The Cromwell Deception

by John Paul Davis

  Gillian knew it could only be Edmund.

  Goatee finished his round in rapid fire and took cover behind the pews. Gillian heard Jérôme shout something. Moments later she saw Goatee and the Falcon leave the church, struggling with the chest.

  Gillian looked to her right and felt a twinge of horror to discover Nat was no longer there. She moved to her right and saw him crawling along one of the pews, heading to the south side of the church. He was close to the end, just a few metres from François, who was firing wildly at the upper storey.

  Nat sprang from the traps and bounced down on François, catching the Frenchman square in the jaw. Jérôme had briefly disappeared; his primary concern had been to ensure the chest had made it outside. He aimed his gun at Nat and prepared to fire, just as another shot caught the far pew. Edmund was getting closer, the latest inches away from Jérôme.

  Gillian had never been so scared. As best she could tell Nat was okay. Better, he was winning. Jérôme fired again, missing. The next time it was a blank. Out of ammunition, he jumped on Nat and smashed him round the chin; even from a distance Gillian could see blood. They wrestled, stalemate, before they both came tumbling down on the hard floor. As François recovered, he took a bullet to the shoulder, forcing him over.

  The paintings came free.

  Jérôme shouted over his shoulder. Alain had made it to his feet and left the church, followed by François, moving despite the wound. A final bullet shattered a window. Glass rained down, covering Jérôme’s head. He let fly with a punch at Nat, catching him squarely on the jaw. As he departed, he leaned for the paintings and disappeared behind the door.

  43

  Gillian made her way across the pews and knelt down alongside Nat. Nat was bleeding. Bruises had appeared on the right side of his face, between his eye and jaw. A cut had opened in the centre of his cheek, not wide, just painful. There was no sign of any permanent damage.

  Nothing a night in hospital wouldn’t fix.

  She heard what sounded like movement on the north side of the church. The noise drew her to an old chamfered wooden door at the end of the north aisle. The sound became louder before the door opened to reveal Edmund, dirtied and panting, holding a semi-automatic pistol.

  “Edmund…”

  “They took the chest over the field. They parked by us and I followed.”

  “Where’s Cliff?”

  “Still in the car.”

  Cooper was desperate with worry. “Megan was in the other car.”

  Gillian sprinted from the church, with Edmund and Cooper close behind. Edmund’s natural inclination was to head for the woodland, the same area he had used to enter the churchyard. Halfway there he stopped. A horn was honking, coming from a blue Ford parked adjacent to Gillian’s BMW. Cliff was behind the wheel.

  They rushed along the path and out of the gate, not stopping until they reached the car. Someone was in the passenger seat beside Cliff.

  “Megan.”

  Cooper rushed to the left side of the car. He opened the door and held his daughter. Tears streamed from his eyes, words inaudible.

  “They came out and headed over there.” Cliff pointed to the opposite side of the church. “Looked as though something heavy was weighing them down.”

  “What about the 4x4?” Edmund demanded.

  “Parked in the same place. Not that it would be of much use to them after the damage I inflicted on their tyres.”

  Edmund was speechless. Finally he smiled. “I always said I liked you.”

  Gillian was anxious. “What happened? And for goodness’ sake, tell me quickly.”

  “They left over the field to the left.” Cliff pointed to an area called Church Farm.

  “We need to follow them. They have the paintings.”

  “Actually only one,” Nat said.

  Gillian turned around and saw Nat holding his cheek with one hand and a cloth bag in the other.

  She rushed toward him and took the bag. She opened it and removed the canvas. Standing beside her, Edmund held out his hands, allowing the fine material to rest on his palms.

  It opened, bit by bit. With every fraction of a second Gillian felt her heart beat louder. She recognised every inch, the clothing of the man, the facial hair, the hair, the eyes, the skin…

  She looked at Nat and laughed, the relief enormous.

  The self-portrait of Sir Anthony Van Dyck was there. In her hands.

  44

  London, two days later

  The gallery opened at 10am. Within thirty minutes a steady queue had formed on the main staircase, heading into rooms four and five. Most of the visitors stayed only a few minutes, long enough to take in everything without getting sidetracked. The press had come first thing. Most stayed only long enough to take photographs of the setting, flash free – Gillian insisted. A few stayed longer, waiting to gather pictures of visitors viewing the painting for the first time.

  Everyone agreed the Van Dyck was a masterpiece. The finely chiselled jaw, the famed Stuart facial hair and matching hairstyle all gave off that air of authenticity. The frame was also worthy of note. Its gilded oval body, crested with the sunflower motif with which Van Dyck was associated, was rare, even when viewed alongside all of the other unique works on display. It made the image appear thinner and the face smaller, giving the impression that the painting captured exactly what Van Dyck had once seen when looking in the mirror.

  Gillian stood by the open archway to room six. Cliff was sitting in a chair alongside her, looking at an open laptop that displayed CCTV footage of the surrounding rooms. Most of the attention was on the Van Dyck. Hordes of tourists gathered in an arc shape around it, their eyes closely examining the face. Gillian had always liked the way some viewers had an air of superiority about themselves, as if they viewed themselves as experts. Others, she mused, didn’t even bother faking it. They came because they were interested, or because they felt they should be there.

  Either way, the people seemed to be enjoying it.

  The top right quarter of the screen showed people coming and going from room five. The camera was centred on the corner of the room where the life-sized face of Oliver Cromwell seemed to guard over the room as he had once his troops. A similar portrait had been placed alongside it, not a famed Roundhead but a private man, accompanied by his pretty daughter. Though the pictures were incomparable in size and scale, even the casual bystander could not fail to appreciate that both were masterpieces. Both of a masterful man, one who had almost singlehandedly overcome the divine right of kings to firmly embed the rule of parliament in English government. Actions that continue to influence Britain to this day.

  The marks on the wall alongside the pictures could be easily explained on this occasion. Once a larger and even grander painting had adorned those walls. Gillian never liked seeing the walls empty for too long. The paintings in the gallery’s collection were there to be enjoyed and appreciated, not stored away in the archives.

  When one masterpiece was taken down, another replaced it.

  Cliff noticed movement in room five. A man in a red sweater had entered. He had blond hair, was of medium build and accompanied by his young daughter. They watched him walk through the archway into room six, appearing before them on both the screen and in real life.

  “You should be taking it easy.” Gillian smiled at him and gave him a hug as he got near.

  “I was. However, somebody wanted to see a certain masterpiece.”

  Megan had run off toward the far side of the room. Even though she had not gone far, it was obvious from the change in Cooper’s expression that the events of recent days had left a mark. The ordeal had lasted almost two full days, during which he had gone through hell and back. He had recounted in the car on the journey back how he’d been beaten, bullied, manipulated and even put to work to remove the various chests from the ground. The path that had been set centuries ago had at last been revealed, both in the earth and in paint. Its legacy was one that had been lost and found,
a pattern that would undoubtedly repeat itself again and again. Behind the gold and the jewels was a more sinister message. One that had the ability to crown kings and spill blood.

  Greed.

  And anger.

  “How’s her mother?”

  “Good,” Cooper said, nodding. “Or at least she will be.”

  She smiled. “And you?”

  He looked at her and she at him. He wasn’t the man she remembered five days ago. Something was missing. It was a look in his eye: that bright, energetic spark that she had seen engage an audience in rapt attention was no longer there, as if a bulb needed replacing. Life was for the living, he’d always say; history is not about books from the past. Time is all around us, captured in a great castle, a great play, a song or a dance.

  Or a work of art.

  Megan was smiling at them from across the room. Her two main teeth were missing after a visit from the tooth fairy a week ago. She ran back to her dad and said, “Dad, you haven’t seen it.”

  Gillian smiled at him as he grabbed his daughter’s hand and followed her to the painting. He’d seen it many times before, but not like today. Finally it was back in its rightful place. Along with many others. Gillian saw him smile before bending down to pick up Megan.

  Perhaps the light wouldn’t remain out for long.

  Gillian felt a hand on her shoulder, one of her staff. “Ms McKevitt, there’s a package for you in your office.”

  She smiled. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Also, a Miss Quinn from the Times is over there. Was asking for a few words of background.”

  “Ah,” Gillian said, recognising the attractive brunette in her mid-thirties from the picture in her regular column in the Times. “Why don’t you direct her to our expert on the period. He’s standing over there with his daughter.”

  Gillian was pleased to get a break. After two hours on her feet, constantly finding her way back to room six to check out the new masterpiece, she felt the need to be alone.

  The package had been left on her desk. It was a thick brown parcel that was at least four times larger than she had expected.

  She took a seat at her desk and began to remove the packaging. The seal was so well secured with Sellotape she needed something sharp to remove it. There was a letter opener on her desk, a novelty item in the shape of a sword that her ex-husband had bought her in Italy. She slid it along the end and removed the outer paper to reveal a thick layer of soft padding and what felt like plastic inside.

  Moments later she called Cliff on the phone. “Can you come to my office, please? And bring Andrew.”

  A knock on the door preceded their arrival. Cliff entered first with Cooper and Megan just behind him.

  Both stopped, amazed, their focus on the desk.

  “Oh my God.”

  Gillian’s smile had become so wide it developed into a laugh. The package had been spread across the desk, wide enough to cover everything. There was evidence of scuffmarks on the corner and rips to the right side, but nothing that couldn’t be repaired. The centre section was perfect, everything in its proper place. The face. The facial hair. The iconic look.

  Cliff asked, “There was no note?”

  “No.” She shook her head, knowing there didn’t need to be. The portrait was instantly recognisable and not just from the face.

  It could only have been sent from one place.

  Epilogue

  The phone had been ringing for quite some time. It was a familiar ring, tinny with a hint of an echo. It had been the same when he was young, very young even. After all these years he viewed it as iconic. Part of history.

  His heritage.

  Jérôme de Haulle exhaled on his cigar and reached for the phone. “Allo?”

  “It’s Gillian.”

  The Frenchman felt a twinge of apprehension. “Ah. Madame. Is this to be my one phone call?”

  “Relax. If I’d have wanted to call the police, I’d have done so by now.”

  He flicked ash into an ashtray, its metal frame elegantly embossed in black and gold with a lion’s head to denote the Plantagenet coat of arms. “For that I am grateful. So, Madame, what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Actually, I wanted to thank you.”

  “I see.”

  “It arrived the day of the grand opening. I’m most grateful.”

  Jérôme smiled. “Yes, I recall seeing an article in the newspaper.”

  “You get English newspapers where you are?”

  A wry smile. “No. But my laptop is most useful. I love the Internet. Particularly in the mornings. It keeps me company as I take in the view.”

  There was silence at the other end, a welcome pause. He detected disappointment, as if she was trying to dream up a question that would leave him stumped.

  “Madame, I trust the portrait will be back on the walls soon.”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, it already is.”

  “Ah. I did wonder…”

  “About what?”

  “About whether it might be kept aside. For tests possibly.”

  Another delay. “The portrait of Sir Arthur is one of the finest in our collection. Not only a terrific example of the talents of a remarkable man, but a captivating period in history. It deserves pride of place.”

  “A remarkable man. Are you talking about the artist?”

  “Of course.”

  “Forgive me, I merely wondered…”

  “Wondered?”

  He laughed, this time loudly. “I appreciate your courtesy, Madame. May I wish you every success with your continued exhibition.”

  The line went dead, silence then a disconnection. Jérôme replaced the phone, smoked, and walked slowly into the corridor.

  The lady wasn’t there today; she had spent a lot of time there in recent days. There was something about the corridor that was different to every other part of the chateau. The grand cream walls reflected the moonlight like water from a crystal clear lake, an ideal backdrop for the exquisite collection of artwork that would be the envy of almost any gallery in the world. Jérôme’s father and grandfather had often recounted to him the stories of how the kings of old had claimed and conquered what was theirs to take and built an empire, a dynasty, whose actions shaped many courses of history. He stopped at the lady’s favourite. The hero of Agincourt. An English hero, but an Anjouvin one too.

  A famous king.

  Wearing a famous crown.

  Jérôme followed the corridor to the north, the oldest section of the castle. A series of archways, intercepting a vaulted ceiling like that of a mighty church or cathedral, continued to the far end where several large chambers gave views of the hills. Large double doors were closed but not locked, their heavy frames knocking together under the strength of the breeze coming in from an open window.

  He stopped and tapped lightly against the wooden frame. The lady would be present, he imagined; if she wasn’t in the corridor, she was usually there. Entering, he saw her standing in the centre of the room, her feet resting on the fine woollen carpet that had been in the family as long as the artwork. Other fine portraits lined the walls, men, women and children, their character unquestionably regal. Items of regalia also hung on the walls, whereas others were on display in containers in the centre of the room. The lady was looking at one in particular, a heavy glass display case like those in the Jewel House at the Tower of London. She had been looking at almost nothing else all week.

  Not that he blamed her.

  He stood alongside her, studying her features. There was a distant look in her eye that he’d seen frequently of late. She was lost in a dream, a fantasy, as if her soul had returned to a bygone era. He placed his hand on her shoulder but saw no movement or acknowledgement. It was as if she was in a trance. Lost to the world.

  Jérôme smiled at his mother and joined her to admire the objects in the glass. He had done so frequently in recent days, but this was his first visit for several hours. It was a sight he was still to grow bored of. Wou
ld never. It was not only how it appeared but what it represented. The history of a family and a nation. Gold and jewels.

  Together for the first time in three centuries.

  He took in the sight, glowing inwardly with anticipated satisfaction and the pride of possession. As the seconds passed, the smile faded, replaced by a sense of dread and panic. The view of the four crowns, lined up alongside each other as in their heyday, had been replaced by a different one: velvet with four imprints.

  Velvet and empty cases.

  Their glass doors swinging gently back and forth in the breeze.

  The Facts Behind My Fiction

  The process of writing a book is never the same for every author. Nor is it necessarily the same for two books in a row. Some authors like to plan everything in advance, from the first line to the last. Others have a far less structured approach. For them, planning just isn’t possible. It destroys their ability to let their imagination run wild and take them in whatever direction the story needs to go. Some may write every day, setting and achieving targets; others when the muse strikes or when other demands of everyday life allow.

  Usually, I tend to fall into the first category. I like to plan things out in advance: visit the locations in real life, watch documentaries on the subject matter, read history books and biographies, and take it from there. Every book I have ever written began on the back of at least four weeks of daily research.

  This book, however, was slightly different. The idea came about at the end of August 2014. I’d spent the majority of the day in London, ironically researching a plot for a different book. As 5pm came and went, I still had three hours to kill before my train was due. On a weeknight, 5pm is often the hour of transition in London: the time when the tourist sites close and the nightlife begins to come alive. As I passed Trafalgar Square, with Nelson’s Column and the four lions looming over me like character props from a Disney film, I found myself outside the National Portrait Gallery, located on the opposite side of the National Gallery. For many years I’d been familiar with the name; like many tourist attractions in London it was one of those places always on the to-visit list that I had never actually got round to seeing. The sign said it closed at 9pm on Thursdays and Fridays. As today was Thursday, I decided it would be a good place to spend a couple of hours.