The Cromwell Deception

by John Paul Davis

  “Mr Johnstone, I have been working on a theory. You are an intelligent man. A man of great resources. Tell me now and be straight. What have you done with the jewels?”

  “I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Mr Johnstone, please, we are both men of the world. The uncovering of the secrets in the painting was a gift from God, a chance that could have befallen any man. A chance no man would ignore.”

  “For the record, I never said I ignored it. I simply failed to find the jewels.”

  “Come now, sir. I understand your reservations. Your reputation is legendary. Should the situation be different, I, too, would undoubtedly do the same. Possession of the jewels is an honour that can only belong to one. Speak with me now. Nobody wants any harm to come to your paintings.”

  A vivid grin suddenly crossed Nat’s face. “Jérôme? Jérôme de Haulle?”

  To Cooper’s astonishment, the atmosphere in the car changed in a heartbeat. Jérôme’s eyes had widened; Alain and François had turned in their seats, their shuffling surely audible. A conversation broke out at whisper level, the volume slowly increasing before Jérôme commanded silence with a loud clearing of his throat.

  Less than a metre to Cooper’s left, Jérôme smiled, his calm façade returned. “Time is running out, my friend. Your exhibition is scheduled to begin in almost precisely thirty-nine hours.” He checked his Rolex. Indeed, the big hand, approaching one, was almost directly opposite the little hand at seven. “The fate of your exhibition is in your hands. I hope for your sake you decide to use it wisely.”

  “You surely can’t believe you’ll get away with this. I know your place of work and address.”

  “Now is not the time for antagonism, Monsieur. The time for being reasonable is over. Acquiesce and the portraits can be returned.”

  “We’ve told you everything there is of the message. I know nothing of the location. I tried to work it out, I tried again, I failed.”

  “Wait!”

  The call came from Nat’s left. Gillian was sitting with the laptop on her lap, her face lit up. “I know where the jewels are.”

  Nat and Cliff looked at Gillian, suddenly dumbstruck. The revelation had come from nowhere; as far as Nat could tell Gillian had done nothing but study the jpegs. Several seconds of silence felt more like minutes. The tension seemed almost tangible, as if some great force had engulfed the entire room. There was consternation at the other end, the sound of several voices bickering coming through clearly.

  Gillian didn’t need to be there to understand what was going on.

  Jérôme broke the silence. “And what reason should I have for believing you?”

  Gillian bit her lip. She could be bluffing. She knew that. They knew that. She was playing a game with no guarantees.

  “You asked for our cooperation; I accept. You said before, we are all reasonable people. I want my paintings back, if not today, then before Monday – and certainly before the press gets wind of this. Those are my terms. Accept them, and I’m ready to deal.”

  Further silence, this time prolonged. As the seconds passed, Gillian heard whispering coming through clearly on the speakerphone. There were several people present, each voice characterised by a strong French accent. She detected at least three different voices including Jérôme’s, the other two clearly much younger.

  Neither was Cooper’s.

  Gillian took a deep breath. She felt sweat building above her eyebrows. Her lungs were gasping, her heart pounding into her ribs. There was something about the sound of the whispering that unnerved her, as if she was a non-participant in a serious collaboration, a secret known only to a select few.

  And she was the bait.

  “My dear–”

  “I want us to meet,” she interrupted. “We can trade. The paintings can be returned in a safe place.”

  Nat slapped his hand against his forehead at the exact moment that Jérôme laughed.

  “I think not, Madame.”

  “Listen to me, Mr de Haulle, I need just as much reassurance as you do. More, in fact. We’ll meet at the place where the jewels are buried. You get what you want. I get what I want.”

  Nat was desperate to talk. At the other end, he sensed Jérôme was smiling. “Very well, Madame. Where are we to go?”

  She took a breath and composed herself. “I’ll give you the name of the place. The rest we can find out later.”

  A pause, far longer than expected. “Very well. Where is that place?”

  “The jewels are buried in the village of Northborough, Cambridgeshire.”

  33

  “The man’s name is Jérôme de Haulle,” Nat said, as Gillian took a left turn, heading out of the village.

  The last thirty minutes had been frantic. The phone call ended within moments of Gillian revealing the new location of the jewels, a small village in Cambridgeshire near the city of Peterborough. After arguing with Nat and Cliff, she was back behind the wheel of her car. Nat sat alongside her in the passenger seat, still unsure what had led to the breakthrough.

  Gillian still couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Jérôme de Haulle. The famous art historian?”

  “The very same.”

  “My God, that can’t be possible.”

  Nat was less surprised. “Actually, this isn’t the first time Jérôme has been linked with a high-profile theft. In 1995 he was questioned by Interpol after two Rembrandts briefly went missing whilst on tour at a university in France. He wasn’t charged, of course.”

  Gillian took a deep breath and swept her hair away from her eyes. In truth, she was gobsmacked. She didn’t know the man well, but some of their dealings had been recent. Less than a month ago, the same person had requested the two-month loan of a selection of portraits in the Civil War section, including – she couldn’t believe it – the Hesilrige portrait, for his own gallery located in the city of Angers. The request had been for the benefit of a temporary exhibition, 17th-century European art.

  There had been no mention of the Van Dyck.

  Even more curiously, she had since received word the exhibition had been cancelled.

  She told Nat about their previous conversation. Again, Nat was not surprised.

  “Of all the galleries in Europe, it’s Jérôme’s that most directors view most carefully.”

  “Why is that?”

  “When you’ve spent as much time in the business as I have, you get to know people. Hear things.” He laughed ironically. “You know, I have heard many a rumour that many of the great portraits that hang from the walls in the Angers Gallery are, in fact, substitutions for the real thing. I dread to think what happened to the originals.”

  Gillian raised her eyebrows and threw him a scornful look. “Spent as much time in the business as you have…You mean I haven’t?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that…I just meant…”

  “What?”

  “Well. Really, Gill, I mean I am older than you, after all.”

  Gillian decreased speed as she reached a T-junction, and took a deep breath as she stopped. She allowed herself a second to digest the conversation. She realised no offence was intended.

  “I’m sorry, Nat.”

  He smiled philosophically. “It’s been a tough day. Trust me, I’ve been through it. But remember, we’re all in this together.”

  She smiled back and took the turn, heading north into Cambridgeshire. In the rear-view mirror she saw a second car behind them, a blue Ford Focus with tinted windows. Though she couldn’t see into the cockpit, she knew exactly who was sitting in the front two seats.

  “Just under a month ago, Monsieur de Haulle contacted me directly and asked for a temporary loan as part of an exhibition. He asked specifically for six portraits: most of which were from room five and included Hesilrige and the two Cromwells.” She looked at Nat. “He must have been planning this for months.”

  “If not a lot longer. Jérôme’s been in the business a long time; he kn
ows exactly the way it works. The irony is, if you’d have said yes in the first place, he would probably have returned them all and you’d never have known.”

  “What are you saying? I made the wrong call? I assume you remember what happened to the Turners in Frankfurt?”

  “If I’m being totally honest, I’d have probably done the same thing. The experience with the Turners was one of the worst of my life,” Nat replied, his mind briefly recalling the events in question. He remembered the day he got the phone call. It had come in the middle of the night; his wife had slept through the entire thing. The explanations from Frankfurt had been unacceptable. A clear lapse in security had occurred. The days of uncertainty that followed were the worst, leading to an eight-year process that eventually led to their recovery. The stress had been phenomenal: the arguments with his staff, the false leads, false starts, the unpredictable aloofness of the intermediaries…

  The return of the Turners had required dealing with criminals, both negotiating with them and eventually buying from them. It was a dark side of art. The part he hated.

  A part that was sometimes unavoidable.

  “So who is he, exactly?” Gillian asked. She glanced quickly in the rear-view mirror, relieved to see the blue Ford Focus was still close behind. “I assume you’ve met him?”

  Nat had been quiet for several seconds, lost in his thoughts. “Yes, several times, actually. You know, his family pedigree is really quite impressive. If you believe the local stories, his ancestors had once laid claim to the Province of Anjou back before the revolution. Even today, he’s allegedly a relation of the surviving descendants of Louis XVI. His father styled himself Duke of Anjou, a title Jérôme has never officially downplayed. Since 1984 he’s been the director of the Angers Museum and Art Gallery. As you’ve already pointed out, the man is well respected as an art historian. Must’ve written at least a dozen books on the subject.”

  “What’s his interest in the English Crown jewels?” she asked, suspicious. “As a Frenchman?”

  Nat shook his head. Like Gillian, he no longer believed the theft was solely about money. “Hopefully pretty soon you’ll have the chance to ask him yourself.”

  The drive to Northborough took just under an hour and a half. After taking a series of A-roads between Buckinghamshire and Cambridgeshire, the long stretch on the A1 had been mercifully straightforward. As Gillian left the motorway to pass through Peterborough, the sights of the city appearing fleetingly through the front and rear-view windscreens, a large three-section roundabout on the A15 took them on a path that was much more rural. Greenfield and farmland was passed by on both sides, the setting an oasis of tranquillity compared to the rough-and-tumble of the motorway. On the other side of the village of Glinton, the rural setting appeared on a far grander scale. The occasional farmhouse or a side road leading to some secluded destination was a rare reminder civilisation still existed.

  By 9pm, night had fallen. In the absence of streetlights, the gathering darkness seemed to envelop them like a thick fog descending from the hills. As the drive continued, the signs lining the Lincoln Road promising nearby settlement, the outline of a village came into view against the backdrop of the hillside. There were lights in the distance. As the minutes passed, they entered into the heart of it, a small parish, much of which appeared unchanged since the Georgian era. Like the settlements around the great battle sites, it was a village that was hidden away and could be easily missed, a place that could only be found in England. As the satnav indicated an upcoming right turn, Gillian saw something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. While one side of the road was flanked by an ancient pub, its quaint two-storey layout a reminder of countryside simplicity, the other side displayed something that was far more dominant. A grand fortified gatehouse guarded a medieval manor house, to which access was prohibited. Its arch-shaped doorway, yellow stone façade and pointed roof towered to at least twice the height of anything else in the near vicinity. Its appearance was clearly little changed since the 1400s. Its purpose, however, was redundant. Gillian didn’t need to consult a visitor’s guide to understand what stood before her.

  The house that had served over fifteen generations of the Lord of the Manor had also served the wife of the Lord Protector.

  Gillian took the turn and passed the gatehouse, still following the directions of the satnav.

  Nat was confused. “You’ve missed it.”

  Gillian grinned, again taking momentary pleasure knowing she knew more than Nat.

  “Actually, the manor is not what we’re looking for. Not that we’d have a chance of entering it anyway. Although, I think it was up for sale recently. You know, if I were in your situation, I’d seriously consider making an offer.”

  Nat looked at her, unsure whether the reference to an estate agent was a quip or a serious suggestion.

  “But she did live there?”

  “Lived there, wrote there, and, quite possibly, died there. However, it’s somewhere else she was finally buried.”

  The road that led past the gatehouse was called Church Street. Like many in the village, it oozed peace and charm, and was more or less deserted apart from the occasional lights from nearby houses. Unlike the blend of the modern and traditional at Naseby, the local white stone façades of the houses had something of a timeless quality. As expected from the name of the street, amongst its buildings was a medieval church that suddenly came into view on the left, its stone walls partially hidden in darkness. After completing a pass to survey the vicinity, a precaution should a quick getaway be required later on, Gillian made a U-turn in the mouth of an unused driveway and parked close to a wall that flanked the churchyard.

  She switched off the engine and carefully observed the area through the windows. She had parked close to a small green area that formed a fork in a side street that led off past the church. Even with the car windows wound down, not a sound could be heard, as if the village had been frozen in a simpler time, before electricity and the motorcar. As the seconds passed, lights appeared along the road, moving slowly in their direction. Gillian recognised the blue Ford Focus as it passed them.

  Within seconds her phone began to ring.

  “Edmund?”

  “Daniel, actually. Where do you want us to park?”

  It was a question she felt herself unable to answer. She had seen enough action films to know of the risks involved in meeting with criminals, but tonight the reality seemed entirely different.

  To her left, Nat appeared far more relaxed. “Somewhere close but not too close. Try somewhere further along the street.”

  Cliff hung up, and the car continued along the road, its lights disappearing as the road wound gently to the right.

  Gillian looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was approaching 9:20pm. If Jérôme was a man of his word, they still had over an hour to wait.

  “What happens now?” She looked to Nat for reassurance.

  “Now we wait.”

  Cooper had been in the same seat for most of the day. His body ached from the effects of digging holes and being cramped in a back seat with little legroom. Alain was six foot four and had the seat back all the way, limiting the area in front of him to mere inches. If he had been a small man, he knew he might have been okay with it.

  But he wasn’t.

  The car pulled up at a secluded spot, not quite a side road but not a dead end either. There were houses nearby, the dim glow of their lights just visible through the curtains. The village was smaller than Cooper had expected; after visiting so many today they had almost merged into one. Unlike the others, he had no knowledge of this one apart from its connections with the family. As they passed a road that ran between a traditional English pub and what appeared to be a fortified gatehouse, the reality of the situation rang true. They were entering old quarters, a place where the keepers of the jewels had walked in real life, perhaps even taken their last steps. Whether a logical guess or in possession of actual knowledge, it wa
s impossible to predict Gillian’s thoughts. Only one thing now was for certain.

  The proof of the pudding would be in the eating.

  A second car pulled up alongside them, a large green 4x4 with French number plates. The driver wound down the electric window.

  Cooper recognised the brute in the front, the same bald-headed Frenchman who had sat by him at the climax of the heist. The rear-right window also wound down, revealing a second, much younger face.

  “Megan.”

  “Dad.”

  Cooper couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A plethora of emotions hit him at once: relief, anger, gratitude, fear, contempt, anxiety, desire, depression. Relief was definitely the strongest, the fact that she was there, alive, seemingly okay. Her brown hair was tied up in the usual pigtails that waved as they caught the evening breeze. Her skin was clear, her eyes bright; as far as he could tell, she had not even been crying. The kidnappers had been true to their word. No harm had come to her.

  So far.

  “Stay where you are, sweetie. Soon we’ll all go home.”

  Before Megan had a chance to reply, the window closed and the car moved forward. Again he filled with emotion; his breath was tight and his eyes watered. He looked to his left and saw movement, Jérôme waving a gun.

  “Soon we shall all go home. But first, let us not forget the reason we are here.”

  34

  The call came at precisely 11pm. Nat was dozing in the passenger seat. Gillian had no idea how he could remain so calm.

  For the last hour she had been lost in her thoughts. The arrangement was unlike anything she had ever experienced. They were walking into the unknown, the unplanned; even for Nat, who had a track record for retrieving lost works, the situation seemed different. As far as they were aware, there was no talk of payment, funds being moved from one bank account to another, or contact being conducted through an intermediary. In theory, all that was required was a one-off trade: the portraits for information.