The Best Laid Plans Read online

  “I just couldn’t get over the idea that if people joke about something enough, maybe it really has some basis. We all knew Uncle Bert was an amateur painter. He hung out with some of those Group of Seven painters in Algonquin Park around the time of the First World War.”

  “Did he?” The provenance was beginning to take hazy shape.

  “He did a whole bunch of paintings when he was up north, starting around 1914. Every one of them was, well, derivative of the artists he met up there. Varley. Jackson. Lismer. My aunt had a lot of them hanging around the house, including this one. She always assumed it was another stab at trying to emulate these guys, but it was the only Thomson-inspired painting he had.”

  “Are his paintings any good?”

  “Not even close,” Bryan said. “He made an effort to learn from them all, but it was clear he could never quit his day job as an actuary.”

  Armed with good lighting, the right tools, and a camera, Imogen set to work. She’d prefer not to have Bryan watching her every move, but she couldn’t very well banish him from the room since he owned the painting. Maybe.

  After taking pictures of it front and back, she laid the painting face down on the cloth-covered work surface and examined the back. It had been sealed with thin brown paper, stuck to the back of the frame all around. No hint of any identifying marks there, no dealer’s sticker or any writing. Any chance of helpful notes would be underneath, on the back of the board itself.

  With infinite caution, Imogen eased the paper away from the frame with a thin, flexible knife, and found that most of it came away eagerly, the glue having dried up perhaps half a century ago.

  Bryan leaned in close as she slid away the fragile paper.

  The back of the board was almost as innocent of marks as the paper. Only some faint writing in pencil. Printing, actually. Just a few words, and...was that a date?

  “What does that say?” Bryan asked, peering even closer.

  “Quit breathing down my neck.” She took the camera and aimed it carefully to capture the information on the board, taking shots from all angles.

  As she put down the camera, Bryan picked up the picture and examined it under the light.

  “Spit... no, Spirit something. Maybe river?” he said.

  Imogen squinted at the printing and tried again.

  “What’s that third word?” Bryan asked. “D...?”

  “Damn,” Imogen murmured, as all the discovery energy flowed out of her.

  “That’s it, Dam. ‘Spirit River Dam.’ It’s up in Algonquin Park. That makes sense. Tom Thomson’s regular painting grounds, right?”

  “No, damn. With an N. As in, damn it all. Look at the date.”

  Bryan looked at her, then at the date. 1920.

  “It’s not a Tom Thomson.”

  “Lot 29, Kayaks on the Gull River by Ethel Curry.”

  Even Bryan knew Tom Thomson had died in 1917. Nearly fifty years later, the legend of his dramatic and so-called mysterious death lived on.

  The letdown at seeing the date still gnawed at her, though she should have known better. But now, Plan B was in full swing.

  Back in her office, they dealt with the disappointment over a bottle of Northern Spirit Rye that Imogen kept handy, though usually for celebrations.

  Spirit River Dam mocked them from the top of her bookcase.

  “You know, that painting really had me going for about five minutes,” she said, holding up the glass and gazing at the river and the dam through the dark golden liquid. “It sure looked like the real thing.”

  Bryan nodded, and drained his glass. He refilled it. If she’d always thought he had the look of a teddy bear about him, now he looked like a teddy bear that hadn’t been invited to the picnic.

  “The history supports it,” he said. “The style supports it, the subject matter—”

  “I know all that, Bryan. Everything falls into place. I’ll bet if I took it to a professional appraiser, they’d find even the paint had the right chemical composition. After all, if those guys went out on expeditions together, they might have got their supplies from the same place.”

  “Or shared them.” He heaved a sigh. “It’s just that date.”

  Imogen said nothing as a handful of ideas and consequences chased around in her brain.

  “It is only in pencil,” Bryan mused. “I’ll bet it would be easy to change it. Except that would be fraud.”

  “Absolutely it would be fraud.” Imogen paused. “If it were changed to, say, 1915. However....”

  Bryan looked up, his bushy eyebrows raised.

  “If the date weren’t there....” She tried the idea on for size. “If it somehow went missing....”

  It might be doable, with the right kind of eraser.

  Bryan’s eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

  “Without any date, who’s to say when it was painted?” Imogen felt a new thrill stirring inside her. “It has the look and feel of Thomson all over it. We just take it for a proper analysis. We’re not saying it’s a Thomson, we’re just letting the experts have a look at it, make their decision.”

  “You think it we could pull it off?” Hope and doubt mixed in Bryan’s voice.

  “What we need is your family history. What have you got in the way of family papers? Letters? Pictures? Proof your uncle hung around with Tom Thomson?”

  “Yeah, for sure. You should see the boxes I’ve taken out of my mom’s house. And some of them came from Aunt Peggy’s basement too. There’s got to be something there.”

  “Okay, what’s the worse that can happen?” It had been Bryan’s mantra for the past few days.

  “You tell me.” Imogen was examining the back of the painting for the umpteenth time.

  “They notice the date was erased.”

  Imogen shrugged. She’d done a good job. There wasn’t a hint that a date, or anything, had been written there. “If they do—and they won’t—they might figure out someone removed something. Perhaps they might even see it said 1920. But there’s nothing to indicate I—we— did it. Your aunt could have removed it forty years ago.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Okay, let’s see these papers.” Imogen put the painting on the sideboard, and between them they began to dig into the carton Bryan had brought: Aunt Peggy’s papers as they related to Uncle Bert’s early life as a would-be artist.

  Most of it was of no consequence. Various notebooks and documents relating to Uncle Bert’s life as an actuary. A pamphlet titled Whole Life vs. Term Life. A book of death and morbidity tables from 1935.

  It was Bryan who found the postcard. A tinted photo image of a lake and a lodge. A one-cent King George V stamp with “war tax” overprinted on it.

  Mowat Lodge, 12 May, 1916

  Dear Peggy, Feeling much better. All this fresh air. I’ve been meeting up again with some of those painter fellows we met before the war. They sure are generous with their time and showing me their techniques. You’ll be pleased to see my paintings when I get back. Look forward to seeing you next week. Your ever-loving Bert.

  “Hey, this is gold,” Bryan said. “Puts him right on the spot, at the right time, with the right people. He could easily have bought the painting, or got it as a gift.”

  “1916, eh? He wasn’t in the War?”

  “He was. According to Aunt Peggy, he got caught in one of the first gas attacks. Not too bad, but it was the end of the war for him. That’s why he went back up to Algonquin, for some fresh air and rehabilitation. It was after the War that he settled down to his job at an insurance company.”

  They found a few photos, mostly cracked and faded and unlabeled. The gem, however, was a snapshot of five men in outdoor clothes standing on what looked like the verandah of a lodge, holding a string of fish. The names were written across the bottom, “Fred, Tom, Pete, me, Jack.”

  Bryan tapped his finger on “me.” “That’s Uncle Bert.”

  “Tom” was recognizably Tom Thomson.

  “The photo itself is p
robably worth something,” Imogen remarked. She pulled some more ephemera from the old carton.

  “Whoa...I don’t like this,” Bryan said. He was gazing at a piece of drawing paper. It looked like it had been torn from a sketchpad. He handed it to her.

  A sketch of a long, wide dam, looking very much like the one in the painting. The same four upright posts at the center. And in neat, square lettering the label Spirit River Dam 1920. Different handwriting from what was on the back of the painting.

  “We lose this for sure.” Imogen said. Locked away somewhere safe.

  “Um, Immy...” Bryan looked troubled again. “Is there any chance that dam wasn’t even built until 1920?”

  Imogen felt a shiver in her brain. Oh damn...

  “Lot 57, Percé Rock, Late Afternoon by Doris McCarthy.”

  What could possibly go wrong?

  She’d heard that line too many times in movies. Just before the worst possible thing went wrong.

  Nothing. Nothing would go wrong.

  Not even the history of the dam itself. Prompted by Bryan’s question, she’d contacted an acquaintance at the Department of Lands and Forests. He’d looked into archives and old maps, and easily determined that the dam had been built in 1905.

  So. That river crossed.

  They’d covered all the bases. The provenance, Uncle Bert’s history, Bryan’s ownership. Even one of the oils, Freeman’s White, had been identified. A paint not popular with the other artists in his coterie, but used by Tom Thomson. (Though, as Bryan had unhelpfully pointed out, possibly loaned to an amateur painter eager to learn.)

  Capping all that, Arthur Tyler had decreed it to be genuine. If one of the most respected art appraisers in Canada had given it his stamp of approval, then surely it was all clear sailing.

  Nonetheless, her palms were growing sweaty. Well, whose palms wouldn’t, considering she had a half-share in a valuable painting coming up for bid in the next few minutes. Real or fake.

  Even if someone eventually blew the whistle on the painting, there was nothing to show she and Bryan hadn’t acted in good faith. As she’d pointed out to Bryan, anyone might have erased the telltale date from the back of the board.

  Still...

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the fateful figures reasserting themselves one by one, burning through the paper seal on the back of the painting. Like something in a Twilight Zone episode.

  1...9...2...0...

  Lot 67 was knocked down for $53,000.

  Imogen gazed to the right of the podium, waiting for the assistant to bring out Lot 68, Spirit River Dam.

  Instead, he came on and handed the auctioneer a piece of paper.

  Bryan was quivering beside her. “What—”

  “Shut up.” She didn’t move her lips.

  The auctioneer didn’t miss a beat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been a change. Lot 68, Spirit River Dam, has been withdrawn from the sale.” He waited a moment for the reaction to lessen, then went on. “And now, Lot 69, Winter Day on Robert Street, by Arthur Lismer.”

  Bryan, now a sickening shade of green, croaked, “We have to get out of here.”

  “Are you serious? We’ll go speak to Mr. Cormack, like any affronted owner. Remember, Arthur Wylie passed it as—”

  But even as she stood up, she saw they had no choice anyway.

  Harry Cormack stood waiting for them at the end of the row. Along with another man, looking serious in a nondescript suit.

  In the back office, the atmosphere was thick with apprehension as they sat at a table opposite Harry Cormack and Arthur Wylie. Nearby sat the man in the dull suit. Lawyer? Imogen shivered.

  She gave Bryan a look intended to command, let me do the talking. But first, she waited for the questions.

  Mr. Cormack spoke first.

  “Miss Pemberton, Mr. Grace, did either of you at any time suspect that this painting was not a Tom Thomson?”

  “We hoped it was, of course.” Imogen explained in her best gallery owner manner. “That’s why I sent it to Mr. Wylie, an acknowledged expert. He confirmed it was indeed a Tom Thomson.” She nodded in his direction. Over to you, Mr. Know-it-all.

  Arthur Wylie didn’t look perturbed. He launched into tedious detail about all the documentary evidence, plus the physical evidence of aspects of the painting, plus the evidence of style and angle of brush strokes. Blah, blah, blah.

  Finally he ground to a halt, and Mr. Cormack asked him why he’d now changed his mind.

  “Oh, well for one thing, the subject matter. I’ve only just today learned the dam didn’t actually exist at the time of Tom Thomson’s death.”

  “But that’s not—” Bryan’s protest was cut off by Imogen’s kick to his ankle.

  She kept calm. None of this was incriminating. She was on solid ground here. “The dam was built in 1905, according to the Department of Lands and Forests records.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Wylie said. “Originally.” He opened a folder on the table in front of him and removed what looked like a photocopy of an old file photograph. “Here’s how it looked then.” He slid it across the table.

  The superstructure consisted of two posts, not four as in the painting. She could feel Bryan’s shaking reaction, but this time he remained silent.

  “It seems the first dam was washed away in the spring floods of 1919. It was rebuilt in 1920. Like this.” He showed them a second old photo, with four posts and a crossbeam, looking just like the drawing they’d found, and just like the dam in the painting.

  Still not busted, however.

  “I wish we’d known,” Imogen murmured, with a dollop of regret. “It would have saved us all so much time and trouble.”

  But Mr. Wylie wasn’t with her there.

  “I think you did know.” His voice was quiet, unassailable.

  “How could we? Any more than you did when you appraised it.”

  “Do you know anything about these?” He pulled another item from his bag of tricks.

  A familiar green and yellow photofinishing envelope. Imogen’s whole being turned to ice.

  She’d forgotten. Entirely, totally forgotten about the pictures she’d taken when they’d first uncovered the back of the painting.

  What had she done with the film?

  Mr. Wylie spread the prints on the table.

  “I don’t like being made a fool of, Miss Pemberton.”

  The words hit Imogen hard in the face.

  “Where did you get these?” she asked. The words “Spirit River Dam 1920” seemed to glow from the shiny black and white prints.

  He ignored the question. “And I don’t expect your assistant likes being treated as nothing more than a file clerk.”

  Linda? Where did she come in? And anyway, that was her job: filing, photocopying, running errands— Imogen’s heart made a leap for her throat. Errands...Taking film to the drugstore. Picking up the prints.

  Mr. Cormack spoke again. “I must say, I’ve been highly impressed with Linda. Her education, her extensive art history knowledge, not to mention her experience. Did you know she spent three years studying and working in Florence? And, of course, her initiative. Linda researched the history of the dam. Far more thoroughly, it would appear, than you did.”

  “When did you meet her?” Traitor. She would be sacked without a reference. She’d be lucky to find work at a Mac’s Milk. She’d regret the day—

  “When she applied for an apprentice position with us two weeks ago. She starts Monday morning. And now,” he turned toward the serious looking man in the nondescript suit, “May I introduce Inspector Williams from the Toronto Police Fraud Unit.”

  Spirit River, Algonquin Park

  November 1916

  Tom looked out from his vantage point on the hillside, savoring the view of the river and the dam. It was one of the last good days for painting in November, he figured, before the snow came in earnest. Gray cloud banks, with the sun breaking through every now and then, just to keep things promising.


  After this, he’d be painting snow all winter.

  Within a few minutes, he had his gear set up, his paint box propped on a handy rock, with its seven by ten inch board in place for an oil sketch, his thermos of tea nearby.

  But twenty minutes later, the nature of the scene still evaded him. The draftsman in him just couldn’t work with the dam’s structure.

  “Damn,” he muttered. He poured some tea into his enamel mug and gazed at the view again.

  “Don’t like what you see?”

  Tom turned to see the old man he sometimes encountered in this area. Greg Howard, a retired engineer with a cottage at the north end of Smoke Lake.

  “I don’t know. It just doesn’t sit right with me, the way the dam looks.”

  “You got a good eye, boy. It is all wrong.”

  “Well, I started out as a draftsman in my brother’s firm.”

  Mr. Howard pointed his pipe at the dam. “See those two posts in the centre? The sluice gate guides? Should’ve been four of them.”

  “No kidding. Were you involved in this?”

  “Not me. I was already being put out to pasture when our firm got the contract, back in ’04. My nephew, Frank, was the lead on the project. Young fool. I told them it wouldn’t work. But no, he knew best. Claimed they were good plans.”

  “And they weren’t, I guess.”

  “They were garbage. So now, every other year, in the spring floods, they have to shore it up as best they can.”

  “Can’t it be repaired?”

  “Sure. With money and time and manpower. Won’t happen now, though, what with this war going on, all the young men—and the engineers—out there in France. That’s why Lands and Forests lured me out of retirement to design a fix.”

  Tom nodded. “So what will it look like when it’s rebuilt?”

  “Got some paper?”

  Tom handed him his sketch pad and a drafting pencil, and in a few quick strokes, the old guy had brought to life the dam as he said it should be.