The Property of a Gentleman: One House. Many secrets.

by Catherine Gaskin

  I thought of the tiny portrait of the third Countess, the woman Vanessa so much resembled, and hoped that it was she who had possessed the courage and spirit to defy what orders her husband might have given, and instead of a body hastily bundled in a cloak or blanket, had felt pity for this friendless soul in death, and dressed her according to her station, with the insignia of her family and rank. What had been the ultimate plan for this body we might never know; the oak chest might give back no secrets of whom the Spanish Woman’s friends had been – to leave written evidence itself was dangerous. If someone had intended eventually to bury this body with appropriate ceremony the chance had never come, and the secret of the Spanish Woman’s hiding place had died. But her spirit had spoken strongly and with great force over the centuries to some of the people who had inhabited this house, this room, myself among them. ‘When I am dead, of your charity, offer nine Masses for my soul ...’ I remembered that this day the first of the nine Masses had been offered. If Juana’s Book of Hours had lain here instead of forgotten among the other manuscripts of the period, I would never have known of that pathetic, fearful, last request.

  I raised the candle higher and looked around the little chamber. The rough brick my hand had encountered was probably the brick of a chimney flue – part of the huge one that led up from the fireplace in the great hall below, and also served the fireplace here in the Spanish Woman’s room. It was very dry; the chamber itself was dry, which could have accounted for the state of preservation of the clothes of the Spanish Woman. Just the right amount of heat had reached this chamber to offset the dampness that would have caused those silken and lace garments to rot. If she had lain in any other chamber, not near to a flue which had been in constant use, there might have been nothing to identify her except the jewelled crucifix and the monogrammed ring.

  A rush of excitement seemed to give me strength once more. I held the candle higher and saw the only other thing the chamber contained. It was propped against the brick wall at the back of the oak chest – a smallish rectangle, but too wide to allow it to fit into the chest, completely dust-covered, but with elaborate carving on its delicate frame. I put down the candle and reached across the little skeleton, wondering which of her possessions this had been. It was heavier than I expected. I hesitated after lifting it only a few inches from its place; I rested it back again where it had been, and in doing this, my hands removed some of the heavy dust. A faint reflection glowed back at me from the candlelight. I knew then that it was a mirror, rare in the days of the Spanish Woman, and surrounded, I thought, by a silver-gilt frame. I put down the candle and stretched out both hands to lift this precious thing over the obstacle of the chest and the body of the Spanish Woman.

  It was too much for my strength. As I was about to lower it to the floor beside me it slipped and crashed down. The old Venetian glass shattered, and two large fragments fell from the frame. I sighed in agony at the thought of what I had done. Why hadn’t I waited until I had help to examine it? Why, having made this discovery, hadn’t I had the patience to wait until someone else could help me? I had destroyed, once again, something very valuable, something that belonged to the history of Thirlbeck. Then another thought came, the memory of the words, the translation written in Vanessa’s hand, ‘… this our likeness, a mirror of conscience ...’ The prickling of excitement ran through my body like warm wine. I wondered if what I saw was again a blurring of my vision, my focus. Where the large fragments of shattered glass had fallen away, I saw something else – not the wooden back I would have expected for the mirror. A canvas showed behind the jagged edges of glass. With a kind of frantic excitement I began to pick at what remained, being very careful now, fearful that I might pierce the canvas with the jagged edges. Reason told me to wait, but instinct and emotion overrode it. Piece by piece the glass came out; some fell from the frame. In the nearly four hundred years the canvas had stayed in that place, it had been protected from dust by the mirror, had been given almost ideal circumstances for its preservation from both extremes of heat and damp. I gazed at the face I saw – knelt down and lifted the candle so that the light fell upon that painted face. The remembered face of Philip the Second of Spain, painted, in his own words, ‘by the hand of Domenico Theotokopoulos’ It was unmistakable. No one in the world had ever painted in this quite individual style. No one in the world – certainly not in the time when he had lived, most certainly not now when his fame was universal – would ever have attempted to imitate it. I gazed at it in awe. ‘By the hand of Domenico Theotokopoulos.’ Pursued, envied, grasped at by every museum in the world, absolutely forbidden an export licence from Spain under any circumstances. Priceless. The greatest treasure Thirlbeck contained. A hitherto unknown painting by El Greco.

  And then, my body seeming to pulse with the joy of this discovery, began to feel cold and weak again, and I didn’t understand the meaning of the warmth against my hand until I looked down. In picking away the fragments of the mirror, I had gashed the palm of my hand. The blood was starting to trickle down to the end of my fingers.

  I tried to get to my feet. I grabbed one of my dresses which was lying on the floor of the cupboard and wrapped it tightly about my whole hand. I stayed for a while as I was, trying to gain strength for the effort of rising. It didn’t come; I couldn’t summon it. Then I remembered that the Condesa was coming; very soon she would return with the brandy. With that thought I let myself lie down, lie down beside the remains of the little Spanish Woman.

  I probably had moments of unconsciousness. There was no way to mark the time until I heard the footsteps, the hurried footsteps through the room as if I were being sought, the shadow that fell even into the darkness of that inner chamber. For a second, I thought it must have been Jessica. The sense of hostility was strong, a sort of chemistry I had felt many times in my days at Thirlbeck. But no, not Jessica. This time, not Jessica. Before she spoke I had the scent of her perfume.

  ‘What ...?’ A very long silence followed. I had expected her to touch me, but no hand was laid on me, no hand attempted to raise my head. But she had picked up the candle; its light was nearer, and higher. ‘So ... so ...’ The voice was well known, a kind of harsh triumph in it now, the sort of fierce excitement I had known in the moment of discovering the painting. ‘You have found it! And I had searched all these weeks at Thirlbeck. I have even taken Tolson’s keys and searched in the picture room when they believed I was having the siesta ...’

  ‘Please.’ I whispered. Why did she do nothing? I could feel the warm blood seeping through the rough bandage; I raised my hand so that she might see it. I tried to raise my head but could not. I could see nothing but the dim blurred focus of the candle flame.

  ‘She is ours.’ Now the tone had softened, as if the Condesa spoke to herself, musingly. ‘The Spanish Lady and her possessions are ours. For many generations in our family we have known of the existence of this painting – as we have always known about the jewel. She was of our family, this Spanish Lady, sent in marriage to England by Felipe. The knowledge of the El Greco was our tradition. If this painting still existed anywhere in the world, it could only have been here at Thirlbeck. And you have found it when I had begun to believe that it must have been destroyed.’

  I shifted my head, but all that came into focus was the edge of her slacks. ‘Help me!’ I whispered. ‘For God’s sake help me! I’m bleeding again. I can’t lose any more blood. Please ...’

  She didn’t seem to hear me, or if she did, it made no difference. Whatever anguish and rage she might have felt at Robert Birkett’s death now seemed to have been submerged, transferred almost, to the triumph of winning what she had come to Thirlbeck to seek. She was no longer a woman alone, no longer a woman who had lost everything that day. ‘So ... I take it now, since it does not belong to the Birketts, but to us. And I am the last of my family. But it will not go back to Spain. It will go to the highest bidder. Very private ... and for a great deal of money.’

  ‘Please ...�
�� What was meant to be a cry came only as a whisper. I doubt she even heard it. I never knew if the ultimate crime was her intent – she may have believed I would be discovered, but the real horror of what she was doing only came after I felt the canvas in its elaborate frame removed from my side, and then the candle itself was withdrawn. I wanted to scream as I smelled the acrid smell after it was blown out. I made one last feeble attempt to stop her when I sensed, from the noises that came to me, that she was tugging back into place the panel which had sealed the dark little chamber and its secret. I had to pull back my fingers as the panel squeezed them. Then I could only lie there and listen to the sound of the cupboard door being closed. I felt the tears of frustration and despair prick my eyes, but there was no energy to weep or cry out. Muffled noises continued for some minutes in the room beyond. I could feel the vibration of her footsteps, and then all sound and movement ceased. I felt my lips form a word. ‘Please ...’ But there was no sound.

  In the silence and the darkness I pulled the rough bandage tighter, and closed my fist to hold tight against the cloth. And still the gentle ooze of blood continued; my body was growing very cold. That stuffy chamber was suddenly as cold as death. For four hundred years this silent, dusty place had been the tomb of the Spanish Woman. And now I shared it with her.

  IV

  The sounds came from very far away – I wondered if this was some sort of prelude to death, if in the grip of this frightful cold, sounds came back that were part of life, and if they would fade as life faded. I heard no voices; I remembered words, phrases, people – but I did hear the sound of the dogs, those strangely haunting sounds with which they had called to one another that day in the thick mist on the mountain, the sounds they had used which gave me the courage to follow them through the denseness down into the clear. Strange, that in a whole lifetime of people’s voices to hear and remember, the last thing I should be aware of were the cries of the great hounds of the Birketts.

  Then some sense returned, and I knew the sounds were not imagined, but real – and near. Were they beyond the door of the Spanish Woman’s room, setting up that massive chorus, giving full strength to their big voices? They kept on, insistent, demanding, a new note, almost frantic. Was there anyone in the house to heed them, or would they shepherd them away from the room because they believed I was still in the hospital? The dread and the hope were equally mixed. ‘Oh, God ...’ Was I praying? It was a silent prayer and a cry for help from the tomb of the Spanish Woman, whose burial place only I had ever discovered. But I was so cold – they said the tomb was a cold and lonely place. Stop thinking, just remember the dogs, and hold the strength to will them to do what they were doing. Will them to insist and demand, and not to give up until someone should obey the demand of their clamour.

  There was another period of blackness, and then the sounds were much nearer. The dogs had been let into the room, and now all eight of them must have taken their stance before the closed door of the cupboard. ‘Quickly ... quickly,’ I whispered in the darkness. The door of the cupboard was open. The incredible din the dogs made would have drowned out any cry I might have made. But there was no strength to cry out. All I was conscious of was the wish that I would not die; in these moments I wanted very much to live. ‘Live ... live ...’

  To answer my wish came the frantic pawing and scraping of their claws on the other side of the panel. Whoever was there understood and respected the dogs – knew the peculiarities of their attachment to members of the Birkett family. Whoever it was didn’t waste much time trying to find which niche or peg had to be pressed or pulled to release the panel that held me prisoner. Then I heard voices, not imagined, but real; I heard the blessed splintering of the wood. Someone was using something – a poker, even an axe, perhaps, to beat and tear their way to me. I pressed my body as close as I could to the oak chest on which the Spanish Woman lay. We would come out of the darkness together.

  One of the dogs was through first, the great head thrusting into the dark hole trying to lick life and warmth back into me. He was forcibly withdrawn, and the chopping recommenced, but with more deliberate care. A strong beam of light was now shining on me.

  I felt myself being lifted with great gentleness, and the dogs fell silent. I was cradled in arms that were familiar. Nat’s voice was close to my ear as he carried me.

  ‘You’re going to make a rotten farmer’s wife. You know that, don’t you?’

  Through the drive to the hospital Nat’s arms cradled me still. ‘Hang on, Jo. The hospital’s just telephoned. The donor got back to Carlisle, and now he’s on his way to the hospital. Where you should have stayed ...’

  Tolson was driving, and I knew that Gerald was there in the car with us, but there were frequent moments of blackness; in the times of consciousness I grew aware of the tightness of something about my arm. They had tied a tourniquet there, and frightening numbness was present all through my arm. The dizziness and coldness persisted. I framed words to speak, but few would come out.

  ‘Gerald – the Condesa ...’ It was the lightest whisper, and Nat caught it.

  ‘Yes, Jo, we know ... we know she’s gone. Don’t try to talk. For God’s sake save your strength.’

  I tried again, but it was no use. I was aware of the lights when we reached the hospital, the strangeness of staring face-up at the lights in the corridors as I was wheeled along. Then the wound was quickly stitched and bound, and the tourniquet released. I was aware of pain as the blood slowly began circulating in that arm. Then some time later – I didn’t know how long because the times of blackness kept returning – the transfusion began. I never saw the donor, not until much later. They gave me the blood of this unknown man, and made preparations to put me to sleep. I had only the strength to demand that Nat and Gerald return. I could tell from the nurses’ manner that they thought me a difficult and uncooperative patient. Ungrateful, too.

  I tried to talk when they brought Nat and Gerald. I had believed I had the strength, but when I tried the words, once more they failed me.

  ‘The Condesa ... she has ...’

  It was Gerald who put his fingers on my lips. ‘Please, dear Jo, don’t try to talk. We know all about it. The Condesa has gone, and so has La Española. Now, please – everything is being done, and you are to sleep. You were nearly dead, you know.’

  ‘That makes it twice today.’ Nat’s voice. ‘You look like a ghost.’

  ‘La Española ...’ I whispered.

  ‘Jo, stop it! What are you bothering about it for? Tolson has told the police. The ports and airports have been alerted to watch for her. For myself, I hope she gets clean away with it. I hope she manages to get it cut, and the damn thing disappears for ever, and I hope they never prove she took it.’ He sighed. ‘But I don’t suppose we’ll be that lucky. I don’t really believe we’re through with it at last. I think it will come back, that damned thing. It always has, to cause ruin, and trouble ... and death.’

  ‘Nat, please ...’ Gerald’s voice was cautioning him. ‘Jo needn’t worry about any of that. Everything’s taken care of. Look, there’s the nurse with an injection. You must rest, Jo ...’

  I licked my dry lips. ‘An El Greco ...’ But the words had no form, and no one heard. I could feel the rising panic in me. Thoughts, confused and jumbled, whirled within me, and I couldn’t seem to find the right sequence. I had to warn them, somehow – but Gerald was telling me it was already too late. None of them knew that the Condesa had taken the El Greco as well as La Española. None of them would realise that by telling the police they were placing themselves in terrible jeopardy. How did I tell them that if the Condesa was caught, not only with La Española, but with the El Greco canvas, she could claim that she was merely one more of the couriers who had left Thirlbeck with a precious canvas, that on the Earl’s death she had volunteered to take out of the country an even rarer treasure than the Rembrandt. If she was caught at all, she would talk, and the world would know the secret Vanessa and Tolson had kept so faithf
ully. She would implicate Gerald, and possibly Nat. The tears of frustration rolled down my cheeks as I thought of it, and could not say it. And even if I could say it, what would be the use? They had already told the police La Española was gone. Nothing, now, would stop the inexorable sequence of events if the Condesa failed to get clear. But once she was out of the country, and she had disposed of the jewel and the painting, the danger would recede for all of us. So I didn’t try any more to tell them. It was too difficult to find the words, and already useless.

  I felt the jab of the needle. In the last seconds before the blackness came again I managed to touch Nat’s hand. He bent towards my lips, but I don’t know how the words came out. ‘You have to get me in the morning. Must be there, Nat. Must be there when they bury him ... Promise ...?’

  He had heard and understood me. ‘I promise, Jo. Go to sleep now.’

  Like him, I felt it was no use. La Española would return to Thirlbeck. What had been the Spanish Woman’s, would remain hers. And whatever ruin followed, we would have to bear. But still the opposite thought persisted until the oblivion of the drug took hold. To me, she was a friendly spirit, the Spanish Woman.

  CHAPTER 9

  I

  He came quite early, but I was dressed and waiting for him. I had asked one of the nurses to telephone Nat’s house to make sure he was coming. He entered the room with his brows settled into a frown that seemed too permanent.

  ‘Jo, you know this is madness. You should stay at least another day. Give yourself a chance. You only got a bit more than a pint of blood from that man. They couldn’t risk him collapsing, you know. Both you and he have some making up to do. You need time ... and rest.’