The Vanishing Man

by Charles Finch

  Mayne kept his grip, though, and added, “Keep me close on Dorset.”

  “Yes, Sir Richard.”

  “Good chap. Be safe.”

  “And yourself.”

  Nobody had betrayed to Lenox any reaction on his stray mentions of the name Shakespeare.

  At a little after one o’clock, he stopped by the British Library. It was closed on Sundays, but Lenox’s friend there, like Sir Richard, worked seven days a week. Lenox presented his card at a side door, and soon Duncan Jones came down to fetch him—a friend of long standing.

  “Mr. Lenox! This is a pleasant and unexpected surprise.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Jones?”

  “Summer could be kinder on my knees. Come in, come in—thank you, Hillhurst,” he said to the library’s guard, who touched his hat. Duncan Jones counted for a great deal in these noble halls.

  He was a fellow of perhaps eighty-five, Jones, with short white hair and a deeply creased face. His father had been a Yorkshire farmworker. Neither of his parents had been able to read. But from an early age he had shown such brilliance in the year or two of school that was expected of him that he had simply kept advancing in his education, every year intended to be his last so that he could quit and help his family on the farm, until at last he found his way to Cambridge through the generosity of a Yorkshire squire.

  Now he was perhaps the world’s foremost scholar of incunabula, and the chief curator of the great library’s collection of manuscripts. He still had a very heavy accent. Lenox could not quite remember whether he had been knighted; he suspected so. Nevertheless, there was no pomposity to him whatsoever. They had struck up a friendship once when Lenox requested a very old map of the Kingdom of Dalmatia, on Europe’s southeastern coastline, and it had been in Jones’s carrel.

  “What brings you?” asked Jones, as they proceeded slowly down a long, dim hallway, striped at even intervals with shafts of sunlight from outside.

  “I was hoping I could buy you a cup of tea as the price of your expertise.”

  “Of course. I was pottering—inexcusable, but at my age perhaps inevitable.”

  The tea was free, in a small room covered in eccentric portraits of old noblemen and women, ranging in size from a tenpence coin to twice Lenox’s height.

  They took cups, Jones’s a proper Yorkshire cup, black with five lumps of sugar, and then retreated to a comfortable nook piled with odd cushions.

  “What I was curious about was Shakespeare,” Lenox said as they sat.

  Jones squinted at him. “Who, now?”

  “I—he was—oh, but I see now, you are having fun at my expense. Very good.” Jones was laughing his wheezing laugh, which came from deep within his gentle soul. “Do you make sport of all your inferiors?”

  “Do go on, Charles, do go on,” said Jones, still smiling. “I apologize.”

  Lenox smiled, too. “What I really hoped to learn about was the portraits of him that we know to exist.”

  Jones brightened. “Ah. An interesting question!”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, because really there is only one. That is your answer. It is the black-and-white etching that appeared in the First Folio. You would recognize it instantly. He has a very high bald forehead in it, a white ruff, and a mustache. Not a good portrait—stiff—but his friends are recorded as saying it looked very like him. The artist was Martin Droeshout, who never did a single thing of interest with the rest of his mortal hours.”

  “Just one picture!” Lenox said wonderingly.

  “There are dozens of imitations. But only one other candidate that could be real. The Chandos.”

  Here was a name that Lenox knew well. Just at that instant, perhaps the most famous man in England was Richard Plantagenet Temple-Nugent-Brydges-Chandos-Grenville—the 2nd Duke of Buckingham and Chandos. Some decades before, he had inherited one of the world’s largest fortunes. Now he was bankrupt. Indeed, they said he owed a million pounds in debt.

  “The same family?”

  “The very same. In the sell-off of his belongings the current duke sold it to Ellesmere last year, who to his credit immediately donated it to the nation. It is an intriguing picture. Its sitter is dressed in open collar, with a gold earring, and he has a very bright, humorous face. That makes it nice to think it is him.”

  “But it is not certain.”

  “No, it is very far from certain.”

  “What would a certain oil of Shakespeare be worth?”

  “Worth!” Jones smiled a private smile, a librarian’s smile, full of dusty secrets and happy solitudes. He thought for a moment. “I often think of Thomas De Quincey saying that the plays are not works of art—they are phenomena of nature, like the sun and the sea, the stars and the flowers. But that was not your question.”

  “It was still a good answer.”

  Jones took a sip of his tea. “There is no price that could be too high, Charles. Imagine looking into Shakespeare’s eyes! The most peerie little oval of his face would be worth the moon.”

  “What about twenty thousand pounds?”

  Jones smiled, conceding to reality. “Yes. That sounds like a decent first approximation. Twenty thousand pounds. More if there were two buyers competing for it. These Americans are getting rather rich. Gold and railroads, I’m told.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lenox returned home at four o’clock and went to the small sitting room across the hall from his study, to wait for the duke. He wanted the advantage of Dorset—to make him wait—and asked Mrs. Huggins to show the Duke into the study and offer him a drink if he came.

  At the stroke of five the doorbell rang. The estimable housekeeper did exactly as she was asked, telling Dorset that Lenox would be there shortly. About five minutes later the detective was just preparing to go across the hall when he saw, through the cracked door of the small sitting room, something that chilled his heart: Lancelot was approaching the study.

  He watched, helpless as a fly in a spider’s web, as Lancelot shoved the study door open and went up to the duke.

  “Hello!” he said.

  “Hello,” said the lean, handsome duke, looking around, a bit baffled.

  The conversation halted. They stared at each other across the length of carpet that lay between them, exactly like two Parliamentary leaders negotiating a bill, except that one of them happened to have mud all over the back of his jacket; not the duke.

  Lenox was just going to cross the hall to intervene when Lancelot said, in a tone that was more anthropological than anything—scientific—“You’ve got a perfectly enormous mouth.”

  The duke looked startled. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve got a huge mouth!” Lancelot bellowed. Then he added, with sympathy, “My great-grandfather is deaf, too.”

  The duke reddened to the roots of his hair. “I’m not deaf. And I’m fifty-seven.”

  “Oh, so it’s age. Rotten luck. Well, swings and roundabouts.”

  “No, I—”

  “Have you ever seen how many grapes you could put in there?”

  “What?”

  “In your mouth. Do keep up.”

  “Of course I haven’t,” he said. Dorset’s hand went involuntarily to his mouth. “It’s a normal-sized mouth.”

  “Are you that duke?”

  “I am the Fifteenth Duke of—”

  “I bet you could get ten grapes in there without any problem at all. After that it would be tricky.”

  “We could nev—”

  “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We’d simply be throwing it away not to try,” said Lancelot. “Shall I ring and ask for some grapes?”

  The duke, who had existed for many years without the encumbrance of a living soul disobeying his wishes, looked truly bewildered.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who am I? I’m Lancelot.”

  “Lancelot.”

  “Yes, Lancelot.”

  “I am not deaf!”

  “Lancelot,” said Lancel
ot, in a soft sort of whisper. Then he said, “I go to Eton. Did you go there?”

  “I was at Winchester,” said the duke stiffly.

  “Hadn’t you the money to go to Eton?”

  “The—my family has been going to Winchester for generations. Winchester and Cambridge.”

  Lancelot nodded encouragingly. “My father’s vet went to Winchester. He had his whole arm up a cow once.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Well, up to his elbow.”

  The duke was leaning forward on his chair, irate. “No! I mean he didn’t go to Winchester! Your father’s veterinarian!”

  Lancelot frowned. “I’m quite sure he did.”

  “Who are you? Why are you in this house?” said Dorset finally, trying to regain command of the conversation. “My God, it’s like an asylum.”

  “They’ve got you in an asylum?” said Lancelot.

  Lenox, in the doorway, was watching with a sort of rapt, immobilized fascination.

  “No, they’ve not got me in an—”

  “It’s hard when they started you at Winchester, I guess.”

  “No, they’ve—”

  “It’s a lot to overcome.”

  “Winchester is—”

  “The father is the child of the man, they say,” interrupted Lancelot, benevolently. “That’s what my headmaster tells us.”

  The duke, perhaps at last realizing that his role in this bewildering conversation was voluntary, stood up. “Where is your uncle?”

  “In Surrey,” Lancelot said instantly.

  “In Surrey? I was told to meet him here at five o’clock! What is he doing in Surrey?”

  “He collects fragments from Anglo-Saxon times.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Is it hard, at your age, to keep everything straight?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My uncle Chips. In Surrey?”

  “Your uncle—no, your uncle Lenox, you damned fool boy, Charles Lenox.”

  “Oh, he’s my cousin,” said Lancelot immediately. He chuckled. “Not my uncle. Dear old duke.”

  “Where is he? Charles Lenox?”

  “He said he would be back in ten minutes.”

  “And he left you in charge here to greet me?”

  “Oh! No, I was just bored.”

  The duke glared at Lancelot. “Bored! When I was your age—”

  “Long, long, long ago,” said Lancelot. “Yes?”

  “When I was your age, not that long ago, as it happens, I would have received a caning for the way you’re speaking to me. I’ve half a mind to give you one myself.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lancelot said simply and instantly. “I hadn’t meant to be disrespectful.”

  “But you—”

  “They tell me I’m very curious. That’s all.”

  “Hm.”

  Dorset looked as if he could have come up with several hundred adjectives he would have used to describe Lancelot before he reached curious. He sat back down in his chair, staring at the boy with distaste.

  “So you really are a duke?”

  “Yes.”

  “What duke?”

  “I am the Fifteenth Duke of Dorset,” said the duke with fierce assertiveness, as if he had never been more pleased to declare it. “What does your father do?”

  “Have you met the Queen?”

  Lenox saw the duke relax, just minutely. “Of course.”

  “How many times?”

  “More than you could count.”

  “Twice?”

  “No! Dozens! She is my third cousin, and my wife’s third cousin once removed!”

  Lancelot looked at him pityingly. “Third cousin, is that it. So she wouldn’t remember you.”

  “Of course she would remember me! Her Majesty is an intimate—a close—she is of course the sovereign, and never stoops to—she—”

  Lancelot took advantage of the duke’s flustered tact to say, “Perhaps she would remember your face.”

  “Of course she knows my face!”

  “Perhaps she thinks you’re a footman, or something like that.”

  “The Queen does not think I am a footman!” thundered the duke.

  “No?”

  “Of course not!”

  “I was always taught—by my father—that it would be the greatest honor to serve as the Queen’s humblest servant. That no Englishman would hesitate to lay down his life so that she might not besmirch her gown.”

  “Well, of course, that is quite true!” said the duke, confused.

  “Then why do you seem angry about being her footman?”

  “I am not her footman!”

  “Sorry, about her thinking that you were her footman?”

  The duke’s face was so full of anger that he stood up again, and quick as a flash Lenox realized he had to move. He crossed the hall and entered with a pointed clatter of the door.

  “Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly as he came in, “I am sorry to have kept you. It was unavoidable.”

  The duke looked irate. “Who is this child?”

  Lenox glanced at the other chair, pretending surprise. “Oh, this is my mother’s young cousin, Lancelot.”

  “He has been speaking to me in the most—in the most—”

  “I said our veterinarian went to Winchester,” Lancelot told Lenox apologetically. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Oh.” Lenox looked at Dorset. “It must have been an error, Your Grace. He is only twelve, after all.”

  “And he’s a dashed good vet, too,” said Lancelot joyfully. Lenox thought he had never seen anyone quite so intensely happy. “I’ll tell you what it is, Duke, I’ll write to Father. I’ll bet you ten pence he went to Winchester after all! That’ll please you. A distinguished alumnus for Winchester at last.”

  “He did not!” said Dorset angrily.

  Lenox intervened. “Lancelot, excuse yourself this instant. Your Grace, I apologize.”

  Lancelot, who to his credit moved fast for someone who loved eating so passionately, was on his feet quickly. “Good-bye!” he said.

  And as he darted cheerfully away, he winked at Lenox.

  It was only then that the penny dropped: Lancelot hadn’t been making random mischief. He had been exacting a specific revenge for the duke’s rudeness to Lenox; he had, despite every previous piece of evidence that existed, some kind of instinctive loyalty to Charles.

  Could it even be love! Just possibly. How very astonishing that would be.

  “Tell Mrs. Huggins you need your tea, please.”

  “I will. Cheerio, Duke. We’ll talk about the grapes later!”

  As Lancelot left, Lenox looked at Dorset, whose face remained taut with anger. “Grapes?” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A further apology (“the boy grew up quite unworldly, living in Cornwall”) mollified the duke a bit, and a few moments later they were seated in the same two chairs, the duke again in some possession of himself.

  “You asked to meet, Your Grace,” Lenox said. The reversion to this formal address was intentional. It would be delicate work to rebalance their relationship. “I thank you for coming here. I know it must have been an inconvenience.”

  This gave the duke a chance to be majestic, humbly. “Ah,” he said. “Well.”

  “May I ask why you wished to meet?”

  The duke hesitated and then said, very grandly, “You may have your terms, Mr. Lenox. I will disclose to you everything I know. After that, you may help me or not as you see fit.”

  Lenox nodded. But his reply was noncommittal. “You can perhaps conceive why I am disinclined to do so.”

  The duke looked at him warily. “I can.”

  Indeed, Lenox was tempted to say no. The humiliation of the duke’s speech to him at White’s lingered—would chase him down for a long ways yet, if he knew London, like hounds to a fox.

  But he also knew that he had no choice but to accept. Curiosity: a bedeviling vice, a staunc
h ally.

  “Why have you changed your mind?” asked Lenox.

  The duke, economical of motion always, tilted his head very slightly. “You caught me when Scotland Yard did not. Though that was not a happy moment, clearly you possess some skill.”

  “I see.”

  The duke looked at him hard. At last, he said, “On my honor as a gentleman, then, I apologize to you for the harsh words I spoke at White’s.”

  They stared at each other. A duke’s apology was as rare as a winter swallow. But Lenox had been humiliated publicly, and this was an apology in private.

  “Thank you,” Lenox said.

  He left it there and stared back at the older man. Finally, the duke said, in a voice that choked on its own concession, not out of any specific anger toward Lenox, but more for the abasement of his position, “I would be delighted if you would be my guest at luncheon at White’s tomorrow.”

  “That is extremely kind of you, Your Grace, and I accept,” said Lenox. “Let us move forward.”

  The duke nodded. “Yes.”

  There was a long pause. “Have you learned or observed anything new?” Lenox asked.

  To his complete surprise, this question released a torrential reply. Within thirty seconds the duke had stood up and was striding back and forth along the carpet, excoriating the thief of the painting, muttering dark imprecations against his own family and staff again, who he claimed were not taking the problem seriously enough, and repeatedly expressing despair at the situation.

  It was clear that he had kept his emotions in check for the past day. To Lenox he suddenly seemed unwell.

  “Your Grace,” he said at last.

  The duke, hands behind his back, stopped. “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow I think that with some luck I may be able to discover where the painting has gone.” He was referring to his plan with Bonden. “But I cannot help but suspect that my job would be substantially easier if I knew the full story of Shakespeare’s portrait.”

  The duke stared at Lenox as if he were not quite real—a ghost—until finally he said, “You are right that I have been concealing a few important facts from you. I will retrieve the papers that tell the story from my personal safe.”

  “Shall we go now?”

  “Come to my house tomorrow at lunchtime—if you don’t mind. The safe is in Buckingham Palace.”