want.’
‘God,’ she muttered. ‘I had no idea it was all so cut-throat.’
‘The fine art world is a sixty-eight-billion-dollar market. It’s not just pretty pictures and sipping on champagne. It’s big business.’
‘Noted.’ Suddenly tonight’s drinks reception seemed less appealing. ‘Talking of sipping champagne, what’s the form later? Can I bring a plus-one?’ She didn’t relish the prospect of walking in on her own. Perhaps this could be a good setting for a first date, with the safety of a hundred strangers all around them.
‘Best not. These events can be conservative. An old-money crowd. You know the type.’
She didn’t – not personally – but he clearly meant they were the sort that bankrolled retrospectives, bequeathed gifts to museums and had their own boxes at the opera house. Flirty first dates between Raya matches were not it.
‘We’re only there to work, not have a good time.’
‘Got it.’ She got up at last and headed for the door.
‘And, Darcy – I take it you have a cocktail dress?’ Otto asked behind her, no doubt privately aghast at her mismatched running kit.
‘Of course,’ she lied.
‘Good. I’ll email you the details,’ he murmured, releasing her fully, and she rolled her eyes as she stepped into the corridor. She had nothing fancier to wear than a black tube dress that was distinctly more clubbing than cocktails. She would need to go out later and buy something suitable. It was another job to add to her to-do list, which was growing longer by the minute – and she still had a seminar to teach at four. She walked back down the corridor, past the faculty offices, the squeak of her trainers on the floor at a distinctly faster tempo than on the way in.