Landscape of Lies: The Thrilling Race for Treasure

by Peter Watson

  ‘Who do you like restoring best?’ said Michael, as always full of admiration for Julius’s casual demonstration of superb skill.

  ‘The Venetians are the most difficult. They actually mixed their paints on the canvas, unlike the Florentines, who did it on the palette and then put the mixture on with a brush. So it’s hard to get the colour and the texture right with the Venetians. My own first love is for Reynolds. He prepared some of his colours so badly that a lot of them, especially the flesh tones, have faded.’ He looked up at Michael and winked. ‘I’ve put more carmine into more Reynolds portraits than I’ve had whiskies. Want another?’

  Michael patted the old man’s shoulder. ‘No thanks, Jules. I’ll take the picture now, if I may. You’ll send the bill?’

  Samuels nodded. There was no haggling. He was the best there was and dealers either paid his price or Julius didn’t do the work. He knocked a little bit off for Michael because he paid in whisky and because he was a regular customer. But not much.

  Out on the street Michael once more found himself smiling. Every encounter with Julius was a joy. He carried the picture easily but didn’t walk too fast. It was still only 8.30 and he didn’t want to collide with anything or anyone while he had the portrait under his arm: it would damage all too easily.

  Turning from Jermyn Street into Duke Street, he stopped to look in Myer’s Gallery. They specialised in Italian pictures and there was a Bellotto in the window. Michael admired it. In some ways, he thought, Bellotto – Canaletto’s nephew – was better than the master. He reflected that the Canaletto old Julius was treating could have come from this gallery.

  He turned into Mason’s Yard, let himself into the gallery and took the woman with the cleavage up to his office. Amazingly, Julius’s whisky had revived him. Michael lit a cigar and stared at the picture. It was important to look at pictures. Too many dealers were too busy to spend time looking at the objects in their charge. There was something about this picture that didn’t add up . . .

  He had got nowhere in his thinking by nine o’clock, when, feeling suddenly very hungry, he took himself up the road to Fortnum and Mason for another breakfast. The kipper lasted him until nearly ten, when he strolled up Piccadilly and across Leicester Square to the National Portrait Gallery. He wanted the main gallery, not the archive. Conveniently for his purposes, it was laid out chronologically, with the earlier portraits on the top floor and the more recent ones lower down.

  He found what he was looking for – the Regency pictures from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries – and stared at the portraits, one by one. There was Nelson’s mistress, Emma Hamilton, the various Georges, the poets and writers of the time. And there were some of the great women – Maria Edgeworth, the Gunning sisters, the Countess of Sutherland. Michael concentrated on their jewellery and anything they held in their hands. He was looking for any similarities with the woman old Julius had uncovered, but for his purposes the portraits were inconclusive.

  Michael left the gallery and took a taxi to Portman Square. There he entered a building on the north side. This was the Witt Library, room upon room stacked with photographs stored in green box-files. The files contained reproductions of paintings and were arranged alphabetically by schools. Each painter had a box to himself and famous painters had several. Michael climbed to the first floor where the English schools were located. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for but that was often the way. He had to start somewhere, so he took down a box which was marked: ‘Sir Thomas Lawrence: Portraits, Women, Single’.

  Michael spent all morning in the Witt. He looked at box upon box, at works by Hudson and Reynolds, Ramsay and Gainsborough, Cotes and Romney, Fuseli and Etty. By 12.30, when he had to leave for his lunch with Isobel, he was weary and in need of a cigar. But he was beginning to have some idea who had painted the woman with a cleavage. He still had to find out who she was.

  Isobel was already in his office when he arrived. She looked spectacular, in a mustard-coloured sweater and dark green pants. As Michael planted a kiss on her cheek he noticed her suitcase by the door. ‘Back to the farm?’

  She brushed the hair off her face. ‘Yes, but I don’t give up without a fight. I went to Sotheby’s this morning, to try to find out who bought the documents.’

  Michael stepped back and stared at her. ‘That took some pluck.’

  Isobel grinned but grimly. ‘No luck, though. They wouldn’t play ball. Isn’t there anyone there you could bribe?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘They’re quite tricky about that; they don’t want dealers poaching their customers. Besides, Molyneux may have paid cash and used a false name. Nice try, though. Very impressive.’

  He led Isobel out of the gallery, to lunch. This time they went not to Keating’s but to Wilton’s in Jermyn Street. The service there was exquisitely slow and Michael wanted to stretch out this meeting with Isobel. He couldn’t be sure but it just might be their last.

  ‘I hate just giving up,’ she said after they had ordered. ‘It’s not like me at all.’

  ‘You didn’t have any suggestions last night. Got any today?’

  She tossed her head so that the hair swung back off her face. ‘I suppose we could drive down to Dorset and just cruise around, hoping to bump into him.’

  ‘Dorset’s a big place . . . and in any case we don’t know that the rest of the trail stays there. Cross was French originally. Maybe that’s where the other clues lead.’

  ‘Mmm. You’re right.’

  They were silent for a moment.

  ‘What about the Irish connection?’ Isobel said.

  ‘We don’t know that there is one. We can’t ring around all the dealers and ask if there’s a Molyneux on the staff.’

  ‘We can’t just give up!’

  But, try as they might, over the fresh asparagus, over the grilled sole, over the raspberries, they could think of no way forward.

  ‘Maybe you were right,’ said Isobel as she finished her berries and spooned the last of the cream into her mouth. ‘Maybe we should have gone to the police. Maybe we still should.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘Much too late now. Helen’s tidied up her studio, got back to a normal life. So have I, almost. It would look very odd, suspicious even, if we went to them now. We know no more about Molyneux than we did days ago and if the painting were to turn up, at an antique shop, say, it would almost certainly mean that he had no further use for it. Meaning he had found the treasures. I’m afraid,’ he said, signalling to the waiter to bring some coffee, ‘that we have been beaten. We may as well get used to it.’ He smiled.

  She would not be jollied. ‘Do you think we’ll ever know, if Molyneux finds whatever is hidden?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it.’

  Isobel pummelled the table. ‘God, it’s galling.’

  Michael didn’t reply but instead examined the bill, which the waiter had brought. He paid by cheque, turning over in his mind the topic he most wanted to discuss: when they could meet again. He sensed that right now was not the time. Isobel was keyed up. Maybe he could mention it back in the office, as he kissed her goodbye.

  They left the restaurant and walked back to Mason’s Yard. On the pavements the puddles from yesterday’s rain had all but gone. Michael’s memory of his day on the Broads was evaporating too.

  They entered the gallery and climbed the stairs to Michael’s office. He picked up Isobel’s suitcase, intending to give her a hand with it, but as he did so he noticed a piece of paper wedged under his phone. He plucked it from where it was lodged. ‘Look,’ he said, lowering the suitcase to the floor and handing the note to Isobel.

  She took it from him. It read: ‘Ring Helen Sparrow. Urgent.’

  Michael punched Helen’s number on the phone. It seemed to take ages to connect.

  ‘Please God, no,’ said Isobel, scarcely audible.

  The call went through and, down the line, they could hear the phone ring out, once, twice, three times. It was answered
on the fourth ring. ‘Helen? It’s Michael, in London. What is it?’

  ‘Michael – good. Look, Michael, I’ve had an idea. I still feel terribly guilty about your painting being stolen from my studio. You said something last night, when you were talking about the picture that Julius has been cleaning for you. You said you’d been hoping for a coat of arms but hadn’t found one. That rang bells in my head and today I tried out an idea. There’s a famous priory between here and Ipswich, with a marvellous gatehouse. Butley Priory it’s called. I went there again this morning – I wanted to check if my idea was feasible before I called you.’

  Michael looked at Isobel and silently shook his head. He had no idea what Helen was going on about. Presumably she would get to the point soon.

  ‘The gatehouse is covered in carved stones. It was once part of an Augustine priory founded by someone who travelled with Richard the Lionheart on the crusades. It has the arms of England cut in stone and the three crowns of East Anglia, the Passion and the Holy Roman Empire –’

  ‘Helen –’

  ‘But below all that, also carved in stone, are the arms of the great families around here, the Stavertons, the Suffolks, the Hadleighs. Michael, you didn’t see the cleaned painting but I did. Although the design on the stone slab was vague, I’m convinced now that it was a coat of arms. It certainly could have been. It may have been divided into quarters. I’m trying to help, Michael. The design or motif you are looking for is a coat of arms.’

  Michael frowned. He was touched that Helen had gone to so much trouble to be of help but he couldn’t immediately see if it took them forward.

  ‘Great, Helen. Thanks.’ He tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible. ‘That might help, really. Let me try it out on Isobel. That was very thoughtful, Helen. Thank you very much.’ He hung up and relayed the conversation to Isobel.

  Like him she was touched that Helen had travelled several miles and back to check out her hunch. ‘Thank God she wasn’t calling to say that Molyneux had returned. It makes sense, I suppose. A coat of arms would lead to another family, at another location.’ She bit her lip. ‘A location where, no doubt, damn Mister Molyneux is even now unearthing what should be ours.’

  They were both silent for a moment. Then Isobel looked at her watch. ‘Nearly half past three. I’d better go, I suppose, if I am to catch the four-seventeen.’ She moved over to where Michael had placed her suitcase.

  Michael still hadn’t raised the subject closest to his heart. It had to be now. ‘Isobel –’

  ‘Michael!’ Isobel suddenly shouted. She had lifted her case but now set it down again. ‘Michael, how much heraldry would Molyneux know?’

  ‘Search me. Why?’

  ‘How would he find out who the coat of arms refers to?’

  ‘If he didn’t recognise them, you mean? Books, I suppose, or the College of Arms.’

  ‘How many colleges are there?’

  ‘One, I think.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Yes, Queen Victoria Street, in the City. Why?’

  Speaking quietly, Isobel said, ‘You remember when I was at the National Portrait Gallery and ordered a photocopy of the portrait of Philip Cross? And the girl asked if there was to be an exhibition about him? Because I was the second person to make that request within a few days? Our path crossed with Molyneux’s. The same might be true of the College of Arms. If there’s only one College of Arms and Molyneux is not an expert, he’s got to go there. We can cross his path, so to speak. Why don’t we go to the College right away and ask the people who work there if someone like Molyneux has been making inquiries, and, if so, what about?’

  Michael stared at Isobel and grinned. ‘Brilliant. Dynabloodymite. It might take a bit of bribery.’ He tapped the wallet in his breast pocket. ‘But it’s only money. Let’s go.’

  They found a taxi easily enough at the Cavendish Hotel but, to their intense frustration, got ensnared in traffic in Trafalgar Square.

  ‘What time does the college close?’ asked Isobel.

  Michael shook his head. ‘I haven’t a clue but normally these sorts of institutions don’t stay open late. Five or five-thirty, I guess. Now what story are we going to concoct?’

  Isobel was fiddling in her bag. She took out a comb and mirror and tidied her hair. She applied lipstick to her mouth and powder to her face. She doused herself in more scent. Seeing Michael watching her, she grinned. ‘We might need this warpaint.’

  They arrived at Queen Victoria Street just after 4.15. They mounted the steps of the College of Arms where a board announced that it was open until 5.30. Inside was a cloakroom, where Isobel was instructed by a security guard to leave her bag. They signed in and were directed to the library, a large room with a gallery around the edges. ‘Look purposeful,’ whispered Isobel, taking command. ‘Pull a book down and pretend to read. Let’s see the lay of the land.’ All of a sudden she was as busy and as bossy as she had been on the boat.

  Michael did as he was told and they sat at a polished pinewood table facing each other and pretending to dip into various books. Fifteen minutes passed. Isobel got up once or twice, ostensibly to get more books, but used the opportunity to move about the room. After a while, she came back and whispered, ‘There seem to be two librarians, a woman and a man. Give me your wallet.’ Michael looked at her but she hissed, ‘Give me your wallet!’

  He slid it across.

  ‘How much is inside?’

  ‘Three stamps, two opera tickets, my London Library membership card, three credit cards – oh yes, and about two hundred pounds.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope we don’t need it all. Now, in a moment, the next time the male librarian leaves the issue desk to put a book back on the shelves, go and engage the woman in some sort of conversation. I don’t care what, just do it, and make it last long enough so that I can collar the man. Understand?’

  Michael gave her a mock salute.

  The librarians, however, did not play their part. The man and the woman sat at the central desk talking in near-whispers. For ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, Isobel had no opportunity to put into effect whatever it was she had in mind.

  ‘We need another plan,’ said Michael, as five o’clock approached. ‘We’ve only got half an hour.’

  As Michael spoke, the male librarian rose and moved over to a section with some very big, heavy boxes, Michael pushed back his chair and got to his feet and approached the issue desk. ‘I wonder if you could help me,’ he said to the woman at the counter. ‘I’m an art dealer and I have a painting with some unusual jewels in it. Emeralds, I think. I am trying to identify the woman wearing them. I was wondering, are there any coats of arms with jewels in them? I’m very ignorant about these matters.’

  As he said this he was aware that Isobel had now also risen from the table and had approached the male librarian, standing by the shelves at the far end of the room. That was all Michael had time to notice, however, as the woman to whom he had addressed his remarks now took him to another area of the shelves where there were indeed books on jewels and heraldry. He asked her to explain to him how they were organised and she seemed pleased to do so.

  After that the woman moved back to the main issue desk, Michael was relieved to see that Isobel was still deep in conversation with the male librarian. Michael turned his attention to the books in front of him. He found a great deal on emeralds and, though he tried to keep an eye on Isobel, he soon discovered that the green stone was closely associated with three families in Britain: the Berners of Chester, the Duttons of Ripon and the Haskells of Henley-in-Arden. At least he was killing two birds with one stone, he told himself. Maybe the emerald bracelet in the portrait old Julius had cleaned indicated that the woman was from one of these three families. It was worth following up. He was about to turn his attention to chess and heraldry when he noticed that, across the room, Isobel was glaring at him. He moved over and sat down at the table opposite her.

  Isobel looked flustered. ‘The worm wouldn’t hel
p.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I told him I worked for a newspaper. I asked if a tall man with grey hair had been here inquiring about a particular family. I said we thought he was trying to pretend he was a beneficiary of a will, trying to find out all he could about them. I said the paper was convinced he was a fraud.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wouldn’t play ball. I offered him fifty pounds. It made no difference. He loathes the press. God, what a lizard.’

  ‘What were his exact words?’

  ‘He said that no one had been here who could possibly have been a fraud. They were all faces he had seen before.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ Michael looked around the library. He took out his pocket-book and tore off a piece of paper. ‘We haven’t got much time: the place is closing. Follow me out and, when you get your bag at the cloakroom, make a fuss. Spill the contents on to the floor, drop your umbrella or something –’

  ‘I don’t understand. I don’t have an umbrella, you donkey –’

  ‘Isobel! It’s nearly five-thirty, I’ll explain after. Please. Just do it.’

  To forestall any more discussion Michael got to his feet again. Isobel followed him out of the library.

  Along the corridor by the cloakroom the guard was already standing by the door to stop newcomers entering. When he saw Isobel he moved forward, took her ticket and went into the cloakroom to fetch her bag. Michael motioned for her to follow. He spread his hands to remind her again to tip the contents on to the floor.

  Isobel stepped into the cloakroom. ‘Yes, that’s mine,’ she said as the guard came towards her. ‘Let me just check if my pen is inside.’ She took the bag, opened it and thrust her hand inside, smiling at the guard as she did so. Deftly she swivelled the bag so that it upturned. Then she dropped it on to the floor, the contents spilling on to the guard’s feet. Make-up, coins, pieces of paper and boiled sweets scattered everywhere. They both stooped to pick them up, Isobel apologising profusely as she did so. Even after everything had been put back she made a fuss of looking for her pen. Eventually she contrived to find it in an outside compartment of the bag with its own zip. She smiled again at the guard, thanked him, and went back out. Michael was not there.