by James Runcie
‘A coronation medal?’
‘The carnations in the background are a symbol of betrothal; the portrait of Adam and Eve represents the hope of children in a marriage. The original of this painting can be dated to 1533.’
‘Who is she, then?’ Cicely Teversham asked.
Ben had guessed. ‘You’re not saying?’
Amanda paused. ‘There is only one of Henry VIII’s six wives with no surviving contemporary portrait. If you once had this original painting, and I am only saying “if”, then you were the possessors of one of the most valuable pictures in the world: a lost portrait, by Hans Holbein the Younger, of Henry VIII’s second wife, Queen Anne Boleyn.’
‘A sleeper!’ said Ben.
‘Exactly,’ Amanda replied. ‘A work of art that has been misattributed but which turns out to be far more valuable than anyone thinks. I found a Van Dyck in a similar situation only the other day . . .’
Cicely Teversham pressed. ‘We had an invaluable Holbein?’
‘Possibly . . .’
‘And now we’ve lost it? That painting could have saved our entire estate. How can we get it back?’
‘Well, obviously it’s not going to be easy,’ Amanda replied. ‘And we do need to track down your restorer.’
Sidney decided to step in. ‘Who else knows you had this painting, Lord Teversham?’
His host was nonplussed. ‘Most of the family, of course, and the servants. Mackay always took a dim view of it, but I think that’s because it reminded him of the wife who ran off. Then there’s Ben, of course, although portraits of pious ladies are quite far from your sphere of interest, aren’t they?’
Ben Blackwood looked uneasy. ‘Indeed.’
‘Some visitors and friends, although most of them prefer horses or dogs.’
‘Anyone from the art world?’ Amanda asked.
Cicely Teversham spoke up. ‘There was also the man from the insurers. He came to value the collection. In fact, he was the person who suggested the painting needed restoring if I remember rightly.’
‘It seems peculiar, doesn’t it?’ Lord Teversham asked. ‘If a crime has been committed then it seems rather a bizarre choice – why didn’t they take a Titian?’
‘That would be harder to sell on,’ Amanda replied.
Lord Teversham couldn’t quite take in what she had been saying. ‘I always thought that this was a perfectly decent but rather insignificant painting. An unknown lady, Netherlandish School: hardly worth restoring. She’s no great beauty, is she?’
Amanda interjected. ‘Taste changes, Lord Teversham, but if your original painting is what I think it may have been, then it fills one of the greatest gaps in British art. Holbein was active at the time of the marriage between Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn. We know that he designed a table fountain as a New Year’s Day gift for the King in 1534, and even, probably, a cradle for the infant Elizabeth I. The theory is that if there was such a portrait it was destroyed or hidden after her execution and Boleyn’s name became Bullen or even Butler . . .’
‘And why would they do that?’ asked Cicely.
‘Fear. Anne Boleyn was once the most powerful woman in England. She gave birth to the future Queen Elizabeth, but she could not give the king a son. What I think is interesting is how little she realised the danger she was in. After she gave birth to a girl she thought that she would become pregnant again; and in January 1536 she was. Then, on the twentieth of January she miscarried. In the next few months her enemies rallied, and despite the fact that she had just lost a child, she was accused of multiple infidelity with half a dozen men including her own brother.’
‘Seems a bit rum,’ Lord Teversham interrupted.
‘Half a dozen men, and she had just lost a baby. She was put on trial and condemned to death but as she took the last sacrament she swore upon her soul that had never been unfaithful to her husband. On the nineteenth of May she was beheaded. In less than four months her reputation was ruined. In January she had been the Queen of England. In May she was dead. It is one of the fastest downfalls in English history. Eleven days after her death the king married Jane Seymour. Anne Boleyn’s memory was forgotten. Paintings were taken down as quickly as possible, dispersed, disguised and misattributed.’
‘Like mine . . .’ Lord Teversham cut in.
‘We must get it back,’ Cicely Teversham exclaimed. ‘For the sake of the estate and in the interests of the collection.’
‘No,’ Amanda cut in. ‘We must get it back for the nation.’
After lunch, Amanda returned to London and took the painting back to the National Gallery. There it was examined, photographed and subjected to a series of chemical tests. While she was waiting for the results, Amanda studied the inventory of Mr John Lampton, ‘Stewarde of Howseholde to John Lord Lumley’, that had been made in 1590. Above an entry for one of the National Gallery’s own paintings, ‘The Statuary of the Duches of Myllayne, afterwards Duches of Lorreyn, daughter to Christierne King of Denmark, doone by Haunce Holbyn’, she had found the following: ‘The Statuary of Quene Anne Bulleyne’.
It was a full-length contemporary portrait. There had been no record of where it had gone after the sale of 1785. Amanda’s suspicions had been justified.
Lord Teversham had rooted out the address of the picture restorer and, at the beginning of August, shortly after her twenty-seventh birthday, Amanda let Sidney accompany her on a visit to seek him out in the small country town of Saffron Walden.
She drove the cream MG TD which her parents had bought her as a birthday gift, and she wore a scarf and dark glasses against the low autumn sunlight that Sidney thought made her look like Gene Tierney in Leave her to Heaven. As they travelled through the lanes of Cambridgeshire, Sidney told her how much he had enjoyed introducing her to Lord Teversham and how proud he was to know her. ‘I cannot understand how you recognised that painting so quickly,’ he marvelled.
‘I do like to think that I am good at my job, Sidney.’
‘I have never doubted it.’
‘Some do. They think I am merely posh.’
‘You are far more than that, Amanda. But do you think we can get the painting back?’
‘If the restorer knew what he was doing then he will probably have sold it on. But this is our only lead. I have asked Lord Teversham to check the provenance. It would help if we knew how the family acquired the painting in the first place.’
Sidney tried to catch Amanda’s eye but she was concentrating on the road ahead. ‘You should have asked Ben,’ he said.
Amanda smiled and gave him a glance back. ‘I’m not sure about him at all. He’s very protective of his position in the house, whatever that might be.’
‘First impressions can be misleading,’ Sidney replied, ‘but perhaps not in this case. He does seem rather effete. Would you like me to look at the map?’
‘We’re just turning into Chaters Hill. Number one hundred and sixty nine appears to be some kind of souvenir emporium.’
‘Are you sure it will be open?’ Sidney asked. ‘Most of the shops seem to be shut.’
‘I thought I saw someone through the window.’
‘Then let’s go in and ask.’
They parked the car and approached a shop that consisted of toys, trinkets and teddy bears. The owner was a broad-shouldered man with a walrus moustache and twinkling brown eyes. ‘What can I do for you both on such a magnificent morning?’ he asked.
‘We are not sure that we have come to the right place . . .’ Sidney began.
The proprietor was unconcerned. ‘Ask me anything!’
‘I think we must be looking for the previous owner,’ Amanda continued. ‘Did this building once belong to someone in the arts, a painter or a restorer, perhaps?’
‘It did indeed: Freddie Wyatt; the most mild-mannered of men.’
‘But he is no longer here?’
‘Alas, he is not.’
‘He has retired?’
‘To Holland, I believe. He went in rathe
r a hurry. He said he couldn’t wait to get out of England and just left me with a forwarding address.’
‘When was this?’
‘A few years ago now. The place was a terrible mess when I bought it. There were bottles of pigment, sugar, tea and alcohol all over the place with no way of knowing what anything was; no labelling, no order. It was chaos. I offered to send on any money received for work that people were late to collect but after three months that would be that. But you have not come to hear about this, I am sure. You have come for a bear, I hope, or a souvenir; something to remember your visit.’
Amanda kept to the subject. ‘We were thinking of having a picture restored but it seems we have come to the wrong place.’
‘I sell picture postcards, my dear, but not pictures.’
‘You knew this Freddie Wyatt?’ Sidney asked.
‘We used to drink together in The Swan Hotel. Do you know it?’
‘Unfortunately, I do not.’
‘They do a very fine jugged hare.’
Amanda pressed further. ‘And do you know what happened to the work that was left here?’
‘The paintings? I put a sign on the door. All work had to be collected and paid for within three months. I gave the rest to the church fête.’
‘How many paintings did you give away?’
‘About ten, I suppose.’
‘Can you remember them?’
The owner tried to think. ‘There were some hunting scenes, some seascapes, a few dreary portraits; some of them were even of clergymen.’
‘Any ladies?’
‘One or two . . .’
Amanda produced a photograph. ‘Any that looked like this?’
‘She looks rather soulful doesn’t she? Is she a widow?’
Sidney tried to help. ‘Do you remember seeing it?’
‘I can’t be sure,’ the owner continued. ‘Most of the paintings that were collected in time were because a woman came on behalf of someone else to fetch them. She paid for six or seven restorations and framings. I remember because we rounded it all up to five guineas.’
‘Do you think this picture could have been amongst them?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You didn’t keep a record?’
‘No. I just sent the money on.’
‘You cannot remember what the lady was called?’
‘I’m afraid not. But she came on behalf of a Mr Phillips.’
‘Do you, by any chance, have his address?’
‘Alas, I do not. It was all very slapdash, and poor Freddie’s bookkeeping was atrocious. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a bear or two? We have a couple of very good Stieffs.’
‘I don’t think so . . .’
Amanda smiled. ‘Oh Sidney. Don’t be silly. Let me buy you a bear. Then you can take me to lunch.’
‘You don’t have to.’ Sidney wondered about Amanda’s gift giving: first a dog and then a teddy bear. He should really get her something himself.
‘I know I don’t have to. But I want to, Sidney. Let me choose one for you.’
‘What an excellent idea,’ the proprietor exclaimed. ‘I sometimes think that’s all you need to be happy: a fine bear and an efficient hot water bottle.’
‘If only it were that simple,’ said Amanda as she paid the bill.
They remained in Saffron Walden for lunch. Sidney had offered the possibility of a return to Grantchester but Amanda was having none of it. She wanted to have a look round and make a day of it, visiting the ruined castle and the medieval buildings and examining the pargetting on the houses in Bridge Street. ‘Also,’ she added, ‘I don’t think I could bear one of Mrs Maguire’s toads in the hole.’
Sidney felt that he should stick up for his housekeeper. Not everyone could live in Hampstead. ‘Mrs Maguire does her best on very limited means, Amanda.’
It was approaching two o’clock in the afternoon and Sidney was worried that the Swan Hotel might not be serving food. He promised the waitress that they would be happy with anything and, as it was a Friday, both soup and fish would be perfectly adequate. Amanda, however, had other ideas.
‘A gin and tonic with ice and lemon together with warm bread rolls while we look at the menu, if you would be so kind . . .’ she asked.
The waitress was unimpressed. ‘Chef’s off in a minute and the gentleman has ordered.’
Amanda looked at the leather-bound menu. ‘I don’t think he’s done so. He has expressed a desire not to be of inconvenience. They are not the same thing. Is everything listed here available?’
‘In a manner of speaking . . .’
Sidney tried to alleviate the tension. ‘Amanda, please don’t cause a scene . . .’
‘What would you recommend?’ she asked.
The waitress looked at Sidney. ‘I would have the soup and the fish, madam.’
‘And what kind of soup is it?’
‘I’ll have to check with Chef . . .’
‘Never mind,’ said Sidney. ‘Let him surprise us.’
‘I think it’s mushroom . . .’
‘I can’t abide mushrooms,’ said Amanda.
‘We do a very good tomato.’
‘Tomato will be fine; and then the fish, I suppose. Thank you very much.’ Amanda handed the waitress the menu. ‘Honestly, Sidney. What a fuss.’
Two bowls of lukewarm tinned tomato soup arrived on the table. A sprig of parsley had been added but a dash of cream only served to lower the temperature further.
‘I might as well warm up with another gin,’ Amanda said, ‘or I could add it to the soup and spice it up. I can’t believe we’re paying six shillings for this.’
‘Let’s not worry,’ said Sidney. ‘I am sure the fish will be tasty. Then we can concentrate on the complexities of the case.’
‘There are certainly no complexities about the meal,’ Amanda brooded.
There were three other diners left in the restaurant: a silent pair of tourists and a man with a prodigious beard whose response to the inadequacy of the meal resulted in him wearing his food rather than eating it.
‘Extraordinary,’ Amanda muttered. ‘To take so little care . . .’
Sidney took out the photographs of the portrait of Anne Boleyn and looked at them once more. ‘We must find this Phillips chap . . .’
‘You think he was working in association with the picture restorer?’
‘It’s a possibility. Or the restorer never knew. It has to be someone who recognised the painting.’
‘An inside job? The butler, perhaps. Or one of Lord Teversham’s friends?’
Sidney considered the situation. ‘I was thinking about the man who came to assess the collection for insurance purposes. The painting was restored shortly afterwards, and he was the person who suggested that it should be done. How much do you think it is worth?’
‘I did some research. A Holbein sold for just under £4,000 in 1946. The Anne Boleyn would be worth far more; certainly enough for a nice house in the country.’
Sidney looked at the photograph once more. ‘It’s a less flattering image than I would have imagined,’ he observed.
‘It was the beginning of the age of realist portrait painting,’ Amanda began. ‘Holbein was trying to paint psychologically as well as representationally.’
The fish arrived and looked more promising than the soup. Sidney thought for a moment and then continued. ‘Anne Boleyn is, of course, one of the main reasons I am in my present job. Without her there would be no Church of England; no Archbishop Parker at my college, and no Cranmer Prayer Book.’
‘But you would probably still be a priest.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. But it was probably the moment in history when England first defined itself, don’t you think? It’s interesting that the picture restorer was called Wyatt. Didn’t Thomas Wyatt love Anne Boleyn – his great poem “Whoso list to hunt” and all that?’
‘Probably, Sidney.’
‘So, in the end, Anne Boleyn may well have inspired b
oth the Prayer Book and the introduction of the sonnet into the English language.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more. . .’
‘Sidney, don’t get carried away.’
‘The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that furthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore,
Fainting I follow. . .’
‘Stop it. People are giving us odd looks.’
‘I was enjoying myself.’
‘You mean you were enjoying my discomfort?’
‘A bit of teasing shouldn’t harm you, Amanda.’
‘I don’t like being teased. It’s embarrassing.’ Sidney’s companion finished her fish. ‘So you think we should find this Phillips man? Perhaps we could ask your friend the inspector to help us?’
‘I think you would have to ask him that, Amanda.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes . . . you . . . I can’t bear to think of the look on his face if I do it.’
‘Alternatively, of course, I could telephone Lord Teversham and find out the name of his insurance company. If the man who came was also called Phillips, and he works for a specialist company, then tracking him down should be fairly straightforward.’
‘You think you can do that?’
‘We have a list of art insurers at work. I am employed by the National Gallery. It’s almost my job.’
‘But it’s probably not the job that you are employed to do.’
‘Sidney, that is the clearest case of the pot calling the kettle black that I have ever heard. Let me take you home.’
Wilkie Phillips lived in one of series of ramshackle buildings on the edge of a farm outside Ely. The surrounding land was fenced with barbed wire, the garden had been neglected for years and the house appeared as unloved as it was remote. Yet, on approach, Amanda noticed that the fabric of the building was sound. This was a home where the owner spent most of his time indoors.
A telephone call to Lord Teversham, followed by a visit to the offices of London Assurance, where she had used her considerable charms to good effect, had yielded her the address. She had decided to pursue the investigation on her own, on behalf of the National Gallery, and without troubling either Sidney or his friend Inspector Keating. She would make her visit to Wilkie Phillips as informal as possible, in order to avoid suspicion, and then, if she discovered that the painting was in his possession, or she had any doubts about his trustworthiness, she would summon aid. Until then, Amanda was confident that she was perfectly capable of doing a simple bit of detective work on her own.
