Landscape of Lies

by Peter Watson

  Michael put down the phone.

  Isobel had been frowning during most of this exchange. Michael’s cigar had gone out and as he relit it he smiled and explained the wager.

  ‘Your bets are your own business, Michael. But what if de Selve has been trying to get through?’

  Michael buzzed the secretary. There had been no calls from Paris.

  So, again, they waited. For each minute that passed without de Selve calling back, Michael grew more apprehensive. He drew hungrily on his cigar. He tried to think of old Julius Samuels, working on the woman in Dover Street. The old man should be finished soon. Michael looked at the cigar between his fingers, inspecting semi-consciously the brown leaves, intertwined like the scales of a crayfish. He was one of a dwindling band. Who smoked now? Widows, the French, prison inmates, who still rolled their own, so he’d heard. That made sense. Widows and prisoners had little else to do. Why the French? But that only brought his mind back to de Selve. Why hadn’t he called back? Had Jacques been told the records had been destroyed, and was hesitating to give them the bad news? Was the coin dealer away?

  After more than half an hour the phone eventually rang and, when Michael snatched at it, Jacques was at the other end of the line. ‘Michael, I am sorry to be so long but Eclier, the dealer I must speak with, he had a client with him and was not free until a few moments ago.’

  ‘I understand, Jacques.’ Michael tried to keep the edge out of his voice. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Good for you, I think. Eclier has a book that goes back to 1643, the reign of Louis XIV. All the members of the Order until the Revolution are in it.’

  ‘No, Jacques. I am interested in an earlier period—1500 to 1550.’

  ‘Eh bien. In that case you must go to the Bibliothèque Nationale, here in Paris. It is the old Palais-Mazarin. You know it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is a little like the reading room in your British Museum.’

  Michael’s pulse was racing now. He gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign to Isobel. ‘The Bibliothèque is open normal hours?’

  ‘For sure. But Michael, can I help? My French is better than yours, I think.’ Jacques laughed. ‘And it will save the air ticket.’

  ‘Thank you, Jacques. But for the moment I must respect the confidence of the present owner of the painting. She is an Englishwoman and doesn’t want any information about her picture to be widely known before she is ready.’ It was only a white lie, he told himself. ‘I am sorry—but don’t worry. If I think France is the place for the picture, Jacques, you’ll be the first to know. I promise. And thank you for being so helpful, I knew I could rely on you.’

  He put down the phone and sat back. ‘So, the Bibliothèque Nationale it is.’

  ‘Are we both going?’

  ‘Nnno … I don’t think so. One ought to be enough. How’s your French?’

  ‘Not brilliant.’

  ‘Then I’ll go to Paris tonight, so I can be in the Bibliothèque first thing in the morning, when it opens. I’ll get the names, then phone them through to you here. You can check them out at the National Portrait Gallery—’ He saw Isobel’s eyebrow rise quizzically and explained, ‘There must be a French equivalent of our National Portrait Gallery, which we may be forced to use later. But I’ve been thinking: this is an English picture, it must relate to someone who, whether he was French or Florentine or Finnish, was famous in England. So let’s stick with the NPG for the time being. Now, I’d better get on to Air France.’

  It was raining in Paris. Away from the main boulevards, as the Bibliothèque Nationale was, the streets were narrow and the wind had less chance to whip the drops into cutting edges than it did in the wider thoroughfares. And, despite the wet, the smells of Paris, half forgotten yet immediately familiar, were welcoming. Michael felt invigorated.

  The Bibliothèque was tucked away in the busy, clogged area of Paris just to the north of the Louvre and the Palais-Royal—an area full of pâtisseries and stationery shops, of coffee merchants and print sellers, small squares, dogs and, Michael was delighted to observe, cigar wholesalers. The entrance to the Bibliothèque Nationale was nowhere near as imposing as the British Museum’s. It was a simple gate on the east side of a small, leafy square. Michael took a quick coffee, bitter and black as the clouds above, in a café on the corner, before passing through the gate, which was plastered with posters of forthcoming exhibitions. He crossed a courtyard to a large glass porch, inside which was the dark entranceway to the Bibliothèque proper.

  Jumble Jacques had been right; it was rather like the reading room of the British Museum. The work tables, each with a bright green glass lightshade, radiated out from a central circular issue desk like the spokes of a wheel. Whatever the weather outside in Paris there was always a kind of winter fug in here.

  Michael gave his order at the central desk and waited for more than an hour before the documents arrived. Naturally there was no smoking in the library. When the documents were placed in front of him they turned out to be two large piles of scarlet, leather-bound books. No facsimiles this time: this was the real thing. Michael looked at the spines of the books: nothing. Opening one he was dismayed to see that it was handwritten in a flowery, ornate scrawl which he found very difficult to read. ‘Bibliobloodythèque’, he whispered to himself. At the same time he was relieved that the names were laid out chronologically. One book, he found, ended in 1518 and the next, beginning in that year, contained names up to 1556. So he just needed to concentrate on those two volumes.

  After about an hour, he found that he was reading the handwriting much more easily and within another hour he had completed what he had come for. Between 1500 and 1537 only fifteen awards of the Order of St Michael had been made. He therefore wrote down all fifteen names: he was taking no chances. Like the British Museum, the Bibliothèque Nationale had a system whereby, if someone wanted the same books two days running, they were not returned to the main shelves but held in an ‘overnight stack’. Michael used this facility now, just in case he needed to consult the ledgers again. Then he found a telephone in the corridor and phoned London. Isobel, at the gallery in Mason’s Yard, was soon on the line and writing down the names he gave her.

  ‘I’m staying at the Saint-Simon,’ he said after he had finished dictating the list. ‘It’s a small hotel on the left bank near a marvellous one-star restaurant and the Beaux-Arts area.’ He read the telephone number out to her. ‘But I also have a reservation on the seven-thirty Air France flight tonight, in case we make progress. Call me the minute you’re through in Trafalgar Square. Good luck!’

  Isobel was more nervous today than she had been on their previous visit to the National Portrait Gallery. Owing to Willie Maitland they had been given a second chance; they wouldn’t be given a third. This trip to the gallery had to succeed, or they were lost.

  She pushed her way through the main glass doors and mounted the staircase. To her right there was a poster of a woman who vaguely resembled the friend she was staying with. She wore an off-the-shoulder dress and advertised an exhibition of portraits by John Singer Sargent, the American artist who painted all the fashionable people of his day. The dress in the poster was red, like Michael’s braces.

  The head librarian nodded and smiled—she was on her way out to lunch this time. But the assistant took the names Isobel gave her and disappeared through a door. Isobel sat at a different desk this time feeling that, unless she did so, their luck might not change either. After a few minutes, the assistant came back. To Isobel’s alarm she saw that the woman was carrying no folders.

  ‘Some of these names look French,’ the assistant said softly.

  ‘They all are,’ Isobel replied.

  ‘Which means there may be some we don’t have—you realise that, don’t you? Only if someone came to England to live, or on a mission to the court, or was perhaps distinguished in his own right, so that they were painted or drawn while here—only then would we have them.’

  ‘I understand,�
� said Isobel. ‘Just do what you can, please.’

  Twenty minutes elapsed. The library was not as busy today, but Isobel recognised the dealer whom Michael knew vaguely. He was seated at the same desk as before and nodded.

  When the assistant librarian reappeared, Isobel immediately noticed with relief that she was carrying a number of green folders: at least her mission wasn’t a complete wipe-out.

  As the assistant put the folders on the desk, she said, ‘According to our master index, we only have four of the fifteen names you are interested in. The rest you would have to check out in France. Sorry.’

  Isobel smiled, though inside she felt anything but cheerful. Four names only! She reached for the folders, her hands clammy from nerves.

  The name on the first label said ‘Albert Martres’. She opened the folder. Albert Martres was tall, grey-haired, a slim and slender figure, a graceful-looking priest, and he didn’t fit. The second was Jean Duquesne, a man with a squashed-in face and large ears. Isobel sighed. Two down, two to go. The third was Philippe du Croix. Her body told her what she saw moments before her mind registered it. She felt a pleasant rubbing sensation at the back of her eyes. She stopped breathing. Her spine itched. Du Croix’s haircut was familiar, the nose was identical, the gaze was the same gaze. But it was the jawline, that and the cleft in his chin, that clinched it. Those features gave the face its character and it was the same character as in the painting—without a shadow of a doubt.

  They had their man.

  Isobel started to breathe again. Her sigh was audible. She turned the print over. On the back was written: ‘Philippe du Croix: du Croix came to England in 1528 to marry Elizabeth Goodwin, the eldest daughter of Sir John Goodwin, after which he anglicised his name to Cross.’

  And that was all. Nothing about what sort of life he had led or where he had lived. Isobel got up and moved to the main desk. The assistant librarian looked up and smiled. ‘This man, Philippe du Croix, Philip Cross,’ said Isobel. ‘How can I find out more about him, please?’

  The assistant took the print from her, turned it over, and read what was on the back. She pursed her lips. ‘You might try the Dictionary of National Biography,’ and she nodded across the room to a long row of brown volumes.

  Isobel moved over to the shelf, took down the volume marked ‘CAG-DRE’ and carried it back to her desk. She riffled through the pages—yes!—here was a bit more at least. The entry read:

  CROSS, Philip (1485–1536), born Philippe du Croix, was a French nobleman who achieved prominence as a diplomat, devoting his energies to a reconciliation between Catholic and Protestant countries. From 1514 he travelled in Germany and the Low Countries. In 1525 he crossed to England on a diplomatic mission and while in London met Elizabeth Goodwin, daughter of Sir Thomas Goodwin [q.v.], of Godwin Magna in Dorset. In 1526 du Croix narrowly escaped death when engaged on a mission for the French king in Spain. The Spaniards, believing that du Croix was a favourite of the French king, held him hostage in Seville, pending settlement of a number of matters disputed between the two countries. But du Croix escaped and made his way to Paris, undergoing a series of adventures en route when he was pursued by Spanish forces. Twice he escaped death only narrowly. In Paris his loyalty and bravery were rewarded, the king bestowing on him the Order of St Michael, then France’s highest honour.

  The following year du Croix, who seems by then to have had enough adventuring, returned to England and married Elizabeth Goodwin. On condition that he anglicised his name, Cross, as he became, and his new bride were given extensive lands in Dorset and, when Sir Thomas’s only son died young, without marrying, to be soon followed by Sir Thomas himself, Cross and Elizabeth succeeded to the entire Goodwin estate. In his later years Cross wrote two books which returned to his earlier interest of trying to reconcile the Catholic and Protestant faiths. His books, for example, are chiefly notable for Cross’s enlightened discussion of divorce. He was buried in the Goodwin family chapel at Godwin Magna, near Dorchester.

  With growing excitement, Isobel took the opened book and the print to the main desk where she was directed to a small office with a photocopying machine. She needed several copies made: Michael would want to see the likeness and the dictionary entry for himself.

  ‘Going to be an exhibition on Cross, is there?’ said the girl who operated the machine.

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I haven’t heard. Why do you ask?’

  The machine flashed green as the copies were made. ‘There was someone else in here the other day. He wanted copies of the same man. I remember the haircut—’

  ‘When was that? Can you remember?’ Isobel felt her heart race in her chest. Every time they took a step forward, there was always a step back soon after.

  The girl stopped the machine and handed Isobel the photocopies. ‘Can’t say exactly … some time last week, probably. Yes, it must have been, because the photocopier was out of order …’

  Isobel paid the girl, took the photocopies, returned the print and the dictionary, and hurried out of the library, anxious to telephone Michael in Paris and tell him the news. She ran down the stairs, reached the mezzanine landing and turned, ready to descend to the marble tiles of the entrance hall. As she did so she noticed, coming through the glass doors, a tall, stringy, grey-haired man with creases in his cheeks, and a thin upper lip. Molyneux.

  Isobel halted. Feeling her skin go clammy, she turned and retreated back up the stairs. What was Molyneux doing here? She had to think. As she did so she climbed the stairs back to the first floor, as far away from Molyneux as she could. Had he seen her? She thought not. She had stepped back instinctively and could not have been on view for more than a few seconds. She reached the corridor which led to the archive. That was it! Molyneux had come for his photocopies. Thank God, she hadn’t bumped into him in the archive, or the photocopying room. Isobel hurried on past the archive, beyond the entrance to the Sargent exhibition and on up to the top floor, where the Tudor and Georgian portraits were kept. She didn’t dare look round.

  When she reached the top floor she followed the gallery as it wound round, deeper into the building, and found a small room with a green-painted beam-engine. It was full of complicated levers and was about eight feet high. She hid behind it and began studying a series of small silhouettes on the wall.

  How long should she give Molyneux, she asked herself. She had been in the library herself for about forty minutes. It would take about fifteen minutes for his order to be fetched up—that was the safest time to leave. She looked at her watch.

  ‘Bit sinister, silhouettes, don’t you agree?’

  Isobel’s blood seemed to jerk in her veins. He’d seen her and followed her! She turned.

  ‘Miss Sadler, what a pleasure. I thought it was you downstairs, but you turned suddenly and came up here. Did you forget something?’ His eyes moved to the photocopies she was carrying. ‘Are you a regular visitor to the gallery?’

  Isobel was filled with alarm. Gripping the photocopies in her right hand, she let her arm fall and half hid the papers behind her back. Molyneux mustn’t see what she had.

  She searched her brain for an answer to his questions. She must look, and sound, as natural as possible. ‘I … I was visiting the Sargent exhibition …’ Thank God she had noticed the poster on the way in. ‘Then I thought I might as well come and see the rest of the gallery while I’m here. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you downstairs. Any news about those documents yet? Has your client stopped travelling?’

  ‘You are interested in Sargent?’ Molyneux ignored her questions.

  Isobel suddenly felt out of breath. He didn’t believe her. She looked about. There was no one else in this small part of the gallery and the levers of the beam-engine were like bars in a surrealist prison. She searched her memory for something Michael had said. What was it? Yes. ‘He spent some time near us, you know? Broadway in Worcestershire. I’ve always been interested in his work.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Molyneux pointed to the photocopies
in Isobel’s hand. ‘Have you been taking notes?’

  She gripped the photocopies more tightly. ‘No.’ Now her voice was growing unnatural. She knew it but she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Have you seen these over here?’ Molyneux walked to the other side of the gallery. ‘These are life masks which Benjamin Haydon made of Wordsworth and Keats. Bit grisly, don’t you think?’

  Isobel looked at the masks.

  ‘I have some similar ones, except that mine are death masks, taken from corpses.’

  Isobel tried not to shudder. He wasn’t going to frighten her.

  ‘Did you like Sargent’s portrait of Lady Eden?’

  Now completely out of her depth, Isobel could only say, ‘Is that the woman in red?’

  ‘Maybe you preferred Miss Cicely Alexander?’

  Isobel felt as if she was melting. She could feel the sweat from her hands making the photocopies greasy. She nodded her head uncertainly.

  Immediately there was a change in Molyneux’s expression and she knew she had made a mistake. He had caught her out, as he intended. She had lied to him and he knew it. He couldn’t be certain of her reason for coming to the gallery but he must have a good idea.

  Isobel wanted to scream at him but knew that she had to act as relaxed as she could. And she had to leave quickly before the situation got any worse. She ought to carry the fight to him, to ask him what he was doing in the gallery, to press him on the documents, where his gallery was if he had one. At the back of her mind was the thought that she might confront him and ask his real name. But she realised they couldn’t be certain he was using a false one and she would look very foolish, and very suspicious. No, she had to get away. She looked at her watch again. ‘Mr Molyneux, my train leaves in forty minutes. I’m afraid I must dash. Please forgive me.’

  He looked hard at her and stepped aside. Isobel shot him the briefest of smiles and hurried by. Outside the gallery, she turned south and forced herself to stroll towards Trafalgar Square as if she was looking for a taxi. Once she reached the square, however, and was out of sight of the entrance to the Portrait Gallery, she ran most of the way back to Mason’s Yard.