by Bill Kitson
He began to remove the first of them. ‘Have you another screwdriver?’ I asked. ‘It’ll be much faster with two of us working.’
He reached in his tool box and passed me the requisite tool. One thing that struck me as strange was the quality of the wooden panels. Unlike the pallets I was kneeling close to, the timber of the container had been planed, which I thought highly unusual, not the sort of thing you would expect from something used only for storage. I could find no logical explanation for this, unless Casper Harfleur or Bennett had used whatever was close to hand when he’d packed the paintings. Within half an hour all the screws had been removed. As the caretaker had intimated, the brass looked as bright as when they were new. ‘Now, if two of you grab the other end, we’ll take this one and we should be able to lift the top clear.’ As he spoke, the caretaker gestured to me to take the opposite corner. Between us we lifted the top, taking extreme care to avoid the slightest chance of damaging the contents. We set it against the wall and Marjory shone her torch on the container as we pulled away the reams of paper.
Inside, revealed for the first time in many years, was a painting. The image was that of a woman, clearly one of beauty, her features marred by fear, distress and sadness.
‘That’s it,’ Michael explained in little more than a whisper. ‘That’s a depiction of Mary Magdalene following the Crucifixion.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Marjorie gasped.
Together, he and I lifted the diptych and stood it vertically, leaning it against one of the shelves so that we could see the reverse. It was heavy and I cast my mind back to our first visit to St Mary’s Church, before telling Michael, ‘I’m not certain, but from memory, thinking about the hinges on the old support in the Lady chapel, they might not be sturdy enough to bear the weight of these frames. I think Harfleur must have deemed the originals as either damaged in some way or inappropriate when he was charged with the restoration. Whatever the reason, they’re certainly very heavy.’
‘How would the original frames get damaged?’
‘It could be something as straightforward as woodworm, or damage incurred when they were being moved, who knows?’
We stood back and looked at the reverse painting. Like the previous portrayal, the work was encased by a plain border surrounding the image. The second figure revealed was barely recognisable as the same woman, so different was her expression and body language. This time, she was not hastening in terror and grief from the scene of a brutal slaughter. Instead she looked content, her serenity that of someone who had just received joyous news.
‘Oh, Michael, they’re wonderful. I didn’t expect them to be like this,’ Chloe said.
‘I agree. That,’ Michael told us, ‘represents Mary Magdalene after the Resurrection.’
Although the figure in the foreground commanded the viewer’s instant attention, after a few seconds, my eyes were drawn to the scenery behind her. A large boulder had been rolled to one side, revealing the mouth of a cave. Michael gestured to this part of the painting and added, ‘She was reputedly the first person to whom Christ appeared, soon after she discovered that the tomb was empty.’
I didn’t pay particular attention to the passage of time because we were too intent on trying to discover why the paintings had been so carefully concealed and secreted in this obscure corner. If further proof that there was some strong reason for them to be hidden away in this manner was needed, the fact that the container had been so cunningly disguised provided it. Although we pored over every inch of the canvases, their frames and the container itself, we found nothing out of the normal save for a tiny slip of paper Chloe picked up from the container base. Although the writing had faded badly, the message was clearly discernible. It read, ‘Property of St Mary’s Church, Dinsdale’ followed by three sets of initials, those of Andrew Kershaw, Casper Harfleur and Mark Bennett.
‘I assume you have no objection to the diptych being returned to its rightful place?’ Michael asked the curator.
‘Certainly not, even though I think these paintings are of far better quality than you suggested. They should grace the setting for which they were intended, rather than continuing to gather dust in the obscurity of this basement. It’s a bit late to be thinking of moving them tonight though.’
The last remark prompted me to glance at my watch. I was surprised to see how late it was. Obviously Michael was of the same opinion. ‘Actually, I think it would be wiser to wait until I’ve organised someone capable of replacing it in the Lady chapel. That could take me a day or two. Do you mind holding on to the diptych for a few more days? I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘That’s not a problem. As Bob, the caretaker, said; it’s very rare that anybody comes down here, so a few days more or less will be neither here nor there. Just to be on the safe side though, I suggest we replace the paintings in the container and fasten it down. I doubt whether anything will happen, but you can never be too sure.’ Evans paused and looked at the vicar, before adding, ‘If I may make a suggestion, I think you would be well advised to get an expert valuation of those paintings. I can’t be sure, but if they’re as good as I believe, you might need to reassess your insurance.’
‘You think they’re valuable? I was always led to believe they were nothing special.’
‘That style of art isn’t really my speciality but, unless they’re forgeries, you could be talking thousands of pounds. Quite a few thousand, I’d say.’
His last comment reduced any euphoria the discovery might have caused. Knowing that the paintings had been handled by someone with a reputation for forgery meant that both Eve and I discounted the possibility that the church might be holding an undiscovered masterpiece. It seemed that Michael, his mother, and Chloe were of a similar opinion.
Chapter Seventeen
Even though the search for the missing diptych had reached a satisfactory conclusion, Eve and I felt a sense of anti-climax. The examination of the paintings and their container had provided no clue as to why Kershaw had employed Harfleur to secrete the artwork in the first place. ‘Why did they go to all that trouble?’ Eve asked, ‘I think we’re missing something. Possibly something that is staring us in the face, and before you ask, Adam, I’ve absolutely no idea what that might be.’
‘That means you’re as ignorant as I am, Eve, because I haven’t a clue either. We’re a clueless pair.’
My thoughts returned to Andrew Kershaw’s career. Why had the authorities been so desperate to avoid any publicity regarding a possible spy whose activities had ended well over twenty years ago, and who had been dead for a couple of decades? Although Cooper had been extremely reticent, his request to be kept informed of any developments was significant, but in precisely what way, I wasn’t sure.
There had been no suggestion, either from Cooper or anyone else that Kershaw’s activities had been in any way damaging to his country; unless he’d been a double agent. Or could it be that in the course of his work he’d uncovered some activities that were suspicious? Perhaps Cooper’s desire to keep the matter under wraps signified his involvement?
Something was niggling at me, but although I was aware that I ought to recall what I’d been told, it was a couple of days following the discovery of the diptych before it came to mind.
I wasn’t thinking about the events that had occurred recently, but rather I was staring out of the window, admiring the stalking activity of a wild animal in the fields beyond our garden. It is strange how word association works as a memory trigger sometimes, but seeing the fox preparing to pounce on its hapless prey brought the councillor to mind. It was only then that I remembered something he’d said. During our conversation in the Miners Arms, Tom Fox had intimated that Andrew Kershaw hadn’t been the only person in the area who had once been involved in espionage. Tom’s statement had been implicit, and he certainly hadn’t identified the person he’d been referring to, but the recollection made me wonder if there was actually some basis for the official paranoia surrounding Kershaw�
��s activities of long ago.
I discussed this idea with Eve, She too recalled the remark Fox had made, although, like me she had paid little attention to it. ‘It didn’t register, I must admit, and maybe that was because I thought he was bluffing a little, you know, pretending to knowledge he hadn’t got. Why not give him a call and see if he’s willing to tell you more. If not, he could have been spinning us a line.’
I did as Eve suggested, having obtained his number from the local directory, but there was no reply. I made a mental note to try again the next day, but before I could act on it, we had a surprise visitor, or rather two visitors, one of whom was definitely unexpected.
Johnny Pickersgill had been noticeably absent over the past couple of weeks, which we found surprising, given that he had been the one to seek our advice in the first instance. He explained his disappearance immediately. ‘I took the missus to Scarborough,’ he told us, ‘and look what I found when I got back.’ He gestured to his left.
‘That’s no way to talk about your senior officers,’ I scolded him, before shaking hands with his companion. ‘How are you?’
Detective Inspector Hardy looked fit, considering the ordeal he’d been through some months ago. ‘Not bad, all things considered,’ he replied.
‘I’m surprised they’ve let you back on duty so soon.’
Hardy gave a sheepish grin. ‘That wasn’t all my doing. I was more or less ordered out of the house. Sylvia told me I was the most impatient patient she’d ever encountered. Given some of the horror stories she told from her time in nursing, I had to take that as a not-too-subtle hint. I managed to persuade the doctor to sign me off as fit for work. It was either that or Sylvia threatened to start looking for a divorce lawyer.’
Eve greeted the arrivals with a smile, which was mirrored by Johnny when she announced that she’d already put the kettle on. I was beginning to wonder how the local constabulary would function if tea were made an illegal substance. As we waited for the tea to brew, I asked what had happened to DS Holmes. ‘He’s giving evidence in a robbery case that looks as if it will last for another week at least,’ Hardy explained.
Once they had their tea, he got straight down to business. ‘I’ve been brought up to date with these murders, and to be fair we’re completely stumped.’
Eve groaned. ‘Not another cricketing pun. Adam’s been cracking them for weeks.’
I hadn’t made that many, but mine had been deliberate.
‘Sorry,’ Hardy told her, ‘it was completely unintentional. I know you’ve both been a great help to my DS and Johnny here and I’m grateful for your input. Holmes is still learning. He’s getting there but it takes time. I know he told you about the first murder, and that you were present when the second body was found at the museum, and I wondered if you had any ideas as to where to concentrate our inquiries. I’m still trying to get back into the work routine and to be honest we’re fairly desperate for any help.’ He paused, before adding, ‘That wasn’t meant to be as bad as it sounded.’
I glanced at Eve, who nodded slightly before I replied. ‘We’re baffled too, but we do have a sort of theory. Let me stress that it is only a theory and a fairly wild one at that so it could be totally wide of the mark.’
‘Anything, no matter how unlikely it might seem would be a vast improvement on what we have so far.’
‘OK, although it might seem at first to be totally unconnected, we have managed to discover a connection between the victims and Kershaw.’
Hardy frowned. ‘We’d ruled David Kershaw out as a suspect, largely because of what you told DS Holmes. Are you implying that he could be involved after all?’
‘Sorry, you misunderstand me. I wasn’t talking about David Kershaw. I was referring to his older brother Andrew.’
Hardy looked baffled and turned to Johnny for enlightenment. ‘That’s Chloe Kershaw’s father,’ Johnny explained. ‘He died years ago.’
Hardy still looked confused, so I added further information. ‘Chloe is engaged to Michael Phillips, the vicar of Elmfield Church and St Mary’s in Dinsdale. Her father died twenty years ago or thereabouts.’
‘OK, I’ve got the relationship sorted now, but if he died that long ago I fail to see what relevance Andrew Kershaw has to the current murder.’
‘So do we, but it could have something to do with his occupation.’
Hardy glanced at Johnny again, seeking further clarification. ‘He was a diplomat, wasn’t he?’ Johnny asked.
‘That’s what everyone told us, and we believed that to be true to begin with. We only got interested in him because Chloe wanted to discover all she could about her parents.’ Eve explained the difficulty Chloe was having establishing her identity, before she told them, ‘So in order to try and find out more, Adam phoned one of his former colleagues in London. I’ll let him tell you what happened after that.’
I described my conversations with Simon Baines and the Foreign Office’s denial of Kershaw, plus the sinister warning Simon’s editor had received. ‘Then we had a visit from someone claiming to be a Whitehall official.’ I gave them the gist of our conversation with Cooper, allowed them to ponder this for a moment before asking, ‘What do you infer from that?’
‘It all sounds rather baffling and a bit odd, to be honest,’ Johnny replied.
‘It might not be if you went into the Admiral Nelson a bit more often and talked to some of the locals.’
I related what Zeke Calvert had told us, about his friendship with Andrew Kershaw during their youth and National Service. The effect on them was markedly similar to how we reacted.
‘So you believe that Kershaw was a British agent?’
‘Yes we do, but why that should be important after such a long time remains a mystery. We can think of a couple of possible reasons.’
‘What might those be?’
‘Either Kershaw discovered the identity of a double agent who as yet hasn’t been unmasked, or he was one himself, which we believe is far less plausible. Either way, we think it possible that Kershaw left evidence behind that is damning enough to provide a motive for murder even now, or that someone believes he did. There is a third theory, but it’s a bit more obscure, more of a James Bond plot. I did wonder if something Kershaw hid reveals damning evidence about someone in the political hierarchy of either this country, our allies or our enemies.’
‘A bit far-fetched,’ Hardy commented. ‘At the beginning you said you’d established a link between Kershaw, Mark Bennett and Casper Harfleur. What was the connection?’
I kept my face straight as I replied. ‘There were two, actually. One was Giovanni Bellini and the other was Mary Magdalene.’
Hardy stared at me as if I’d suddenly begun speaking in Russian.
‘Adam, stop teasing them and explain properly,’ Eve chided me.
‘We got chance to examine an old notebook of Bennett’s and we believe he sold a couple of miniatures painted by Bellini on behalf of Andrew Kershaw’s wife. We can’t say categorically that it does refer to her, because all the entries in the book are coded, and Bennett only used initials for the buyer or the vendor. However, we can be more certain about the other connection.’
I explained about the reference to the diptych and our hunt for it. ‘Sadly, when we examined it, we couldn’t find anything remotely suspicious. The only satisfactory outcome is that the vicar is delighted to have retrieved the paintings and is planning to have them back on display in the church as soon as possible. Now we’re pretty much back to square one, apart from a cryptic comment Tom Fox made.’
‘What has Uncle Tom got to do with this?’ Johnny asked.
I explained about our conversation with the councillor and the comment he made.
‘That makes sense,’ Johnny told us, ‘Uncle Tom doesn’t like it bandied about, but he was in Special Branch for a few years before he was promoted and transferred back here.’
‘He did mention that, but why do you call him “Uncle Tom”?’ Eve asked.
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bsp; Johnny smiled. ‘It’s an old office joke. Tom’s great hobby is fishing, particularly fly fishing. A few years ago, via a pal of his, he got invited to spend a dream holiday in Canada, on one of their great salmon rivers. He stayed in a luxury log cabin, and when he came home he bored everyone silly with long tales of fishing and showed us countless photos of the place. In the end someone nicknamed it Uncle Tom’s Cabin and the name stuck.’
They left soon afterwards, little wiser than when they came, which in truth was the same as us. Unless we had a stroke of inspiration or something happened to change our luck, we seemed unlikely to solve the murders, or to do anything towards our pledge to help Chloe establish her identity.
‘Are you going to be busy writing today?’ Eve asked.
‘No, at the moment I’m wrestling with the plot of my next book, but with all the distractions I think the plot is winning. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I was planning on doing some housework and I didn’t want the noise of the vacuum cleaner to disturb you.’
‘Carry on by all means. I don’t think there’s much likelihood of a sudden flash of inspiration hitting me.’
I was wrong, but the brainwave I had was nothing to do with the book. A couple of hours later, having read the paper and given up on the crossword, I realised that I still hadn’t heard the threatened sound of the vacuum. I walked down the hallway and as I passed the dining room I glanced inside, my attention caught by the scent of lavender from the furniture polish Eve was using.
I stopped dead, admiring Eve’s figure. Her back was towards me and her buttocks moved rhythmically as she buffed the oak dining table vigorously. The sneak floorshow was beginning to excite me when I was distracted by a stray thought.
The table reminded me of something I’d seen recently but failed to understand until then. Why had the container for the paintings we’d discovered in the museum been made from what was clearly top quality timber? Surely anything would have sufficed,? I was still trying to find an explanation when I was interrupted.
