“No, it couldn’t. I’ve had it dated. The timing and materials are right for Rubens—”

“It could be by one of his pupils.”

“Or by him,” Graver said shortly. “That’s the point of giving a judgement – it’s a personal opinion. And although I can’t swear to it, I’d say it was by Rubens.” His voice hardened. “Look, Martin, you’d be getting a bargain. And to be honest, I need money quickly. A lot of money.”

“Oh yes, your daughter’s upcoming wedding—”

“I’m not having the Lamberts making me look like a poor relation,” Graver confided. “You’ll make at least three times what I’m asking on that painting. You know you will – it’s a beauty.”

“School of Rubens doesn’t fetch high prices—”

“Look at it! This isn’t some bloody student’s work. This is fabulous.” Graver moved over to the painting and studied it, his voice hardening. “Actually, you know what? I’ve changed my mind. I think I’m going to have a shot at selling this privately—”

Martin’s eyes bulged. “No, I want it!”

“It could fetch a fortune.”

“I can give you what you want here and now,” Martin insisted, seeing a large profit evaporating before his eyes. “Even if it’s by a student of Rubens it’s wonderful. I’m prepared to take the risk.” He blundered on, knowing full well that he would never intimate to his clients – with so much as a glance – that it wasn’t a genuine Rubens.

Stern faced, Martin out his hand. “Three hundred thousand, OK?”

“OK,” Graver agreed.

*

Well, thought Graver, that would pay for a splashy wedding. Stop the bloody Lamberts looking down their noses at them. Graver smiled at Martin Kemper. It was business, that was all. Last month Kemper had got one over him. This time, he was going to win.

FIVE

Professor Altman was whistling in the shower and thinking that his trip to London had been a wonderful success. His talks had all been well attended, and he had managed to seduce three women in the space of a week. Not bad going. As for the art world, he had friends in many galleries. In others, his notorious reputation made him an unpopular man. No one could take to someone who declared that their latest acquisition was a forgery, and there were a few who had declared open season on the muscular behind of Professor Altman. Graver Hirst was one of them. Having had a Turner exposed as a fake several years earlier, he loathed Altman.

*

Later that morning, Graver looked up to see Altman peering at him through the glass panel in his office door. Glowerig, Graver turned his back on the professor, hoping that he would take the hint and walk away, but instead the arrogant Altman came in.

“Good to see you again,” he lied. “I heard a little rumour this morning. About a Rubens portrait.”

Graver’s face was expressionless. This time the bastard wasn’t going to catch him out. “Really?”

“I heard you had found a sleeper at a sale.”

“Really?” He watched as the bearded man moved towards an Epstein bust on a plinth. “That happens to be genuine, with papers to prove it,” Graver said.

“I’m just admiring it,” Altman replied. “That business with the Turner was a long time ago. Surely there’s no bad feeling between us?”

“I didn’t know it was a fake—”

“You dealers never do!” Altman laughed. “Just hope for the best, don’t you? Anyone with half a brain could see it was a forgery.”

Graver bridled. “I sold it in good faith.”

“What faith would that be? The divinity of money?”

Graver looked him up and down. He wasn’t the only dealer who wanted to bring Professor Altman down a peg or two, see how he would like to be humiliated for a change.

“Don’t preach to me. You get paid well enough for giving your bloody opinion,” Graver said sourly. “I heard you charged someone a quarter of a million for your services.”

Altman shrugged. “There’s money in the Emirates. I saved the Sheikh millions.”

“Are you’re never wrong?” Graver asked, dumbfounded.

“No,” Altman replied. “Never.”

Graver was thinking quickly. Altman had been an irritant for years, not only by exposing the Turner as a fake but by his constant needling. Teasing, he called it, but Graver knew such ‘teasing’ could gradually undermine a reputation and break a business. Which was the last thing he wanted, especially now.

*

The Turner had been a genuine mistake, but Altman had talked about it publicly in his speeches and Graver was nervous. Altman already knew about the Rubens. What if he exposed it? Proved it was School of Rubens, not by the Master? It was time the arrogant professor was taught a lesson.

If he was shown to be fallible, Graver would achieve three things: firstly, revenge; secondly, the toppling of the Oracle, and thirdly, the protection of his reputation.

It was a challenge he couldn’t resist.

SIX

Hubris is always a dangerous trait, and Graver Hirst was depending on Altman’s arrogance. But first he had to prepare the ground. So later that afternoon he phoned Martin Kemper.

“Altman’s interested in seeing the Rubens,” he said blithely.

“Are you out of your mind?” Martin retorted, fully aware that if the historian demoted the work he would lose out on a huge sale between two already competing brokers. “Why don’t you just send it over to me now? I’ll pay you. You don’t have to bring that shit Altman into this.”

“But it looks suspicious if I don’t,” Graver replied reasonably. “Anyway, I’m getting the frame restored for you and I was going to have the picture delivered on Thursday.”

“You can’t risk showing it to Altman.”

Graver was unmoved. “What’s his weakness?”

“What?”

“Altman. What’s his biggest weakness?”

“Arrogance,” Martin replied. “The bastard’s never wrong and if he was, he’d die rather than admit it.”

“Exactly.” Graver replied. “Come to the gallery at five, can you? I want us to put our Rubens before Altman—”

“Why risk it? He got you for that Turner before.”

“He won’t get me this time,” Graver replied smoothly. “See you at five.”

*

There is a theory that inside every respectable man there is a criminal trying to get out. It may well be true. It certainly was of Graver Hirst. For decades he had traded as an honest man and revelled in his reputation, but suddenly the pressure of the indecently rich Lamberts and his daughter’s forthcoming nuptials shifted his brain into sixth gear – the gear reserved for settling scores and avoiding death by humiliation.

Of course it’s useful in the art world to be aware of forgers and their methods. This way a dealer avoids being caught out – most of the time. Over a few decades catching up with – or falling foul of – the tricks of the trade, Graver had learned a great deal, and walking down into the storage room he began to search. It took him almost an hour to find the right canvas, of the right size and age, before he moved back into his office, and locked the door behind him.

*

At ten to five Martin Kemper arrived, flustered, rushing in with his coat flapping open, his face flushed ruby red. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked.

Graver shrugged, blithely calm. “I think it’s an excellent idea. Have you spoken to your would-be clients yet?”

“Yes. And have you thought what will happen if Altman says it’s not by Rubens?” Martin asked, closing the office door and sitting down. “It could be a big fucking mistake. I might not want to buy it from you if he damns it—”

“Of course you want the painting!”

Martin shrugged. “OK, I do. But not as much as you want that fat fee you need for your daughter’s wedding.”

“Stop panicking. Think how much more money you’ll be able to get when the portrait has Professor Altman’s seal of approval.”

They both paused, thinking. If Altman approved a work, he wrote a note confirming his – never mistaken – opinion and signed the back of the painting. Using indelible ink, Altman would put his signature at the very edge of the back of the canvas, with a cross beside it. An affectation of sorts. A blessing known around the art world. If Altman had marked and approved a work, it was kosher.