5 - Murder on Campus

by Hazel Holt

  The chauffeur passed me on to a messenger who led me to a cleverly concealed lift (behind what at first sight might have been taken for a finely carved reredos) which conveyed us to a higher floor. Here, we went along a corridor lined with dark linen-fold panelling and I was ushered into a room, which although decorated and furnished in splendidly nineteenth-century style also contained a very modern desk with a computer terminal, a fax machine and a formidable battery of telephones. An elegant young woman got up from behind the desk to greet me. ‘Mrs Malory,’ she said, ‘my name is Donna Michelson. I’m Mr Cleveland’s secretary. We spoke together this morning.’

  She opened a door at the far end of the room and announced, ‘It’s Mrs Malory, Mr Cleveland.’

  I followed her into a really remarkable room.

  The walls were covered with olive-green watered silk and the curtains at the long, arched windows were of the same colour but of heavy velvet. The furniture was massive and intricately carved and dominating the room was a great stone fireplace with bas reliefs of heraldic beasts. To one side of the fireplace, set upon an easel, was a superb picture. It was painted in muted tones of brown and ochre and a dull green that was almost black. A woman sat in the foreground, one hand resting on a broken pillar, one hand laid upon her breast. Facing her was an angel, kneeling, wings folded back and with a right hand raised in salutation. Behind the figures were dark pointed trees, strangely shaped rocks and a labyrinthine stream which curved across the background and seemed to melt into the pale ochre sky. The woman’s face was as enigmatic as that of the angel confronting her and yet there was also a powerful melancholy, echoed in the soft colours, and a mystery that caught the imagination. It was a picture one would never forget, obviously the work of a great master.

  I must have stood there, gazing at it for several minutes, before I recollected myself and saw that Walter Cleveland had risen from a desk by the window and had come forward to greet me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said in some confusion, shaking the hand he had extended, ‘I was just so ...’

  ‘I’m delighted,’ he said, smiling, ‘that you were so taken with our wonderful picture.’

  I turned back to look at it again.

  ‘Can it be?’ I asked.

  ‘Leonardo da Vinci, yes.’

  ‘I’ve never seen it reproduced anywhere,’ I said. ‘It is so beautiful, so extraordinary—I couldn’t have forgotten it.’

  ‘It’s quite a story,’ Walter Cleveland said. ‘It was in a private collection in Italy until quite recently. It’s an early work, of course, painted when he was still in Verocchio’s studio. The Uffizi has an early Annunciation—I am sure you know it—but that is in another style, more straightforward, you might say. This is the true Leonardo, or so I like to think.’

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ I said. ‘You told me that you had some fine pictures here, but I hadn’t expected anything like this.’

  Walter Cleveland smiled. ‘I must confess,’ he said, ‘to a little glow of pride every time I look at it, since it was I who found it for the company—’ He broke off as his secretary came into the room.

  ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you, Mr Cleveland,’ she said, ‘but those South American figures you wanted are just starting to come through and you said you needed to see them as soon as possible.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Donna. They’re on your terminal, are they? Right, well, I’ll just take a quick glance at them, if Mrs Malory will excuse me for one moment?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied.

  ‘Fine. Donna will fix you a drink.’

  He went out of the room and his secretary moved over to a magnificent Chinese lacquered cabinet, opened the front and revealed an array of bottles and glasses.

  ‘What can I get for you, Mrs Malory?’ she enquired.

  ‘Oh, sherry would be nice. Dry, please.’

  She handed me a glass of Tio Pepe and asked me if I was enjoying my stay at Allenbrook, what I thought of America, did I know Northampton in England because her family had come from there way back.

  As we talked, my eyes kept straying back to the Leonardo and, following my gaze, she said: ‘I see you’re admiring our wonderful picture.’

  ‘It really is magnificent,’ I said. ‘And I gather it was Mr Cleveland who more or less discovered it.’

  ‘He certainly did,’ she replied. ‘Some little place in Italy, near Florence. Last year.’

  ‘It was a remarkable achievement to have acquired such a masterpiece,’ I said, standing back to get a better view. ‘I imagine that there must have been quite a lot of comment about it, especially at the Institute.’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Those so-called experts, some of them are really jealous when someone from outside—like Mr Cleveland—makes a find like that.’

  ‘Mr Cleveland is a very remarkable man,’ I said.

  She gave me a warm smile. ‘Truly remarkable, Mrs Malory,’ she said. ‘Of course he is a brilliant businessman, everyone says so, but he’s also a very cultivated person with fine judgement.’

  ‘But there were people at the Institute who questioned that judgement?’ I asked.

  She hesitated and then burst out, ‘There was that man from the Institute, who practically said that the picture was a fake.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Well, I didn’t hear all of it. I was in my room, but the door wasn’t shut all the way and he was shouting.’ She looked at me quickly. ‘I wasn’t listening, you know, but this man, this Max Loring, he was shouting pretty loud.’

  ‘How did Mr Cleveland react to that?’ I asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I can’t really say. He spoke quietly, you know the way he does, so I couldn’t hear. But when this guy Loring had gone I saw his face. He had that kind of set look, the way he does when things aren’t going his way in a deal, and he was really upset—you can tell when Mr Cleveland’s upset, he twists that ring of his round and round on his finger.’

  Her face was flushed and she spoke vehemently. It was obvious that Donna Michelson’s feelings for Walter Cleveland were stronger than those of a secretary for her employer.

  ‘I can understand that he might well have been upset,’ I said sympathetically, ‘about a thing like that. I wonder what gave Max Loring the idea that the picture wasn’t genuine?’

  ‘There was something about provenance and some old Italian family—I didn’t understand—’ The telephone on the desk by the window rang suddenly and she broke off to answer it.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cleveland, I’ll bring her along right now.’

  Donna Michelson, the perfect secretary once more, turned to me and said, ‘Mr Cleveland said to bring you straight along to the dining-room. He’ll see you there.’

  We went up in a lift and emerged into a large circular room where Walter Cleveland was waiting.

  ‘I do apologize for leaving you like that. I hope Donna gave you that drink?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied. Looking round me with astonishment, I continued, ‘What a sumptuous room!’

  It was indeed amazing, panelled in dark wood, the walls hung with some very fine Dutch still-life paintings. The windows, which, since the room was circular, went all round, were high and pointed, the furniture was massively Victorian and there were great candelabras and wall sconces in gilded wood and the floor was covered with a red and blue Turkey carpet which added to the feeling of richness and splendour.

  ‘Come and look out of the window,’ Walter Cleveland said. ‘This room is in one of the towers, so the view is quite something.’

  I joined him at one of the windows and exclaimed with pleasure. Down below, the River Allen wound among the trees and all along the valley were the great nineteenth-century mansions, each in its own wooded parkland, and, far away, there was a range of mountains, blue in the distance.

  ‘You can see right over to the Delaware Water Gap,’ he said. ‘See over there.’

  ‘What a marvellous view,�
� I said, ‘and look how the river winds—just like the river in your Leonardo!’

  Over lunch I was struck again by Walter Cleveland’s personality. His manner was quiet and his conversation urbane, but one was always aware of the strength and controlled power that lay underneath.

  Curious about Donna Michelson’s revelation, I brought the conversation around to the Institute.

  ‘It was so kind of Theo to show me round,’ I said. ‘They have some really superb things—but nothing to touch your Leonardo. I expect they were very thrilled about it.’

  ‘Indeed. A little more wine? No?’ He poured some wine into his own glass and continued. ‘Theo has asked me to allow them to put it on display there so that the public can see it. We are arranging things with the insurance company, so it will probably be sometime in the spring. We thought it might form the centrepiece of a small loan exhibition of the company’s finest pictures. As you can see’—he waved his hands at the paintings on the walls—‘we have a fair representation of the Dutch school and there are a couple of Cezannes and a Monet as well as an unusual Veronese.’

  ‘How splendid,’ I said, ‘and how nice that you have your pictures on display and not hidden away in some bank vault, just as assets.’

  ‘That has always seemed to me a criminal thing to do,’ he replied. ‘Pictures only have meaning if they are looked at, otherwise they are only so much paint and canvas. I shall be delighted for them to be on display to a wider public at the Institute.’

  ‘It’s a delightful place,’ I said. ‘Of course, they must be going through a terrible time just now, after the murder.’ An expression of concern crossed his face. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you were there when that very disturbing discovery was made. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It was rather awful,’ I said. ‘Though I suppose it would have been worse if I’d known Max Loring. What was he like?’

  There was a moment’s silence and I saw that he was twisting the heavy gold signet ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand.

  ‘He was not a likeable man,’ he said at last. ‘Arrogant, with a—what can I call it?—a very supercilious manner.’

  ‘He was their leading expert on Italian paintings, wasn’t he?’ I said. ‘What did he think of the Leonardo? He must have been very excited about such a fantastic discovery.’

  ‘He was indeed.’ He twisted the ring again. ‘In fact he was going to write an article about it for one of the leading international art journals and, in due course, a more detailed study in book form.’ He could not have known that I knew he was lying, but, nevertheless, he found a way to turn the conversation, and for the rest of the lunch we discussed the various pleasures of England and Scotland (‘When I go to Edinburgh for the Festival I usually try to get up to Sutherland for a few days’ fishing. Do you know Helmsdale? A beautiful place’) and what I should see in New York (‘There is a very interesting new production of Aida at the Met, if you can find the time to see it’).

  After we had finished lunch he took me down to the reception area himself and, as we shook hands, I said, ‘Thank you so much for a delightful time. It really is a wonderful building and I’m so thrilled to have seen the Leonardo—I shall always remember it!’

  He smiled and said, ‘I am glad you feel that the New World has something to offer.’

  As the car took me back to Wilmot I found myself wondering just what had passed between Walter Cleveland and Max Loring in that stormy interview. If Loring had been right and the Leonardo wasn’t genuine, then Walter Cleveland had a lot to lose. Not just the however many million dollars his company had paid for it, but, to a man of his character, to have it made known that he had been mistaken, had been taken in, had been fooled, would have been intolerable. It would have affected his standing in the company, too, since his judgement on other things must then inevitably be in question. Naturally he had taken advice from experts on the painting, but, in the final analysis, the purchase had been his, and, therefore, the responsibility was his as well.

  To have this judgement, this responsibility, questioned in a blaze of publicity (Max Loring, like his brother, would obviously relish such a situation) would be a fearsome blow. Enough of a blow to drive him to murder? Quite possibly ...

  The car drew up outside Brook Hall and I tried to rid my mind of these speculations and concentrate on the position of the woman in the Victorian family, with especial reference to the works of Mrs Gaskell.

  Chapter Seven

  When I got back that evening Linda said, ‘The department was absolutely overcome to hear about your lunch with Walter Cleveland.’

  ‘It was marvellous,’ I said. ‘Very grand—they’ll never believe it back in Taviscombe. And that Leonardo painting! It’s fabulous!’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Anna’s been dying to get a real look at it, but so far only Max Loring’s had the chance.’

  ‘What did he think about it?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Oh, you know the Lorings. He was going to write an article about it, so he wasn’t giving anything away beforehand!’

  So Max Loring was going to explode his bombshell, his exposure of the picture (and he must have felt that his evidence was pretty strong to go into print) to the whole art world in an article. Walter Cleveland would have found that intolerable.

  The telephone rang and Linda answered it.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said, ‘your policeman.’

  Her eyebrows were raised quizzically as I took the telephone.

  ‘Hello, Sheila.’ Mike Landis’s voice was warm and friendly. ‘I wonder if you’d like to go over to Lancaster tomorrow morning and have a look at the market there. A lot of local colour, I think you might enjoy it. And I know a good place for lunch—I promise, no muffins!’

  ‘Well ...’ I hesitated and then said firmly, ‘Yes, I’d love to. That would be very nice.’

  ‘OK. I’ll pick you up about nine thirty. I have the address.’

  He rang off and I stood for a moment with the receiver in my hand, wondering just what I was getting myself into.

  I went into the kitchen where Linda was making a sauce for the linguini.

  ‘What did he want?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘He’s invited me to go to Lancaster tomorrow to see the market and have lunch.’

  ‘Well, well! And are you going?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I am—I think it might be quite fun.’

  When Anna arrived and we were having supper Linda said, ‘Sheila’s going to Lancaster tomorrow with her new boyfriend.’

  ‘Hey!’ Anna exclaimed. ‘What’s been going on while I’ve been away? Who is this guy?’

  ‘He’s a cop—the lieutenant in charge of the Loring murder,’ Linda said.

  ‘What!’ Anna turned to me. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of Linda,’ I said, ‘she’s exaggerating. He’s a bit of an anglophile—he’s got this thing about Shakespeare—and he’s just being friendly.’

  When Mike arrived to collect me the next morning I noticed that both Linda and Anna were hanging about waiting to catch a glimpse of him.

  ‘You’re both behaving like a couple of silly children!’ I said severely as I went to answer the door. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves—you’ll embarrass the poor man!’

  I wondered if I might feel embarrassed with him myself, but in jeans, a dark blue sweater and a denim jacket he looked so like any member of the department that I felt perfectly relaxed and found it quite easy to call him Mike.

  We drove through dairy country, occasionally passing Amish families in their horse-drawn buggies—the men dressed in black with beards and shovel-shaped hats like Victorian curates, the women also in black, with white caps.

  ‘A lot of them have stalls in the market,’ Mike said, ‘for produce they’ve grown or made.’

  The market was wonderful—glorious displays of richly coloured fruit and vegetables, delicious looking cheeses, bread and cakes and huge containers of ap
ple juice. There were other stalls, too, piled high with lovely lace work and a lot of cushions, quilts and covers all decorated with little red hearts. These stalls were presided over by fresh-faced young Amish girls, who wore their long black dresses with fine white collars and white lawn caps so naturally that they didn’t seem to be wearing fancy dress at all, as I had thought they might. I spent quite a lot of money.

  When we had wandered round the market and Mike had waited patiently while I had a good browse in a splendid bookshop, he led the way to a very folksy restaurant, all red and white gingham tablecloths and table-mats decorated with Amish hearts.

  ‘Goodness,’ I said, as we took our places in one of the high-backed booths, ‘first Katy’s Kitchen, now this—do you like Country and Western music too?’

  He gave a sudden grin, quite different from his usual slow smile. ‘Yes, well, I guess I do find this kind of place a nice change from the sort of bars where I have to spend too much of my time. Actually, the food here is really good.’

  He guided me through the menu (‘No, that’ll have cinnamon in it, you wouldn’t like it ... and you have to have shoofly pie—it’s a bit sweet and sticky, but you must try it just once! And you must drink our local cider—it’s OK, it’s really like apple juice’) and then he said, ‘Well, isn’t this something!’

  I smiled and took a sip of my cider.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘it is like apple juice. One day you must come to the West Country and try our cider. Now that really is strong, especially the kind they still brew in some of the local farmhouses—a couple of glasses would put you away!’

  ‘Perhaps I will come, one day,’ he said.

  After we had finished our meal (the shoofly pie was very sticky) I said, ‘How is the case going? Have you made much progress?’