Landscape of Lies

by Peter Watson

  The assistant librarian was approaching again with more green folders, which she put on the desk. ‘That’s it. One of these last is a family group, not a single portrait, I’m afraid. I hope it’s good enough.’

  Isobel turned to Kenny first.

  ‘Oh no!’ cried Michael, but softly. Sir Ranulph was a pasty individual who also had a moustache—and red hair.

  ‘Here goes,’ said Isobel, reaching for the last folder. She read the label: ‘Sir Francis Waterlow and family’. ‘Cross your fingers.’

  There were seven people in the engraving: Waterlow himself, his wife and, according to the note on the back, his brother, his brother’s wife and three children.

  ‘It’s not him either!’ whispered Isobel urgently. ‘Or his brother, come to that.’ She was right. Waterlow had a pronounced nose and very fleshy lips. His was a much more self-indulgent face than Mercury’s.

  ‘Dammit,’ said Michael. ‘Dammit, dammit, dammit. Where on earth have we gone wrong?’

  Isobel was busy looking back through the folders but there was no way she could make any of the figures resemble Mercury. That shaven hair, those eyes of his, that chin—nothing on the desk in front of them fitted the face they were looking for. ‘Thank God we didn’t celebrate after all. It would have been a waste of money.’

  Michael played with the cigar in his top pocket. Then he said, ‘I’m certain our reasoning is correct. We must have missed a name.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Too late to get back to Windsor today. And in any case there’s someone I’d like to talk to before we go back again—a man who deals in medals. He’ll know all about the Order of the Garter and he’ll be able to show us where we’re going wrong. Look, you hand these folders back while I call him. I’ll see you at the main entrance.’

  Isobel checked in the five knights and found Michael waiting for her on the pavement outside the gallery. The rain had stopped and he had lit a cigar.

  ‘We’re out of luck,’ he said. ‘Willie’s at a coin auction in Amsterdam today. But he’ll be back over the weekend, so we’ll go and see him on Monday, before going back down to Windsor.’

  ‘Is there nothing we can do over the weekend? It seems such a waste.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anything. Galling, I know—but don’t forget Molyneux will have the same sort of holdup. At least it gives you a chance to go back to the farm. The cows must be missing you.’

  ‘Stop being so bovine, Michael. It doesn’t suit you. Now, what time shall we start on Monday?’

  Michael brushed ash from his jacket. ‘Not before ten-thirty. The majority of dealers don’t get in very early. They don’t need to. Most people are more responsive later in the day—that’s why the biggest sales are held in the evening. Come to the office for coffee around ten.’

  ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else we can do today?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He took a step towards her. ‘You look … unsettled. Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. I mean, yes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  She paused. A big red bus splashed up Charing Cross Road, spraying rainwater all over the pavement. ‘You’re the expert, Michael, but … but, the fact is, I think you’re wrong. I think the reason Molyneux hasn’t been to Windsor or here to the Portrait Gallery is not because we’re ahead of him at all. It’s because we’re going in the wrong direction.’

  Willie Maitland’s coin and medal gallery (‘Maitland’s Medals’) was a bow-windowed shop, tucked away in Crown Passage, just down from the Golden Lion pub in King Street, almost opposite Christie’s. Willie was a tall, rangy individual with wispy fair hair and a glass eye. Michael had met him a few years before when Willie bought a painting from him. Apart from his gallery, he had an extensive collection of pictures with coins or medals in them.

  It took Isobel and Michael only a few minutes to walk down from Mason’s Yard. Michael was itchy, prickling with outrage after attending over the weekend a film festival of old black and white movies which had been artificially coloured. ‘You wouldn’t add colour to a Rembrandt print,’ he complained to Isobel. ‘This is just as criminal.’

  ‘You call that criminal? We had hail on Sunday. Hail! At this time of year. God himself is sometimes the delinquent one on a farm. Any more dampness and some of the cattle are going to get problems with their hooves.’

  ‘Keep your hooves out of that puddle, and turn left here.’

  Maitland’s face broke into a smile when he saw Michael enter, though almost immediately his one good eye roved across to Isobel. The gallery was empty and Michael was able to make the introductions. He came straight to the point.

  ‘On Isobel’s behalf, I’m trying to identify a figure in a picture. I’m not going to show it to you, Willie—you understand why.’ Maitland nodded. ‘We have a rough date for it—early sixteenth century—and we have reason to believe that the man was a member of the Garter. Unfortunately, we’ve compared his likeness with those they have in the National Portrait Gallery for members of the Order in the sixteenth century and the faces don’t match. We’re going wrong somewhere and I’m hoping you can help.’

  Willie loved this sort of problem. He put aside a medal he was cleaning and gave them his full attention. ‘The Garter records are kept at Windsor, at Arundel Castle and in the British Library.’

  Michael nodded. ‘We went to Windsor on Friday.’

  ‘Hmm. All Garter knights have banners designed for them when they are elevated, rather like coats of arms. Any arms in your picture?’

  Michael shook his head.

  ‘How do you know he’s a Garter knight, then? Is he wearing it?’

  ‘No, he’s wearing the badge, on a chain around his neck.’

  ‘St George and the dragon?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Hmm. That’s something anyway. Can you describe the chain? There are several types of Garter chain, according to the monarch of the day. That would at least confirm your dating. Early sixteenth century would make it Henry VII or Henry VIII, right? As I recall, the chain should be gold, showing little knots of ropes set between precious stones, garnets or rubies, I think. Does that ring any bells?’

  Michael looked at Isobel. She shook her head firmly. ‘It might be gold—it’s difficult to tell—but there are no jewels. It’s plain.’

  Willie frowned. Before he could go on, however, the gallery door opened and a man entered. Michael and Isobel stood to one side as Willie attended to him. It appeared that they knew each other quite well. The other man was French and a collector of French coins. Did Willie have any new rarities in stock?

  Just back from the auction in Amsterdam, Willie did indeed. ‘I even have a louis d’or eight,’ he said.

  The Frenchman’s eyes lit up and Willie went into the back of his shop, coming out again immediately with a small, black leather-covered case. He unlocked it and took out a coin. The gold glistened in the morning sun. Willie and the Frenchman then went into a huddle, lowering their voices and speaking in French. Michael and Isobel stood near the door, trying not to overhear the talk of money. After a few moments, the Frenchman straightened up, said goodbye to Willie, nodded to Michael and Isobel, and left the shop.

  ‘A fish who got away?’ said Michael.

  ‘Oh, but no. He’s gone to arrange the money with his bank.’ Willie weighed the gold coin in his hand. ‘Have a look at this, Michael; it will interest you. This is a louis d’or eight, made for Louis XIII. Only twenty were ever minted and none of them was circulated. One of the rarest coins ever. They were used as gambling chips at court.’ Michael leaned forward as Willie grinned. ‘I bet you’d like one for your collection, eh? This little monster is worth forty thousand pounds. No one carries that sort of cash on him.’

  Isobel whistled and stepped forward for a closer look. Willie let her handle the coin and she rubbed her fingers over it.

  Willie suddenly cried out. ‘“Eh bien!”, as the French collectors say. I’ve had a t
hought. Describe the badge, will you? The badge in your picture.’ He turned and looked behind him. ‘Better still, draw it on this pad here.’ He gave Isobel a pen. She handed back the gold coin and, looking mystified, took the pad which Willie now passed to her.

  She spoke as she sketched. ‘I’m not very good at this sort of thing but St George is standing in the middle—like this.’ And she drew a stick-like creature. ‘The spear goes diagonally down, from top right to bottom left—just so—pointing towards the dragon, which cowers at the bottom, looking up.’ She put in a few final squiggles. ‘You can just make out little puffs of steam or smoke, coming from the monster’s nostrils … There, what do you say, Michael … is that a fair likeness?’

  He leaned forward. ‘You’re no Holbein but it’s good enough.’

  Willie took the pad and inspected the drawing more closely. ‘Hmm. There’s no horse?’

  ‘No,’ said Isobel. ‘Of course not. I might not be Holbein but I wouldn’t forget something as big as a horse.’

  ‘Is the horse important?’ asked Michael.

  ‘You could say that.’ Willie was grinning. ‘Without a horse this isn’t St George.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ shouted Isobel.

  ‘Joshua bloody Reynolds!’ gasped Michael at the same time.

  ‘It was that French collector who gave me the idea. Now I come to think of it, I can see it’s an easy mistake to make if you’re inexperienced. There are two dragon-slaying myths, not one. St George is always shown dressed in armour and riding a white horse. To the early Christians a dragon symbolised paganism. The St George legend was founded after he had supposedly converted the heathen country of Cappadocia to Christianity. Without a horse, the figure is not St George but the archangel Michael. In his case the dragon represents the devil, and Michael is vanquishing the devil from the world. That’s all the history I know, but what I’m saying is that your figure, the man you’re trying to identify, isn’t a member of the Garter but a member of the French Order of St Michael. As I said, it was that French collector who gave me the idea.’

  Michael shifted his gaze from Maitland to Isobel. He felt himself blushing. And was that a slight smirk on her face? He had certainly been over-confident in reading the picture and his mistake had cost them time they could ill afford. No wonder Molyneux hadn’t been to Windsor!

  Michael sighed. ‘Willie, top marks. You noticed more with one eye than we did with four. The old Maitland magic. You’ve done exactly what we hoped you would do. Set us straight on Orders. Not in quite the way I expected but—well, we now know where we’re going, which we didn’t when we came in this morning. I owe you one. Before we go, though, is there anything else you can tell us about the Order?’

  ‘Not offhand, but I think I have a book in the back. Hang on.’ Willie disappeared with the black leather case, the louis d’or now safely back inside it. He reappeared with a small volume. ‘Here we are. I’ll read the entry out to you.’ He leafed through the book. ‘Yes … Michael, Saint, Order of …’ He twisted his head slightly, to make it easier for his one good eye. ‘The Order of St Michael was instituted in 1469 by Louis XI and is one of the great Orders of chivalry in Europe, the French equivalent of the English Order of the Garter … The badge of the Order was supposed to be worn at all times … on ceremonial occasions it was worn as the “Grand Ordre”, suspended from a gold collar of cockle shells linked by intricate chainwork. At other times it was worn as the “Petit Ordre”, on a fine ribbon or chain … At any one time there were only thirty-six members of the Order … a sketch of the medallion by Holbein is preserved in Basle.’ Maitland snapped the book shut and looked up. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And where,’ said Michael, ‘do you think the records of the Order of St Michael are kept?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Maitland. ‘If it was founded by Louis XI and was closely associated with the court, it may have been abolished at the time of the French Revolution in 1789. The records might easily have been destroyed during the Terror. If they weren’t, then I should say they will probably be in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris.’

  Isobel groaned. If the records had been destroyed, the search was over.

  ‘You might begin at the French embassy,’ said Willie. ‘They will have a cultural attaché there who may be able to help. Or you could try the university; their department of French will have a historian who might know something.’

  Just then another customer came into the gallery so they quickly thanked Willie and got out of his way. ‘Give my regards to your sister,’ he called out, as they left. On their walk back to Mason’s Yard, Michael looked sheepishly at Isobel and said, ‘Sorry about the false start. I got carried away.’

  ‘Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that the French records were not burned in the Revolution.’ Her tone told him that she was not the type to dwell on past mistakes. ‘Your sister seems popular.’

  Michael snorted. ‘She once had a famous rock star as a boyfriend. She turned him on to collecting and he bought up most of Bond Street. Of course she’s popular.’

  Isobel threw him a glance. ‘But he didn’t fancy anything in Mason’s Yard—right?’ She went on before Michael could protest. ‘Shall we divide the labour? One do the embassy and the other the university?’

  They were just passing Dalmeny’s, a small but expensive gallery that dealt mostly in French furniture and a few paintings. They had passed it two nights before, on their way to Keating’s. Michael brightened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet, anyway, I’ll call Jumble Jacques in Paris.’ When Isobel turned to look at him, he added, ‘Jacques de Selve, if you want the grown-up version. He’s an old friend, and a colleague of sorts. He tells me about any English paintings that come his way, and I let him know when any French art or furniture is included in the contents of a house sale I’m offered here. It’s not a regular trade, but enough for me to be able to ring him and ask his help.’

  At the gallery there were several messages for Michael but before doing anything else he took down a large book from the shelves in his office. It was heavy and he dropped it on to his desk with a thud.

  ‘This is Chamberlain’s catalogue raisonnée on Holbein. Everything the painter did is in here.’ He turned to the back where there was an index of places where Holbein’s work was kept. He looked up Basle and flipped the pages until he reached it. There in black and white was a small photograph of the master’s drawing of the medallion. Michael showed it to Isobel. ‘The answer was in this very room all the time. Maddening. But at least we know we’re on the right track now. There’s no doubt … the designs are identical.’

  Isobel nodded. ‘Why would someone living in England have a French Order?’

  ‘That had occurred to me too. I don’t see it as a problem, though. Presumably, if and when we find out Mercury’s true name, we’ll also find what he did to merit the honour.’

  He reached into a drawer for his address book and found de Selve’s number in Paris. When his call was put through, it turned out that the Frenchman was at a sale. ‘Damn!’ hissed Michael, putting his hand over the receiver. He left word that de Selve should call him back as soon as possible. ‘All right,’ he said to Isobel. ‘You call the embassy and I’ll try the university. It’s better than sitting here, waiting.’

  But it wasn’t. At the university Michael was told, in so many words, that the department of French did not exist to answer queries from the general public. Isobel was referred by the embassy to the French Institute in Belgrave Square but they said that, although they had books on chivalry, they had no records relating to any Orders.

  Michael’s insides felt as if they were being ploughed over by the frustration—and he lit a fresh cigar to calm himself. Then Jacques called back. How different he was! Gentle, considerate, friendly. He couldn’t answer Michael’s query personally, he said, but there was a coin and medal dealer just across the street, the rue de Seine. The man was a good friend, would surely know the answer, and Jacques would call again the
moment he had spoken to him. Just as Michael was about to hang up, de Selve added, ‘Michael, is this something you might have for me?’

  Carefully, Michael replied, ‘I haven’t bought it yet, Jacques. But if I can identify the man, and he’s of more use to you than he is to me, you shall certainly have first refusal.’

  ‘Bon. A bientôt.’

  They waited. It was lunchtime but neither of them could even think about eating until Jacques had called back. If the records had been destroyed …

  Michael looked at his messages. One was in Greg’s handwriting and said simply: ‘Call Ed.’ Ed McCrystal was an Irish member of the gambling syndicate, and had a big job in a firm of Dublin stockbrokers. Michael was put through straight away. ‘Yes, Ed? Are we under starter’s orders?’

  ‘We are indeed, my boy, we are indeed. You may not have heard it on the news yet—Greg says you have better things to do with your time than listen to the radio—but late last night they finally netted a large object in Loch Ness—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m Irish, remember, I exaggerate but I do not lie. The object, the organism as it is being called, is being towed ashore even as we speak. Unhappily, the TV screens in the office here show only what’s happening to the price of coffee, tin and bauxite. Otherwise I could watch it. Anyway, it’s too good an opportunity to miss.’

  ‘I agree. What’s the idea?’

  ‘Length.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The entire object, the whole organism, Michael. Don’t be crude.’

  ‘All right, all right. Good idea. I’m in. Who’s got what, so far?’

  ‘Greg has thirty feet, Charlie has fifty, the fool, Doug has fifteen, one-five. I haven’t spoken to the others yet. You?’

  ‘A ton.’

  ‘A hundred feet!’

  ‘That’s what it usually is. In the civilised world.’

  ‘This is the last chance to change your mind.’

  ‘No thanks. If they are towing it in, and haven’t already hauled it aboard, it must be pretty big.’

  ‘Done!’ cried McCrystal. ‘Rien ne va plus.’