by Peter Watson
‘Do you have any more left? The other man sounds as though he knows what he’s talking about, but I’d love to help if I can.’
‘Sure. I’ll get one from the office.’ He disappeared but soon returned.
Michael put the brochure in his pocket. As he did so, he said, ‘They can’t be by Sittow. He was too late . . . Tell me, Mr Walker, is there a river near here?’
The owner shook his sandy head very firmly. ‘No, none at all. As you can see we are on the top of some cliffs. The nearest rivers are at Bridport, six miles west, and Abbotsbury, nearly two miles in the other direction. Are you a fishing man?’
Michael nodded, aware that Isobel’s arched eyebrows were turned on him. ‘And where are the Peverells buried?’
‘The ambassador was buried at that monastery . . . Monksilver, I believe. One of his grandsons drowned at sea, of course. All the others are in the local churchyard.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Abbotsbury. There’s a beautiful abbey ruin there. The Peverells are buried in the grounds.’
‘Doesn’t look hopeful, does it?’ said Isobel, when they were back in the room. ‘No river nearer than Abbotsbury, and no graveyard associated with the house. Perhaps Charon means something else?’
‘Hmm,’ murmured Michael. ‘Grainger found it, whatever it is. He didn’t stay long. We’re being slow-witted again. I feel as though I’m in a video and someone has pressed the “still” button.’ He took out the brochure and looked at the portraits. ‘Rum bunch, the Peverells.’ Then he smiled. ‘One of these looks as though he has a hunchback. Do you think he got it from sleeping on the sofa?’
‘You’re about to find out.’ But she was smiling too. Michael couldn’t be sure but the prospect that it wouldn’t always be the sofa was, he felt, back in her eyes.
Upstairs in their room they continued to talk after the light had been turned out. ‘The link between here and Monksilver, the ambassador’s retreat, it’s too much to be just a coincidence,’ said Isobel. ‘Maybe Charon has a different meaning.’
Michael wasn’t convinced. ‘This all started with a picture. Now we have four others. Has it occurred to you that maybe your picture, and the four in this house, were by the same hand?’
‘It hadn’t. But surely one painting would not have referred to another – that would be too risky. Paintings could be moved or destroyed.’
‘Yes, you’re right. But why then did Grainger take the brochure with him?’
‘Maybe he was misleading Rupert Walker, like you were.’
Michael could sense Isobel smiling in the dark. But when she spoke she was serious. ‘Let’s sleep on it, Michael. We’re going round in circles again. Goodnight.’
But it was a long time before Michael dropped off. He lay in the dark for over an hour thinking back on how they had squeezed ahead on earlier occasions after being blocked. It did no good. The room smelled of Isobel: her hair, whatever perfume she was wearing, her body. The glimpse he’d had of her wet shoulders, earlier in the evening, danced before him in the dark. He imagined what it would be like to touch her skin, pass his lips down the dip of her spine, score his tongue across the muscles of her stomach. Without noticing, he fell asleep.
*
His slumber was disturbed – the sofa was uncomfortable and he awoke around six, immediately aware that he would not go back to sleep again. He got up and crept to the bathroom, where he dressed as silently as he could. He went downstairs and outside.
It was a glorious morning, the fields and the cliffs and the lanes spilling sunshine. In the distance, the sea glittered like a million louis d’ors, making Michael think back to Willie Maitland. He started out down the drive. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but if Isobel was right, and the answer lay in the place and not in the paintings, it had to be somewhere nearby. He walked west, rather than south to the cliffs. Almost immediately he came to a stream but it was so small, so insignificant, that he dismissed it. Indeed, there was no guarantee that the stream had even been here 500 years ago. Further on, he found the quarry. It was about fifty feet deep but it was perfectly dry – he’d had the idea that the quarry might also be associated with a pond or lake. No. It was a red blemish on a shallow hill and, as Rupert Walker had said, was still in use, as three ugly lorries, parked near the road, testified. He walked on for another mile but saw no trace of water, no sign at all of anything that might have meant something.
He retraced his steps, arriving at the hotel at about 8.30. Isobel was already downstairs, eating breakfast. Michael told her where he had been and what he had not found.
She grinned at him. ‘You look as though you need water a lot nearer home.’
He felt his chin. Yes, he badly needed a shave. ‘But first, breakfast. After that exertion, I need it, I’ll shave later.’
Once his order had been taken, Isobel asked, ‘Abbotsbury this morning?’
Chewing his toast, he nodded. ‘Worth a detour, certainly. The river, the local museum, if there is one.’ He waved a hand. ‘But don’t expect a power breakfast performance from me. After a night on that sofa, I’m fizzing like a flat spritzer.’
While Michael shaved, Isobel went for a rather shorter walk in the hotel grounds. Then, having told the girl on the desk that they would be staying another night, they drove into Abbotsbury and found the local museum. ‘What happens here?’ said Isobel, as they got out of the car. ‘I’ve never done this sort of thing before.’
‘Search me. Anything on the Peverells, parish records, old newspapers, whatever there is. The librarian might know something about the river here, too.’
The museum was a single, small, airy room with large windows and local maps all over one wall. The curator was a busy-looking woman with wiry blonde hair. Her spectacles hung down on her chest, held by a rope of glass beads that went around her neck.
‘Hello,’ said Michael. ‘We’re down here on holiday and staying at Peverell Place. It’s a lovely part of the world and we wondered if you had anything of interest about the building or the family or the estate? We’ve read the pamphlet and the book at the hotel, of course. But we thought you might have something else.’
The woman smiled. ‘Yes, it’s a lovely house, isn’t it? I’m afraid, however, we don’t have much that will be of any interest. There are the parish records, but they aren’t very interesting. They’ve been gone over a great deal and I don’t think they’ve ever been considered exciting. The only other thing we have is Henry Peverell’s will. A copy of course. The original is in the Public Record Office.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘We might as well look at that. We’re in no hurry,’ he lied.
They sat at a table, overlooking an estuary. The water had changed colour from gold to green. Brown reeds worried in the wind.
The woman brought the documents. ‘Which will you have?’ said Michael to Isobel. ‘Parish records or the will?’
‘You’re dying for the will. Give me the records.’
Once again, as so often before, they sat side by side, reading quietly. As they read, the rays of the sun came round and spilled on to the table where they were sitting. Michael moved his chair so as to remain in the shade.
Isobel was the first to speak. ‘Nothing here, Michael. Baptisms, marriages, deaths. What you would expect.’
Michael grunted. ‘There’s one thing here. Henry Peverell bequeathed a hand reliquary, inlaid with rubies, to the monastery at Monksilver.’
‘There you are! We must be in the right place. Maybe the monks returned it, along with everything else, to hide here. We know now that they had strong links with the Peverells.’
‘It’s plausible, yes. But Grainger hasn’t been here – or the woman would have mentioned him. And we are nowhere near the end of the clues yet. We still haven’t got past Charon, damn him.’
They rose. As they handed back the documents to the curator, and thanked her, Michael said, ‘The estuary . . . which river comes out there?’
�
��Two streams. The Abbot and the Nun, on account of the fact that one runs through the abbey, the other through the nunnery. They flow into the swannery and there’s an old legend that the reason the swans are mute is because they observed so much mischief between the monks and the nuns, and were rendered dumb so they could never tell what they had seen. A charming story, don’t you think?’
Michael and Isobel emerged smiling into the sun. ‘I love those kind of stories,’ Isobel said. ‘Who dreams them up, do you think?’
‘Probably the swannery PR people. Last year.’
She turned and punched his shoulder. ‘Beast!’ It was the first time she had willingly touched him since Southwold. ‘What about the swannery?’ Isobel added. ‘There were swans in the Peverell coat of arms.’
‘Yes, yes . . . I’d noticed that too. But the swannery is on the estuary, slap-bang next to the sea. The merman seems to suggest that the next clue is on a river, somewhere in the direction of the sea –’
‘Or along the coast?’
‘No. Charon is, specifically, a man who conducts souls across the river Styx, not the sea.’ He tapped his temple. ‘It sticks up here too. Cerebral stasis.’
They walked along the main street of Abbotsbury, towards the abbey. It was built from a crumbly, corn-coloured stone, the crust shot through with gunmetal. They turned into the local pub, The Ilchester Arms, where, to Isobel’s delight, the house specialised in several kinds of cider. While Michael drank he took out the Peverell Place brochure and again scrutinised the portraits and read the legends.
Isobel looked over his shoulder. ‘Just thinking out loud, Michael, could Charon stand for anything else than river? Maybe he stands for the underworld in general. Meaning, perhaps, a cave or a passageway that runs under the house, to the cliffs maybe. Remember that story about the Peverells and smuggling?’
Michael sipped his cider. ‘Possible. A definite maybe.’ He smiled at Isobel. ‘I like the effect cider has on you.’ He braved her wrath and took out a cigar. ‘Tell you what, we’ll try the cliffs this afternoon, and if we get nowhere we’ll go back to London first thing tomorrow and research this Sittow character. Maybe there’s something in his life that will help.’
They decided to take lunch in the pub. Over the cheese and onions, they examined the map to see exactly how Peverell Place related to the coast and where the likeliest location for a cave would be. With mounting excitement they noticed that, in fact, a set of caves was actually marked on the map.
‘Pity you weren’t around to help Bad Bill,’ said Michael. ‘He might have had more luck.’
In the car they could not get very close to the top of the cliffs near where they wanted to be. They had to traipse across a large field. At this point of the coast the cliffs were quite high – a couple of hundred feet – and so they had to trudge some distance more along the edge before they could scramble down safely to the beach. The sun made it hot work but, once they were down on the shingle, the breeze coming off the sea was cooling.
Isobel and Michael were far from being the only ones on the beach – it was summer after all – but it was not crowded.
They tramped on. After about half a mile the cliffs became less sheer, with small dips between the peaks that were more accessible. Michael stopped and fished out the map. ‘According to this, the caves are about here. They are set back a little and come out, not in the face of the cliff but at the side, into a kind of hanging valley.’ He led the way off the beach, scrambling up the sandstone and turning to give Isobel a hand. At about twenty feet the grass began and gave them something to hold on to. Another thirty feet up and, to their surprise, the ground levelled out and they found themselves in a hollow which could not be seen from the beach.
‘Perfect,’ said Isobel, looking round and up. ‘A perfect smuggler’s patch. We’re almost totally hidden.’
Michael pointed over her shoulder. ‘And that, unless I’m very much mistaken, is a cave.’ About fifty yards away and some ten feet above the line where they were standing was a dark opening.
‘Pity we don’t have a light,’ said Isobel. ‘We’re not exactly equipped, or dressed, for this sort of thing.’
The cave was high, taller than a person. As they entered, it became suddenly very cool and smelled of damp. Isobel rubbed her fingers against the sandstone walls and felt the wet crumbs come away on her hand. They had the consistency of cheese.
As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, they could see that, despite its height, the cave was not deep, forty or fifty feet at most.
‘Look!’ hissed Isobel, her words skidding around the enclosed chamber. ‘Another passage – it’s been bricked up.’
It was true. Off the main chamber led a smaller one but not for more than ten feet or so. There, a wall of grey breeze-blocks ran from floor to ceiling.
‘That figures,’ said Michael. ‘These things are probably quite dangerous the further you get into the cliff.’ His voice boomed back and forth across the cave. ‘My guess is that we’re at the wrong end. These caves aren’t like those remote ones near the Dead Sea. England has been heavily populated for centuries. We’re never going to find anything here; this ground has been gone over for too long. If your theory is right, what we’re looking for will be at the other end, much nearer the house, on private property. But, thanks to Inspector Sadler, we have established that there is an underworld which may be associated with Peverell Place. It may be only half a step forward, but it’s something.’
They left the cave, crossed the hollow and scrambled back down to the beach, earning some curious looks from others strolling on the shingle. It was harder walking back, against the wind and then back up the cliff. By the time they reached the car they were very tired.
Michael drove back to the hotel but, when he reached the main entrance, he stopped on the road outside, just as he had done the day before, when they had first arrived. ‘This is the difficult bit,’ he said. ‘We can’t ask about secret passageways without appearing a bit odd, and we can’t go snooping either—’
Isobel put her arm on his. Physical contact again. ‘Oh yes, we can, silly. We just make a joke of it. Drive in and leave this to me. Come on!’
Michael did as he was told. He pulled up outside the main door, got out and followed Isobel, who had already marched into the hotel. Rupert Walker was just crossing the hall, carrying a bowl of flowers.
‘The very man,’ boomed Isobel in her loudest voice. ‘You can settle it for us.’ Rupert Walker set down the flowers and turned to look at her. ‘We were just walking off our lunch on the beach and we saw some caves. I remember you saying last night there was a rumour that the Peverells made money from smuggling. That must mean you have a secret passageway that links the house to the cliffs. Am I right? Michael thinks I’m just being romantic.’ She laughed as she said this.
Rupert Walker smiled back. ‘It’s interesting you should say that. The same thought occurred to me when I first bought the hotel some years ago. A secret passage would add to the mystique of the house and we could publicise it. If you can find a secret passage here, I will personally pay your bill. The caves fell in years ago, well before they bricked them up for safety. So no one can get in from that end.’
As soon as they reached their room, Isobel voiced what both of them were thinking. ‘If the passageway is the clue we are looking for, if that really is the underworld which Charon refers to, we’ve had it. We’ve come to the end of the road properly this time. Maybe that’s why Grainger left so quickly. He realised how useless this all is.’
Michael shook his head. ‘Not a chance. Were you listening hard to Rupert Walker then? No mention of “Molyneux”. If Grainger had asked him about an underground tunnel, Walker would have mentioned the coincidence. But he didn’t. Which means that our dear rival was not at all interested in it. We’re on the wrong lines again, Isobel. A re-run of St George versus St Michael. Grainger left this place knowing something that we don’t.’
*
; At dinner that night, neither had much to say. After two days at Peverell Place, they had made no progress. Grainger was now three days ahead instead of one. For Isobel and Michael, tonight looked like the last of their adventure. To make matters worse, Michael had heard on the evening news that the tycoon in the fraud case had been sentenced to three years’ gaol and a fine of £200,000. The man intended to appeal but that didn’t count in the wager. Michael had lost. It wasn’t the money so much as the fact that his luck had turned. It seemed like a bad omen. As usual in such circumstances, Michael comforted himself with his favourite wine, a heavy red burgundy. ‘If I have enough of this,’ he said to Isobel, ‘I’ll be able to sleep, even on the damn sofa.’
Rupert Walker came over to them during dinner. ‘Before you go, will you leave me a card? You never know, I might want to have the portraits valued, for insurance. Perhaps you could help me?’
‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘But what about this Molyneux man?’
‘He was an academic, he said, not a dealer. He did say one thing, though, that did indicate he had some idea who the pictures were by.’
‘Oh yes? What was that?’
‘“The mask reveals all,” he said. “The mask reveals all.” I assumed it was a signature of some sort, or a sign that some painter always used. Like Toulouse-Lautrec’s monograph.’
‘What do you think?’ said Isobel, after Rupert Walker had left the table. ‘Could that be right? About the mask being a sort of signature?’
‘If it’s true, then it’s not anything I know about. Some painters, Dürer and Toulouse-Lautrec, for example, used monograms. There was a German Romantic painter, Friedrich, who used to put moons and planets in his landscapes as a kind of identifying device. But that’s all I know about. There are no painters, so far as I know, whose names sound like mask. What did Grainger mean, “The mask reveals all”? Grrrainger! I thought I’d sleep tonight. Now I won’t.’
‘Have a whisky. It will make you sleepy. And a cigar.’ When she saw the surprised look on his face, she smiled. ‘There’s method in my madness. It will help unwind you. Once you’re asleep I’ll feel safer, and less guilty. Oh, and by the way, you can have the bed tonight. I always intended to take my turn on the sofa.’
