Landscape of Lies

by Peter Watson

  ‘Assuming all goes well tonight, I shall allow a suitable interval to pass. Just to be on the safe side, I shall take a trip abroad, perhaps. But then I shall return and retrieve the Pallington box from Jersey. Unlike you, I already know where I shall find the silver hidden, don’t forget that. Discreetly, I shall remove it. At my leisure I shall carefully detach the rubies and the emeralds from the hand and the map. Then, over the following weeks, in London, Amsterdam, Israel, New York and India, where I gather there is now a thriving jewellery market, I shall dispose of the jewels, one or two at a time. The emeralds must be worth a million and the rubies nearly as much. Not as much as if I sold everything, of course, not by a long chalk. But in selling the jewels I shall become comfortably off without drawing attention to myself.’

  ‘Only a freak would vandalise the treasure!’ Isobel put all the contempt she could muster into her words.

  ‘Don’t be so quick to judge me, Miss Sadler.’ He stepped closer to Isobel. ‘Now, my dear, let us begin.’

  Michael watched as Grainger untied the rope from the gunwhale. With scissors he cut the tape which covered the rope around Isobel’s wrists. He undid two of the knots and then stood back and picked up the boat-hook and the gun.

  Slowly, Isobel worked her hands free. She rubbed her wrists.

  ‘Now, begin with your shirt and trousers. And, Miss Sadler, as you take off your clothes throw them into the bucket over there.’ He indicated with the boat-hook and then turned back to Michael.

  ‘Once the sale of jewels has been completed and I am a … sufficiently well-off man, I shall allow more time to elapse. With you two dead there will be no hurry. Then, after a year, maybe two years, I shall return to Pallington, to St Mary’s. Again, at my leisure, I shall observe where the key to the church is hidden—since I am sure you returned it to the wrong place last night, Mr Whiting, in a silly attempt to raise the alarm. Maybe they will have changed the lock and the hiding place. But security is a boring business, the most boring there is, which is why it always fails. I shall have no real difficulty, being in no hurry, in discovering how to enter St Mary’s late at night unobserved. As you know only too well.’

  He looked fiercely at Isobel and stabbed the boat-hook into the wooden deck inches from her feet. ‘Do it!’

  Isobel’s fingers sought the buttons on her shirt. She undid them and took off her shirt.

  ‘Throw it into the bucket.’

  She threw the shirt where Grainger said.

  ‘Now take off your bra. Let Mr Whiting and me see your breasts.’ Grainger pulled the boat-hook from where it still quivered in the deck and stood ready to throw it again should Isobel not obey him immediately.

  But she did. With one hand she unhooked her bra at the back, took it off and threw it on top of her shirt. Then she bent to undo her trousers, took them off and threw those on to the pile.

  ‘Now the rest. I’m enjoying this.’ Grainger stretched his arm holding the boat-hook so that its tip brushed Isobel’s breasts. Then he stepped back further.

  Isobel had stiffened as the boat-hook touched her but she now bent again, removed her pants and threw them on to her other clothes. She stood up straight. As she did so every inch of her body was displayed to both men. Embarrassment and defiance mingled in her eyes. Michael realised that Grainger, in forcing him to watch, was making the situation humiliating for them both. And it stopped them thinking of ways of escaping.

  Isobel stood in front of Grainger, turned slightly away from Michael. Her hands were at her sides, not hiding anything. Either from fear, or cold, her nipples were erect. Her eyes bore into Grainger’s. Was he aroused? Could she, with her body, with its promise, distract or delay him? She could bring herself to use no form of words but if –

  Grainger smiled and blew cigar smoke at her. ‘Into the cabin please.’

  As she moved he held the boat-hook no more than six inches from her skin. Michael could see as well as Grainger that the boat-hook was still more terrifying for Isobel than the gun.

  Grainger slammed the cabin door behind Isobel and turned to Michael. ‘When I have discovered how to get back into St Mary’s, I shall return again, as last night, and force my way into the church. This time, however, I shall not take anything but put it back! That is the really beautiful part of my plan. I shall also return the silver to its original hiding place. I shall sprinkle it with dirt and dust and then leave it for several months to accumulate still more, genuinely so.

  ‘Then comes my final, glorious coup. I shall approach the directors of the British Museum, and the Victoria and Albert Museum, the vicar of Pallington and somebody from one of the quality Sunday newspapers. I shall say that I think I have found the Monksilver treasure, which has been missing for centuries, and will ask them, or their representatives, to accompany me to the church. They will, of course, be unable to resist. After suitable diversions and mistakes, we shall finally discover the cavity in the tympanum. The skulls and rings will lead us to the silver. Sensation!’

  ‘What about the missing jewels?’

  ‘Everyone will be so overwhelmed by the discoveries that they will automatically agree with my suggestion that the actual jewels were looted at the time the silver was hidden away. It’s the kind of thing that happened. Neat, eh? The discoveries are what matter. They will make the front pages all over Europe and North America. I shall then be famous as well as quite rich—but that is not all. A court will no doubt adjudicate later on who the treasure belongs to. I shall announce in advance that my share, should there be any, will be donated to the V and A or the British Museum, whichever decides it is the more suitable home. I shall then settle down to write a book about the whole affair. This will reveal that I was set on the trail by the sale of documents at Sotheby’s but that later I noticed a picture in a sale catalogue in Switzerland, called the Landscape of Lies.’

  ‘Then Helen Sparrow will go to the police—’

  ‘Hear me out, Whiting; I shall have sent the picture for sale, in Switzerland as I say, but through a fiduciary. The Swiss have these convenient people, who make a good living acting as barriers for people who wish to do things anonymously. The picture will be entered for sale with a low reserve. It will be printed in the catalogue and—who knows?—someone will buy it. Or I shall buy it back through another fiduciary. It doesn’t matter because I shall base my coup not on the picture itself but on the photograph of it in the sale catalogue.’

  ‘But Helen will report its theft.’

  ‘Let’s assume she does. Okay, the picture was stolen from her studio. Now it has turned up in Europe, battered. Miss Sparrow will say that you asked her to clean a particular part of the picture which you were interested in. She, and the police, if they are interested, will find that the area of the picture which you were interested in is now covered over again with grime—that tile with the coat of arms is hidden again. You see, Whiting, what you are overlooking is that the part of the picture which you went to so much trouble to have cleaned, and which I went to so much trouble to steal, is not necessary to the solution of the mystery. You found out the hard way, just as I did. But, knowing what I know now, in my book I shall make it plain that the figure is facing the wrong way and therefore is a non-clue. There is therefore no need for me to have gone anywhere near Helen Sparrow’s studio. The puzzle actually can be solved using a photograph of the painting, even though part of it is grimy and hidden. I will be able to argue convincingly that I never needed to see the actual picture, to solve the problem. The police will conclude that the theft and my discovery are completely unrelated.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. You’re being stupid, Grainger. Helen is bound to alert the police when we disappear. She will tell them everything about the painting, and the silver. Lots of people will know and the police will simply not believe the coincidence.’

  ‘I am not stupid, Whiting, you know that. Coincidences happen all the time, and that’s very often all they are.’

  With a jolt, Michael recalled him
self using those very words to Isobel at their first meeting.

  Grainger went on. ‘Remember, a couple of years will have elapsed between a theft at Aldeby, which was regarded as so unimportant at the time that it was never reported to the police, and a small auction in Switzerland. There is no link between Miss Sadler and me, you and me, or Miss Sparrow and me. On top of that, the fact that I have discovered the treasure and donated my share to the nation will put me entirely above suspicion. Who would think to raise doubts about an academic who did such a thing?’

  Michael’s mind was racing again. Grainger’s vanity awed him. His plan made intellectual sense. As a piece of reasoning, Michael had to admit that it was brilliant. But it made no psychological sense. Neither Helen nor, more important, the police would believe Grainger. After twenty years they might, but not after two. Once he came out with his discovery he would come under suspicion and, when that happened, the police would ferret out some error …

  But for now that wasn’t the point. The point was that Grainger believed Grainger and his intellectual pride was leading him forward.

  He was behind Michael now, beginning to undo the ropes at his wrists. As with Isobel he left Michael to work free the last knot as he retrieved the gun and the boat-hook. Michael knew that he had to do something while he had his hands free. It was the only chance he would get. He also knew that Grainger knew. The other man would be expecting Michael to try something. Whatever that something was, it had to be a complete surprise. And to work it had to be simple.

  ‘Isobel’s farm manager will recognise the picture. He will put two and two together. He may even remember your visit.’

  ‘Rubbish. He never saw me, and Miss Sadler brought the picture up to you herself. And he’s a farmer. No one will query me, Whiting. So far as anyone knows, I shall have made no financial gain. I shall have had no motive to kill you, just as I shall have had no motive to burgle Helen Sparrow. That’s where the beauty, the elegance, of my plan lies. My reputation will soar. When the donation of the treasures is made, I think I can be sure that, within the not too distant future, I shall be Sir George Grainger. It’s not quite as good as a professorship at Oxford but it’s not bad as a second best—eh?’

  Michael shook the rope from his wrists and rubbed his flesh where it was sore. He turned to face Grainger. The other man looked at his watch.

  ‘Nearly ten. We’re running a bit late. No matter, I’ll have less time to wait in Bournemouth. Now, come over here and start undressing. I prefer to watch you from over there!’

  Warily, the two men changed places so that Michael was standing, still fully clothed, with his back to the locked cabin door, and Grainger was again by the tiller.

  ‘Start with your shirt, as Miss Sadler did. But don’t be too long about it.’ Grainger stooped and turned something near the engine: it was the tap which scuttled the boat. Immediately a gurgling was heard and Isobel started shouting from within the cabin. Michael began to unbutton his shirt, thinking furiously. What could he do? They had less than seven minutes now to live.

  He took off his shirt and unfastened his belt. He unzipped his trousers and slid them down his legs. He took off his socks and shoes so that only his underpants remained. There was an inch or so of water in the boat now. Isobel was still hammering on the cabin door.

  He bent so that he could slide his pants down over his feet. Now he too was naked. His clothes were in a heap on top of Isobel’s. Presumably Grainger would make Michael take all the clothes into the cabin with him, so the sex scenario would look more plausible. There were nearly four inches of water in the boat now. It covered his feet to his ankles.

  He saw his chance.

  Michael straightened his body facing Grainger. As he did so Grainger’s eyes instinctively followed his own upwards. In one sudden movement Michael kicked out with his right leg. Water from the deck flew in a splash of spray towards Grainger and he flinched. In that moment Michael threw himself violently to one side, deliberately making the boat roll. Grainger, not expecting it, stumbled and fell on to one knee. He looked away, throwing out one arm to help keep his balance. Michael lunged for the cabin door, turned the handle and pulled the door open. He kicked more water at Grainger as the other man started to recover. Then Michael threw himself towards the stern of the boat but to one side so that the launch now rolled the other way. There were already six or seven inches of English Channel in the bottom of the boat.

  Michael had bruised his shoulder when he threw himself towards the stern. He was kneeling in water as Grainger began to recover and raised the gun.

  Michael saw the boat-hook lying between them, its hook pointing towards him. Grainger was levelling the gun. Michael scooped more water at him. This time the other man didn’t flinch but he did close his eyes for a fraction as the water hit his face. That was when Michael reached the boat-hook and grabbed it. It was heavy in the water and now Grainger was pointing the gun again.

  Michael raised the hook, which suddenly jerked free of the water and slammed upwards. Grainger parried it with his free hand but the force of the blow unbalanced him again and he swayed. Michael jumped and before Grainger could take aim a third time he had reached the gun. The boat-hook had dropped back into the water swirling around the deck. Michael’s hand closed around the barrels of the shotgun. The two men struggled. Grainger’s teeth, amazingly, still gripped Michael’s cigar. The water in the boat was above their shins. Grainger pulled one of the two triggers on the shotgun. The explosion was deafening—but the barrels were aimed harmlessly at the waves. Seeing a way out, Michael sank to his knees, dragging Grainger with him. He pulled at the gun. Grainger tried hard to stop him, but he was exhausted and, slowly, Michael pulled him down. The water was still rising, and therefore Michael’s ally for a moment. He gave one last heave—and submerged the gun in sea water. Now it would surely not work.

  Grainger must have thought the same, for he let go of the gun before Michael did and reached quickly for the boat-hook.

  ‘Michael!’

  Michael turned in time for Isobel to throw him a very wet pair of trousers. ‘Jump!’ he yelled to her. ‘Get clear!’ He turned back to face Grainger.

  Grainger lunged at him and Michael did his best to parry the blow with his trousers. Grainger lunged again, harder this time, and the hook pierced the wet cloth and dug into Michael’s arm. He screamed. Grainger was immediately on him, his long thick fingers at Michael’s throat. Grainger couldn’t know it but the hook had sliced into Michael’s wrist at precisely the point where he had suffered his skiing accident. The agony was immense. A hot tide of pain rushed up his arm. It meant he now had only one hand to fight with.

  He saw Grainger above him. He could smell the other man’s breath—the coffee he had drunk mingled with tobacco smoke. It was stale and made Michael feel sick. He felt himself being pushed down. The water was rising to meet him: now it was Grainger’s ally. He felt the cold Channel water at the back of his head, lapping his ears. Grainger was forcing him down.

  Behind Grainger he saw Isobel. She hadn’t jumped, but what could she do? Though Grainger was weaker than Michael might be, he was still too strong for her.

  Suddenly Grainger snatched the cigar from his mouth and in one swift movement jabbed the lighted end into Michael’s injured arm. The hot ash and blood mingled and Michael’s screams shot across the waves. The pain filled every pore in his body. As Michael convulsed, Grainger shifted his weight and forced his head below the water. Michael spluttered and coughed and heaved as his mouth and nose sank into the salty water. All he could think of was the pain in his arm and hand, his raw nerves scorched by the hot cigar.

  Then, through a blur of tears and sea water, Michael saw that Grainger’s face had suddenly darkened. It wasn’t shadow, though. It was brown. A brown strip. Two brown strips. Three. Isobel had found the tape! She pulled it around Grainger’s eyes, then his nose, then his mouth. He couldn’t breathe.

  Grainger’s hands now sought to free the tape ar
ound his nose, but Isobel continued winding. She wound his hands to his face. That didn’t work for long but by then she had wound the tape around his body twice, twisting it to give it added strength.

  Michael squirmed out from under Grainger. The boat was now nearly waist-deep in water and would be going under soon. The pain in his arm was scalding.

  Grainger was still caught up in the tape. Isobel had now wound it round his legs. She screamed at Michael. ‘Look at your arm. Try to stop the blood! And jump! Free the skiff. I can manage.’

  Michael saw what she meant. He grabbed his floating shirt and pressed it to his wound. The amount of blood he was losing was alarming. Then he jumped. The skiff was tied to the launch and would go down with it.

  As he jumped, the whole episode seemed to move into slow motion. He had time to kick himself over to the skiff. Using his good arm, he untied the smaller craft from the launch. Then he hung on. The pain in his arm was too much for him to be able to haul himself out of the water unaided. Through his pain he watched Isobel as, twice more, she wound tape around Grainger’s legs. He had pulled the tape away from his face but his arms and hands were still caught among the sticky strips. Then, very calmly, Isobel took three steps back from Grainger, unwinding more tape as she went. She stood for a moment, then wound the tape around the gunwhale now only a few feet above water.