Landscape of Lies

by Peter Watson

‘You drive,’ Michael said, as Isobel came out of the hotel into the cool morning air. The salt smell of the sea mingled with that of warm bread from the hotel kitchens. The sun was just beginning to bake the gravel in the driveway. ‘You’ve had some sleep in the last forty-eight hours.’ Defiantly, he showed her his lighted cigar. ‘I need this, after the night I’ve had.’

  Isobel started the engine, setting off a couple of dogs they hadn’t noticed before, and no doubt waking the entire hotel. They both giggled. Quickly, she sped the car down the drive and east on the road to Abbotsbury. ‘Now,’ she said, as the car gathered speed along the empty lane. ‘For the second time, what are you playing at?’

  ‘At being a brilliant amateur detective. Almost on a par with some of Inspector Sadler’s bright ideas.’

  ‘Explain!’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Or I’ll drive your bloody car off that cliff.’

  But Michael had the map open on his knee. ‘We’ll cut across country. Turn left in Abbotsbury. It’ll be signed to Portisham and the Valley of Stones. It’s quite a steep hill.’

  ‘Michael!’

  ‘Oh, I’ll explain, don’t worry. Just don’t miss the turning.’

  They slipped into Abbotsbury, as still as a tomb. The liquid sun at that hour washed over the yellow in the stone, so that the whole village seemed gilded for a moment. When they had found the road to the Valley of Stones and Isobel was accelerating along it, Michael went on.

  ‘One thing I’ve learned in this little caper is that if you’re getting nowhere you must start again, clock in, make your pre-flight checks, all over again, leaving all your assumptions to one side. That’s what I decided to do about Peverell Place at—oh, roughly a quarter past two this morning.’ He hesitated. ‘Ask yourself this question: what is the most important attribute of Peverell Place, what is it that drew us here in the first place?’

  ‘The coat of arms?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s obvious, very obvious. Next question: what does the coat of arms consist of?’

  ‘Michael!’

  ‘Okay, I’ll answer for you. Swans and masks. Again, it’s all very obvious. Now to the important bit: why swans and masks? I don’t mean all that stuff about Venice and the king giving the Peverells the swan concession. Remember, we’re dealing with an ecclesiastical mind here. Medieval grey matter. What would masks and swans have meant to the painter of the picture?’

  Isobel was silent for a moment. They swept through a high beech wood, just beginning to glitter with gold and green. They passed a sign to Helstone. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘You do—you’ve just forgotten for the moment. I was alerted by what Rupert Walker reported Grainger had said. Grainger said that “The mask reveals all.” But a mask doesn’t reveal all, does it? Quite the opposite, in fact. A mask is a disguise. A mask is the symbol of deceit. And the chief characteristic of a swan is its muteness, its silence. Deceit and muteness: that’s two things. Third, going back to the picture and what Helen found when she cleaned it, there’s something else we’ve overlooked. The figure of the monk gazing down at the tile isn’t a monk at all—’

  ‘Yes it is—’

  ‘No. You’re driving so you can’t see, but in fact the monk has no face. It’s hidden by his hood. I didn’t think that mattered but I now think it matters very much. When Helen cleaned the grime away from the tile, she also uncovered the monk’s feet and they aren’t human feet at all—’

  ‘She said he had pointed toes.’

  ‘Correct. Well done. Your memory is waking up too. Helen said they were like claws. At about four o’clock this morning I found out what a beast, a lion, cloaked in a large garment and with no face, stands for. I simply went through one of the reference books from A to Z. A.M. to zzzz … Fortunately, I found it under “D”, so it didn’t take a fortnight.’

  ‘D for …?’

  ‘Deceit. A lion dressed in a monk’s habit is the medieval symbol of deceit. Don’t ask me why at the moment, just take my word for it. Anyway, that makes two deceits and one mute, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Hold on. I want to give you all my reasoning, so you’re convinced. We’ve just passed the Hardy monument; you should turn right soon … look out for the sign.’

  They were coming into a small valley, descending. Ahead of them were some electricity cables. There was a village in the folds of the hills. ‘Martinstown—yes?’ said Michael. ‘There’s the sign. Turn right here.’

  Isobel swung the car round. The sign said ‘Winterborne Monkton 1½ miles’.

  ‘Once I started thinking about deceit, I started looking at the monk figure again. And at about five o’clock this morning I finally registered something else we haven’t noticed about him—it. Something so obvious we never thought it important. But it’s crucial.’

  ‘And that is …?’

  ‘Want to guess?’

  ‘Michael!’

  ‘No, seriously. There is a very simple, very obvious way the monk is different from some of the other characters in the picture.’

  She started to brake, annoyed by his teasing.

  ‘Okay, okay. Some of the figures in this puzzle face to the right, others face to the left.’

  ‘Yes, of course I noticed that. It’s obvious but … you think it matters?’

  ‘I do now. Like you I had noticed it before, but never imagined it was important. However, just before the “Deceit” entry in the book I was reading throughout the night, there was another paragraph, headed “Dance”. There was a drawing which made up part of the entry, a drawing of a picture that looked familiar, except that the layout artist for the book had split the figures in his drawing according to whether they faced left or right. I had only skipped the item as I waded through the entire book, but now I went back to it. I suppose I only noticed that the figures in our “Landscape” were facing different ways because my subconscious had seen this other entry, for “Dance”. Anyway, when I paid more attention to the “Dance” paragraph, I immediately recognised the picture it was using to illustrate the point—Botticelli’s famous allegory, La Primavera, “Spring”. Everyone knows it—it’s in the Uffizi in Florence. Now there are seven figures in Botticelli’s picture, almost as many as in yours, and what I didn’t know, but the book told me, was that they are laid out to symbolise a musical scale. The figures facing right represent all the notes that are in harmony whereas those facing left represent discord.

  ‘Now apply that to our picture. What I think it means is that all the figures facing right are proper clues, designed to produce a harmonious solution to the mystery. Whereas all the other figures, facing left, are—quite simply—red herrings.’

  ‘You mean … you mean they were put there deliberately … to confuse us?’

  ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I do mean. The medieval mind was like that, as I keep saying … I also think that Grainger, grrreasy Grrrainger, who’s more used to this than we are, twigged what was happening almost as soon as he arrived at Peverell Place. That’s why he didn’t stay long, and that’s what he meant by the cryptic statement, “The mask reveals all.” The Peverells were chosen by the person who painted Landscape of Lies because they were known at the monastery of Monksilver and anyone getting on the trail would automatically assume that Peverell Place, with its smuggling associations, and its undoubted links through Henry the Horseman, was a perfect hiding place. But whoever painted the picture, or designed it, also knew that their coat of arms was perfect. It underlines the point: like the masks, Peverell Place was a deceit; like the mute swans, it has nothing to tell us. We’ve been on a wild-goose chase. A wild-swan chase. That’s why we couldn’t find a river or anything else that fitted with Charon, the next clue. Philip Cross faces right. The next three figures face left, leading us astray. But Charon is a real clue—see, he turns to the right. And that’s not all. The figures which face right also face the upside-down crucifix and, as we learned right at the start, the crucifix,
in this context, stands for wisdom, for truth. Don’t forget also that Helen told us she uncovered a tear on the face of one of the characters. He is facing the wrong way and, if you examine the faces of the other figures facing the wrong way, they all have tiny tears on their cheeks. Extraordinary detail—and why? They are sad because they know they are liars, they know they are misleading us.’

  Isobel slowed the car to negotiate a blind corner, then picked up speed again.

  Michael paused. ‘Then, I looked up “sad”—it was a subheading under “Emotion”. In medieval times certain colours represented sadness, brown especially. What do we find in the Landscape? All the figures facing the wrong way are wearing something in brown.’

  Isobel took her eyes off the road and glanced at Michael.

  ‘There’s more. Their lips, for instance. All the real clues have their lips parted, as if they are speaking. They have something to say. All the false clues either have no lips at all, because there is no face showing, as with the lion, or their lips are closed. They can tell us nothing. All the wrong clues are wearing jewellery—rings mainly, or gems sewn into their clothes. Jewels are a symbol of vanity, or corruption—what could be more of a red herring? I’ve said it before, Isobel, once you know how to read this picture it hits you like Laphroaig. And now I’m certain: we’ve been on the wrong tack. Betamax, not VHS.’

  ‘I can’t believe—’

  ‘There’s one other thing. But first we’re coming into Winterborne Monkton. We turn left, then right almost immediately, towards Winterborne Herringston.’ He waited while Isobel negotiated the turns. They saw a milk lorry but that was all.

  ‘When we started, right at the beginning, remember there was a design at the top of the marble column?’

  ‘Adam and Eve?’

  ‘No, no, the next design. A man with an iron rod, descending some steps which lead towards Mercury, the figure who turned out to be Philip Cross—remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why go back to that now?’

  ‘This is something I noticed at a quarter to six this morning, when it all fell into place and, like Prince Charming, I woke you with a kiss.’

  ‘If Prince Charming doesn’t get a move on with this story, he’s going to sleep for rather more than a hundred years.’

  Michael grinned. ‘I could use it, after the night I’ve had.’ He pulled on his cigar. ‘I should have thought of this before, but the man with the wand is descending five steps. I will wager tuppence to a Turner that means there are five clues to be negotiated before we get to the treasure.’

  ‘Ah! Then your theory doesn’t work. There are nine figures in the ring and, if my memory serves me right, five of them are facing left. That only leaves four clues.’

  ‘Very observant. Prebloodycisely. But again I’ll bet that means the last figure also contains the fifth step within it. Let’s tackle that when we come to it. The main thing for now is that Peverell Place and Lewell Monastery play no part in all this. We have to go back to the last real clue, back beyond Higher Lewell, to Godwin Magna, and start again from there. The best news of all is that, according to the map, there is quite a large river flowing through Godwin Magna but we never saw it. It’s called the Frome. The Charon clue obviously refers to that and, as we agreed the other night, the next figure, the merman, means we have to travel downstream, towards the sea.’

  The road east of Winterborne Herringston wound down a gentle valley and was caked in mud from the hooves of cattle which, even at that early hour, had already been taken in for milking. The sun was higher in the sky and beginning to burn off the stretches of cloud.

  After a short silence, Isobel looked across to Michael and said softly, ‘Are you shattered? Two nights without sleep—I feel very guilty.’

  Michael grinned back. ‘Good. I like that. But don’t feel too badly—after all, it paid off in the end.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back for the hotel room, and all the rest of our expenses, if ever we do find this damn stuff.’

  Michael reached across to pat Isobel’s thigh reassuringly. Quickly, she lowered her left hand and gripped his wrist, stopping him from touching her. But she held his hand for a moment longer than was necessary and, when she replaced it in his lap, stroked it for a moment before changing gear as they came to a crossroads.

  ‘Just over a mile to Godwin Magna,’ Michael said, reading the sign. He looked at the map again. ‘According to this, we go through this village, then there’s a sharp, left-hand bend that leads down a steep hill. At the bottom of the hill, the road curves round sharply to the right and crosses the river. Let’s make for there.’

  Isobel slowed as they came to the village. This time they came in from the south, the opposite direction to before. They passed the church on their left, and the copper beeches. By now there were signs of life—dogs, one or two people on bicycles, a postman’s van. But the village shop, where Michael had hoped to buy some chocolate, for breakfast, was still closed. It was just on 6.30.

  They descended the hill and, at the bottom, turned a corner. A low stone bridge, liverish with damp, lay ahead. Isobel drove slowly across the bridge to a gate on the far side. She pulled up beside it so that most of the car was off the road.

  They got out and walked back to the bridge. They stood in the sun and leaned over the parapet to look at the brown waters below. Near the banks, the river was streaked with lines of sedge, green and black. In the middle, however, the water was too brown and too deep to see the bottom and ran swiftly.

  ‘So that’s the Frome,’ said Isobel. She bent to pick up a twig from where it had fallen. She threw it into the waters and they both watched as it sped downstream.

  ‘And we follow that,’ she added. ‘But how? And what are we looking for?’

  ‘I left the map in the car, but from what I remember the river doesn’t go anywhere near a road for two or three miles. And, in any case, in the sixteenth century river traffic was much faster than roads when they had them. I fear therefore that this is where we abandon the 190. Let’s go back to the car and look at the next clue in the photograph.’

  Isobel leaned against the side of the car, enjoying the sun, which was getting stronger all the time. She looked at the photograph. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘The Triton, the merman, is wearing what looks like a string of flowers around his neck—just like Philip Cross had the order of St Michael around his. That must be a clue, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m sure it is. I’d noticed it too. The details are what have counted so far—the upside-down flames on Mercury’s tunic, the number of steps the man at the beginning was descending, the half-hidden upside-down crucifix. Everything in this picture has a meaning, so I’m sure the flowers do too. You don’t recognise them, do you? The flowers, I mean. They aren’t something you have growing on your farm?’

  Isobel smiled. ‘A farm is a farm. Not a market garden.’

  ‘Well, there must be a market garden or a garden centre somewhere near here, where we can get help. Let’s go back to the village and ask.’

  They got into the Mercedes. Michael wound back the sun-roof and they returned up the hill into the village. By now it had gone seven and the shop was open. They bought chocolate and found from the shopkeeper that there was a garden centre seven miles away, in Laycock.

  As they drove out of Godwin Magna, Isobel said, ‘We’ll have to show them the picture, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t see that we have much choice. We’ll have to think up some excuse that sounds perfectly natural. Any ideas?’

  ‘Not yet. Look, do we need to do this? The flower is clearly painted—white petals with pink stamens and a small yellow spot at the end. If we found a boat somewhere and slowly explored the river, I’m sure we would recognise it. That way we need involve no one else.’

  ‘Hmm. Our problem is time. Grainger is well ahead of us. The flower may be well known—and there may be well-known places around here where it grows in profusion. An expert would know all that and be able to guide us stra
ight to where we want to go. On the other hand, the flower may no longer exist. It could easily have been cut down or the site where it grew built over. In that case it would help us to know what sort of place it grows in, so that we can search for somewhere it might have grown.’

  Isobel was only half convinced. ‘You may be right,’ she said. ‘We’re nearly at Laycock anyway, so let’s keep going.’

  Laycock was bigger than Godwin Magna and boasted a school and, on that morning, a market. It was nearly eight o’clock when they arrived, and the main square was already choked with stalls selling cheese, homemade jams, vegetables, fish and flowers. Isobel, who was still driving, edged the car through the throng. Michael got out at one point to ask at a flower stall where the garden centre was. He was directed to the Slapstone road and told that the centre was about a mile along it.

  Around Laycock the countryside was scrubbier than the lusher fields of Godwin Magna. Michael was always amazed at how, in England, the countryside could change so quickly. It was one of the things he loved.

  ‘Nora’s Nurseries’ were announced by a big, bright, red and gold sign. Though it was not yet a quarter past eight, they were already open. The gate was pulled back and boxes of flowers, bright splashes of scarlet, were stacked near the entrance, ready for sale. They turned off the road into a dusty courtyard surrounded on three sides by greenhouses. A large, handwritten sign said, ‘Geraniums—one free with every 4 U buy.’ Next to it was a note which read, ‘Please ring for attention.’ An arrow pointed to a bell.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ said Isobel. ‘You look too much the city slicker to be real in this part of the world. At least I’ve got farmer’s hands.’ She got out of the car and rang the bell. Almost immediately a voice from deep within one of the greenhouses shouted back, ‘Coming!’

  After a short delay a woman dressed in blue dungarees and wearing a red scarf around her head marched out through a door. She had ruddy cheeks, a huge chest and mud on her hands. A dog yapped at her heels. ‘Bloody animal!’ she said, playfully trying to kick the creature. ‘Good morning. Lovely day.’ She had a loud voice.