by Peter Watson
‘My turn,’ said Michael. ‘I just wish I could remember the ferryman’s name … it would save so much bother.’ He turned the pages of his book while Isobel rolled over on to her back and stared up at the sky. Sparrows and swallows and grey and white pigeons swooped about in the air.
‘Oh Lord,’ Michael groaned a moment later. ‘There’s pages on Hercules. No … I take it back … there’s just a paragraph on the underworld … “In Alcestis, by Euripides, the queen, who loved her husband deeply, agreed to take his place in the underworld when he was about to die. Hercules went after her, fought with death, and brought her back to earth …” No, that’s no good.’ He thumped the book with the flat of his hand. ‘Why can’t I remember the ferrybloodyman’s name!’
‘I’ll have another go.’ Isobel rolled over again and picked up her book. This time, however, she didn’t even bother to read out loud what she found. She just said, ‘No go in Limbo.’
They lay in the sun a little longer. The high wisps of cloud were being burned off as the day grew older.
‘Michael,’ said Isobel, ‘does it really matter if we don’t have this character’s name? After all, whatever he’s called, he’s still a ferryman. Surely that means the next clue lies along a river?’
Michael cupped his hands over his eyes so he could keep his eyes in shade as he looked at her. ‘Not necessarily. We don’t know whether the ferryman is leading us to the river or across it to the underworld, whatever that might be.’
‘No, look at the next clue. A merman. Surely that’s a gross hint that we go down the river towards the sea, rather than up the river or across it.’
‘You’re right. We’re wasting time, all over a name.’ He got up and held out his hand, to pull Isobel to her feet. ‘Let’s go to the pub. A little drink might clear our heads.’
He led the way back through the beech wood and up the slope of the fields. The sun was now blazing high in a sky wispy with cirrus clouds, and Michael took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. When they reached the road they turned away from Michael’s Mercedes towards the pub. A postman’s van came towards them and they stood to one side to give it room to pass. Isobel’s eyes followed the van as it went and she glanced back behind them to the monastery.
‘Michael!’ she suddenly shouted. ‘Michael, look! Look at your car!’
He swivelled. ‘Good God!’ he cried. As he spoke he was already running. The car boot, which they had left locked with their cases in it, was wide open, its lid yawning up like the jaw of a large snout. Isobel rushed after him.
Michael reached the car and peered into the boot. He rummaged through the papers and maps he always kept there.
Isobel caught up with him. ‘What’s been taken?’
Michael didn’t reply immediately. He continued sifting and rummaging, moving the luggage about. Then he straightened up. ‘Nothing, so far as I can tell. Odd.’ He felt relieved until he pulled down the boot lid and examined the lock. The paint around it was badly flaked and scratched and the metal was severely mangled. ‘Somebody wrenched it open—’
‘And took nothing? After all that trouble?’
‘Perhaps we disturbed them.’ He looked again at the damaged bodywork. ‘They must have been very strong. Perhaps there was more than one and they kept watch on us. They would have had the chance to escape very easily.’
‘But they would have taken something, surely? It was a long walk from the end of the beech wood to the road. They would have had time to take out our cases.’
‘Conjecture,’ said Michael. He moved round to test the main doors. They were all locked, the windows all intact. ‘Let’s put the cases inside the car. I’ll tie the boot down so it doesn’t flap about and we can have our pub lunch in peace. Come on, get in.’
Slowly, he drove the few hundred yards to the Chalk and Cheese and parked as close to the main door as he could, so he would be able to keep an eye on the car from the bar. Isobel went on inside to order lunch while Michael fished out the rope he always kept in the boot for emergencies. He transferred their luggage to the back seat, locked all the doors, then tied down the lid of the boot and threaded the rope through the tow hook on the underside. Then he joined Isobel.
They sat in a small bay window where they could see the 190. In honour of the local monastery, they both drank cider. Michael raised the glass to his lips and took a hefty swallow. ‘Aahhh. The sun makes this taste all the better.’ He smiled at Isobel. ‘Now, where are we?’
‘Not as far ahead as you think, Michael.’
‘Oh?’ He swallowed more cider. ‘And why not?’
‘Listen to this, first. While you were fixing the car, I ordered drinks but I also looked up “River”. I’ll read it to you.’ Isobel already had the book open at the page. ‘“According to Babylonian tradition, Paradise was watered by the Euphrates, Gihon, Pison and Tigris, four rivers which the Middle Ages made into symbols of the gospels. The four rivers of Hades were the Acheron, Cocytus, Phlegethon and Styx, which Dante made into stages of punishment of the soul in hell. The classical ferryman of the Styx was Charon –”’
‘Charon! Of course, of course. How could I have forgotten it? I never knew that bit about rivers being associated with the gospels. Gospels mean “good news” of course, so that confirms our thinking, to go along the river, not across it. We follow the waters to get the good news. It all fits, Isobel, so why are you being so pessimistic?’
‘Because I also asked the man behind the bar where the nearest river is. And there isn’t one. Not here, not for miles. The nearest, funnily enough, flows through Godwin Magna. But there isn’t one in this village. It’s dry.’
Michael frowned at his drink. Instinctively, his brain was calculating the cost of repairing his car boot. It would certainly cost him his no-claims bonus on his insurance. That virtually wiped out his winnings on the Loch Ness monster.
Isobel was speaking again: ‘Perhaps the Charon figure has a different meaning. A crossover point, a boundary of some sort, between one world and the next, so to speak.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Charon has a specific meaning: river ferryman.’ He fished out the photograph. ‘And don’t forget the next clue—the man with a fish’s tail—the merman. That certainly means we’re looking for a river.’
Just then the landlord appeared with two plates of cheese, bread and salad. ‘I ordered for you,’ said Isobel. ‘I hope a ploughman’s lunch is enough.’
‘Perfect,’ Michael replied. And to the landlord, ‘Same again please. Two halves of cider.’
While the landlord was pulling the drinks, Isobel said, ‘Michael, there’s something else.’
He was just finishing his first cider and had his glass to his lips. He nodded.
‘I don’t think it was any ordinary thief who broke into your boot.’
He swallowed. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Think, Michael. This is not the first time that we, you and I, have suffered a break-in when nothing has been taken.’
‘You mean—’
‘Yes. I think it was Molyneux who broke into your car this morning—’
Michael frowned again. ‘That’s reading too much into what’s happened—’
‘Is it? Those church pamphlets were stolen. That means Molyneux knew we might be right behind him on the trail.’
‘No, it doesn’t, not necessarily. It might have been a general precaution. True, he saw you at the National Portrait Gallery. True, you lied to him and he probably guessed as much. But it’s a long way from there to assuming that he has just burgled my car. It is my car, remember, so how did he link you to me?’
‘He could have followed me to Mason’s Yard. He could have looked in the register at the National Portrait Gallery. Your name was next to mine.’
Michael swallowed some cider. ‘Now you’re being fanciful.’
‘Am I?’ She waved a spring onion at him. ‘When Molyneux bumped into me at the gallery he was, well, not threatening exactly, but …
wary. He saw the photocopies in my hand. He must have realised then that, one way or the other, I had found out about the Landscape of Lies. That must have worried him, enough for him to follow me, I would say. If he did follow me, or checked in the gallery register, he would have realised he had a race on his hands. That his cosy, leisurely pursuit of the secrets within the painting had been transformed into a scramble. That would explain the missing pamphlets.’
The landlord brought the fresh ciders and Isobel waited for him to set them down before going on. ‘As to the business of your car, that may need no explaining. All we have to assume is that Molyneux saw us, earlier today, when we arrived at the monastery. Maybe he was having a drink in this very pub. If he did see us, and then watched as we went along the footpath, he would have realised he had the perfect opportunity to break in—’
‘But why did he break in? Okay, I admit your reasoning so far is pretty impressive, Chief Inspector class, even. But I still don’t see why Molyneux should break into my car and not take anything.’
‘Michael! It’s obvious. He was looking for the picture. He could see it wasn’t in the main part of the car, which is why he didn’t bother to break the glass or force the doors. And that explains why, once he had broken into the boot, he still stole nothing. The one thing he wanted wasn’t there.’
Michael stared at Isobel. She ate some cheese. The dimples in her cheeks appeared as she chewed. Her eyes were aglow.
‘That could mean one of two things,’ said Michael after a long silence. ‘Either … that he simply wanted to take our “map”, so to speak, away from us, to stop us following in his tracks and maybe even getting ahead of him. Or …’ He paused, the implications of what he was about to say still sinking in. ‘Or … Molyneux has come to the conclusion that his photograph of the Landscape is no longer good enough to pursue this puzzle.’
‘Exactly,’ said Isobel, picking up her fresh glass of cider. ‘Absobloodylutely.’
She drank and then helped herself to more cheese. She balanced it on some bread and added pickle. She looked at Michael as she chewed. It took some time for Michael to register emotionally what Isobel was saying. He had never met Molyneux, didn’t know what kind of man he was. He had been burgled in London once before and he now relived the sense of invasion he had felt on that occasion. Slowly, as he sat there, staring at his cheese and cider, and as he considered again the damage that had been done to his car, damage inflicted in full daylight, he started to boil. This time, however, it wasn’t just fury. There was also alarm, worry, a tinge of real fear. Michael had a sharp tongue when he needed it. He could use the language of violence. But the real thing! He had never even considered it and it shook him now that he had come so close to someone who was prepared to use force. Molyneux made Michael apprehensive. No, dammit, he wasn’t apprehensive; his feelings were stronger than that. He supposed he felt much as Isobel had felt when she had interrupted Molyneux in her home that night—except that she must have gone through even more. No wonder she had wanted to move the picture somewhere else for a while.
Isobel sliced through an onion and said, ‘Assume that he has reached the same point as we have. That the next clue lies along a river—but there’s no river here. That must mean we have both missed something, some minor but crucial clue that is not present in the photographs but is in the painting itself.’
Michael frowned at his cider again. He cut some more cheese. He dragged his mind back from Molyneux to the picture itself. ‘I don’t see how anything could be in the painting but not in the photograph. Unless the colour is important. Paintings are often quite different in the flesh compared with how they appear in photographs.’ Suddenly, he put his knife down with a clatter. ‘That’s not it. Of course. Of course! The painting conceals the next clue, just as the photograph does. But the picture can be cleaned! Yes, that must be it.’
He looked again at the photograph, his eyes raking the detail. After a few moments, during which he chewed his bread and cheese, he pushed the photograph across to Isobel. He picked up a spring onion and pointed with it. ‘Look at this. Look at the monk one clue back. The Franciscan. The figure before Charon.’
Isobel leaned forward to examine the photo as Michael went on. For the moment he had forgotten Molyneux and squashed his fear. ‘See how the monk is looking down. I had assumed that was just his attitude of humility, as it should be in a holy man. But he could be looking at something on the ground, something at his feet. Pluto and Jesse are all looking at exactly the same point. See!’ Michael tapped the photo with the end of the onion. ‘The painting does look fuzzy all around that area.’ He finished the last of his cheese. ‘I suppose we’d better get a move on, back to London, I mean. If Molyneux would contemplate breaking into my car, he might just break into the gallery.’ It was a thought that had only occurred to him as he had been speaking. Now Michael was truly alarmed.
As they finished their cider he said, ‘Molyneux can’t have got to London yet, so we’re relatively safe, but better to be doubly sure.’
While Isobel hurriedly paid the bill, Michael rushed to the telephone. He dialled the gallery and waited for the phone to ring out. When it did so, he was concerned that there was no reply. He let it ring and ring but still no one answered.
‘Puzzling,’ he said to Isobel when he joined her, outside by the car. ‘I know Greg’s out. But Patrick should be there, and Elizabeth. What’s happening?’
Michael double-checked the rope holding the boot lid down and, satisfied that it would hold all the way back to London, got into the driving seat.
They stopped at a service station on the M3 and Michael tried ringing again from there. Still no reply and, although they both knew that Molyneux could not yet have got to London, their fears were mounting. What if Molyneux had a partner in London whom he had telephoned?
Michael drove fast, very fast, hurtling the Mercedes along at more than 95 miles an hour. There was Vaughan Williams on the tape deck but neither of them was really listening. Around half past four, as they were coming into London, he stopped and tried to phone again. Still no reply. Now beginning to stiffen with fear, Michael used every trick he knew, tried every back street he could think of, to cheat his way around the traffic into town.
Even so, it was nearly six when they arrived at Mason’s Yard. Everything looked all right as he parked outside the gallery. The lights were out, the windows were intact, the door was locked and the pictures which had been on the walls when he left were still there. There was no sign at all of a forced entry. He inserted his key into the lock. It turned exactly as it should have done. He pushed at the door. The alarm pulsed out in an entirely normal way. He went to the back of the gallery, stepped behind a desk and switched off the whine. The noise died exactly as it always did.
They went upstairs to Greg Wood’s office, which was at the back where the vault was located. Michael locked the outer door, swung aside a real bookcase to reveal the vault and inserted a key into the first of two locks. His heartbeat cannoned around in his ribcage like a berserk bull. The key turned normally. Michael tried the second and held his breath. His pulse throbbed in his ears. But the second lock also rolled back as it should do. Finally, feeling a trickle of sweat percolate down the side of his neck, he pulled back the vault door.
The picture was there.
‘Thank God!’ breathed Isobel.
Michael wiped his neck with his handkerchief, took out the Landscape and propped it on a table which Greg used to keep old catalogues on. He examined the area near the Franciscan’s feet. ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘There is some grime here. Something is hidden—I hadn’t noticed it before. There’s a yellowish gold poking through in a few places. See?’
Isobel bent forward and looked at where he was pointing. ‘What can be done about it?’
Michael had been so intent on driving fast that he hadn’t smoked at all on the way back to London. Now he lit up. Isobel took a step away from him. He stared at the picture, then at hi
s watch. It was nearly 6.30. ‘It’s too late to get to the restorer’s tonight. But we’ll do it first thing in the morning. Then we have to wait a few days.’
Isobel groaned. ‘How frustrating.’
‘I know. I know. But remember. Molyneux will be even more frustrated. He has no picture to clean.’
‘That only makes him more dangerous. Michael, we have to be very careful, right now. I feel it in my bones.’
‘I agree. I don’t think I’ll leave the painting here overnight. I’ll take it home with me.’
‘Is that wise? Don’t you live alone?’
‘Yes, but Molyneux won’t burgle me while I’m there.’
‘I’m not so sure. He tried it with me, remember.’
‘He doesn’t know where I live.’
‘You’re in the phone book, aren’t you?’
When Michael nodded, Isobel went on. ‘Don’t underestimate him, Michael. Think what he’s done so far: broken into two places, stolen those pamphlets and been alert and cunning enough to spot that we are following along behind him. He’s not fooling around.’
‘Are you saying you want to take it with you? To an address he doesn’t know? I don’t think—’
‘No, I’m not. It wouldn’t be fair on my hosts to put them at risk, however slight.’
‘There you are—’
She interrupted him again. ‘But what I’m also thinking is that two people are a whole lot safer than one. We can stay awake in shifts throughout the night.’ She looked at him without blinking. ‘I am inviting myself to stay for the night.’
Michael swallowed. He thought she was being melodramatic. At the same time, he acknowledged that it was possible Molyneux might come looking for the picture. The man had now tried unsuccessfully to get his hands on it twice, and without it he was stymied. There was no doubt that the man was capable of violence. Michael felt sick just thinking of the damage to his car. He spread his arms and, without taking the cigar from his mouth, said, ‘Be my guest. You can sleep in the smoking-room.’
