The interior was much as Gillian had anticipated. Integration of the original and later additions had been done in a somewhat inconsistent manner that caused the interior to be naturally dark. The nave consisted of three aisles that extended from the west wall to the altar, the centre of which intercepted two columns of wooden pews that were spaced equally throughout. Two lines of stone pillars, connected in straight lines by iconic archways, supported the nave’s foundations all the way to the choir.
Gillian walked on tentatively. Recent research told her what she was looking for would be found in the south transept. She followed the main aisle to the end of the nave and turned right, south. The south transept was known locally as the De La Mere Chantry. Or more famously…
The Claypole Chapel.
Gillian directed the light at the heart of the chapel. A large table and chairs had been placed at its centre, its tablecloth covered with decorations that she guessed had been brought straight from Sunday school. The layout was familiar; it was a scene that seemed undeniably CoE. Cards and displays had been put up on surrounding poster boards: everything from children’s drawings to get-well-soon messages to parishioners.
Gillian passed the table and shone the light on the walls, making every attempt to avoid shining it directly at the glass. There were two empty niches below the windows of the south wall, the design suggesting they had once been used to incorporate tombs.
She bit her lip, suddenly nervous. It looked just the type of place where the body of Cromwell’s widow would have been placed. Moving on, she pointed the light at the next wall. There were more tombs, lined with effigies. She crept toward them, keeping the light low. As she moved the light, she saw a plaque on the wall, clearly recent.
She read it carefully and aloud. “Near this spot lies the body of Elizabeth Cromwell, Born 1598, Died 1665, Wife of the Lord Protector. This tablet was placed here by the Cromwell Association.”
Jérôme and Nat joined her on either side. “I feel I owe you an apology,” Jérôme said. “For doubting.”
“Not to mention, the paintings,” she replied. “Which reminds me. We’re indoors.”
Jérôme gestured to François, who was standing alongside his brother, the cloth bags in their hands. Gillian took one of the bags from François while Nat did the same from Alain. They immediately headed for the large table and set them down on the surface.
Gillian went first, removing the canvas from its bag before unrolling it over the table. With the canvases both laid flat, the first thing Nat did was to remove a series of photographs from his inside pocket. Gallery protocol was the same as any other.
The fastest way to confirm authenticity was by examining the corners.
Gillian felt her heart skip a beat. In the torchlight, the portraits looked authentic, the elegant faces of Arthur Hesilrige and Anthony Van Dyck looking back at her like those of the living. She touched the canvases, allowing the textured material to rub gently against her fingers; again they felt like the real thing. Alongside her, Nat had removed a magnifying glass from his inside pocket and was busy searching the Hesilrige canvas for the all-important signs. As the seconds passed, his expression continued to change: neutral, non-smiling, smiling and back to neutral. For Gillian, complete torture.
“Well?” she asked, her heart rate increasing with every moment. If they were fakes, they were perfect reproductions: the material, the face, the hairline, the shoulders, the subtle evidence on Hesilrige of where the changes had been made. She bit her lip, desperate to talk but knowing the best thing she could do was to allow Nat to concentrate.
Nat replaced the magnifying glass in his pocket and smiled.
“Just like looking at a couple of old friends.”
Gillian had never felt so relieved. Her face was hot, her skin flushed, a couple of tears escaped from her eyes. While Nat rolled up the canvas of the Van Dyck and replaced it in its protective bag, Jérôme had taken control of the chapel. He stood a few metres away with a revolver in his right hand.
“We have kept our word. Your paintings are returned. Now, it is your turn.”
Gillian couldn’t help fear they weren’t in the clear just yet. “Sounds reasonable,” she said, checking that both portraits were safely packed away. “But first I have to ask. What’s your great interest in the jewels? Over twelve million pounds’ worth of portraits have been returned. You return them for the jewels. Why risk it?”
A wide smile crossed his bearded face. “I suppose the question you are really asking is why do I value one more than the other? You see, I have always been blessed coming from a privileged family. Once upon a time, my ancestors were greatly celebrated in my country. Revered like the great kings of old. Before the religious fires of the Tudor period.”
Gillian remembered what Nat had told her in the car about his family pedigree. This sounded an exaggeration.
He glanced at the plaque on the wall. “It is a long time since a King of England has ruled over parts of France, no? Once upon a time, it was considered normal. A Plantagenet birthright. However, in time the Capetians reclaimed what they believed was rightfully theirs. War followed war. Death followed death. The fiefs and duchies were lost forever. Leaving only memories.”
Jérôme paced in front of them. “You ask me, Madame, exactly what my fascination is with the Crown jewels of England. This is a mystery to you, no?”
“I understand nothing comparable has ever been found. I suppose even with the paintings returned you’d still stand to gain ten million.”
Jérôme laughed. “Maybe. Surely such a thing will be worth a pretty penny, yes. However, there is one thing more important than money. Family heritage.”
He moved toward the plaque dedicated to Elizabeth Cromwell and examined the wording with a sceptical eye. “It was never the husband of this lady who ended the glory days of my family. That time had passed centuries before. Before the reign of King John, the Plantagenet Empire spanned almost all of France. When he died, much was lost. Over the next 300 years, power swung first one way, then the other. Finally, the family all died out. Replaced instead by a Welshman named Tudor.”
A bizarre thought had entered Gillian’s mind. Nat mentioned the family seat was in the city of Angers. No place in the world had provided more kings of England.
“You don’t actually mean to say…”
Jérôme smiled, this time more warmly. “Impossible, no? The official line of kings may have died out, but the main line of my family was never found in England alone. When Geoffrey Plantagenet married the daughter of Henry I, the line of kings remained unbroken till the 1400s. Though the kings died, the wider family lived on. Blood survived. Yet as far as history is concerned, they are no longer considered important, simply because they do not wear the crown. In time, that very crown was lost.”
Gillian felt her jaw drop. Her initial feeling was to dismiss the story as preposterous, yet somehow the facts seemed to fit:
The city of Angers, in the heart of Anjou, was in exactly the right place.
The family estate, Chateau de Haulle, was an 11th-century castle located on a hillside overlooking the city. It had been in the same family for generations, dating back to the Crusades.
The man’s mother: Lady de Haulle, allegedly a distant relative of the last King of France.
If there was a claim, surely theirs was as good as any.
Nat folded his arms. “You’ve known all this time? Why leave it till now?”
“This may surprise you greatly, Monsieur, but the exact whereabouts of the missing heirlooms was a mystery to my family for over 300 years. I know of many of my ancestors who would not even have considered the possibility credible. According to the records kept in your National Archives, all of the jewels were sold by the Lord Protector and melted down for coins. It was not until very recently I found evidence to the contrary.” He placed his right hand into his jacket pocket and removed what appeared to be a series of photocopies.
Nat took them and scanned
them one at a time before handing them to Gillian. The writing was in English, quill written, 17th century. Even with a quick glance, Gillian could make out the gist of what was written. Silently she was stunned. The pedigree of the Hesilrige painting, along with the Unknown man and woman, had been confirmed beyond all doubt.
“This is incredible.”
“It is, no? However, I feel not a complete surprise to you, Monsieur,” he added, looking at Nat.
“The tests were carried out six years ago…”
“So you understand the importance of the message in the paint. The false credibility of the former Lord Protector, who instead of selling the heirlooms of the man he vowed to destroy, kept them instead for his own gain. Hidden. Waiting to be discovered.”
Gillian was confused. “I don’t understand. What difference will it make? The Crown of England is gone. The Queen is irreplaceable.”
Jérôme paused, a lengthy delay. As the seconds passed, he lowered the gun and laughed.
“You believe that is why I am here? That I covet the throne of England?” He scoffed. “Over 500 years has passed since my family sat on the throne of England. As for the present family, they are welcome to it.
“However, the heirlooms of the past are the heirlooms of my family. All of the jewels except for the Tudor state crown once rested on the heads of my forebears. I care not for the future. Only what is rightfully ours.”
Gillian placed her hand to her forehead, removing sweat. The idea made a kind of bizarre sense. The jewels had belonged to the same family for generations: the regalia evolved during their tenure. Official receipts confirmed their sale.
Officially they no longer belonged to the government.
“You honestly believe it to be that simple?” she asked. “That you can just show up, break into a church and claim them as yours?”
“We are not criminals, Madame. We only seek our birthright.”
“And the Van Dyck, was that your birthright, too? It took us over a year to raise the funds to acquire that painting. The works of great artists don’t belong to any one person. They belong to everyone.”
Jérôme grinned. “On that we can agree. But every negotiator needs collateral – a bargaining chip for when plans go wrong. The portraits are yours. Go in peace with them. Together they have served their great purpose, bringing us here to where the jewels now lie. Now, Madame, as a fellow art lover and as a gentleman, I must ask you, where do we go?”
Gillian passed the bag to Nat and walked to where the plaque had been placed. The plaque suggested that Elizabeth Cromwell had been buried nearby, but there was nothing in the chapel that remotely resembled what she was looking for.
“The tomb of Lady Cromwell was placed in a vault: according to the original architectural reports, it was located beneath the chapel.” Gillian noticed a door close by. Again it was locked. “This is almost certainly the entrance.”
Jérôme looked at François, who approached with his crowbar. He jemmied the lock and the door opened, revealing a stone staircase that went down into the earth.
François went first, Gillian second on Jérôme’s insistence. Thanks to the torchlight, she could make out features clearly, a narrow winding stairway lined with stone on every side.
The stairs ended surprisingly early, revealing a dark crypt lined with over twenty tombs. She recognised effigies, men of Tudor and Jacobean garb, their names engraved into the stone. She investigated them one by one, shining the light in the knowledge it was unlikely to be visible outside the church.
In the corner of the room she saw a tomb of an elegant lady, her elaborate effigy still retaining the original colours that had been painted long ago. The woman was lying on her back, her hands cupped together in front of her as if in eternal prayer. There was an inscription, reading ‘comfort can be found for the penitent’; Gillian had guessed the woman’s identity before she even read it. Sure enough, confirmation was found.
Elizabeth Cromwell. Born 1598. Died 1665.
Jérôme was standing alongside her. “You bring us here to pay our respects?”
Gillian smiled and shook her head. “Actually, the Lady Protectress was very clever. You see, upstairs on the plaque it says that Elizabeth Cromwell died in 1665, whereas the message on the portrait was dated January 1666. Elizabeth Cromwell died in 1672 and was buried privately by her daughter Bridget.”
Jérôme was confused. “Then why this?”
“Elizabeth Cromwell was true to her word. She took the secret with her to the grave.”
It took Jérôme a moment for the comments to register. When they did, his face became a picture of delight. He called for François, who was standing in the doorway, armed with tools.
“In that case, let us begin.”
37
Gillian couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her joy and relief at the return of the masterpieces had been replaced by total shock as the glove-wearing Frenchmen went to work on the tomb.
The effigy was not to be harmed, that was the instruction. “We are not art haters,” she heard Jérôme say, not for the first time that day. Less than twenty minutes in his presence, Gillian couldn’t shake the feeling he viewed the decision as noble.
The effigy came free cleanly with the aid of a hammer and a hacksaw, leaving clear access into the tomb itself. Progress was slow. The effigy had rested on a stone lid that was sealed to the tomb itself. There was no evidence of gaps in the stone; if any had existed, they had since been filled in.
Whoever had created the tomb clearly had no desire for it to be reopened.
As frustration at the slow progress increased, the banging became louder. François persisted, smashing the hammer against the tough outer rim of the lid before hearing a loud crash as something gave way. The room was suddenly filled with clouds of dust as debris erupted from the tomb, covering the effigy and spilling over the sides. François was covered head to toe, pale dirt all over his hair and jacket.
Jérôme watched from a distance, his demeanour giving off an air of control. Every so often his attention turned to Cooper, who was standing, surprisingly quietly, in the doorway, his face buried in his hands.
Finally, the hammering stopped, at which point Jérôme approached for the first time. The lid of the tomb had been broken, a gaping hole revealing an insight into the hidden depths. In the torchlight, a peculiar expression lined Jérôme’s face, as if he was genuinely unsure what he saw. As Gillian moved to one side, she noticed something had commanded his attention, luring his gaze as if under a spell. Something had changed, and not just the damage to the tomb. The vault appeared in a slightly different light, pale and softer. More light had been added, though not from any torch.
Something inside the tomb was glowing.
The front doors of the 4x4 opened at the same time. Two men emerged, a brown-haired brute with a goatee beard from the passenger side, and a bald-headed prop forward with a falcon tattoo from behind the steering wheel. Both wore dark clothes from their trainers to their windproof jackets, the tightly done up zips obscuring the lower parts of their faces.
Edmund recorded their movements on his phone. There was something about their walk, the positive strides, that suggested a military background. As the two men passed Edmond’s Ford Focus, parked inconspicuously on the side of the road, its tinted glass revealing nothing of what was going on inside, he noticed the driver was carrying a firearm, probably 6mm, possibly seven…either way, enough to pack a punch.
Cliff watched in silence from the passenger seat. Edmund could tell from the expression on his face and the look in his eyes that he had something to say but no means of saying it. As the seconds passed, and the lip quivering died down, he finally mustered, “We have to do something.”
Edmund allowed the comment to pass. When he looked a second time, he saw the brown-haired man was also armed, identical weaponry.
They were heading toward the churchyard.
Cliff heard something to his right. Edmund had pushed the s
eat all the way back and was fishing for something beneath it. His right hand revealed a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol.
He looked at Cliff. “What?”
Cliff stuttered. “You had that there the entire time?”
Again Edmund avoided the urge to rebuke him. “When the Prime Minister and the Prince of Wales learned that yourself, Mr Cooper and Mr Johnstone were looking for such a valuable hoard, the PM insisted to Mr Johnstone you use every caution. It was for your own safety, as well as mine.”
“You were never involved.”
Edmund shot him a smile. “Mr Johnstone agreed someone should keep an eye on things from a distance, just in case things got ugly. Shows how good I am, then, doesn’t it? Mr Johnstone promised me 10%. Don’t worry, it’s coming out of his share.”
That was the least of his concerns. Cliff’s thoughts returned to Nat and Gillian. “I hope you have a plan.”
“You leave the Falcon and Goatee to me. In the meantime, you stay here and guard my motor. And be sure to take some photos of the 4x4.”
38
Jérôme approached the tomb from the left and studied it over François’s shoulder. The hole was larger than he had anticipated: a jagged cut had been made into the stone where François had banged a mallet against the end of a sharp chisel. The hole was on the right side, approximately a third of the entire lid.
Large enough, perhaps, to access the contents.
The glow seemed to be coming from the centre of the tomb, reflecting off the right side and upward through the hole. François removed debris steadily, pouring out dust and stone with cupped hands. Once finished, he placed his hand inside the hole, searching for valuables. Straining, he felt something cold and metallic, the size of a small piece of cutlery.
He removed it and gave it to Jérôme, spending less than a second viewing it. Jérôme was far more interested.
The Cromwell Deception Page 17
