The Protégé

Kate Ellis

Spring 1911

‘I am a man of science. But I do appreciate art.’

The speaker was an elderly man. His face was long and thin, topped with sparse grey hair and there was a sharpness, a watchfulness in his eyes that suggested great intelligence.

The young man he addressed looked sideways at him. He wore a puzzled frown as though he had not quite understood what the other had said.

But the older man continued. ‘I think this work is particularly interesting. The look on the interrogator’s face. The innocence of the child. He has no idea what is happening and why the strange man is asking these questions but, in his naivety, he will likely tell the truth in an unwitting act of betrayal. The only thing he knows, even at his tender age, is fear. See how his sister weeps. She recognises the danger.’

A small smile played on the speaker’s thin lips as he turned his head to see his companion’s reaction. But he saw nothing. The shabby young man with the greasy dark hair was staring blankly at the large canvas, lost in the scene.

‘And When Did You Last See Your Father? It is a strange title, don’t you think?’

The young man turned his eyes on the speaker. ‘Please. My English is not good.’

A flicker of recognition passed across the older man’s face. ‘I detect a German accent. You are German, mein Herr.’

The answer was a vigorous shake of the head. ‘Nein. I am Austrian.’

‘How long have you been in Liverpool?’ The older man spoke in German, fluent and faultless as a native.

‘For four months only,’ the young man replied in his own tongue. He was in his early twenties and he fidgeted nervously with the sleeve of his threadbare jacket. His body was thin and gangling and he looked as if he was in need of a good meal. A controllable creature, the old man thought. He’d met his kind before: desperate for approval; desperate to belong.

‘You are an artist, I think,’ the old man said, noting the tense, paint-stained fingers.

The young man’s small eyes brightened at the question. ‘Yes, I am a very fine artist. But there are many who do not appreciate true talent. So many ignorant men who follow only the latest fashion.’

‘I know precisely what you mean. My gifts too have long been underestimated.’ The old man’s lips twitched upwards in a bitter smile.

After a short silence he turned his attention once more to the painting hanging before them on the gallery wall. The picture of the small boy in the costume of a seventeenth-century Royalist being questioned by a Parliamentarian soldier with a cunning gentleness calculated to extract the Judas betrayal from the guileless babe. ‘Could you paint something like this?’

The young man nodded eagerly. ‘Yes. I think so.’

There was a pause while the older man studied his companion more closely. What he saw obviously pleased him because he came straight to the point. ‘If I supply the materials, could you produce a replica of Yeames’s masterpiece? A close approximation good enough to fool the casual observer?’

He saw pride in the young Austrian’s expression and a visible straightening of his slouched spine. ‘I would enjoy the challenge.’ He suddenly frowned. ‘But I have nowhere to work on such a large canvas. My accommodation is cramped and …’

‘Do not worry. I have a large house where you can work. The only thing I ask is that you say nothing of the matter to anyone. Is that agreed?’

The young man nodded eagerly. ‘Agreed. I hope you will not think me impertinent, but why do you wish for this copy?’

The older man smiled, showing his small, yellow teeth. ‘That is none of your concern. I will pay you well and you will ask no questions.’

‘You will pay?’

The older man saw the greed in the other man’s eyes. Or maybe a desperation that had grown from poverty and rejection. He named a sum and saw the light of avarice flicker brightly.

‘I will meet you in front of this gallery tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Do not be late.’

‘I will be punctual, mein Herr.’ He hesitated. ‘I will need to make sketches. I cannot copy this from memory.’

‘That has already been taken care of.’ The old man turned to leave.

‘I do not know your name.’

‘Names are not necessary. Until tomorrow.’ He marched out of the gallery at a speed that belied his apparent age, leaving the younger man staring at the painting.

The young man arrived on the flight of steps in front of the Walker Art Gallery ten minutes before the appointed time. He wished to be punctual. Besides, he’d been eager to escape his brother’s claustrophobic flat, away from his sister-in-law’s hostile glances, the baby’s screams, and the smell of damp and stale cooking.

He watched the traffic on William Brown Street; horse-drawn trams and carriages mingling with the noisy new-fangled motorcars of the wealthier classes. At nine on the dot, a small black carriage pulled by two black horses drew up at the bottom of the steps. The coachman’s black muffler was pulled up to his nose, protecting his nostrils from the thin spring mist drifting in from the river and masking the wearer’s features. The carriage door opened to reveal the old man, who leaned forward and beckoned the young man in.

For a moment, he hesitated on the steps. He had no idea where he would be taken or what would happen when he reached his destination. But since he’d been refused entry to the Viennese Academy of Fine Arts he’d lived through desperate times, existing on the streets and taking any menial work that was on offer. This strange old man, judging by his well-cut coat, his silk hat and his talk of a large house, was clearly rich. If he didn’t seize this opportunity, there might never be another.

With the boldness of a man who has nothing to lose, he climbed up into the carriage and took his seat opposite the man he hoped would become his benefactor. The old man did not smile or acknowledge him in any way. Instead, he knocked on the roof of the carriage with his ebony walking cane and sat back to gaze out of the window. As soon as they were out of the bustling centre of the town, he pulled down the blinds on both sides, making it impossible to see out, but still said nothing.

‘Is it far?’ the young man asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

‘It is some way from the centre of the town, but do not fear, my driver will return you to the art gallery when you are finished for the day.’

He fell silent again. The drawn blinds had made it dark in the carriage, but the young man was aware of the other’s cold stare, as though he were trying to penetrate his mind. Or his soul. He was relieved when the coach eventually slowed to a halt. The old man waited, sitting perfectly still until the coachman climbed down and opened the door. He alighted first then the young man followed, blinking in the daylight and taking in his surroundings.

It was a large, gracious house built of the local red sandstone with a gravel drive that swept up to an impressive portico before trailing away through a dark avenue of thick rhododendrons. From the birdsong in the air, they might have been in the countryside. However, from the length of the journey, the young man calculated that they were probably in some wealthy suburb amongst the opulent homes of those who had made their fortunes from the ships he’d seen on the river. It was a private place, not overlooked. All sorts of evil could go on in such a place.

The old man led him into a hallway with an elaborately tiled floor and a grand mahogany staircase. The young man stared at the paintings on the walls as he walked in and recognised a Gainsborough and a Reynolds along with some works by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. A Turner seascape hung in pride of place at the foot of the staircase, but there was no time to stop and admire the master’s brushwork. He was hurried up the stairs and along the landing and, when they came to a door at the end of a passage, the old man reached out, turned the handle and the door swung open to reveal a fully equipped studio. Spring light streamed in at the large windows on to a set of preliminary sketches set on easels around the room and a large canvas bearing faint charcoal outlines. He could see faint numbers between the lines and, on a far wall, hung a large sheet of paper with myriad dabs of colour, all with numbers printed neatly beside them. On a separate easel stood what the young man recognised as a photographic image of the painting he’d been commissioned to copy.

‘I took the photograph myself,’ the old man said, with a hint of pride. ‘I told the attendant that I was a visiting art professor from Berne. I have spent some time in Switzerland so it was an easy matter to assume the manner of speech. And I am a professor, although not of art, alas.’

This was the most forthcoming the man had been and the young man wondered if he would reveal more about himself as time went on. But then he began to bark instructions, as if he was afraid he’d given too much away and wished to restore the distance between them. He said that the colours on the wall were the exact shades the artist Yeames had used in his painting and that they corresponded to the numbers on the canvas. The artist was to observe the photographic image as he worked. This was to be a facsimile that would fool the world, but not necessarily an expert.

‘Who did the preliminary sketches and the outline?’ the young man asked when the professor had finished speaking. ‘They’re very good. Very accurate.’

The professor’s face clouded and he pressed his thin lips together. ‘Somebody who was alive but is now dead. Somebody who asked too many questions.’

The young man knew the words were a warning and he suddenly felt afraid. He was longing to ask why the professor had chosen this particular painting but he knew he had to tread carefully.

‘It is time to get to work,’ the professor said. ‘My man will bring you luncheon at midday and you will be returned to the gallery at four o’clock.’

With that, he left the room and, when the door shut, the young man heard the hollow click of a key turning in the lock.

He was a prisoner.

The work proceeded well, but his attempts to communicate with the taciturn man who brought his lunch had failed. The man was huge, with a hairless scalp, tattooed arms and a face that bore the scars of many dockland fights. The only sound he emitted was a low grunt and when he half opened his mouth he appeared to have no tongue. This wasn’t the sort of servant he would have expected a man of the professor’s obvious learning to employ. He wondered if the professor was providing work for an unfortunate out of charity. But somehow he thought this unlikely.

He worked on, barely aware of the hours passing, until the light at the windows was beginning to fade. By the time the studio door was unlocked and opened, he had filled one corner of the canvas with colour, but he knew the task would take several weeks. He was glad his brother never showed any curiosity about where he went. He and his wife, Bridget, were just glad to get him out of the flat.

He did not see the professor again that day and, when the man with no tongue led him out to the carriage, he realised that he had been the faceless coachman who had driven him there that morning. He had seen no other servants and he thought it unlikely that a single man could maintain the house in such a pristine state. But he knew better than to ask too many questions.

When he followed the creature through the house, he seized the opportunity to study the paintings on the walls. All of them were of high quality and many extremely valuable. Any man who held such treasures in a private collection would have to be very rich indeed. When he boarded the carriage, the coachman pulled down the blinds before he took his seat behind the horses. However, the passenger couldn’t resist lifting a corner of the nearest blind and peeping out. The drive leading to the house was long and, just before a little sandstone lodge came into view, he spotted a gap in the rhododendron bushes. Through the wide parting in the glossy leaves, he could see a clearing and a dark patch of freshly dug soil in the centre of the undergrowth. A patch the size of a grave.

The routine was the same each day and the canvas was taking shape. Without the preliminary drawings, the task would have been considerably harder and the artist found himself admiring the work of his predecessor – and wondering why he hadn’t finished what he had started so well. However, he had learned to keep his curiosity to himself. The professor didn’t welcome inquisitive minds.

Two weeks after the work was started, the artist was surprised to hear the key turn in the lock soon after he’d arrived in the morning. He looked up from his work and saw the professor standing in the doorway, arms behind his back, his skinny frame blocking out the light.

‘I wish to ascertain your progress,’ he said in perfect German, before striding across the room to examine the canvas. At first it was hard to read his expression, but after a while his features became animated.

‘See what power the soldier conducting the interrogation has over the helpless child, like a cat torturing a small creature for its pleasure. And the soldier with his arm around the crying sister. How easily he could take out a dagger and finish her pathetic life. See the women cowering in the corner. Feel their terror at what the child is about to reveal. And why do they wish to know the whereabouts of the father? Imagine what they will do to him when they find him. This picture is a study in cruelty, do you not think? A masterpiece.’

‘Do you think my efforts match the original?’ the artist asked nervously.

‘It will suit my purpose. You have done well.’

‘It is almost finished. When will I be paid?’

‘When you exchange it for the genuine Yeames in the gallery. You will receive your payment when the original is hanging upon my dining-room wall. Cruelty is so good for the digestion, do you not agree?’

The young man looked at the professor and felt a thrill of realisation. He was right. Cruelty was invigorating. Power over the weak endowed the strong with energy, with life. He himself had been powerless once, but he would never return to that state again. There was another way.

‘How will I exchange it for the original?’

‘It is not difficult to gain access to the gallery. I have detailed plans of the building … and the death of a night watchman will be a small price to pay for my pleasure.’ The professor looked his companion in the eye. ‘Several young artists have accepted my commissions, but you are the first in whom I recognise something of myself.’

‘What happened to the others? Where are they?’

The professor smiled. ‘Their mortal remains are in the grounds. But where their souls are depends on whether you believe all that nonsense about heaven and hell. I myself believe they have been returned to nature, providing nutrition for the earth.’

‘What about me?’

Unexpectedly, the professor put a bony arm around the young man’s shoulder. ‘I am an old man and I need young blood. I think I shall make you my protégé.’

‘You live alone?’

The professor thought for a few moments. ‘My associate, Colonel Moran, lived with me for a while but since his unfortunate death I have become lonely.’ He withdrew his arm quickly. ‘You remind me so much of myself when I was young.’ He sighed. ‘You live with your brother, you say?’

‘And my sister-in-law and their baby. I came to Liverpool to make a new start.’

‘And so you shall.’ He took out his pocket watch. ‘The picture will be finished very soon, will it not?’

The young man nodded eagerly. ‘Two days at the most. And then … ?’

‘We shall see.’

The young Austrian had not been told how the precise replica of the frame surrounding the original painting had been obtained. Nor did he know how the professor had gained such detailed knowledge of the workings of the Walker Art Gallery. And he knew better than to ask. The professor had methods known only to himself; methods that even his protégé was unaware of.

He delighted in the thought of being the professor’s protégé; perhaps eventually taking over his grand house and his art collection when the inevitable happened to the old man. From now on, life would be good. He would no longer be mocked as a useless idler by his brother, Alois, and be forced to live with him, his nagging Irish wife and their screaming baby in their meagre flat. He would show them his true worth. They would soon see what he was capable of.

He hoped the professor would invite him to come and live with him; treat him as a surrogate son. Perhaps, the young artist thought, he was waiting to see how he performed on the night the paintings were exchanged. If he did well, he was sure he would receive his just reward.

The appointed date for the operation soon arrived. That night the young man did not return to his brother’s flat in Upper Stanhope Street. Instead, he was shown to a lavishly decorated chamber with silk wallpaper and rich silk hangings around the bed. A fine linen nightshirt had been laid out for him. This was the night everything would change and the riches of the world would be his.

But first there was work to do. The carriage was too small to accommodate the finished forgery so they travelled in a horse-drawn van, sitting up beside the driver, wrapped up against the April chill. The artist knew better than to ask how such a vehicle had been obtained. The professor seemed to have the ability to conjure anything he needed. Such power.

They set off at midnight and the young man was able to note the route they took. Out of the drive and past a fine church, then through prosperous suburban streets and past parkland before driving down the wide boulevard that led ultimately to the centre of Liverpool. He recognised the grand houses of Toxteth and the poor side streets that had become so familiar during his stay in the town. When they reached William Brown Street they drove round to the rear of the art gallery. There was a door at the back and the professor had somehow obtained the key. He felt excitement course through his body and realised how much he desired the professor’s power. He longed to be feared like those soldiers in the painting. He wanted the respect he’d never had.

The professor kept watch while he helped the driver lift the canvas out of the van. Adrenaline made his burden light as they carried it into the building. He had memorised the plan the professor had shown him and he knew where the night watchman would be stationed. It would be up to him to deal with this obstacle to their success because the professor wanted no witnesses. The watchman would have to be eliminated and, for the first time, the artist would hold the power of life and death over another human being. The prospect thrilled him more than he’d expected.

They moved silently, the professor leading the way with a flashlight, and, in the corner of the room where the painting was displayed, they found the night watchman snoozing in a chair, emitting regular soft snores. So far they’d made no noise, but the young man knew that it would be impossible to make the exchange without waking him. The professor switched off his flashlight, but in the light of the full moon trickling in through the gallery skylight, the artist could see that his victim was a small man in late middle age, who wore an ill-fitting dark uniform and a peaked cap. A harmless man. An insignificant man. The professor gave the signal. It was time.

He took the man by surprise, creeping up beside him and clamping a cloth over his nose and mouth. It was important not to leave a mark on his body. The man struggled for a while, but he was unfit and lacked the strength of youth. The artist clung on with determination until the thrashing limbs stilled. Then, with the help of the coachman, he arranged the body carefully so that it would appear that the man had died suddenly in his sleep. Hopefully, the museum authorities would assume a weak heart; a small tragedy or, more likely, an inconvenience.

When it was done, he started to work with the help of the driver, while the professor held the flashlight. It was going well until the artist dropped his end of the forged canvas. It hit the floor with a loud crash and the three men froze, listening for running footsteps. But they heard nothing so they continued until the exchange had been made and it was impossible to tell in the flashlight’s beam that the picture that now hung there in pride of place wasn’t the original. After the painting had been carried down the stairs into the waiting van, the professor entrusted his protégé with the task of ensuring all trace of their presence had gone and the doors were locked behind them.

As they travelled back in silence, the young man felt an unaccustomed glow of strength within him. He had ended the life of another human being. He was no longer a nonentity, a failed artist. He was the professor’s protégé and heir to the kingdoms of the earth. He had become as a god.

He was too excited to talk during the journey – until the van stopped and he saw that he was outside his brother’s flat.

‘It is best if you stay here tonight,’ the professor said. ‘To avoid suspicion.’

‘I did well, yes?’

‘You made a mistake. You let the painting drop. It could have been damaged and we might have been heard. It could have ruined the entire operation.’

‘But we succeeded.’

The professor said nothing.

‘When will I be paid?’

There was a long silence. ‘We will talk of that tomorrow. You must leave us and say nothing of this.’

The protégé didn’t argue. He climbed down meekly, wondering whether his brother and sister-in-law would notice a change in him. But when he let himself in, he found they were asleep. Perhaps it was for the best.

The next morning, he waited on the art gallery steps as usual to be picked up. But the professor’s carriage didn’t appear. After what had happened the previous night he felt a flash of anger. He was the protégé, the heir. He had killed a man to aid the professor’s project and it was wrong that he should be treated in such a manner. He waited in vain for another half-hour before taking the omnibus out to the suburbs. He now knew where the professor lived. And he was going to collect his dues.

After an omnibus journey and a lengthy walk, the protégé arrived at the lodge and, for the first time that day, he felt nervous. When he passed the clearing between the bushes at the side of the drive, he couldn’t resist investigating, and he found that the oblong of disturbed earth he’d thought he’d seen hadn’t been a product of his imagination. He wondered whether it might be the last resting place of the previous artist. Had that man too regarded himself as the professor’s protégé? And had he failed in some way that merited the punishment of death? He tried to banish these thoughts as he continued towards the house.

When he arrived at the portico there was no sign of life and all he could hear was birdsong. He took a deep breath and tugged the bell pull beside the front door. It was a full minute before the door opened to reveal a plump woman in black. By her appearance and manner he guessed she was a housekeeper but he’d never seen her before.

‘I look for Herr Professor,’ he said.

The woman shook her head. ‘Professor Moriarty has gone. He’s packed up and left.’ Realising he was a foreigner, she spoke slowly and clearly. ‘The van came for all his paintings this morning. He’s paid his rent for another month, but he said he has urgent business in America. He’s sailing at noon.’

‘With his paintings?’

She looked at him as if he was a particularly stupid child and he longed to take her by the throat and strangle the life out of her.

‘Of course, dear. That’s what he does for a living. He’s an art dealer.’

The news hit him like a physical blow. He had been tricked. He would receive no payment for what he had done unless he could find the professor before noon. That sense of power he’d experienced was slowly draining away. But he was determined that it would soon return. He had killed. He was not a man to cross.

He retraced his steps and ran all the way to the nearest tram stop. If he could get to the docks, he would tackle Moriarty and make him pay him what he owed. He was hurt by the thought that the professor hadn’t planned to take him to America as his protégé. But he would make the man change his mind or he would have his revenge. The young lion would challenge the ageing master of the pride.

The artist spotted the professor walking on the quayside and called out. Moriarty swung round. He was dressed in his usual immaculate black with his tall silk hat and ebony cane. He looked like a large and predatory spider.

He stood his ground as the younger man approached, his face an expressionless mask.

The artist stopped a few feet away. ‘You said you’d pay me.’ The words sounded more desperate and pleading than he’d intended.

‘We cannot discuss the matter here,’ the professor hissed, grasping the young man’s elbow and leading him to a quiet corner of the dock, well away from the bustle of passengers and goods being loaded on to the huge ship.

‘Where’s the painting? Is it on the ship?’

‘It is in a place of safety with the other works I have acquired over the years.’

‘Where?’

Moriarty smiled and said nothing.

‘Tell me.’

‘Why on earth should I do that, little man? It is none of your concern. Just be thankful I saw something in you that made me spare your life. Your predecessor wasn’t so fortunate.’

‘Answer my question. Where are the paintings?’

Moriarty tilted his head to one side, an amused smile on his lips. ‘They might be in England. Or I might have sent them to France. Or maybe Belgium. But one thing is sure, a nonentity like you could never amass such a collection. Now leave me. I have important business to attend to.’

The young man saw the contempt on the professor’s face. The contempt and distaste one might reserve for a particularly repellent insect. He felt fury rising inside him and his self-control began to slip away. All those hopes, all that power that had been dangled before him was vanishing now like mist on the river. Without thinking, he reached out his arm, gave the older man a mighty shove and watched as he staggered on the dockside cobbles before losing his balance and tumbling with a high-pitched scream into the grey water.

For a few seconds, he stood there frozen with horror. Then he suddenly became aware of shouts and running feet and he knew he had to escape before he was seen. He yielded to the temptation to take a last look at the old man struggling in the water, surfacing to take a desperate breath then sinking beneath the surface.

Once the old man was dead, the artist thought as he hurried away, someone would be able to take his place.

He arrived at his brother’s flat at one o’clock after running all the way from the dock.

‘Where’s Alois?’ He bent double, gasping for breath and only just managed to get the question out.

His sister-in-law looked at him suspiciously. ‘At work. Why? What’s happened?’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘I wish you’d learn to speak English properly. You’ve been here since November. It’s sheer laziness, that’s what it is.’

The young man regarded the woman with hatred. Maybe he should kill her and experience that thrill of god-like power again. But he knew that would be foolish. Once her body was discovered and they found that he’d fled, it would trigger a manhunt. And his plans didn’t include submitting to the hangman’s noose.

He put his face close to hers. ‘I am going to Germany. Munchen.’

‘The sooner the better,’ she spat. ‘I’m fed up with you. I just hope you work harder in Germany than you have done here. I’ve never known such a useless layabout.’

He felt his fists clench. One day he would show this woman his terrifying strength. ‘This time it’s going to be different. I’m going to paint … and I’m going to collect art. Great art. I’m going to be important. People are going to listen to me. Point at me and say what a great man I am.’

Bridget Hitler shook her head. ‘You’re deluded, Adolph. Like your brother says, you’ll come to a bad end. Now get out of this house. I never want to hear your name again.’

Author’s note:

It is widely believed that Adolph Hitler spent five months in Liverpool in 1910–11, living with his brother, Alois, and sister-in-law, Bridget, in their Toxteth flat. The house where he was said to have lived was destroyed by bombing during World War II.

And When Did You Last See Your Father is one of the most popular paintings in the Walker Art Gallery – and can be seen there to this day.