by Amy M. Reade
It was the man who visited our shop the morning after Florian died—the one who was interested in buying the William Leighton Leitch painting. I wondered if Seamus knew he was here.
My eyes must have betrayed my surprise, because Chloe raised her eyebrows and motioned to the couple with her.
“Do you know each other?”
I recovered myself quickly and said, “Good evening.” The man responded with a smile and a nod of his head, and the woman shook my hand with long, graceful fingers.
“Sylvie, I’d like you to meet Dr. Hagen Ridley, one of my coworkers.” Dr. Ridley gave me a look—was it a warning?—that stopped me from relating the story of how we had met. Chloe continued. “This is Thea, Hagen’s date for the evening.” She winked and smiled at the two of them.
Chloe and Dr. Ridley were coworkers? I realized I didn’t know where Chloe worked or what she did for a living. I would ask her at dinner. It seemed rude to ask her now.
Dr. Ridley was interested in Seamus’s paintings because, he said, they reminded him of a more contemporary version of William Leighton Leitch. That was odd. Why hadn’t he shown any interest in Seamus’s artwork when he visited the studio? That had been the perfect opportunity to speak to Seamus about his paintings without the distraction of highfalutin collectors milling about.
“Is there a particular painting I can tell you about, Dr. Ridley?” I asked.
“Please, call me Hagen. I’m just taking my first reconnaissance around the gallery,” he said.
Chloe responded for him. “Hagen studies Scottish art, so he’s always interested when there’s a Scot artist in the gallery.”
“Scot artists have a rugged way of expressing themselves on canvas. I find it fascinating to meet Scot painters, to find what makes them different than painters from, say, France or Spain,” Hagen said, gesturing widely with his hands to encompass the paintings in the gallery. I merely nodded, not versed in the differences among painters from different countries.
Hagen moved away, gently taking Thea’s arm and gliding along on his wing-tip shoes, which were much more cosmopolitan than the boots he wore when he visited the Highlands. I wanted to follow him to ask him more about his trip to our studio, but I had a hunch that was something he didn’t want to discuss.
I didn’t see him again that night. I tried to get Seamus’s attention to ask him if he had seen Hagen, but he was busy talking to people for the rest of the evening.
We all heaved a sigh of relief when the last few collectors left and the gallery doors were locked. Seamus was buzzing around, his eyes bright. He held a glass of mineral water, which had been in his hand so long it had lost its fizz.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him.
“I feel great!” he answered. “What did you think? How do you think it went? Did you meet people? They were braw!”
I laughed. I hadn’t seen him so excited in a long time. He was in his element—the evening had been perfect for him. He had met new people and talked about art for hours. Felix, who had been talking to two of his assistants by the bar, came over and put his hand on Seamus’s arm.
“Seamus, the evening was a huge success, both for the gallery and for you. The collectors loved you and your art.” He nodded toward me. “Having such a pretty woman helping you didn’t hurt, either.” He winked.
Seamus let out a whoop, probably the first one ever heard in this hallowed gallery. Felix and Chloe laughed. I smiled and shook my head, grateful that the night was over and we could decompress with some dinner and a stiff drink.
“Where should we go for dinner?” Felix asked. “Seamus, the choice is yours. Anywhere you want. Though it’s late, so your options might be limited to pubs at this point.”
“A pub sounds like just the thing,” Seamus said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m starving.”
Felix left his assistants in charge of closing up while he and Chloe and Seamus and I left to find a pub. We found one that was dark and quiet, an upscale place, where we didn’t feel outrageous in our fancy clothes. Several of the patrons, dressed conservatively in suits and loosened ties, smiled and stared at Seamus as he walked in looking every inch like an ancient Highlander.
We sat at a round table in the back and ordered a round of whisky. We looked at menus until the drinks came, then we drank to Seamus’s success and started down the road to relaxation. Another round of drinks, and we drank to the success of the Lundenburg. By the time our meals arrived, we were old friends. Felix and Chloe, though dressed to the nines and clearly at home among the rich and famous, reminded me of James and Greer. They were easy to talk to and laughed often. I was comfortable with them.
“So tell us what you do, Chloe,” I said during a pause in the conversation.
She sat back in her chair with a contented sigh. “I am an archaeologist for the University of London, as well as a consultant for two preservation societies. I usually work in a lab or in an office, not out in the field.”
“That sounds fascinating. What sorts of things do you work on?” Seamus asked.
“Right now I’m working on putting together a grant proposal for the preservation of a building up in the Cotswolds. There’s so much to do to preserve old buildings, and in this particular case it has to be done quickly, because developers are looking to tear down the place. It’s ancient. They can’t do that.”
“Chloe, my dear, don’t get all worked up about it. This is supposed to be the relaxing part of the evening,” Felix said, putting his hand over hers.
She smiled at him. “I can’t help getting worked up about it. You know that.”
“Do I,” he responded, laughing and rolling his eyes.
“Tell us about Hagen,” I urged her, in part to change the subject.
“Who?” Seamus asked.
“Dr. Hagen Ridley. Chloe introduced him to me, but I’ve met him before.” I waited for Seamus to respond.
“The name doesn’t sound familiar. Where did you meet him?”
“At our shop. He was the one who came in to see the William Leighton Leitch painting that Florian bought..”
Seamus stared at me. “You’re kidding. Really? He was at the gallery? I wonder why he didn’t introduce himself.”
Chloe had been watching our conversation like a tennis match. “I knew you had met Hagen before,” she said to me. “I could tell from the expression in your eyes.”
“We never learned his name. He just left us with a phone number to call in case we got in any more paintings by William Leighton Leitch.”
“He studies Scot artists,” Chloe added.
“What was he doing at the opening?” Seamus asked.
“He always comes when there’s an artist from Scotland being featured,” Felix replied. “But I don’t know why he didn’t introduce himself to you. I’m sure he’d love to talk to you sometime. Would you like us to set up a time for you two to meet?”
“Let me ask him when I see him at work.” Chloe said. “I’ll find out why he didn’t talk to Seamus himself. He’s not exactly shy.”
“Is Thea his wife? I noticed you gave a wink when you introduced her,” I said.
Chloe smiled. “It’s a sweet story, really. Hagen and Thea used to be married, but they divorced because he wasn’t ready for children and she was. Neither of them found anyone else, though, and as Thea got older she gradually changed her mind. Now they’re dating again, and I expect to hear wedding bells again someday.”
We ate in silence, then Chloe spoke again. “You know, I remember Hagen saying a while back that he was taking a quick trip up to the Highlands. I’ll bet that was to see you, Seamus.”
“I’m sorry to say it was an unsuccessful trip,” Seamus said. “He had driven all the way from London in a hurry because he heard the William Leighton Leitch painting was in our antique shop. But someone else had expressed interest in the painting, so I gave that person first dibs on buying it.”
Chloe gave the table a light smack with her hand. “That’s righ
t. Hagen told me about it. Then the poor man who bought the painting was killed in a car crash. Did they ever recover it during their investigation?”
“Not that we know of,” Seamus said. “As a matter of fact, that’s why the detectives from Scotland Yard called on Felix and paid us a visit at our hotel.”
Chloe looked at him in surprise. “Felix didn’t tell me that. What did they want?”
“They asked questions about Seamus and how I met him,” Felix answered. “Seamus, what did they talk to you about?”
“Just more questions about how I knew Florian—he’s the man who bought the painting—and what happened the night he died.”
“Why have they taken over the investigation from the local police?” Chloe asked.
Seamus shrugged. “Who knows. I assume because Florian was from London and the police up in Cauld Loch exhausted all their leads.”
I debated whether to tell Seamus that I had been to see Alice earlier in the day. I didn’t think he’d be very happy to hear that, so I opted to keep it to myself for a while. I certainly didn’t want to mention it in front of Felix and Chloe.
Chloe shook her head. “Poor man,” she said again.
Felix left the table to take a call from one of his assistants. He came back smiling, and told us that the evening had been even more successful than he first realized. Quite a few of Seamus’s paintings had been either sold or spoken for by the collectors at the opening.
“And this was just the first night,” Felix told Seamus. “You’ve got almost two more weeks here. What do you say we set up a makeshift studio in the gallery and you can work whilst you’re here?”
Seamus looked at me, his eyes twinkling. “Sounds braw, man!”
Life couldn’t get any better for Seamus.
CHAPTER 8
I explored London like a tourist for the next several days. I saw Covent Garden, Westminster Abbey, Parliament, Buckingham Palace, and countless other sites. My feet ached from walking so much.
I didn’t see much of Seamus, as he was busy going back and forth between the hotel and the gallery, painting by day and meeting with collectors and customers by night. We would usually meet for dinner quite late, after the gallery had closed, but I lunched alone. A couple times I called Eilidh while I ate, to check on things and chat. Things back at the shop seemed to be going well.
One morning I was walking through Harrods, gawking at the department store known the world over for quality, service, and history, when my mobile rang. It was Chloe.
“I called to see if you’d like to meet me for lunch,” she said.
“I’d love that!” I exclaimed. Eating lunch alone was getting tiresome. We agreed to meet in a few hours and I continued my exploration of Harrods.
When we met, at a café near Covent Garden, Chloe kissed me on both cheeks. I smiled, remembering what Mum always said: “That’s how the beautiful people greet each other.”
We found a table outside and sat down. Chloe wanted to know where I’d visited and what I wanted to see, then she offered her own suggestions for not-to-miss destinations.
After we ordered, she leaned forward in her chair. “Sylvie, I talked to Hagen. He told me something absolutely fascinating. Have you ever heard of Christian Fletcher?”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. The name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“I didn’t think so. She lived almost four hundred years ago.”
“No wonder I don’t know her,” I said with a laugh.
“Christian Fletcher was born in the early sixteen hundreds,” Chloe began. “She was married to a man of the cloth, a Reverend Grainger. The reverend was the leader of the Kinneff Church in the village of Kinneff, Scotland. Christian and her husband lived in a house next to the church—like a vicarage.
“During the mid-sixteen hundreds, as you may recall from your history books, Oliver Cromwell was mounting an invasion of England’s neighbor to the north. One of the places he was keen to secure was the Castle Dunnottar. This happened to be the place where the Honours of Scotland, or the Scottish crown jewels, were kept. The Scottish crown jewels consist of three pieces: the crown, the Sceptre of Scotland, and the Sword of Scotland.
“Christian was a friend of the lady of the castle, and together they devised a plan to save the Honours from the invading army. Christian would spirit the Honours away from the castle in bags of flax. She would drop the Honours from a high window in the castle to her maid, Elizabeth, who would wait below, out of sight of any soldiers who might be approaching.
“When Christian and Elizabeth had buried the Honours in bags of flax, they lugged the bags through the woods and across the fields and woods to Reverend Grainger, who was waiting for them with a coach. Elizabeth never returned to Kinneff Church. It’s believed she knew too much, so Christian and the Reverend gave her money to leave the area for her own protection.
“Christian then hid the Honours in cloths, under a floorboard in Kinneff Church, where they remained for several years. No one ever discovered their whereabouts and Christian is considered a national hero—or heroine, I suppose—for her role in saving the Crown jewels.”
“That’s fascinating. I don’t recall learning about that in school. So what does all of this have to do with Hagen?”
“It seems that when Christian threw the Honours—wrapped in cloths, of course—to Elizabeth, Elizabeth either caught the Honours or retrieved them where they fell. She then buried them deep in the bags of flax and waited until Christian could escape the castle and join her on the beach.
“But in the confusion that followed, some of the stones from the Crown of Scotland, which contained twenty-two gemstones and twenty precious stones, went missing. It’s believed Elizabeth stole the gems before taking her leave of Christian and Reverend Fletcher.”
“So is the story true?” I asked.
“It seems likely. When Christian and her husband returned to Kinneff Church, they realized the jewels were gone, but by then Elizabeth had disappeared, too, and they never found her. At some later time, new gemstones were put in the crown in place of the lost ones.
“Here’s where the story becomes even more extraordinary. After Elizabeth’s death, in England, a map was found among her belongings. She died whilst giving birth to her third child, leaving behind the infant and two older children. Their father eventually sent them to live in an almshouse, and the authorities ended up in possession of the map.”
“So what was on the map?”
“No one knows whether anyone ever followed the map to see where it led, but it’s believed that Elizabeth drew it herself, to document the place where the original Crown of Scotland jewels were buried.”
“You’re kidding.”
“There’s more: Though no one ever figured out how it happened, the authorities misplaced the map and somehow, several hundred years later, it ended up in the hands of a man who was a descendant of Elizabeth.
“That descendant happened to be friends with the artist William Leighton Leitch. Before the start of the Great War, he hid the map behind a painting Leitch had given him as a gift so that it wouldn’t be found and destroyed by enemies of England. Hagen told me the whole story.”
She waited as the information sunk in.
“Wait. That can’t be the painting we had in our shop. Can it? Is there a map hidden behind the Leitch painting?”
“That’s exactly what Hagen believes. He thinks the painting and the map were either forgotten or never retrieved after the war.”
“No wonder there was a sudden interest in the painting!”
“It surprises me that there wasn’t more interest in it,” Chloe said.
“Why didn’t Hagen say something to Seamus?”
“Because he wanted to study it, and the painting was suddenly going to be a lot more valuable if Seamus knew what was behind it.”
“That doesn’t seem ethical,” I said.
“How did Seamus get the painting?” Chloe asked.
“He bought it for a song from someone who didn’t know its value,” I answered ruefully. Chloe nodded and I realized Seamus had done exactly what Hagen had tried to do—buy the painting for a low price, knowing it was worth more than its owner suspected.
“I wonder if Florian knew about the map,” I mused.
“I assume he did,” Chloe said. “Otherwise, why would he come to get it in the middle of the night?”
“It’s possible he thought he was just buying a painting by an old Scottish master and felt a connection to it because it reminded him of his childhood,” I noted. “Maybe he thought he was getting a good deal and didn’t want someone else to buy it out from under him.”
“It’s possible, I guess,” Chloe said with a grimace. It was clear she didn’t believe that.
“We’ll never know what Florian knew,” I said. “He took that information to his grave, just like Elizabeth.”
“I guess it doesn’t really matter what Florian knew,” Chloe pointed out. “What matters is who has the painting now.”
She was right. Was the accident caused by someone who wanted that painting? Or, more specifically, someone who wanted the map that might be hidden behind it?
“I wondered why the interest in Leitch’s painting was so sudden. Seamus had it in his shop for three years before anyone showed interest, and then two people wanted it.”
“Hagen said that after the owner hid the painting, he fought in the war and moved to France. He left behind two sons, both of whom grew up hearing the story of the map. Apparently the man always believed he would someday return to England to retrieve the painting and map from their hiding spot, but he died before he could ever make the trip. So the sons went in search of them.”
“And did they find them?”
“No. They followed their father’s instructions, but the painting and map were gone. Hagen thinks someone found the painting at some point, didn’t realize its value, and sold it to the junk shop in Edinburgh where Seamus bought it.”
“But how did Hagen—and Florian, apparently—realize it was in the shop in Edinburgh?”
“Apparently there had been a picture of the painting on the junk shop’s website. Anyway, by the time the sons went looking for the painting, there were whispers about its hidden secret in the art department at my university. I guess one of the sons told an old professor about it, and he told Hagen. He knew Hagen would be interested in the story.”
