Landscape of Lies

by Peter Watson

  It was more like a pyramid than a priory. The room was very large, with a high, vaulted ceiling. There was a bay window overlooking the cliffs and the sea. There was a four-poster bed, a desk and a sofa in the bay window. There were also a number of portraits on the walls. ‘These aren’t originals,’ said the woman, following Michael’s instinctive gaze. ‘They are copies of the pictures in the main lounge downstairs. The house once belonged to the Peverell family, as perhaps you know. One of them was an English ambassador to Venice. There are books and pamphlets in the library, if you are interested. By the way, at this point in the season we insist that all our guests accept the demi-pension plan—that is, you must take either lunch or dinner here, as well as breakfast. For that the rate is eighty-five pounds.’ She smiled at them. ‘I think that’s all. Would you like to take the room?’

  Michael looked lamely at Isobel. She said firmly, ‘We’ll take it. For one night, perhaps two.’

  ‘Good,’ said the woman. ‘I’m sure you will enjoy your stay. Perhaps you will just come back downstairs and check in properly.’

  Downstairs, Michael completed the formalities. Then he joined Isobel, who was unloading their cases from the car. As she heard him step out on to the gravel, she turned and whispered, ‘Did you notice the big sofa under the bay window? That’s why I wanted to inspect the room. That’s where you’re sleeping.’

  ‘I’ll wager you for it.’

  ‘No, I don’t gamble, remember. Try to be a gentleman about this.’

  Back in the bedroom, as they were unpacking, Isobel said, ‘What’s our plan?’

  ‘Lunch here, afternoon in the library and a tour of the house and grounds in the early evening. Casual conversation with the bar staff, the waiters, the owners, tonight.’

  Isobel looked at her watch. ‘It’s not even twelve yet. Let’s go and look at the cliffs and the sea. It’s such a lovely day. We can get the lay of the land.’

  ‘Fine. It will give us an appetite.’

  They set off. As they went down the drive, Michael slipped his hand in Isobel’s. At first she shied away but he hissed: ‘It looks more natural. If we look like we are lovers, sofa or no sofa, people will be off their guard.’

  She shot him a glance that was none too loving. Still, she left his hand where it was.

  The walk achieved exactly what Michael had said it would. The sea breeze, the steep climb and a brief trudge along the shingle on the beach primed their appetites perfectly. And, after all, they had been up very early. Michael noted the slope of the cliffs, the small inlets here and there, places where the shoreline had crumbled dangerously. The sea looked waxy and cold.

  Back at the hotel, after lunch, they settled in the library. They found only one book and one pamphlet about the Peverells. Michael opened the book, which was entitled Dorset to the Doge. Isobel concentrated on the pamphlet, ‘The Peverells of Stoke Hembury’, and for an hour there was silence in the room, save for the rustle of pages being turned.

  After a while, Michael yawned. ‘God, this is boring. Henry Peverell, the ambassador, was a pompous, self-important, heavy-handed phoney, so far as I can see.’

  ‘Never mind that. Are there any clues in the book?’

  ‘You tell me. So far as I can tell, he was appointed ambassador at a young age—thirty-four-ish, as this account goes. Before that he had a fairly undistinguished career. He was in Venice for four years where he met his wife, Elisabetta Dagaiole. Her family emblem—a mask—apparently occupies part of the Peverell coat of arms. It says here, in typically pompous style, that the Dagaiole arms were doubly appropriate—masks being very common at all the masked balls in Venice, but also suitable to the trade of diplomacy, in which the Venetians were so adept, and where deceit is the most useful skill. Then there’s a lot of stuff about horses, how he purchased a number of Arabian ponies from the Turks at a special market in Venice and appointed a Turk to oversee their shipment to England. After his four years were over, a great ball was held in his honour, given by the Doge, the elected ruler of the city. Then Henry and Elisabetta travelled back overland, stopping at the great courts and being entertained along the way. His son was the one who decided to cross the Arab ponies with local stock.’

  ‘Perhaps the clue is in the horses, Michael. That seems to be his most notable achievement.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘You’re forgetting the next clue—Charon, the ferryman. Either there is a river hereabouts, which I haven’t seen, or there is some other link with water or the underworld, or death, which we haven’t spotted yet. What about your pamphlet—anything there?’

  ‘Not much. It’s much shorter, of course. There’s a bit about Venice but very skimpy. It does mention the horses, though, and says that when Henry came back two of the seven horses he had bought died en route. Apparently, the king was so thankful for the job Peverell had done in Venice that he held a great feast of swans in his honour and gave the Peverell family the singular distinction of being allowed to eat swan, normally a royal prerogative, for a whole year. That’s why, with the masks, swans became part of the Peverell coat of arms. Then there’s a lot of technical stuff about horse breeding.’

  Michael got to his feet. ‘Back to the books, I think. I’ll get them from the car and meet you in the room. We don’t want to advertise what we are up to.’

  Upstairs in the room he handed some of the books to Isobel. ‘You try horses, I’ll look up swans.’ He sat down. ‘At least the view is better here than in Mason’s Yard.’ He sighed.

  After a while Michael went to the phone and ordered some tea. When it arrived, Michael filled two cups. He handed one to Isobel and said, ‘Right, where are we? You go first.’

  Isobel pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. ‘Nothing obvious. A horse is the mount of warriors, kings, nobles, either in battles or on their travels. The horse is an attribute of Europe, Europe in this sense being one of the four parts of the ancient world. Then there are lots of individual horses which signify different things. A white horse, for instance, is the mount of Alexander the Great. A fallen horseman is Paul or pride.’ She looked up at Michael. ‘Doesn’t seem like the right tack to me.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Mind you, what I have isn’t much better. Swans are mute, of course, but in classical times, apparently, people believed that they used to utter a beautiful song at their death. For some reason, they thought that meant the soul of a dying poet had entered the swan. Romantic, but I can’t see what good it does us.’ He stood up and poured more tea. He looked out at the sea beyond the cliffs.

  Presently, Isobel said, ‘I feel a bit like a donkey now. We’re not making sense of all this. We need outside stimulation. Let’s go and look at the house. Also, remember how that vicar, in the pub in Dorchester, just happened to mention the Jesse window. That set us off again after we thought we’d run into the sand. Let’s find the owner and talk to him.’

  Michael agreed. He put on his jacket and followed Isobel down the stairs. The owner, they were told by the woman at the desk, had gone into the village and would be away for about an hour. They therefore explored the old part of the house, that part which would have existed when the picture was painted.

  It had been well restored. All the stonework looked good and looked original, more or less. The Peverell coat of arms, the masks and the swans, separated into quarters were everywhere—over doors, set into the fireplaces, carved on the balustrades of the staircase, adorning the portraits in the main hall. There was even one set into the paving stones of the formal garden.

  ‘A proud, as well as a pompous, family,’ said Michael. He examined the paintings carefully but there was little value in them, he thought, so far as their quest was concerned. They were all bust length, shown against green, brown or browny-red backgrounds. They were all Peverells and included the Venetian beauty whom the ambassador had brought back from Italy. She was blonde, with heavy-lidded eyes, rather buxom, dressed in crimson and a lot of lace. In one hand she held an elaborate mas
k. There was a dog in her lap and a horse in the background.

  ‘I don’t think she’s very beautiful, do you?’ said Isobel.

  ‘That was the Venetian style. They loved buxom blondes, just as they loved crimson. That dye—Venetian red—was so popular, and made the Venetians so much money, that its formula was a trade secret for years.’

  ‘And the mask?’

  ‘Very common in Venice. I don’t know how it began but it was always popular. Venice was never the most religious of Italian cities and, among other things, the masks allowed men of the cloth to attend balls where loose women were also invited. The dog means she was married and faithful to her husband.’

  The owner was still not back when they had finished going round the house. Isobel decided she would like to call Tom at the farm and then take a lingering hot bath before dinner. So Michael took himself back to the library for a while. He intended to look through the pamphlet before it was his turn in the bath. But there was nothing in the pamphlet that Isobel hadn’t mentioned except a reference to the ambassador’s ‘annual retreat’.

  Before going up to the room, Michael slipped into the hotel’s television lounge to catch up with the news. He was surprised—and pleased—to see that, on the third day of his trial, the tycoon who was accused of fraud, the knight from the sugar company, had changed his plea from not guilty to guilty. There had obviously been a lot going on behind the scenes. Sentencing was expected the following day; if he won this wager, all Michael’s costs in this current venture would be wiped out.

  When he thought Isobel had had long enough to soak, he went to the bar, ordered a couple of whiskies and a cigar for himself, and took them upstairs. As he let himself into the room, he discovered Isobel sitting in front of the mirror, wrapped in a huge cream-coloured towel. The sight of her white shoulders, slightly damp from the bath, brought back all his old longing. Instinctively he stared ferociously at the sofa.

  Isobel turned, saw what he was carrying, and her face lit up. ‘Is that for me? How did you guess? Just what I was longing for.’ She smiled at him, took the glass and swallowed hard. ‘Let me run your bath in return.’ She got up and disappeared into the bathroom.

  Michael found a clean shirt and took it with him into the bathroom when she came back.

  ‘Any sign of the owner?’ shouted Isobel as he got undressed.

  ‘No,’ he called back. ‘But he’s expected at any moment.’ He told her about the trial.

  She snorted. ‘You’re sick, Michael Whiting. Hoping to profit from someone else’s misfortune.’

  He laughed. Lounging in the bath, in the early evening, with a drink, a book and a cigar, was one of the best ways Michael knew of relaxing. Tonight he had with him a new biography of Gainsborough, which threw fresh light on the great man’s rivalry with Reynolds. Michael lay full length in the bath; it was an old-fashioned type that went on for ever. Endless luxury.

  Isobel knocked on the door after he had read about ten pages. ‘You can come out now. I’m decent.’

  By the time Michael had dried himself, dressed and brushed his hair, it was nearly eight o’clock. Isobel was wearing a red dress and, for the first time, a pair of dark red earrings—they looked like garnets. They enhanced the darkness of her eyes perfectly.

  ‘You look magnificent,’ Michael said.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled. Their relationship was edging back to what it had been in Southwold, before Helen Sparrow’s assault. Michael reflected that they seemed to get on best in hotels. Perhaps there was something about the anonymity that relaxed Isobel.

  In the bar they had another drink and ordered dinner. A sandy-haired man, who appeared to be the owner, was talking to some other hotel guests. He nodded and smiled across at them. Michael studied the menu and the wine list and had just finished ordering when the owner came over. ‘Hello. I’m Rupert Walker. I gather you wanted to see me.’

  Michael stood, shook hands and introduced Isobel. ‘Have a drink?’

  ‘Thank you. A glass of wine, please. Red.’

  They all sat and Michael began. ‘We’re down here on holiday but I’m an art dealer in London so we’re naturally interested in the pictures, the Peverells, the house. We just wondered if you could tell us anything that isn’t in the books. It’s a lovely location.’

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Costs a packet to keep up, of course.’ His wine arrived and he drank some. ‘Well, let’s see … what else can I tell you? … The books about the Peverells are all designed to flatter them, of course … so they don’t mention the numerous rumours that the family had a big hand in the smuggling hereabouts … The quarry which provided the stone for the house is still in use, about two miles away … This isn’t very interesting, I know.’ He suddenly looked brighter. ‘You say you’re a dealer. Maybe you can help us with the pictures. The one thing we are not certain of is who painted them.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘Is there no documentation?’

  Rupert Walker frowned. ‘No. Funnily enough, someone was here yesterday, who thought they might be by someone called Michael Sittow. I had never heard of him but I gather he was quite a well-known court painter in Tudor times. The man said he would let us know.’

  Michael looked at Isobel. Then he said, ‘Maybe I know him. Did he leave a name?’

  ‘Yes—Robert … Robert Molyneux—yes, that’s it. Tall chap, very thin, silver hair. Know him?’

  Michael shook his head but looked again at Isobel. Her expression said it all. He turned back to the owner. ‘It says in either the book or the pamphlet in the library that the ambassador used to go into an annual retreat.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He suffered from erysipelas, St Anthony’s fire. He was apparently cured, or his condition eased, by a monk who specialised in medical affairs. As a result he used to go to the monastery which the monk came from for two weeks every year, in the spring, when St Anthony’s fire is at its worst.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know which monastery, do you?’

  Walker looked at Michael intently, as if to say: What is this? These aren’t casual questions.

  So Michael added: ‘Some monasteries had their own painters. It might help explain who did your pictures.’

  That seemed to satisfy the other man. ‘How interesting. I can’t say offhand, but I’ve got the answer somewhere. Look,’ he said, pointing, ‘I think your table is ready. I’ll go and rummage in my things and if I find the answer I’ll come and let you know.’ He got up. ‘Thanks for the drink. Enjoy your dinner.’

  ‘That was nifty,’ said Isobel, smiling, once they were seated at their table. ‘About the painter, I mean.’

  ‘Hmm. Not nifty enough. We’re still a day behind. Grainger’s as slippery as a greased guillotine.’

  Before they could go any further, Rupert Walker came back over to them. ‘I haven’t had a chance to go through my papers yet but I talked to my wife and she said she thought the monastery was at a place called Monksilver—that’s not too far from here, in Somerset. Does that help?’

  Michael nodded. ‘It might. Thanks. I’ll have to check it and let you know.’ Walker retreated again, so they could start their dinner. But, later on, when they were back in the bar playing chess—another return to their relationship in Southwold—Michael managed to say to the owner, ‘When this man Molyneux looked at your pictures, did he offer any help?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he did. He asked if we had any photographs that he could take with him, to help his research.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We don’t have any photographs as such, but there’s an old black and white brochure for the hotel that has four portraits on one page. They are not very big but it was the best we could do.’

  ‘Do you have any more left? The other man sounds as though he knows what he’s talking about, but I’d love to help if I can.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get one from the office.’ He disappeared but soon returned.

  Michael put the brochure in his pocket. As he did so, he sai
d, ‘They can’t be by Sittow. He was too late … Tell me, Mr Walker, is there a river near here?’

  The owner shook his sandy head very firmly. ‘No, none at all. As you can see we are on the top of some cliffs. The nearest rivers are at Bridport, six miles west, and Abbotsbury, nearly two miles in the other direction. Are you a fishing man?’

  Michael nodded, aware that Isobel’s arched eyebrows were turned on him. ‘And where are the Peverells buried?’

  ‘The ambassador was buried at that monastery … Monksilver, I believe. One of his grandsons drowned at sea, of course. All the others are in the local churchyard.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Abbotsbury. There’s a beautiful abbey ruin there. The Peverells are buried in the grounds.’

  ‘Doesn’t look hopeful, does it?’ said Isobel, when they were back in the room. ‘No river nearer than Abbotsbury, and no graveyard associated with the house. Perhaps Charon means something else?’

  ‘Hmm,’ murmured Michael. ‘Grainger found it, whatever it is. He didn’t stay long. We’re being slow-witted again. I feel as though I’m in a video and someone has pressed the “still” button.’ He took out the brochure and looked at the portraits. ‘Rum bunch, the Peverells.’ Then he smiled. ‘One of these looks as though he has a hunchback. Do you think he got it from sleeping on the sofa?’

  ‘You’re about to find out.’ But she was smiling too. Michael couldn’t be sure but the prospect that it wouldn’t always be the sofa was, he felt, back in her eyes.

  Upstairs in their room they continued to talk after the light had been turned out. ‘The link between here and Monksilver, the ambassador’s retreat, it’s too much to be just a coincidence,’ said Isobel. ‘Maybe Charon has a different meaning.’