He guessed from the scenery the use of tractors was frequent.
He saw something up ahead, beyond the latest pylon but before the farm buildings in the distance. There was parking on the left, a small lay-by at an awkward angle, close to the start of a dirt road.
The obelisk was located less than ten metres from the side of the road, a lonely site on a grassy knoll. It had a two-stepped approach and a three-step base. Several bouquets of flowers had been placed at the base, honouring the 3,000 Cavaliers lost on the day. He saw a man standing by the monument and another sitting on the steps, gazing at a rectangular hole that had been recently dug about ten metres away on the north side of the base.
The Duke got out of the car and headed toward François. His sleeves were done up on both sides, while his white shirt was brown with dirt and dust. He was sweating and panting.
And holding a small box.
“François.”
The younger man rose to his feet. “They were there, Uncle. All of them.”
The Duke allowed himself a moment for the words to sink in. The passage in the manuscript his mother had shown him two weeks earlier had become trapped in his mind like an engraving on a wall. Every time he thought about it, his body tingled with anticipation, as if he was genuinely on the verge of achieving the unthinkable.
He took the box and examined it for the first time. The exterior was bronze, with evidence of damage along the seam and corrosion around the hinges. A padlock had already been removed, the lid still partially open.
Tentatively he lifted the lid. The interior was lined with a soft velvet padding that was surprisingly spotless, despite over three centuries in the ground. He opened the box fully, checking both the top and the bottom. If the reports were true, it could contain one of the most important finds in recent history.
The box was empty.
He looked at François, alarmed. For the first time he noticed what his nephew was holding, a folded-up piece of paper that clearly predated the age of recycling.
He returned the box to François and took the paper, unfolding it carefully before examining both sides. There was a drawing on one side, its outlines so faint they were difficult to see. Turning it away from the direct sunlight, he could see what appeared to be a diagram of a floor, possibly a crypt.
He looked at François. “Is this all?”
François returned to the car and removed a further two items from the boot. One was a second paper document, identical to the one the Duke was holding. The other was a small key coated in bronze.
The Duke took the key first. There were markings on both sides, but no form of writing. Next, he examined the second paper. Like the first, it was a diagram, but its markings were more clearly defined. He assumed from its appearance it was most likely a copy of an old painting. The central feature was a bridge with six arches and a building in the middle on one side, possibly a tollhouse.
He looked at François. “What does it mean?”
François had no answers. “The message in the painting of Hesilrige confirms the jewels were buried at the location the diagram describes. There is no name.”
The Duke cursed under his breath. He looked toward the nearby field where the freshly made hole was still to be filled in. They were too close to the road to avoid remaining unobserved.
He raised his hand to block out the sun and moved toward the monument. Shaded from the bright sunlight, he was able to make out the features of the person sitting down by the monument, a blond man dressed in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, both of which were covered in dirt.
“Who is this?”
“The man I told you about on the phone.”
Cooper looked up. The newcomer was walking toward him, eyeing him with a powerful sense of scrutiny. He was over seventy, Cooper guessed, bearded and slightly plump, his facial features bearing a strong resemblance to those of the young men.
Suddenly it hit him.
He had met this man before.
“I am Jérôme de Haulle.” The man offered his hand. “I really must apologise for the way my nephews have been treating you. There is an old saying in my country. Desperate diseases must have desperate remedies.”
Cooper was momentarily speechless. He recognised the name due to his connection to a gallery in France, where ten years earlier Cooper had met the man in person. Ever since Megan’s kidnapping, he couldn’t shake the fear he was dealing with master criminals, whose names were known only to the police and the criminal underworld. Sure enough, the brothers had been operating under false identities, but only now he realised the deceit wasn’t as extreme as he had assumed. The aliases covered not only guilt, but also prestige. They came from a family whose name had been etched into the annals of history for the good, the bad and the ugly. While he guessed the nephews’ accolades probably deserved little in the way of individual celebration, the man in front of him commanded it in great measure.
Both in England and in France.
Cooper rose to his feet. He lowered his gaze to meet the man’s outstretched hand and tentatively accepted. His stubby fingers were encrusted with jewels, pinching him around the fingers.
“What have you done with my daughter?”
The Duke smiled. “Patience. I assure you no harm will come to her. Soon you will be with her…but first.”
The diagram of the bridge had been found at Naseby; Cooper was still to see it close up. The bridge connected two densely populated streets lined with timber-framed buildings and adjacent a busy market. The diagram was dated Wednesday 21 March 1649.
Market day.
At no point was the location named.
“The fate of our endeavour rests solely on successful discovery of the area in question,” Jérôme began. “Unfortunately neither myself nor my nephews are familiar enough with England’s pleasant bridges.”
Cooper studied the diagram. After twenty-four hours of participating in a robbery, being held at gunpoint and being forced to dig holes, studying an original piece of art made a welcome break. He looked carefully at the diagram for over a minute before returning his attention to Jérôme. The man carried himself with an air of calm, unlike that of his nephews. Graceful.
Yet villainous.
Cooper shook his head and returned the document. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognise it.”
The Duke laughed. “Do not be naïve, Monsieur. The fate of your future and that of your daughter should not rest on decisions of stupidity. When we finish, you may go, along with your works of art.” He removed a cigar from his pocket and lit it, causing smoke to penetrate Cooper’s nostrils.
Cooper felt his lip begin to quiver. Even compared to the robbery, the dilemma seemed unlike anything he had previously encountered. The call to do the right thing surely didn’t involve assisting the men who had robbed the gallery.
Yet nor did it involve jeopardising the life of his daughter.
“Cambridgeshire,” he said at last. “A small town Cromwell knew well.”
22
The non-display collection of the National Portrait Gallery was stored in no one place. Finding a home for the reserve selections, be it on grand walls accompanied by priceless antiques or within specially designed storage facilities, required space the building simply didn’t have. It was said that for every portrait contained within the storeroom on the top floor, another needed to be moved elsewhere.
The question was where?
The majority of the selection was not housed in London. The decision was made in World War I when the collection was moved out of the capital due to worries about air raids. In World War II the same thing happened.
Officially the whereabouts of the paintings was never revealed to the public. According to some, the unused collection was kept in a storage depot located beneath Trafalgar Square. Other reports claimed the collection was shared with the Tate.
Both rumours were false. While some of the portraits remained in London, hung on the walls of nearby historic buildings or
within the gallery’s light-sensitive environment away from public eyes, those for which space could not be found were always returned to the same place.
Cliff left the gallery at 1:30pm. The London traffic was virtually stationary as usual. The streets surrounding Westminster and Trafalgar Square appeared more like a car park than a road. Tailbacks continued for miles. Horns honked, engines revved, angry drivers stuck up V-signs at the smug cyclists who negotiated the logjam with relative ease.
Even on a Saturday lunchtime there was little respite. Tourists and citizens walked the streets in the usual high numbers, the appearance of shorts, sunglasses, and short-sleeved T-shirts seemingly as frequent as the suits and briefcases. Twenty years living in the capital had confirmed to Cliff the working week had officially expanded. Bankers and lawyers frequented Canary Wharf and the Inns of Court, while others hurried in and out of Tube stations, mobile phones glued to their ears. Today, the platforms were a wash of colour. The Premier League was back after the two-week international break. Fans of home and away teams mixed on the platforms, some sipping cans of lager or cider, bantering with their rivals over the expected result and which team had wasted the most money in the transfer window. There was a sense of urgency and expectation in the air, typical of the time of year. Late summer was a strange time. The time before the end of summer rush ended and a different onslaught began. A time of transition.
Cliff knew he couldn’t have picked a worse time to make the journey.
As the traffic cleared around Soho and Fitzrovia, the journey took on a quicker pace. After making solid progress on the A41, the transition onto the M1 was achieved with relative ease. Cliff knew the route by heart; he’d made it so many times, he guessed the number was well into the hundreds. It had become a key part of his job. A commute so common it was almost weekly.
As the towns of Hemel Hempstead and Berkhamsted disappeared into the rear-view mirror, the route along the A41 became straightforward and predictable. While the majority of cars remained on the road, heading toward Aylesbury, a series of roundabouts took him on a different course. Through every window Buckinghamshire appeared at its finest. Quaint villages dotted the surroundings, their picturesque exteriors still oozing the charm that had made them famous.
As Cliff approached the village of Cheddington, a left turn took him away from the main centre. There were signs up ahead, one of which detailed the next village and the most famous of the local buildings. It was a place he knew well. One known only to those who knew where they were going.
An upcoming crossroads gave three possible options.
Ahead would take him through the heart of the next village, where its ancient church peeked sneakily over the woodland.
To his right, a long country road soaked up the late afternoon sunshine. Several grand houses surrounded it on the right side, their façades promising a mixture of wealth and permanence.
To the left, an imposing iron gateway with stone pillars blocked access to a long driveway. As Cliff made the turn toward the gate, the soft sound of gravel moving under the pressure of the tyres, a man in a security guard uniform emerged from a small period cottage. Once upon a time it had been the gatekeeper’s cottage, and little had changed since. The guard approached authoritatively toward him and stopped by the driver’s window. Though he recognised the car and the man, he knew he couldn’t take any chances.
Cliff held out his ID. “Afternoon, Rich. How is she?”
The guard smiled. “Better now she has someone to take tea with, I bet.”
Satisfied, the guard opened the gate electronically, and Cliff began along the driveway. After following the tree-lined drive for over 200 metres, he decreased speed as the driveway wound to the right. The line of woodland on his left disappeared, and the view was replaced by one of countless acres of perfectly manicured lawn. To the right of which stood a 19th-century country estate.
Locals said it was the finest in England.
Cliff had never forgotten the first time he saw the property. Four square towers rose into the air like Victorian skyscrapers, causing a perfect shadow across the front lawn. Between them, four two-storey wings formed the heart of the building, their features capped off with a rooftop balcony. Large mullioned windows interrupted the pale orange walls that were as impressive today as when it was founded. It was a house perfect in symmetry and epic in proportion. Its 19th-century designs incorporated both Elizabethan and Jacobean features: described as Jacobethan. It was a house designed by the creator of the Crystal Palace and built by the Rothschilds.
To Cliff, it was like looking at a miniature version of the Houses of Parliament.
He pulled up on the driveway in front of the main entrance as a smart-looking man in a butler’s uniform emerged from the main doors. He greeted the curator in the usual way before escorting Cliff through grand doors into the heart of the mansion.
Cliff knew the layout by heart. While the exterior epitomised a return to the golden age of the Tudors and the Stuarts, the interior took on a more European feel. Drawing rooms and cabinets gilded in the style of late 18th-century France perfectly complemented scenes inspired by the Italian Renaissance. Numerous priceless works of art were displayed on the walls around the grand staircase, a mixture of both gallery stock and private collection. The property had been built by a banker to accommodate one of the largest art collections on record; almost a century later it had been commandeered by the nation at a time of crisis to accommodate something greater still.
Both of which had remained practically unchanged for fifty years.
As the butler led Cliff into the sitting room, arguably the grandest room on the lower floor, he took in the scene from the doorway with a sense of genuine unease. An antique three-piece suite circled an ornamental fireplace, surrounded by period walls draped in medieval tapestries. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling that was white with various red and blue patterns, and overlooked by a long gallery in the Renaissance style. As he averted his eyes from the trimmings of Victorian brashness, his attention fell on the most important feature of the room.
An elderly woman was sitting by the fire, sipping tea from antique cutlery. She smiled at Cliff.
“Ah, Mr Cliff, how very nice. You’re just in time for tea.”
Northeast of Leeds the traffic was arguably as bad as it was in London.
“Come on,” Edmund shouted as he banged his fist against the steering wheel. According to the route finder, the journey to Long Marston from Edmund’s London apartment was a reasonable three hours and twenty-five minutes, but that sure as hell didn’t account for bad traffic. The A1 was at a standstill; according to Radio 5 a lorry had overturned.
Edmund cursed under his breath.
It was always the bloody lorries.
His mobile phone was ringing on the passenger seat. He hated people who talked on the phone whilst driving, but right now he considered it safe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Edmund, where are you?”
Unsurprisingly it was Gillian. “Stuck on the A1. About fifteen miles away. Where are you?”
He heard Gillian curse beneath her breath. “Naseby.”
“You’ve been to Edgehill?”
“Yes. Cooper’s already beaten us to it.”
This time Edmund cursed. “How can you tell?”
“The ground by the monument had recently been dug up. It’s possible you might be able to catch him. Unless he left Naseby over three hours ago, he’s unlikely to have got away.”
Edmund nodded. “Okay, Gill. I’ll try to get off the damn motorway.”
“Call me when you arrive.”
Edmund disconnected the call and honked his horn in frustration.
“Relax,” he said, trying to remind himself it wouldn’t make the journey go any faster. Like attracts like, violence begets violence – that was the theory. Irritation never made the journey go any quicker.
The traffic was crawling again, the usual double lane down to one. The
re was a sign up ahead confirming the exit was less than a mile away. He took a deep breath, trying to take his mind off the sight of the gridlocked motorway in front of him. The clock on the dashboard said it was approaching 1:45pm. He could arrive before two.
But only if he tried something drastic.
23
Gillian’s thoughts refused to crystallise. Cooper had come and gone at both Naseby and Edgehill. The holes had been there, dug up, refilled. Their size suggested he had known exactly where to dig. No attempt had been made to conceal the evidence.
Whatever he had found, it was of identical size at both sites.
Edmund was on his way to Marston Moor; with any luck he would arrive in good time. If Cooper had driven all the way from London: Warwickshire, Northamptonshire, Yorkshire, including the odd detour, there was no way he could complete the trip in under eight hours.
She hoped.
They had discovered a small tea room in the heart of the village, a charming setting with wooden upholstery, four-seater tables covered with blue and white tablecloths and a fine selection of cake and sandwiches. Nat had ordered a cream tea, Gillian a coffee, which she was still to sip.
“Nothing,” Gillian said, removing her mobile phone from her ear after trying to call Cliff. “Why the hell has he turned his phone off?”
Nat sipped his tea. “You know what it’s like in the basement. Probably has no reception.”
She placed the phone on the table, added one sugar to the coffee, and broke off a small piece of scone from Nat’s plate.
“Really.”
She glared at him as she chewed, mild relief from what was fast becoming a personal nightmare. Edmund was heading to North Yorkshire. He’d been delayed on the A1, but his arrival now was surely imminent. There was no point in following him. Even from Naseby it would be impossible to make the drive in less than two hours.
The Cromwell Deception Page 10
