Landscape of Lies

by Peter Watson

  ‘Who is Molyneux, for Lord’s sake? I wonder how many Molyneuxs there are in the phone book?’

  ‘What’s the point? We don’t know that he lives in London and, as you yourself said, we don’t even know if it’s his real name.’

  ‘Didn’t I read somewhere that criminals give themselves the same initials and the same first name, so that, if they bump into someone they know, that other person won’t give the game away?’

  ‘Maybe you did. But I can’t see what use it is.’

  ‘No, I’m just thinking out loud in case it provokes an idea in your head. If his name isn’t Molyneux, why did he choose it? Isn’t it an Irish name? Maybe he’s Irish.’

  ‘Hmm. Could be. We could ask around along those lines, I suppose. Might do some good. I can try Sotheby’s again.’

  ‘It’s so frustrating, not knowing what sort of person you are up against. It’s like jungle warfare.’

  ‘No bacon and sausage in the jungle,’ said Michael, turning into the car park of The Lamb at Hindon. ‘Breakfast.’

  They were both ravenous and devoured everything that was put before them. They felt better physically but that was as far as it went. On the rest of the way back to London they were quiet. The rain was clearing, the day was brightening, but it looked as though their adventure was over. Isobel was thinking about going back to the farm and didn’t want to do it. The mood of the previous evening, when they had both been preparing to spend the night together in Southwold, had entirely evaporated.

  Michael switched on the car radio, so that they could catch up with the news. Save for one item it was the usual diet: Beirut, Belfast and brothels still making the headlines. The exception was an announcement from Los Angeles that the actress Miss Margaret Masson was to be married again. This time the lucky man was Dr Edward Whicker, a plastic surgeon. A wedding in a matter of days was anticipated.

  Michael cheered in a lacklustre way. He was £500 richer. ‘That’s fifty of my favourite cigars,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it.

  Isobel punched him on the shoulder but her heart wasn’t in it. The good news only highlighted their plight over the Landscape of Lies.

  Isobel went with Michael to Justice Walk. She wanted to see what damage Molyneux had inflicted when he had burgled the house. She had been right. There was no damage save for a window in the basement which had a small hole cut out of it and by means of which Molyneux had got in. Inside the house the only signs of disturbance were at Michael’s desk. ‘He knew we had to have the painting cleaned,’ said Michael, staring at the invoices from Helen which were scattered over the study. ‘If he did follow us on Friday and saw us leave by train he knew he had a clear run here. He out-thought us. Once he found these invoices, it was a fair bet that’s where one of us had gone. He probably got to Helen’s a few hours after we did and let her finish the cleaning before he broke in. More snake than fox, eh?’ Michael looked at Isobel. ‘I’ll bet there are no fingerprints on the window downstairs and that he let himself out by the front door. He’s messed up my papers but nothing is missing except one slip of paper. You’re right, it’s not even worth mentioning to the police.’

  She retrieved her suitcase from the hire car and took a taxi to Montpelier Mews. They were both exhausted and she wouldn’t let him drive her. They planned to sleep until evening, then have a late supper together and decide what to do.

  After Isobel had gone, Michael found the house very empty. He recalled fondly the breakfast of Isobel’s which he had enjoyed the previous Friday. Feeling sorry for himself, he turned to the only comfort available. He lit himself a cigar and, despite the early hour, poured a Laphroaig.

  Then, with his hands full in the way he liked, he sat by the telephone answering machine and played back his messages. His mother had called. The Australian collector had phoned from Sydney, wanting to discuss the Gainsborough. Ed McCrystal had called to congratulate him on winning the Margaret Masson bet and adding that another wager was in the wind—would he please call back soonest. And Julius Samuels had rung. The portrait was ready, he said. There was no coat of arms in the picture but plenty of jewellery. That was good news. The bad news was that Julius’s daughter had given birth to a son in Australia and he was taking six weeks off to visit the child. He might even retire when he got back.

  Involuntarily, as the Landscape of Lies project appeared to be going off the boil, Michael found his mind turning back to the other deals the gallery was involved in. The Gainsborough, for instance. If the Australian was calling all the way from Sydney that seemed to indicate he intended to buy—good news. And, now that Julius had finished the nineteenth-century portrait, maybe Michael could put a name to the face. It was a pity there was no coat of arms but you couldn’t have everything and the jewellery would help. If he could identify the woman that would boost the price significantly—more good news.

  Before he went to bed he called Helen. There was no reply. Probably having lunch somewhere, he thought. Trying to pretend that nothing had happened.

  He went up to bed. He stared at the Cozens for a few moments. As he put out what was left of the cigar, Michael reflected that it didn’t look as though he was going to know Isobel Sadler any better. So far as their relationship was concerned, nothing had happened.

  He was wakened by the peal of the phone. At first he was perplexed by the light. It didn’t feel like morning. Then he remembered: it wasn’t.

  He groped for the receiver. He hated sleeping in the afternoon and, on holiday, always tried not to, however much he had drunk at lunch. Waking up in the early evening was almost as bad as going to bed in the early evening, as he had been made to do as a child, at just the moment when his parents were getting ready to entertain.

  ‘Hrrgh?’

  ‘Ah! I’d recognise that speech defect anywhere.’

  ‘You sound cheerful. What time is it?’

  ‘Just after seven.’

  ‘Hrrgh.’

  ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’

  ‘I hope no one’s listening to this conversation.’

  ‘Is this what passes for conversation in the art world?’

  ‘Did you call for a reason? I know you’re bossy on boats but—’

  ‘I want to ask a favour.’

  ‘Hrrgh.’

  ‘Exactly. Michael, can we have a night off?’

  He reached for a cigar.

  ‘I’ve stayed several nights in the mews and I’ve hardly seen my hosts. They’ve asked me out to dinner tonight and I ought to accept. I ought to take them out. Otherwise I’ll leave tomorrow without repaying any of their hospitality. Nothing is lost if you and I make it lunch tomorrow instead. I don’t know what to suggest anyway—do you?’

  Michael swung his feet out of bed and on to the floor. ‘I’m not awake yet; I don’t know.’ He couldn’t admit he had no suggestions either. He wanted to see Isobel.

  ‘There you are, then. I’ll come to the gallery in time for lunch tomorrow.’

  Michael reached for the matches. ‘I suppose that’s all right. I must take the car back—the rental people will be missing it by now. And I should fix the window in the basement.’

  ‘As your friend Lady Bracknell said, “A life crowded with incident”.’

  ‘Hrrgh!’

  ‘Have you called Helen yet?’

  ‘No reply.’

  ‘Oh dear, I hope she’s okay.’

  ‘I’ll try her again, as soon as I’ve finished talking to you.’

  ‘I’ll let you get on then. See you tomorrow, around one.’

  Michael hung up feeling unreasonably lonely. Isobel sounded so goddam cheerful. Was there some man around that he didn’t know about? That only made him more gloomy.

  He lit a cigar and drew on it, reflecting on the Cozens as he did so. It usually had a wonderfully settling effect on him but not this time. It was one of the pictures that had been cleaned by Helen. The invoice was among the wad downstairs, one of those Molyneux hadn’t stolen.

  He
dialled Helen’s number. This time he was relieved to hear her answer on the third ring.

  ‘Helen? Michael Whiting.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Good. How did it go?’

  Michael told her.

  ‘So you’re no further forward. Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry. I feel it’s all my fault—’

  ‘Now you are not to feel that way, Helen. It wasn’t your fault at all. If anybody is to blame, I am. I underestimated Molyneux. I knew he was cunning and I knew he was nasty. I knew that he had broken into Isobel’s house and I should have guessed he might break in here. But I didn’t.’

  ‘Will you … Michael, will you still be giving me work …?’ Helen said it so timidly that Michael realised how important his business was to her.

  ‘Of course I shall. Of course. In fact, I learned this afternoon that Julius has just become a grandfather again. He’s off to Oz for a while to see the baby. So I’ll be sending you more stuff, not less. Don’t worry about this Molyneux business. It doesn’t change our professional relationship at all. Next time you’re in town, though, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you popped into the gallery and took a look at this portrait which Julius has just cleaned. You can see what varnish he has finished it off with. I like the way he does it and so do the punters. If you can do the same I’ll be very happy.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll come as soon as I can. No problems with Julius, eh? Unlike me.’

  ‘Don’t be so down on yourself, Helen. As a matter of fact this picture wasn’t at all straightforward. Julius found a Victorian portrait of a woman under a sickly saint and we had hoped to find a coat of arms or a banner which would help identify her. We were out of luck, though. No heraldry at all, unless the jewels she is festooned with are a clue. But that research is my job, not Julius’s.’ He changed the subject. ‘You’re sure everything is all well with you? No aftereffects? And is the studio all tidied? I called at lunchtime and there was no reply.’

  ‘Yes, everything is straightened out. Don’t worry, Molyneux hasn’t been back. I had to go out earlier on to deliver a picture to Ipswich museum and that took a couple of hours. So relax, Michael. I’m fine. I’ve recovered my nerve already, so I can’t have been that badly affected. Just keep sending the work.’ She laughed, to make light of it.

  Michael hung up and got dressed.

  The rest of the evening was the most tedious he had known in a long while. First he tackled the basement window. The best he could manage in the circumstances was a cheap print roughly the size of the window-frame tacked on to the wood. Provided it wasn’t examined too closely it should be a deterrent.

  Returning the rental car to a location where it was not expected did not prove at all easy or at all cheap. In fact, had he had more time it would have been less exorbitant to have driven the damn thing all the way back to Cambridge and caught a train back, first class.

  His mood was not improved when he returned home shortly after ten to find a message from Isobel on the answering machine. ‘It’s eight-thirty and we’re at a restaurant near—where are we?—oh yes, Chelsea Wharf. My hosts said they would like to meet you and had you been in you could have joined us. But you’re out, too bad. You’ll probably go “Hrrgh” when you hear this—sorry. See you tomorrow.’

  Michael did not say ‘Hrrgh’. He said something else. He then stormed into the kitchen, took a bar of chocolate from the fridge and a bottle of Tormore from the cupboard. He selected a number two Montecristo and an old black and white Rita Hayworth movie. He switched on the movie, kicked off his shoes, poured a whisky and broke off the first of the chocolate. He soaked the chocolate in the whisky and slid it on to his tongue. He stretched himself on the sofa, lit the Montecristo and proceeded to get gloriously, seriously drunk.

  9

  As often happened when he had drunk too much, Michael awoke very early next day. That also had something to do with the fact that, in his stupor the night before, he had fallen asleep in front of the video, woken, stumbled upstairs and flopped on to the bed without closing the curtains. From soon after 6.30 sunshine streamed into the bedroom.

  He dressed, ate a fairly ancient grapefruit, cooked himself some eggs and settled down to read the paper. At a quarter to eight, itching to do something, he washed up, found his jacket and went out into the King’s Road in search of a taxi. Only one person in the entire art world was awake and at work at such an hour: Julius Samuels.

  As Michael walked up Dover Street, the pavements glittered with the previous day’s rain. The pools of water reminded him of his happy Sunday on the Broads. He’d like to drown Molyneux! He climbed the steps to Samuels’s studio. It was just after eight o’clock. The old man was already there, his palette, white coat and cigar in place.

  ‘Come for breakfast, have you?’ Julius was just pouring the first whisky of the day.

  Michael winced but he knew he couldn’t refuse. ‘Actually, I came to visit a lady,’ he said, taking the proffered glass.

  ‘Behind you,’ said the old man. ‘And she’s a cracker, if you ask me.’

  Michael turned. She was indeed beautiful. The mane of red hair, which was now revealed in its entirety, was rich, vivid as a vixen’s and reached down to the woman’s breasts. These too had been lovingly painted, in cream with a hint of honey. Her cleavage was now a scoop of blue glaze, so wispy you wanted to touch it with the tips of your fingers. The bodice of her dress, crimson with a fine gold line running through it, suggested watered silk. The way the dress fought what could be seen of the woman’s flesh suggested a frank sensuality. However, the expression in the face was reserved but with an ironic twist in the mouth, suggesting that the woman was well aware of her charms, her powers to disturb men. This series of paradoxes Michael found very erotic and he immediately liked the woman. That was important. It meant he would devote whatever energy it took to research who she was. And Julius’s work showed that she was somebody. The face showed more than character; it showed a sexual presence. No wonder the Victorians had wanted to cover her up.

  Michael turned and lifted his glass in a toast to the old restorer. ‘She was no saint, Jules. Thank God you spotted her underneath everything else. It will be fun finding out who she is.’

  Samuels replaced his whisky glass on the shelf. ‘There was no coat of arms, so it won’t be easy. But look at what she is holding between her finger and thumb. That might help.’

  Michael studied the object in the woman’s hand. It looked to him like a small turret. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It looks to me like a chesspiece,’ said Julius. ‘A castle or a rook.’

  ‘She was a chess player?’

  ‘Maybe. Odd, eh? And no wedding ring but a big bracelet with emeralds.’

  Michael examined the bracelet. It was gold, embedded with what appeared to be six emeralds, the size of olives. Samuels might be right. Some old families were identified with stones. He’d have to check it out at the College of Arms.

  Michael moved near to Julius, to look at the new painting the old man had on the easel. It was a large Canaletto, on its side. Few people saw pictures this way up but for a restorer it often made sense to turn a painting on its side, or even upside-down, if in that way it was easier to treat a piece of sky or the top of a building.

  ‘Nice,’ said Michael, sipping his whisky and looking down. Protocol dictated that he could not ask whose painting it was. But he could make an educated guess as to which dealer had sent it to be restored. It sometimes helped to know who had what. Canaletto had worked a lot in England and so Michael needed to know something about him.

  He stood for a while, watching the old man at work. Every so often, Julius stopped and wrote down what he was doing in his notebook, or made a tiny drawing. Michael watched as Julius made a little sketch of some chimneys.

  ‘These were painted over,’ said the old man. ‘Someone in the nineteenth century didn’t like the skyline of this picture, and had it changed. I’ve put them back by removing the sky that was painted over them, and then I t
ouched them up. This drawing shows anyone exactly what I did.’

  ‘Who do you like restoring best?’ said Michael, as always full of admiration for Julius’s casual demonstration of superb skill.

  ‘The Venetians are the most difficult. They actually mixed their paints on the canvas, unlike the Florentines, who did it on the palette and then put the mixture on with a brush. So it’s hard to get the colour and the texture right with the Venetians. My own first love is for Reynolds. He prepared some of his colours so badly that a lot of them, especially the flesh tones, have faded.’ He looked up at Michael and winked. ‘I’ve put more carmine into more Reynolds portraits than I’ve had whiskies. Want another?’

  Michael patted the old man’s shoulder. ‘No thanks, Jules. I’ll take the picture now, if I may. You’ll send the bill?’

  Samuels nodded. There was no haggling. He was the best there was and dealers either paid his price or Julius didn’t do the work. He knocked a little bit off for Michael because he paid in whisky and because he was a regular customer. But not much.

  Out on the street Michael once more found himself smiling. Every encounter with Julius was a joy. He carried the picture easily but didn’t walk too fast. It was still only 8.30 and he didn’t—want to collide with anything or anyone while he had the portrait under his arm: it would damage all too easily.

  Turning from Jermyn Street into Duke Street, he stopped to look in Myer’s Gallery. They specialised in Italian pictures and there was a Bellotto in the window. Michael admired it. In some ways, he thought, Belloto—Canaletto’s nephew—was better than the master. He reflected that the Canaletto old Julius was treating could have come from this gallery.

  He turned into Mason’s Yard, let himself into the gallery and took the woman with the cleavage up to his office. Amazingly, Julius’s whisky had revived him. Michael lit a cigar and stared at the picture. It was important to look at pictures. Too many dealers were too busy to spend time looking at the objects in their charge. There was something about this picture that didn’t add up …