25

WE’RE NOT ALONE

Jennifer Booth still had her qualms about Drewe. Though he had stopped coming into the archive himself, he was sending in his researchers. Danny Berger seemed particularly suspicious. His application to access the Hanover albums was barely literate. He wrote that he was interested in the work of “Jacamety.” His visit and appearance unnerved Booth. He stayed only a few minutes, and as he flipped through the album, she realized how easy it would be for him to swap pages in the ring binder.

Meanwhile, dealers in Monaco and New York were sending Booth photocopies of receipts, correspondence, and catalogs bearing the Tate’s trademark rectangular research stamp. The documents all related to Giacomettis, and the dealers wanted Booth to confirm that the originals were in the archives. Booth combed through the Hanover and O’Hana files but could find none of the original documents. She also checked the Hanover index for the names listed on the provenances. They were nowhere to be found. She checked the application forms from researchers who had visited the Tate over the past few years, looking for those who had requested records from the Hanover and O’Hana galleries. There were several requests for the Hanover records, Drewe’s among them, but he was the sole researcher given access to the O’Hana files.

Her first thought was that he had been stealing the originals, and she reported this to her supervisors. They brushed her off, suggesting that documents were occasionally lost, stolen, or destroyed in an archive the size of the Tate’s. There was no need to hurl accusations.

Booth felt increasingly anxious about the integrity of the records in her charge. The sudden stream of requests for authentication could hardly be random. Again she inspected the photocopies she’d received, focusing on the Tate stamp: It looked too pristine. The archive’s stamp had faint hairline cracks from constant use. Someone had forged it.

And now there was a new request from Palmer, who had sent a number of documents for Booth’s review. When Booth looked at them, one letter stood out. It was from Erica Brausen to the O’Hana Gallery. The date on the letter was five months before the file on the O’Hana Gallery at the Tate started. Booth was now convinced that all the documents she’d been receiving lately were phony. “Despite the stamp,” she wrote to Palmer, “I do not think [the documents] were ever here.”

Booth again reported her findings to her supervisors, only to be told that she was being paranoid. She was insulted. She saw herself as part of an extended line of archival guardians charged with protecting the credibility of the venerated institution for which she toiled so diligently. By now she had some solid experience as head of the archives under her belt, and she knew enough not to ignore the inner voice telling her that whatever was going on in the Tate’s stacks was momentous and unacceptable. The value of an archive was measured by its totality: Each document confirmed the veracity of an earlier one and supported the next. If a single item had been doctored, the integrity of the entire collection was in jeopardy.

The word “archive” is derived from the Greek arkhe, meaning “government” or “order.” Its opposite is “anarchy,” a state without rule or order. Booth was certain Drewe was involved in precisely that: He was breaking down the system and creating chaos. Two questions remained unanswered: Why? and How?

She understood why her superiors didn’t take her seriously. Her allegations must seem preposterous. After all, the higher-ups had dined repeatedly with Drewe, at the finest restaurants in the city, and they had been impressed by his poise, intelligence, and sophistication. His largesse was another significant factor. He was known to have contributed to several art-related charity events, and he had donated £20,000 to the archives, with an informal promise of an additional half million. That had been some time ago, but patience was a necessary virtue where museum fund-raising was concerned. Tate officials had every reason to believe that Drewe was a serious researcher. He had tipped them off to hidden archives they might be interested in, including a cache of ICA records that were said to be in New York. To the senior staff, Drewe was beyond reproach.

Shortly after Booth wrote back to Palmer, a man named Raymond Dunne applied for admission to the archives. His accompanying letter resembled others Booth had received from Drewe and his colleagues. Each paragraph was indented seven spaces, and the name of the applicant was typed beneath the signature and underlined.

Booth took matters into her own hands. She asked the department secretary, who shared her suspicions, to do a little detective work. The secretary dialed the phone number Dunne had listed on his application and found that it was out of order. When she drove to the address on the application, she found a boarded-up house.

When Dunne called a few days later to make an appointment, the secretary passed the phone to Booth. “It’s Drewe,” she whispered. “I’m absolutely sure of it.”

Booth told the caller she needed more information if his application was to go through. The man explained that he was working on his thesis, which focused on London’s postwar art exhibitions. Booth was also sure it was Drewe: The same upper-class accent, the same cascade of accumulated detail and cultural references. She asked him to send a second reference letter, and he agreed to do so.

She never heard from Dunne again.

A few days later a colleague at the British Council called to warn her about a well-known researcher, Anne Massey, who had been caught photocopying material without authorization and was subsequently banned from the council archives. She told Booth to be on the lookout in case Massey tried to gain access to the Tate. Booth was surprised, because she knew Massey and respected her work.

Then Booth’s council colleague mentioned that Massey had been focusing on Ben Nicholson’s paintings and was working for a wealthy collector named John Drewe.

We’re not alone, Booth thought.