The Cromwell Deception

by John Paul Davis

  He left his seat and answered, “Allo?”

  “It is done.” The voice was cold, efficient, unquestionably familiar.

  “You are safe?”

  “Oui. The Englishman’s expertise proved invaluable.”

  The Duke sat down tentatively in the nearest chair and rubbed his right arm with his free hand. Falling asleep on his side had caused it to go numb.

  “And the painting?”

  A delay preceded the response. “The message was concealed beneath the paint.”

  The Duke felt his skin tingle with anticipation. His heart rate was increasing again, his breathing shallow.

  “You know where to go?”

  “A full survey was not possible in so short a time. But we were able to do a preliminary one.”

  “And?”

  “It fits with the information in the manuscript. The diadem was buried in England.”

  “And the second painting?”

  “Also safe.”

  The Duke smiled. Secretly he wanted to jump for joy. “And the third?”

  Again he delayed. “The piece was missing from the store room. However, it might be possible to access the reports.”

  The Duke nodded. “Bravo, François.”

  “There is much work to be done, Uncle. The Protector was as zealous in protecting his riches as he was for war…what are your instructions?”

  A rhetorical question, perhaps. Or maybe one of respect. “Proceed to the first marker. I shall join you in England tomorrow.”

  “And her ladyship?”

  This time it was his turn to delay. “I shall tell her myself in the morning.”

  Standing outside the double doors of the grand living room, the old woman felt a rush of adrenaline. The manuscript she had bought at auction had been a godsend. The final resting place of Europe’s most valuable jewellery had never been made known outside the author’s close-knit family circle.

  She still couldn’t get over the amount of detail it possessed.

  As the sound of the Duke’s voice faded, she moved quietly away from the door and headed into the great corridor. The oldest part of the chateau had always been her favourite: it was the only part that dated back to the 12th century, the one area that still resonated in the glory of the original Plantagenet architecture. She browsed the artwork as she always did: figures, scenes, and settings from the medieval period lined the way as if portraying an historical timeline. Even in such poor light she could make out their outlines clearly. The facial features of the people in the portraits were familiar, a visual record of the family from the ancient past into the modern day.

  She stopped by one particular picture, a rugged man with a hard expression, his hands protected by iron gauntlets. He was carrying a sword and standing proudly on the verge of a great battle, victory clearly his. Experts dated the work to the 16th century, whereas tradition said it was at least a century older. The man posing was famed throughout all of Europe: A king of England.

  And France.

  The woman moved closer to the painting, her tired eyes taking in the scene in detail. It felt different somehow, as if she was viewing it in a new light. Despite the armour, the dense metal covering every inch of the man’s shoulders and torso, there was one piece of the regalia that was both out of place yet impossible to misunderstand. A thick circle of gold was mounted on the brim of his helmet, its body embedded with precious stones.

  She brought her hands together and smiled, then laughed, allowing the mild night breeze to penetrate her lungs. She was seeing what most of the history books claimed no longer existed.

  Yet according to one was still buried in a hole somewhere beneath the earth.

  2

  London, Saturday Morning

  Gillian McKevitt had no plans to be in work today. Nor did she expect the phone to ring before 7:30am. Phone calls from the gallery on a Saturday were rare.

  And when they came, they usually meant only one thing.

  As the Director of the National Portrait Gallery in London, she was used to living a busy life. Over five years being in control of one of the main tourist attractions in London had given new meaning to the words ‘acting under pressure’, but on a day-to-day basis the role was defined more by its consistencies. The five-day week had extended into six, but she was used to being flexible. A typical Saturday could mean anything. A day off, a meeting with a donator or benefactor, the setting up of a new exhibition, tasks relating to funding…

  The call was unexpected and unwelcome.

  The National Portrait Gallery had never been robbed. A few had tried, but till now none had ever succeeded. Being located just off Trafalgar Square in the heart of London, in a building called St Martin’s Place that also houses the National Gallery, it was largely considered impossible to infiltrate in broad daylight. While safety in numbers offered its own form of security, as evening fell and the visitors dispersed, leaving the masterpieces in peaceful solitude, the night-time security system that came into effect was famed as one of the most advanced of its type. In addition to the guards and security cameras that monitored the activities of every room, would-be thieves also had to contend with the unseen. High frequency asset tags and micro-asset tags covered the fronts and backs of every frame, each tuned in to a specific radio channel that continuously passed information to a range of electronic sensors located throughout the building. Even the slightest movement could trigger an alarm. Theft had become impossible without detection.

  Or so went the theory.

  The news hadn’t sunk in over the phone. The more her mind replayed the message, the more surreal it sounded. She was tired, and had been for days. The week had been one of the busiest in recent memory. In two days’ time, the gallery was set to unveil its newest piece: a famous self-portrait of the artist Sir Anthony Van Dyck, a £10m purchase from a private owner.

  As Gillian made the familiar commute from her Victorian Kensington townhouse to the gallery, two thoughts occupied her mind.

  Firstly, how on earth did they do it?

  Secondly, what had been taken?

  She prayed it wasn’t the Van Dyck.

  Gillian arrived at Embankment within thirty minutes of receiving the call. Leaving the Tube, she walked hastily along Craven Street. On reaching the Strand, she headed north along the A400 that ran alongside St Martin-in-the-Fields, and unlocked the main doors of the gallery before entering. The gallery didn’t open till 10am on a Saturday; two hours before the first visitors were expected.

  Immediately she came to a halt. There were four dark marks on the entrance steps to the main hall, claret on closer viewing. She had learned from the phone call that a security guard had been beaten unconscious; almost certainly she was looking at the evidence. Sidestepping the stains, she hurried up the steps to the ground floor before taking the main stairway to the floors above.

  The break-in had occurred on the second floor, her favourite in the gallery. Whilst the ground and first floors were dedicated to the 18th to 20th centuries, the portraits on the second floor went back further. Pictures of kings of England from Richard III to Charles II had famously hung on its walls since the gallery’s relocation in the 1890s, alongside those of other celebrities of the Tudor and Stuart eras, from Thomas Seymour to Shakespeare. Gillian’s predecessor had once told her he considered it the most important part of the gallery, where the artwork was the most rare.

  And priceless.

  She paused on reaching the top of the stairs and headed right, fearing what she would see.

  From the first doorway, the view of the upcoming corridor appeared unchanged. Hardwood floors were set out in a mixed brickwork pattern, their light brown exterior reflecting the overhead lights. Fixed wooden framed doorways were permanently open, revealing a consistent theme: grand rooms decorated with bright cyan walls and lined with famous faces from Britain’s past.

  Gillian took a deep breath and continued through the main doors, room four according to a sign. The room had a re
putation for being among the most popular with visitors due to its connection to the Tudor era. The famous face of Anne Boleyn looked down at her from the right wall, her gentle cheeks and eyes appearing as if she had something on her mind, while alongside her the more successful Catherine Parr stood proud and dignified. The room was unchanged, a relief, but also a surprise.

  Valuable targets had been left untouched.

  An open doorway to her left led into room five. Gillian could hear voices inside, the exact words muffled but the tone clearly urgent.

  She entered slowly. The room was slightly larger than the last, the theme early Stuart Britain and the Civil War. Three members of staff had gathered in the far corner around an empty gold picture frame, engaged in animated discussion.

  Gillian experienced a sharp pain in her chest. She felt frozen, winded and choked all at once, as if each of her senses had been bombarded with a series of electric shocks. She walked to the centre of the room, checking the walls behind her as she passed. Everything else appeared in its usual place: famous portraits of James I and his wife, Anne of Denmark, lined the walls behind her, their hard expressions directed downward, as if in judgement or contempt; to her right, a famous picture of Charles I was surrounded by those of his allies and enemies from the civil war, their fine locks of dark hair fluttering in a timeless breeze. She breathed out deeply, grateful the portraits were still there. More valuable targets had been left untouched.

  Whatever was missing, at least it wasn’t the Van Dyck.

  The staff had noticed her presence. The most senior of the three broke off his conversation mid-sentence and greeted her as she approached. The staff nametag above his heart read Daniel Cliff, curator of 16th-century art.

  “Gillian…”

  “Daniel, what the hell happened?”

  Daniel Cliff was a tall lean man of indeterminate age with light brown hair that had much in common with the men on the wall, round spectacles of a dated style and a green V-neck sweater that presented the air of a college professor.

  “I telephoned you as soon as I arrived. They only seem to have taken two things.”

  Two things. Not just this. The feelings of fear and uncertainty had returned, prompting her breathing to shorten. She examined the room for a second time; sure enough, everything else was in its usual position…Charles I, Prince Rupert, the large portrait of the Capel family, the bust of Thomas Fairfax…

  She studied the area surrounding the empty frame. According to the accompanying description, the heavy frame was meant to contain the portrait of a man named Sir Arthur Hesilrige. Located alongside it was a famous portrait of Oliver Cromwell being prepared for battle by a squire.

  Cliff was standing alongside her. “Gillian, I really must speak with you in private.”

  Gillian moved toward the nearest doorway, still to respond. The doorway led to an adjoining room, smaller in size but identical in presentation. Like room five, the majority of the room remained untouched, save one gaping difference on the nearest wall.

  She froze, rooted to the spot. She didn’t need to read the accompanying description to know what portrait had been taken.

  “Oh my God, this can’t be happening!”

  3

  The self-portrait of Sir Anthony Van Dyck had been offered to the gallery eighteen months earlier after more than three hundred years in private hands. Gillian’s instinctive reaction had been to jump at the chance, but raising the funds for its purchase had been a long-term struggle. The Heritage Lottery Fund grant of £6.3m had proved the perfect start, but it still covered less than 70% of the asking price. Over the next twelve months fund-raising initiatives had begun in earnest, requests for donations, and public-led drives a constant theme. The total cost had exceeded the £10m mark.

  The portrait had been on the wall less than twenty-four hours.

  Gillian entered the staff toilet on the third floor. Overcoming the need to vomit, she headed for the nearest sink and splashed water over her face.

  She was seeing things, surely. A bad dream, a nightmare…every art gallery director’s worst nightmare…

  Even though she had left the room, the image of the second empty frame remained planted in her mind like a permanent scar. Unlike the Hesilrige portrait, the canvas had a distinguished oval shape and had been placed inside an ornate 17th-century gilded frame that was, in its own way, equally priceless. The frame, at least, was still there.

  But empty.

  She studied her reflection in the mirror, watching the droplets of water as they ran down the sides of her face. At age fifty-four, her skin revealed the occasional line to the cheeks and forehead, but facially she could have passed for five years younger. Her hair retained its usual yellow blondeness that was secretly assisted by regular dye, a shade that brought out the colour of her eyes, a vivacious blue that had been a magnet for compliments till the day she hit forty. She spent the next minute brushing vigorously through her hair before adding another layer of eyeliner, repairing the damage that had come from walking in the wind.

  She looked at herself, unsatisfied but short on time.

  Today, appearances would be of secondary importance.

  Cliff was waiting by the door, standing with his arms folded. “Gillian…”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet, I didn’t think that would be wise.”

  It took a moment for the words to register, but on reflection she understood the logic. The ramifications were potentially great. The Van Dyck had never been seen by the public. The grand opening was scheduled for Monday. Over £3m of public donations had helped make the day possible, and thousands more had been spent on marketing.

  News of its theft to the public would haunt the gallery for decades.

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Only the four of us,” he said as he guided Gillian through the deserted hallways, the eyes of the long dead watching their every move. On this occasion, she eyed the walls with great scrutiny, fearful the sight of another empty frame was imminent. She made detours at every doorway, checking every wall.

  Each time relieved the content was still there.

  “If the Van Dyck isn’t recovered by 8pm tomorrow, we have no chance of continuing with the exhibition,” she said. “I think we should call it off now. We can put out a press release that the painting isn’t currently ready for public display. If it’s not found by this evening, I think we’ll need to inform the police.”

  “Calling the police at this stage might not be necessary,” Cliff replied. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

  Cliff showed her through a code-operated door on the third floor, its thick frame guarding the main surveillance room.

  “The report came through at around 2am,” he said, leading her inside. Over one hundred television monitors lined the far wall, all screening live footage from a range of locked-off security cameras. “I myself didn’t get here till after six. I was planning on doing some work for the exhibition.”

  The exhibition, she thought to herself: the bane of her life in recent weeks. In honour of the Van Dyck’s grand unveiling, she had championed the idea of putting on a display of his work, a collection of twenty-eight pieces that ranged from portraits of kings to minor gentry.

  Gillian eyed the screens as she entered, her gaze constantly moving from one to the next. The majority of the cameras were stationed to provide a permanent watch over the main corridors of the first and second floors, a series of grand hallways separated into thirty-two similarly sized rooms that contained an average of sixteen portraits in each. The other two members of staff she’d seen a few minutes earlier were still standing by the empty frame in room five and putting up ‘Do Not Enter’ signs outside the far doorway. Another screen confirmed that the area where the Van Dyck had been placed had already been sectioned off.

  She focused on the empty frame that once housed the Van Dyck. Her heart was thundering so hard she felt it was in danger of escaping her chest.
She perched herself on the side of a nearby desk whilst Cliff rewound the footage to the time of the incident.

  “1:51am,” he said under his breath. He sat down alongside her and pressed play on the remote control.

  It was dark in room five, just as it was in the others. The infrared camera had been placed in one of the corners of the room, directly opposite a second and allowing an all-round view of the walls, including both doorways. A twenty-four-hour clock accelerated in milliseconds in the bottom right corner of the screen, confirming the exact time.

  Cliff pointed to a different screen. Two figures were preparing to enter room four after climbing the main stairway at 1:51.40am. Entry to the room from the stairs was one of the few areas on the second floor that involved a set of locked doors.

  Gillian watched in disbelief. There was no forced entry, no damage to the property.

  One of them possessed a set of keys.

  As the doors opened, the intruder without the keys moved through room four toward the open doorway and into room five. The next monitor captured his movements as he walked slowly from left to right and stopped in front of the portrait of Hesilrige. The intruder had operated in almost total darkness, his occasional use of torchlight showing extra brightly as it passed the lens of the infrared security camera. Predictably, he was dressed in dark colours to provide effective camouflage in the darkness, and a balaclava hid his face.

  The man with the keys joined him, dressed in similar attire and seemingly doing very little. He stopped on reaching the bust of Thomas Fairfax midway along the far wall and casually folded his arms.

  Gillian felt the hairs begin to rise on the back of her neck. The footage was reminiscent of a film: a scene from The Thomas Crown Affair or Entrapment, that unavoidable moment before the thief absconds with his target. She watched in silence as the intruders coldly surveyed the portrait, their bodies appearing little more than silhouettes against the walls. The intruder with the torch moved toward the portrait of Cromwell before returning almost immediately to Hesilrige. He shone the light on the bottom left of the painting: Hesilrige was leaning against a small stone column, on which the title of the work had been written in yellow.