Powerscourt was quick to reply. ‘No, I do not believe he is guilty,’ he said. ‘I am not sure why I think that, but I do. Tell me, Mr Brigstock, when people are in great strain they sometimes have a place of refuge they go to, maybe somewhere they knew as a child, a place where they can sort out their lives, or let time show them what to do. Did Mr Buckley have such a place?’
George Brigstock shook his head. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said.
Powerscourt pressed on. ‘He didn’t have a family place in the country, did he? A place of his own? Or brothers or sisters he could have gone to stay with?’
‘There was only one brother, and he is in Australia. Melbourne, I believe.’
‘Mr Buckley was under considerable strain, I am sure,’ said Powerscourt, wondering if his mission was a waste of time. ‘Did he have any hobby or pastime he always wanted to indulge? I have heard of people who want to ride to hounds with every hunt in England, or visit every railway station in Britain. Did he have something like that?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Brigstock. He looked closely at the files on his desk. ‘There is just one thing, now I come to think about it. He mentioned it to me once, maybe twice in the last fifteen years. But I do not see how it could possibly help you, Lord Powerscourt.’
‘What is it, man?’ asked Powerscourt, growing impatient.
‘Well, I’m sure it can’t be what you want. But he did say that one day, when he had the time, he was going to attend Evensong in every cathedral in England.’
‘What? All of them?’ asked Powerscourt.
‘All of them,’ said Brigstock, ‘from Canterbury to Ripon, from Exeter to Durham.’
‘God bless my soul,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I suppose there are worse things a man could do. One thing before I go, Mr Brigstock. Do you by any chance have a photograph of Mr Buckley anywhere in your offices?’
The young man was despatched on a mission to the basement and returned with a small dusty photograph. It showed Horace Aloysius Buckley in cricket flannels and a white sweater, bat in his hand. He was scowling at the camera.
‘It was taken at a lawyers’ cricket match a couple of summers ago,’ said George Brigstock. ‘He’d just been given out to a dodgy bit of umpiring. I’m afraid Buckley doesn’t look like that most of the time. He had a splendid collection of very conservative suits.’
However eccentric you were, Powerscourt reflected, as he stared at the man in the photograph, the grey hair, the small moustache, the angry eyes, you wouldn’t be attending Evensong in your cricket flannels. Some people went on pub crawls, Powerscourt thought. Maybe Horace Aloysius Buckley is now on a cathedral crawl, his anxious spirit eased every afternoon by the singing of the choir, the slow processions up the nave, the regular beat of the collects and the hymns. It would explain why he was in Oxford. Christ Church had a cathedral, he remembered. But where on earth had he gone now on his pilgrimage? Gloucester? Hereford? Lichfield? It was almost as difficult as finding the bloody forger, he said to himself as he left the offices of Buckley, Brigstock and Brightwell, the nervous young man escorting him right on to the street outside. Lord now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.
Sir Frederick Lambert of the Royal Academy had gone very pale, almost grey. The coughing fits still racked his body from time to time, the bloodstained handkerchiefs departing from his lips to a place of concealment in the enormous desk. Ariadne was still abandoned on her island, the black sails carrying Theseus away. Powerscourt felt slightly disappointed that the painting had not been changed. He was growing rather fond of the mythological scenes. He wondered if they had Evensong on Naxos, Ariadne’s island, peasants in smocks, Dionysus himself in the front pew, a patriarch with a vast beard leading the islanders in prayer.
‘Johnston,’ Powerscourt began, ‘big man. Attributes paintings. Where does he come from, Sir Frederick?’
‘If he’s the Johnston I think he is,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘he’s the senior curator of Renaissance paintings at the National Gallery. They say he’s got a very ambitious wife.’
‘Would that pay well? The National Gallery, I mean, rather than the wife?’ asked Powerscourt.
Sir Frederick laughed. ‘Nowhere in the art world pays well, Lord Powerscourt. It’s as if they expect people to have a private income or make money from their own work.’
‘So Johnston might have a motive for wishing Christopher Montague out of the way?’
‘Yes, he might have such a motive. Montague would probably have become the leading expert, the one everybody wanted to consult.’
An enormous fit of coughing overtook Sir Frederick. He got up from his chair, clutching a couple of handkerchiefs, and staggered around the room, bent almost double from his spasms. Powerscourt waited.
‘There’s something else I’ve got to tell you, Powerscourt,’ he went on, as he finally regained his desk. ‘I only heard this the other day. In the weeks before Montague’s death there was a rumour going round the auctioneers and the art dealers that his article was going to denounce most of the paintings in that exhibition as fakes. Nobody knows where the rumour came from, but it circulated widely.’
A whole circle of suspects floated past Powerscourt’s brain. Horace Aloysius Buckley, on his knees at Evensong. He remembered Inspector Maxwell telling him that a man called Johnston from the National Gallery had been the last person to see Christopher Montague alive. He could see Roderick Johnston, a great bear of a man, turning over a length of picture cord in his hands. Someone from Clarke’s or Capaldi’s or de Courcy and Piper, peering intently at a scene from one of their paintings, a Cain and Abel maybe, David and Goliath. Ever present in his mind were the terrible marks on Christopher Montague’s neck.
Part Three
Reynolds
14
Mrs Imogen Foxe was sitting in the morning room of her great house in Dorset. The wind was swirling round the terrace outside the tall windows, blowing the leaves away. Beyond it lawns and gravel stretched for a hundred and fifty yards to a small lake with an island in the centre. In her left hand she held a bundle of letters. The top one was from her mother – how well she knew that handwriting – probably another missive telling her to be a proper wife. The next one was from her sister, and probably carried the same message. The third was from a cousin in America, the fourth was in an unknown hand, almost certainly male. As she opened it, two letters fell on to her lap. She almost stopped breathing. Then her heart was beating very fast. She looked around to make sure she was alone and hurried out into the garden, clutching the letters in her hand.
The first was a very formal note, indicating that if she wished to reply to the other letter, she could do so to the above address. The correspondence would be sent on. The second was from her former lover, Orlando Blane.
‘My darling Imogen,’ it began, in Orlando’s rather flowery hand,
I cannot say what I feel because others are going to read this letter. I cannot say where I am. I cannot say what I am doing. But I am well and I long to see you. The people here say they will consider allowing you to come and stay here or nearby. I do hope you will say yes. I am not allowed to write any more. Remember the sonnets. Orlando.
Imogen felt her emotions running away with her. She read the letter again. It was all very mysterious, very romantic. Sonnets. She remembered the trip up the Thames from Windsor, Orlando rowing away, looking impossibly beautiful with those blue eyes sparkling against the water. When she was twelve years old she had decided that she could only ever fall in love with a man with blue eyes. She hadn’t broken her vows yet. Sonnets, Shakespeare sonnets, whispered under the leaves of a weeping willow on the bank, her hand trailing in the cool water.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
It sounds as if Orlando is a prisoner somewhere, she said to herself. He cannot s
ay where he is or what he is doing. Why would anybody want to kidnap Orlando and lock him up in a dark tower? She remembered the man who had paid his debts in the casino. Maybe he had Orlando under lock and key. Imogen peered closely at the letter to see if there were any clues as to its origins. There were not. She set off to walk to the lake, holding the letters very tightly in case the wind blew them away. She shivered slightly, not only from the cold.
We’re both prisoners, she thought. Orlando is locked up somewhere unknown, I am locked up inside a marriage to a man my parents forced me to marry. She had resigned herself to her fate. She went to the local dinner parties, full of hearty squires and their buxom wives, talking endlessly of hunting and the threat of higher taxes under a Liberal government. She received her husband’s guests, drifting through the evenings as if she were in a dream, her mind far away. She knew that most of the neighbouring families thought Granville Foxe had married a mad woman, seduced by her beauty into forgetting the vagaries of her temperament, the odd silences, the lack of attention she paid to local affairs. And, they said, she reads poetry, sometimes in foreign languages like French. No greater proof of insanity or mental decay could have been produced in hunting country than that. But on one point Imogen had remained absolutely firm since the wedding night. She locked her bedroom door.
When she reached the lake, the surface was choppy, a couple of ducks bobbing up and down by the water’s edge. She began composing her reply to the letter. She would make it very formal, she decided. Mrs Imogen Foxe thanks Mr Peters for his invitation to visit Mr Orlando Blane and has great pleasure in accepting.
Powerscourt found Chief Inspector Wilson pacing up and down the late Thomas Jenkins’ room in the Banbury Road. Wilson was looking perplexed.
‘There’s not a lot of progress, my lord,’ he said, ‘apart from a couple of people who remember seeing Buckley in Oxford on the day of the murder. We have talked to everybody who lives round about, all the streets for a hundred yards or so from here, and nobody saw anything unusual on the day the unfortunate Jenkins was killed. No strangers. Nobody out of the ordinary at all.’
Powerscourt produced his photograph of Horace Aloysius Buckley in his cricket flannels. He told him of his conversation with Buckley’s partner and the secret passion for Evensong.
‘All the cathedrals in England, did you say?’ Chief Inspector Wilson’s reaction was the same as Powerscourt’s own. ‘How many are there altogether, for God’s sake?’
‘I was trying to count them on my way here on the train,’ said Powerscourt. He fixed his mind on an imaginary rail map of England. ‘St Paul’s and Southwark in London wouldn’t be much of a problem. Rochester, Canterbury, Chichester, Winchester, Salisbury, Exeter, Gloucester, Worcester, Hereford, Coventry, Peterborough, Ely, Norwich, Lincoln, York Minster must count as a cathedral as it’s got an Archbishop, Ripon, Durham, Carlisle, Christ Church here in Oxford. That’s nearly twenty-one of them, probably some more I’ve forgotten.’ Did Bury St Edmunds have one? Did Manchester? Did Birmingham? It seemed a bit unfair for the west of England to have three close together at Worcester, Gloucester and Hereford when the north was scarcely supplied. Were the people more pagan north of the Wash?
Chief Inspector Wilson rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘Evensong or no Evensong,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind telling you, my lord, that my superiors think we should issue a warrant for Buckley’s arrest. It’s the tie, my lord. Mrs Buckley told us that the Trinity College, Cambridge tie we found on the floor in Jenkins’ room belonged to her husband. She recognized a dark stain near the bottom.’
‘But you can’t arrest a man because of a tie, Chief Inspector. Hundreds of people must have those ties and some of them will have stains near the bottom,’ said Powerscourt.
‘I know that as well as you do, my lord,’ said Chief Inspector Wilson. Powerscourt suspected Wilson might often have trouble with his superiors. Wilson would never become a professor in his native city but he could be obstinate, stubborn, reluctant to admit he was in the wrong.
‘They say, my superiors,’ he went on – was that a faint note of sarcasm in the way he said superiors, Powerscourt wondered? – ‘that it all has to do with motive. This Buckley man finds out that his wife has been carrying on with the first corpse, the man Montague.’ Powerscourt shuddered slightly at the thought of carrying on with a corpse. ‘So he kills him. Then he discovers that she’s been coming to Oxford to see this man Jenkins. Maybe she was carrying on with him as well. So Buckley kills him too. You have to admit the motive looks pretty strong.’
‘But you don’t believe it, Chief Inspector, do you?’ said Powerscourt.
‘I do and I don’t, if you see what I mean, my lord. There is absolutely no evidence, no witnesses, nothing. The Oxford killer seems to have been an invisible man, if you follow me. You don’t believe it, do you, my lord?’
Powerscourt paused for a moment. There were three squirrels chasing each other up and down the trees in the garden. Far off faint cheers could be heard from a college football field.
‘It’s the garrotting,’ he said finally. ‘It’s so very un-English, if you follow me. Bandits in Sardinia or Corsica or Sicily go round garrotting their enemies, and their friends too if the newspaper reports are to be believed. But I can’t see Mr Buckley doing it.’
‘I’m not sure I can hold them off for much longer,’ said Wilson rather miserably. ‘And this Evensong business, they’re just going to laugh at that.’
Small drops of plaster were falling from the ceiling, breaking into fragments on the floor. Orlando Blane stared moodily at the latest evidence of decay in his Long Gallery, the dust threatening to spoil his paintings. Rats, he decided, he could cope with. The rotting walls he could cope with. But this latest cascade of dust, small bomblets falling at the upper end of the vast room, threatened his very existence. There would have to be some kind of screen, he decided, staring helplessly at the beginnings of his Sir Joshua Reynolds of Mrs Lewis B. Black, wife of an American millionaire. He had finished his drawing for the painting two days before.
Orlando glanced briefly at another of the notes pinned round the walls of his prison. Seven people were released when the Bastille was stormed at the start of the French Revolution on the 14th July 1789, he read. Four of them were forgers.
His Reynolds was progressing well, a volume of Reynolds’ own writing acting as midwife to the birth from beyond the grave. Orlando had placed Mrs Black on a seat in an imaginary landscape. A delicious sunset, all soft pinks and scarlets, lay behind her, the dying light illuminating her hair and her hat. Orlando was pleased with the hat, the ostrich feathers shimmering above her golden curls. Now he had to improve the sweep of the long cream dress that flowed down to the ground. And the gloves lying in her lap. There was something wrong with the gloves.
Then he thought of Imogen. He had heard nothing since his letter some days past. Suddenly Orlando reached for his sketchpad and filled a page not with hats or gloves or sunsets but with figures. Orlando had tried not to think about money since he had lost so much of it at Monte Carlo. But now he tried to work out how much he had earned for his keepers. Four copies, two Titians, one Giovanni Bellini, one Giorgione had left his prison. Orlando suspected that they were going to be sold to unsuspecting Americans who would keep them in their homes or in their private museums, away from the inspection of the experts. They could be worth anything from five to thirty thousand. One fake Fragonard, probably about five thousand. One fake Gainsborough, say seven to ten thousand pounds. One fake Sir Joshua Reynolds, nearing completion, probably destined for another American millionaire, five thousand pounds minimum. Whichever way you looked at it, Orlando thought, he had easily repaid the ten thousand pounds he had lost.
He stared at the horizon beyond the rain falling on the ruined gardens. Where was he? When Imogen comes, he said to himself, it’s time to think about escaping.
Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying face down on his drawing-room carpet, peering at a lar
ge map of England. He had borrowed a red pencil from the children’s quarters and had drawn a series of lines connecting the cathedral cities of England to each other and to London. His map now looked like a diagram of the flow of the human blood round the body, red lines criss-crossing each other in regular patterns. Now then, he said to himself, if you were planning to attend Evensong in every single one, how would you do it? You can only take in one cathedral per day. Horace Aloysius Buckley had been in Oxford on a Thursday, five days before. The sensible thing to do would to be to carry on to Hereford, Worcester and Gloucester. That would take you up to Sunday. Assuming you went to Gloucester last, and Powerscourt was only too aware that his assumptions could all be wrong, you could attend Evensong in Bristol on Monday and Wells on Tuesday. Maybe even now Horace Aloysius Buckley was staring at the extraordinary carvings on the front of Wells Cathedral, preparing himself for another helping of Evensong. Then he would, presumably, return to London. Norwich beckoned. So did Ely and Peterborough in the Fens. Powerscourt knew that it would be hopeless to hop from one cathedral to another, trying to catch up with the wandering pilgrim. He would have to place himself across the route, waiting for three or four days perhaps for Buckley. Lincoln, he decided, staring gloomily at Lincoln on his map, that was where he would prepare his ambush.
‘Francis, whatever are you doing?’ Lady Lucy had entered the room without his knowledge and was standing by his side. She knew her husband was capable of eccentric behaviour from time to time, but this seemed a little excessive, even for Francis.
‘I am planning a journey, an interception, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, rising to his feet and smiling apologetically at his wife.
‘Can I come too?’ said Lady Lucy practically.
‘Of course you can,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but it might be rather boring. Unless you like Evensong, that is.’
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