by Ellis Peters
“You had definite ideas about it?”
“Well, rather indefinite, but very suggestive. Such as its possible date, and the genre it belongs to.”
“Have you shown it to anyone else?”
“A dealer in the town here. He put forward some theory that it was originally a portrait by some local eighteenth-century painter called Cotsworth.”
“Preposterous!” croaked Lucas with a bark of laughter, pointing his imperial at the ceiling like a dart.
“Well, not so much preposterous as crafty, actually, I think. Because he’s offered as high as six hundred for it since.”
“Has he, now! And you turned him down. Good boy! So you must have had an idea you were on to something much more important than a dauber like Cotsworth. As indeed I’m pretty sure you are. Mind you, the actual market value may not be very great, I’m not sure how much commercial interest such a discovery might arouse just at this moment. Ultimately it’s likely to be considerable, when the full implications are realised.”
Leslie was startled to discover that his hands were trembling with pure excitement. He didn’t want to look at Jean, she would only think he was underlining the professor’s vindication of his judgment; she would expect him not to miss an opportunity like that, not out of any meanness of spirit but out of his fundamental insecurity. And yet he was longing to exchange glances with her, and see if she was quivering as he was. There ought to be a spark still ready to pass between them, when they were on the verge of promised discoveries fabulous enough to excite this Olympian old man.
“Its possible date,” said Lucas, harking back. “What did you conceive its possible date to be?”
If he wasn’t actually teasing them he was doing something very like it, offering them marvels and then making them play guessing games for the prize. Well, thought Leslie, if he had to be tested he’d better put a good face on it, and say what he had to say with authority.
“Before fourteen hundred.”
It sounded appallingly presumptuous when he’d said it, he would almost have liked to snatch it back, but now it was too late. He stuck out his chin and elaborated the audacity, refusing to hedge. “It seemed to me that the pose couldn’t be later, or the hands, that want of articulation, the long curved fingers without joints. And then the backward-braced shoulders and head, and even something about the way the blocks of colour are filled in to make the dress. If we get all those layers of repainting off successfully I shall expect to see a kind of folded drapery you don’t get as late as the fifteenth century.”
“And the genre! You said you had ideas about that, too.”
Leslie drew breath hard and risked a glance at Jean. Her eyes, wide and wondering, were on him; he didn’t know whether she was with him or only marvelling at his cheek and expecting to see him shot down the next moment.
“I think she’s local work,” he said in a small voice, “because I think she’s been kicking about here for centuries, never moving very far from where she was first put in position. And that wasn’t on any pub. The only thing out of tradition is the laugh, , , “
“Yes,” said Lucas, his eyes brightly thoughtful upon the young man’s face, “the laugh. Don’t let that worry you. The laugh is one of those things that happen to any tradition from time to time, the stroke of highly individual genius nobody had foreshadowed and nobody ventures to copy afterwards. And extraordinary experiences they can be, those inspired aberrations. Go on. Out of what traditions? You haven’t reached the point yet.”
Going softly for awe of his own imaginings, Leslie said: “That oval inset that looks like a brooch, that’s what first made me think of it. In its original form it was that odd convention, a sort of X-ray plate into the metaphysical world. Wasn’t it?”
“You tell me.”
“It was then. It was an image of the child she’s carrying. She’s a Madonna of the Annunciation or the Visitation, something before the birth, anyhow, , , “
“Of the Magnificat, as it happens. You seem to have done very well without an adviser at all, my boy.”
“I haven’t dared even to think seriously about it before,” owned Leslie with a shaky laugh. “You as good as hinted that I could go ahead with my wildest guesses and they wouldn’t be too fantastic, or I wouldn’t have ventured even now. Do you really mean that a piece of work like that has been lying about in attics and swinging in the wind in front of a pub ever since the fourteenth century?”
“More likely since about the latter half of the sixteenth. No doubt you know that the house from which the panel came was at one time a grange of Charnock Priory? And that the last prior retired there after the Dissolution?”
“Well, a friend of mine did dig out something of the kind from the archives, but until then I’m afraid I didn’t know a thing about it.”
“You didn’t? You cheer me. Neither did I, but it seems it was so. What struck me about this panel of yours was its likeness in proportion and kind to one of the fragments in Charnock parish church. I don’t know if you know the rector? A scholarly old fellow, quite knowledgeable about medieval art. Glass is his main line, but he knows the local illuminators and panel painters well, too, and he’s spent a good many years of his life hunting for bits of the works of art that were disseminated from Charnock at the Dissolution. What’s now the parish church is the truncated remains of the old priory church, of course, and such relics as he’s been able to trace he’s restored to their old places. This head of an angel with a scroll is all he has of what seems to have been a larger altar-piece, probably from the Lady Chapel.”
“And you think we’ve found the lady?” asked Leslie, not meaning to be flippant, simply too excited to bear the tension of being entirely serious. An elevated eyebrow signalled momentary disapproval, but the knowing eye beneath it saw through him, and there was no reproof.
“I think it is a strong possibility. I went to see the rector. He has records which indicate that parts of the furnishings must have gone into retirement with the last prior, and some very interesting sketches and notes of his own, collected from many scattered sources. He holds that the angel with the scroll is the angel of the Magnificat, he has contemporary and later references to the painting which enable one to form a fairly detailed picture, and I’m bound to say there’s every reason to feel hopeful that your panel is the Virgin from the same altar-piece. The master who painted it is not known by name, but various examples of his work have been identified, including some illuminations. One of them has an initial strongly resembling your Madonna.”
“Including the laugh?” asked Jean in a low voice.
“Including the laugh. Altogether the evidence is so strong that I don’t anticipate much difficulty in establishing the authenticity of your fragment. The rector has seen it. If I am cautiously prepared to pronounce it genuine, he is absolutely convinced. He had made a careful reconstruction from the various references of what the lost Madonna should be. It bore an unmistakable resemblance to your panel. He has since made another sketch from the panel in its present form and from his previous sources, to show what we should uncover.”
He slapped his briefcase open on the table, and drew out a wad of documents and papers, spreading them out before him with a satisfied smile.
“I’ve brought you his notes and drawings to examine over the weekend, if you’d like to. And here is his latest sketch. There she is. As she was, and as she will be.”
It was quite small, smaller than a quarto sheet of paper; they drew close together to look at it. The Joyful Woman had put off her muslin fichu and corkscrew curls and the Toby frills from round her wrists, and stood in all her early English simplicity and subtlety, draped in a blue mantle over a saffron robe, all her hair drawn back austerely under a white veil. She leaned back to balance the burden she carried, clasping her body with those hands feeble as lilies, and the symbolic image of the unborn son stood upright in her crossed palms. She looked up and laughed for joy. There was no one else in the picture with he
r, there was no one else in the world; she was complete and alone, herself a world.
Leslie felt Jean’s stillness as acutely as if she had never before been still. He moistened his lips, and asked what would inevitably sound the wrong question at this moment; but he had to know the answer. He had to know what he was doing, or there was no virtue in it.
“Have you any idea how much she’s likely to fetch if I sell her? Always supposing we’re right about her?”
“It’s a matter of chance. But the master’s work is known and respected, and there are few examples, possibly none to be compared with this. And there’s a local antiquarian interest to be reckoned with. I think, putting it at the lowest, even if you sell quickly, you should still realise probably between seven and eight thousand pounds.”
Desperately quiet now, their sleeves just touching, Jean and Leslie stood looking at the promise of fortune.
“And the rector, would he be in the market? He must want it terribly, if he’s so sure, , , “
“He’d give his eyes for it, of course. You’ve stopped him sleeping or eating since he’s seen this. But he’s already appealing for twenty thousand to keep his poor old rotting church together, there’s no possibility whatever of earmarking any funds for buying Madonnas.”
“Not even to bring them home,” said Leslie. He moved a little away from Jean because he wanted to see her face, buts he kept it averted, looking at the little drawing. He wondered if she knew that she’d folded her own hands under her breasts upon the immemorial wonder, in the same ceremonially possessive gesture.
“Not even to bring them home. But there’ll be other bidders. If you wait and collect enough publicity before you sell you may get double what I’ve suggested.” Professor Lucas closed his briefcase and pushed back his chair. The boy was obviously in need of money, small blame to him for relishing it in advance.
“I can’t afford to pay for all the work that will have to be done on the panel,” said Leslie, his voice slightly shaky with the intensity of his resolution. “Would your laboratory be prepared to stand that, if I give the thing back to Charnock?”
Lucas straightened up to look at him intently, and came to his feet slowly. “My dear boy, you realise what you’re saying?”
Yes, he realised, and he had to say it quickly and firmly and finally, so that there should be no possibility of withdrawing. Panic surged into his throat, trying to choke the words into incoherence. He was afraid to look at Jean now, he knew he’d done something she could never understand or forgive, but he’d had to do it, he couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d let the moment go by.
“It isn’t mine,” he said, “only by the last of a long series of ugly accidents, and I don’t like that. It ought to go back where it belongs. And it isn’t because it’s the church, either,” he said almost angrily, in case he should be misconstrued. “I should feel the same if it was a secular thing and as fine as that. It was made for a certain place and purpose, and I’d rather it went back. Only it would be a bit rough if I gave it back to the rector and then he couldn’t get the necessary work done on it for want of money.”
“If you mean what you’ve just said that point needn’t worry you. I would be prepared to undertake the work in our workshop, certainly. Indeed I should be very unwilling to let it go to anyone else. But you spend the weekend thinking it over, my boy,” said the professor cheerfully, pounding him on the shoulder, “before you make up your mind to part with it. I’ll leave all this stuff with you, better see how good our case is before you decide.”
“I have decided, but I should like to read all this, of course. It isn’t that I want to cut a figure,” he said carefully, “though I shall probably enjoy that, too. But supposing I just took the highest offer and she went to America, or into some private collection here that does no good to anybody? I should never stop feeling mean about it. I want her to go back into her proper place, and if they can’t pay for her they can’t, and anyhow I have a sort of feeling they ought not to have to. Where she’s going she’ll belong to everybody who likes to look at her, and they’ll see her the way they were meant to see her, or as near as we can get to it. Then I might really feel she’s mine. I don’t feel it now.”
“I’m not trying to dissuade you, my boy, you don’t have to out-argue me. I just don’t want you to rush matters and then regret it. You make up your own mind and then do what you really want to do. Call me in a few days’ time, will you, and we’ll meet again, probably at the gallery if you can make it. I shall have to go now.” He tucked his flattened briefcase under his arm. “Good night, Mrs. Armiger! Thank you for the coffee, it was excellent.”
Jean came out of her daze to add her thanks and farewells to those Leslie was already expressing. When Leslie came back from seeing his visitor out she was standing by the table, her face fixed in a grave, pale wonderment, staring at the rector’s sketch.
He closed the door gently behind him, waiting for her to speak, or at least to look up at him, and when she did neither he didn’t know how to resolve the silence without sounding abject or belligerent, either of which, in his experience, would be fatal. The tension which strained at his nerves she didn’t seem to feel, she was so lost in her own thoughts.
“I couldn’t do anything else,” he said helplessly, aware of the defensive note but unable to exorcise it.
She started, and raised to his face eyes in which he could read nothing, wide and dark and motionless, like those of a woman in shock.
“It was mine,” he said, despairingly abrupt, “I could do what I saw fit with it.”
“I know,” she said mildly, and somewhere deep within her uncommunicative eyes the faint, distant glimmer of a smile began.
“I suppose I’ve disappointed you, and I’m sorry about that. But I couldn’t have been happy about it if I’d, , , “
She moved towards him suddenly with a queer little gesture of protest, and, “Oh, do be quiet,” she said, “idiot, idiot! I could shake you!” She came at him with a rush, taking him by the shoulders as though she intended to put the threat into effect, and then, slipping her arms under his and winding them tightly about him, hugged him to her and hid her face in his chest. “I love you, I love you!” she said in muffled tones against his heart.
He didn’t understand, he was hopelessly at sea. He never would be able to make sense of it, he’d be just as mystified about what he’d suddenly done right as about all the things he’d been doing wrong. Maybe he’d even come to the conclusion that she was simply female, illogical and responsive to a firm touch, and strain his innocent powers to keep the whip hand of her. It didn’t matter, as long as he believed her. “I love you,” she said. His arms had gone round her automatically, he held her carefully and gingerly, as though she might break and cut his fingers, but with the warmth of her solid and sweet against him he had begun to tremble, astonished into hope.
“I’m sorry about the money, Jean,” he stammered, floundering in the bewildering tides of tenderness and fright and returning joy that tugged at him. “But we’ll manage without it between us. I know you think it was irresponsible, but I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t feel it was mine. Oh, Jean, don’t cry!”
She lifted her head, and she wasn’t crying at all, she was laughing, not with amusement but with pure joy. She put up her face to him and laughed, and she looked like the woman in the drawing. “Oh, do shut up, darling,” she said, “you’re raving!” And she kissed him, partly to silence whatever further idiocies he was about to utter, partly for sheer pleasure in kissing him. It was quite useless to try to put into words for him the revelation she had experienced, the sudden realisation of how rich they were in every way that mattered, he and she and the child that was coming. With so much, how could she have fretted about the minor difficulties? How could she have felt anything but an enormous pity for old Alfred Armiger, who had so much and couldn’t afford to give any of it away? And how, above all, could she ever have feared dissatisfaction or disappointment
with this husband of hers who had nothing and could yet afford to make so magnificent a gift?
“You mean you don’t mind?” he asked in a daze, still breathless. But he didn’t wait for an answer. What did it matter whether he understood how this sudden and absolute fusion had come about? It wouldn’t pay him to question how he had got her back; the wonderful thing was that he had. All the constraint was gone. They hugged each other and were silent, glowing with thankfulness.
It was the unexpected tap on the door that broke them apart, the prim double rap that invariably meant Mrs. Harkness, and usually with a complaint. Leslie took his arms from round his wife reluctantly, put them back again for one more quick hug, and then went to open the door.
Mrs. Harkness was looking unusually relaxed and conciliatory, for Professor Lucas’s influence still enveloped her as in a beneficent cloud.
“A boy brought this note for you a little while ago, Mr. Armiger. He said you were to have it at once, but as your visitor was still here I didn’t care to disturb you.”
“A boy? What boy?” asked Leslie, thinking first of Dominic, though he knew of no particular reason why Dominic should be delivering notes to him at this hour of the evening, nor why, supposing he had any such errand, he should not come up and discharge it in person.
“Mrs. Moore’s boy from just along the road. I thought it wouldn’t hurt for waiting a quarter of an hour or so.”
“I don’t suppose it would. Thank you, Mrs. Harkness.”
He closed the door, frowning at the envelope with an anxiety for which he knew no good reason. The Moore boy also attended the grammar school, and was much the same age as Dominic and probably in the same form; he might easily be a messenger for him at need. But what could be the need?
“What is it?” asked Jean, searching his face.
“I don’t know, let’s have a look.” He tore the envelope open, still lulled by her warmth close against his arm, and aware of her more intensely than of all the other urgencies in the world, until he began to read.
