But do not despair. Whilst these papers pass between us, I have taken it on your sister’s husband to ensure the remaining heirlooms safe passage. Their new whereabouts I fear to divulge. Knowledge I take with me to the grave.
Fear not. My preparations are complete. I am ready to send agents with them unto you. Should they fail to come unto you, I pray you make haste to the home of your sister’s husband, safe in the knowledge that comfort can be found for the penitent.
Your loving mother
Northborough, January 1666
Gillian read the message carefully. Once finished, she repeated the process three times and rose slowly to her feet. The strain of reading the crude handwriting had caused her eyes to water. She felt light-headed. A dull throbbing sensation dominated her right temple, a precursor, she feared, of a migraine.
She understood why Nat and Cliff had failed for so long to understand its significance. Whilst the references to His Majesty and the heirlooms seemed to confirm Charles II had endeavoured to get the jewels returned, the message suggested he had failed to find everything. The woman had left no precise directions, nor even a hint as to what had become of the rest.
Knowledge I take with me to the grave.
Gillian was pacing behind the settee, focusing on nothing in particular. The more she thought about the message, the more uneasy she felt herself become.
“You’ve both had over seven months to work on this. Surely during that time you managed to come up with some ideas.”
Nat shrugged. “As you can plainly see, the portrait tells us nothing. The message refers to new whereabouts and knowledge taken to the grave. The jewels were clearly moved, meaning the markers at the battle sites are almost certainly now redundant. As far as we’re aware, no further correspondence between the two has been found.”
Gillian’s exasperation was mounting. “You mean you gave up?”
Nat’s stare hardened. “Might I remind you, Gill, that your prime interest here is solely the recovery of the portraits–”
“Might I remind you that it is because of this story that my paintings were stolen in the first place.” She walked toward the settee and sat down. “Were you not with me at Edgehill? Did you not see that gaping great hole in the ground, pitifully filled in at Naseby? Did you not hear the testimony of our own head of security?”
“Be that as it may, Daniel is absolutely right. The message offers no clue. More to the point, this painting is still in our hands.”
Gillian was unimpressed. “Both Andrew and his accomplice entered the storeroom and spent over three minutes looking for something. All the signs suggest that something was this. What use is it? Andrew was almost certainly familiar with the wording. For all we know, he might even have access to the jpeg on a memory stick. The question is, why try to steal it?”
“Most probably because his accomplices are still to see it for themselves. We’ve seen with our own eyes that they’ve made more progress in one day than we did in six years. If, and let’s just suppose you’re correct for a second, Andrew is not on their side, an unwilling accomplice, the last thing they’re going to do is trust the word of the hostage. Cooper’s had every chance to find the jewels with us. The message is carefully worded; he’s as familiar with it as anyone. The message tells them nothing.”
Gillian fought the urge to shout, somehow managing to control herself. The message was a clue, but the whereabouts of the jewels were clearly not revealed for fear the portrait should fall into enemy hands. The style was similar to the first, cursive lettering, 17th-century style…
Almost certainly genuine.
Gillian took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. Cromwell had hidden the jewels first. Three clues were left at the sites of the three battles.
The question was, what happened next?
Did Elizabeth Cromwell really take the secret to her grave?
“Tell me about Elizabeth Cromwell.”
Cliff sat up in his seat. “We know she was born–”
“After her husband died!” The words shot out of Gillian’s mouth like an arrow.
Awkwardly, Cliff resumed. “Elizabeth Cromwell lived with her husband, usually at Hampton Court. When Oliver was away, she normally stayed at home, and they wrote to one another frequently. Following Oliver’s death and the removal of their son, Richard, as the new Lord Protector, Elizabeth decided life in the capital was no longer safe…”
“The reference to the jewels being taken can be confirmed as factually accurate,” Nat took over. “The protectress was seized attempting to leave London in 1660, and a number of goods were later discovered stashed at a fruiterers in the city.”
“You’re being serious?”
“Absolutely. However, this was 1660. It is also known that Elizabeth took flight shortly afterward. According to some, she even made it to Switzerland.”
“That can’t be verified,” Cliff said.
“No, it can’t. What can be verified is that she spent considerable time living in Wales before seeing out her days in Northborough with her son-in-law, John Claypole.”
“How did she die?” Gillian asked.
“Old age. We assume.”
“When did she die?”
Nat and Cliff looked at one another.
“What? Have I said something?”
“According to most accounts, Elizabeth died in November 1665 and was buried at the local church in Northborough,” Nat began. “However…”
Gillian caught on immediately. “But the message was dated January 1666. Meaning…”
“Meaning either the message is a forgery or the date on her tomb is wrong.”
Gillian was speechless. The date on the message was impossible either to authenticate or to refute without knowing the precise date of her death.
“Why would this be wrong?”
Nat shrugged. “The wording of the message seems to confirm what history recalls of her situation around that time. She considered herself a target. Perhaps it was simply a safety precaution.”
“Fake her own death and head into exile?”
“You have to admit it’s not impossible.”
Gillian rose from her seat to pick up Cliff’s laptop. The jpegs of the daughter portrait were still on the screen, the multicoloured spread filling the centre section.
The date had been the easiest thing to clarify. The numbers were written clearly. Everything seemed in order.
Gillian heard her phone ringing. Handing the laptop to Nat, she retrieved the phone and answered the call.
“Hello?” she said, not checking the caller ID. It was a man’s voice, unmistakeably familiar.
Nat looked up, suddenly confused. “Gillian?”
Gillian’s face reddened. “Andrew? What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?”
31
Gillian had never felt so angry. Hearing that voice, so familiar and eloquent that she had associated for so long with knowledge and kindness, now invoked only fury.
“Andrew, speak to me. What in God’s name have you got yourself into?”
At the other end of the line Cooper cringed as he heard Gillian’s powerful tone coming through clearly on the hands-free. They had left the Cromwell house ten minutes earlier. Once again Cooper was sitting on the back seat of the car, next to Jérôme. Alain had driven them away from the house to somewhere more secluded.
A car park on the edge of the city.
Cooper felt tongue-tied. If speaking to his boss with the dust still to settle wasn’t difficult enough, he was doing so with every move under observation.
“Let’s not do anything foolish, Gill. By now I appreciate you’ve probably more or less figured out what the score is. You’re an intelligent lady, Gill. Not to mention reasonable. All I need from you is the whereabouts of the jewels.”
Gillian struggled to control herself. “Yes, I’ve heard about your little escapades with Nat and Daniel. I guess I overestimated you all. In six years you couldn’t find what
was actually possible in eight hours. Which reminds me, I hope you haven’t damaged my paintings.”
Cooper bit his lip, narrowly avoiding swearing. “No games, Gill. I’m an art lover – you know that. My agenda was never about you or the art.”
“Where is it?”
“I assume you’re talking about the Van Dyck?”
“You know full well I’m talking about the Van Dyck.”
Cooper tutted, convincingly. “You disappoint me, Gill. I thought you were an art lover, too. Not one to value one piece over another just because of a financial outlay.”
“Perhaps it’s escaped that dim-witted brain of yours, but that financial outlay amounted to over ten million pounds. I suppose you think it’s funny. Poor old Gillian and Daniel having a painting stolen hours before its unveiling.”
“Actually none of this was intended as being personal, Gill. I did what I had to do, and for the record, I’d do it again. The Van Dyck is safe, along with the Walker. Nothing will happen to them. In fact, if you behave yourself, you might even get them back in time for the grand opening.”
Gillian’s heart missed a beat. She didn’t realise till she heard those words just how desperate she was for the masterpieces to be returned.
Nat was pestering her to her right, asking her to put the conversation on speakerphone.
“Andrew,” she said. “I’m going to put you on speakerphone. There are two people here who would rather like a word.”
“Gill, I’m warning you…”
She clicked the speakerphone button on her phone and placed it down on the table.
“Andrew. Nat.”
Cooper recognised the voice. “Nat,” he said, convinced there were police present. “Anyone there with you?”
“Just Daniel.”
A resigned sigh. “Hello, Andrew.”
“Daniel. I must say, chaps, I really am most awfully sorry you didn’t get to experience what I just did. Excellent chase. Really top draw. Unfortunately as you’ve probably guessed, there is still much work to be done.”
“Someone already find it, did they?”
“No jokes, Nat. There is a rather impressive portrait currently in store of Cromwell and his lovely daughter Bridget. I’m sure you’re aware of the one I have in mind.”
Gillian was confused. Just as she prepared to answer, she felt a hand across her mouth, forcing her off balance. Nat had grabbed her from behind, silencing her. She caught his eye, a fixed glare that told her, ‘don’t say another word’.
“Andrew, I’m afraid we have something of a problem. You see, according to the database, the portrait in question was recently moved to one of our other depots.”
“That is unfortunate,” Cooper said. “I hope for your sake it hasn’t gone far.”
Nat delayed his response. Listening carefully, he thought he heard whispering, perhaps more than two people. “Andrew, let’s level. What’s this really all about?”
“Nat, as I’m sure you will remember, there was another message, written by Cromwell’s widow and visible only by x-ray and infrared in the painting of Oliver and his daughter.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“You remember the message, Nat?”
A delay.
“You do remember, don’t you?”
“Andrew, is there somebody there with you?”
Silence, murmuring, there one second, gone the next. There were other noises in the background. Was Cooper in a car? A moving car? Nat assumed he was probably parked on the side of a road, close to traffic. Someone was with him, his gut feeling told him one of many.
“Andrew, why don’t you let me speak with the person or people with you? Have a little chat. I’m guessing you can all hear me?”
Further murmuring. Unmistakeably somebody was with him.
“Hello,” a voice said at last. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
Everyone listened, examining the man’s tone intently. The voice was male, late sixties if not older. Nobody recognised it.
“Hello. Nathaniel Johnstone here. Former Director of the National Portrait Gallery and, prior to that, the Tate. Also former colleague and friend of Mr Cooper.”
“Would that be friend and former colleague or former colleague and former friend?”
Nat laughed into the phone. “Until today I would have said the former. Now to whom am I speaking?”
“You may call me Avondale.”
Cliff and Gillian looked at one another, guppy mouthed. Nat held his grin but didn’t laugh. “A pleasure, Mr Avondale. Tell me, sir: what have you done with our paintings?”
“The masterpieces are secure. And I assure you, Mr Johnstone, their safe return to you is presently our utmost priority.”
“Well, I must say we’re all mightily relieved to hear that.”
“Not at all. As your friend quite rightly says, our concern is not with theft. All we desire is the jewels.”
Nat delayed his reply, a calculated ploy. “That’s very kind of you. And you can assure us the portraits are undamaged?”
“I tell you the portraits are fine.”
Gillian and Cliff both held their breath, their eyes fixed on Nat. Gillian was desperate to speak, but she knew Nat’s experience was their greatest asset. The man’s career highlight was the recovery of his lost masterpieces, works even more valuable than the Van Dyck.
She sat on her hands and remained quiet.
“So what can I do for you, Mr Avondale?” Nat asked.
“There is a portrait listed on your database under the title Unknown man and woman, dated circa 1650. Once upon a time it had a different name. I think you know the one I mean, yes?”
Nat nodded, again delaying giving a verbal answer. Though the man spoke perfect English, he detected a slight accent. French, perhaps. Maybe Belgian.
“You are familiar with our database?”
“Mr Johnstone, please, do not insult me with weak attempts at trying to learn my true identity.”
A wry smile. “Sorry. I was merely intrigued. We have over 11,000 portraits on record, yet you mention one in particular. A less famous piece, I might add.”
“There is little need to play games, Mr Johnstone. Our interest in the portrait is not out of respect for its quality, although for the record I do admire it greatly. An x-ray was taken in recent years, along with infrared analysis. Its great revelation offers much light on the fate of the missing jewels. You have access to the results on your desktop, no?”
Nat bit his lip. “As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, that responsibility now lies with the present staff. These days I’m only a consultant.”
“Then, perhaps, you could ask the young lady to return to the phone.”
Gillian glanced to her right and saw Nat nodding reassuringly. She edged forward. “Hello, this is Gillian McKevitt.”
“May I say how lovely it is to hear your voice.”
Gillian remained unmoved. “What have you done with my paintings?”
“I assure you the paintings are secure and in a very safe place.”
“I’d be very sorry to hear otherwise.”
Jérôme laughed. “Now, my dear, approximately six years ago a series of x-ray and infrared examinations were carried out on the portrait Cromwell and his daughter. Do you have the findings?”
“Yes.” Her voice broke.
“Do you have them close at hand?”
“Maybe.”
This time the pause came from Jérôme’s end. “I do hope for your sake the answer is yes. I would hate for anything unnecessary to happen due to a misunderstanding.”
“What did you have in mind? Destroying the portraits? Spare me your threats. I’ve heard them all before.”
“My dear, you misjudge me. Like I already said, my interest is not with the portraits. All that concerns me are the jewels.”
Gillian shrugged. “Even if it wasn’t, I find it hard to believe you would destroy something worth well in excess of £12m.”
�
�My dear, we’re digressing. I must insist, the wording of the message.”
She turned to Nat, who nodded again. Cliff, sitting opposite, shrugged and tentatively did the same. She picked up Cliff’s laptop from the nearby table and zoomed in on the message.
Slowly and clearly, she began to read.
32
Cooper heard every word. He remembered the message by heart and could tell Gillian had read truthfully from the real thing. Hearing the words as Gillian recited them, carefully, calmly, her voice showing no obvious hint of apprehension, forced another pang of adrenaline to surge through his body. Gillian knew exactly what they were doing. Nat and Cliff were backing her at every step. She had one of the foremost experts on the recovery of precious artwork in the world alongside her.
And Nat was playing the game.
To Cooper’s left, Jérôme also listened carefully. He had a pen and notepad in his hands, which he used to jot down every word. Though it concurred with the wording Cooper had told him, his expression confirmed he was completely unsatisfied.
“Are you quite sure, my dear, you have not left anything out?”
“I assure you I have read it word for word.”
Jérôme took a deep breath. Although his eyes remained fixed on his notepad, Cooper couldn’t shake the feeling he was somehow looking at him, blaming him for being correct. The Crown jewels had been moved, their whereabouts known only to Cromwell’s wife.
Her secret taken to the grave.
“I want a deal,” Gillian said, after several seconds of silence. “I want the portraits returned.”
Jérôme wasn’t in the mood for negotiating. “Unfortunately we have encountered a slight problem. The message, though elegant, and I do not doubt for a single second correct, does little in the way of furthering our cause.”
“What did you hope for? A satnav?”
Jérôme laughed. “Not exactly. However, the wording on the portrait of Hesilrige was much more helpful…My dear, is your predecessor still there alongside you?”
“Yes.”
“Is he listening?”
A delay. “Yes,” Nat replied.
The Cromwell Deception Page 14
