by James Runcie
On entering the building, she found herself in the hallway of one of the strangest houses she had ever seen. She had been permitted to enter by a small, bearded man who looked like an elderly version of Van Gogh. He apparently worried about neither appearance nor hygiene. The Harris tweed jacket and Fair Isle jumper, which he wore over a Viyella shirt, had clearly never seen a dry cleaner, and his loose-fitting corduroy trousers, in light tan, were held up with string. Although he was in his early sixties he sounded as if his voice had only just broken.
‘I don’t know what I can do for you,’ Wilkie Phillips protested. ‘There’s nothing of any value here.’
‘People have told me that you have a wonderful collection.’
‘I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to. I don’t have any friends.’
‘I am sure you do.’
‘Believe me, Miss Kendall. I do not.’
The hallway was filled with paintings of blowzy nudes by Renoir and Degas. Although they were clearly fakes, and not all of them were to scale, the amount of female flesh on display did make Amanda wonder about the owner’s state of mind.
‘I don’t have visitors. When my mother was alive people came all the time but I’m not a great entertainer. Besides, I like to keep the paintings to myself.’
‘They’re very good.’
‘All copies, of course.’
‘I can see that. Who did them for you?’
‘A friend. Unfortunately he’s retired and moved away so the collection is closed. But I find I don’t need friends if I’ve got paintings . . .’
Amanda could see that great trouble had been taken in the hanging, even though the walls were in need of re-plastering. Each painting had its own picture light, and the portraits that hung in the hall were large enough to evoke the sense of a sprawling, but neglected, country house. This was a poor man’s Locket Hall; and, like many a stately home, it was too cold and damp for art. However, Amanda did notice an open fire in the distance.
‘What is it that you are doing again?’ Phillips asked.
‘As I explained in the doorway, we are compiling a census of the nation’s great paintings so that we know where everything is . . .’
‘Then I don’t know why you have come here.’
‘Yes, I am afraid I must have been misled.’
‘Some idle gossip, either in the village or in town perhaps?’
Amanda was not going to give up easily. ‘I think you work in insurance?’
‘I’ve been retired for two years. I have a modest pension and I live frugally. I certainly could not afford any original works. Even these copies have cost me a great deal of money.’
‘You should come to the National Gallery to see the originals.’
‘That is very kind, Miss Kendall, but I like to keep everything close to hand. I do not like to be troubled by the world these days.’
‘Then I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Not at all. I would offer you tea but I am afraid that I only drink milk. I like it condensed.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘It’s not an affectation . . .’
‘I didn’t think that it was . . .’
‘It’s only that life can be so difficult.’ Wilkie Phillips wiped his eye. ‘I wear the same clothes and I eat the same food every day. Then I don’t have to think about those kinds of things. I can just look at my paintings.’
‘Is that how you spend your retirement?’
‘I spend each day in a different room. There are seven rooms and I have seven days. It’s all organised.’
‘And where are you today?’
‘In the snug.’
‘Which is where the fire is?’
‘You are observant.’
‘May I see?’
‘There’s nothing there, really. Only a few portraits; they are not very interesting at all.’
‘I am sure I will find them fascinating. This is your very own National Gallery, is it not?’
Phillips stepped back. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. But I believe that rooms should have their own themes. Italian Renaissance, Dutch still lives, Venetian views, and a salon of Vermeers. That is my favourite.’
‘And what about the snug?’
‘My Reformation room: Cranach’s Adam and Eve, Quentin Metsys and one or two Holbeins. I’ve avoided Henry the Eighth because he is too intimidating and, as you have no doubt observed, I prefer pictures of women.’
‘Could we go through?’
‘You won’t be staying long, will you?’ Phillips asked. ‘Only I haven’t finished looking today and I do like to see the paintings in the daylight.’
‘No, I won’t keep you,’ said Amanda. ‘I am particularly interested in the Northern Renaissance.’
‘You mean the Reformation. Such psychological realism I find . . .’
They entered the room. On the opposite wall was a copy of Holbein’s Lady with a Squirrel that they had in the National Gallery. She recognised a portrait of Lady Guildford and then there, over the fireplace, was Lord Locket’s portrait of Anne Boleyn.
‘Oh,’ Amanda said, trying to sound as casual as she could. ‘I don’t think I know that one.’
‘Yes,’ Wilkie Phillips answered. ‘It’s rather obscure.’
‘It’s a copy?’
‘They are all copies, as you have noticed.’
‘Then where is the original?’
‘I can’t remember . . .’
‘I would have thought you knew where all your paintings came from?’
‘They are copies. It does not matter too much . . .’
‘But this one seems particularly good. It has a better patina. The sense of age is more convincing. Who is she?’
‘No one of any great importance.’
‘You don’t think so? It seems to have a cartellino.’
‘I don’t think that means very much.’
‘On the contrary. I think it means a very great deal. Could I have a closer look?’
The painting was hung too high but Amanda was convinced that the cartellino read ‘Quene Anne Bulleyene’.
Wilkie Phillips shifted on his feet. ‘Hadn’t you better be getting on now?’
‘Yes, of course. Only, it’s extraordinary . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose it must be very odd to come to a place like this. I’m only sorry you have wasted your journey.’
‘No not at all . . .’ Amanda hesitated. ‘You don’t think it might be someone important?’ she asked.
‘I am not so sure about that. I just saw it and liked it.’
‘Yet you can’t remember where you first saw it?’
‘I suppose that is a bit odd . . .’
‘And it’s hung in such a prominent position.’
‘Well, as I say, I rather like her.’
‘Haven’t you been curious to do some research?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Miss Kendall.’ Wilkie Phillips gave a nervous laugh.
Amanda wanted a closer look at the picture but realised she had outstayed her welcome. She needed time to think. ‘Could I possibly use your lavatory?’ she asked.
‘Must you?’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘No, forgive me, I am being unreasonable. I’m . . . I’m not used to guests, you see . . . and I don’t like other people looking at that painting. It’s a queer thing . . . but please . . . it’s along that corridor.’
Wilkie Phillips gestured towards the open doorway with his left arm. ‘I’ll show you . . .’
Amanda could not resist taking a further step forward to look at the painting. ‘I think this is the best work in your collection; the most convincing . . .’
‘Do you, indeed? As I said, the lavatory is down this corridor . . .’
Amanda passed Wilkie Phillips in the doorway but was unnerved when he started to follow her.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, trying to get some distance between them.
Her host gave another laugh. ‘I
don’t want you getting lost.’
They turned left just before the kitchen and Amanda found herself in a small windowless corridor off the main building. The lavatory was at the end, with a sink and a small barred window. There was no key in the lock but she closed the door and took time to collect her thoughts.
It was quite simple, she told herself. She would be as polite as possible, leave, and then tell both Sidney and Lord Teversham. One of them would inform Inspector Keating and then the process of investigation would begin. They could requisition the painting, the restorers at the gallery would test her suspicion – for it was still just a theory – and then, if a crime had been committed, the rest would follow.
Amanda washed and dried her hands, adjusted her lipstick and gave her hair a quick brush. She walked down the narrow corridor that led back to the kitchen, already imagining herself on the drive back to London. There was so much to think about that when she first tried to turn the handle on the outer door she thought little of the fact that it was stuck. She tried the handle again. It turned but when she attempted first to push the door away from her and then to pull it towards her she found that it held fast. It appeared that she was locked in.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ she thought.
‘Mr Phillips!’ she called.
There was no reply.
She banged on the door.
‘Mr Phillips!’ She looked back towards the lavatory; the only opening to the outside was the small barred window. The corridor was windowless.
She banged again. Then she looked in her handbag. Perhaps she had a pair of tweezers or something that would enable her to pick the lock? She realised that she did not know how to do such a thing and, in any case it was a mistake to panic so soon. Wilkie Phillips was simply a very odd man. He couldn’t have locked her in deliberately.
She banged on the door again.
How had she got herself into this and, more to the point, how was she going to get out? ‘I’m such an idiot,’ she thought.
She returned to the attack, banging on the door and then rapping and calling for a good thirty seconds. Then she stopped.
In the ensuing silence she heard Wilkie Phillips. ‘Quite the woodpecker, aren’t we? Tap, tap, tap . . .’
His voice was quiet and close and there had been no preceding footsteps. Amanda realised that her host must have been standing on the other side of the door all along. ‘Mr Phillips, I seem to be locked in . . .’
‘That does seem to be the case.’
‘Do you have a key?’
There was a pause in which he appeared to be considering the complexity of the question. ‘I do have a key.’
‘Then can you please let me out?’
‘I am afraid I cannot do that, Miss Kendall.’
‘Why not?’
‘I saw you looking at that painting.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with looking at a painting.’
‘But you were looking at that painting, weren’t you?’
‘And what if I was?’
‘You know what it is, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘Would you like to tell me?’ Phillips’s tone was falsely parental. ‘I’m sure you know.’
Amanda sighed. Perhaps she should just get all this out of the way and be done with it all. ‘It’s Anne Boleyn,’ she said.
‘Very good.’
‘It’s from the Lumley Collection. The original was in Locket Hall.’
‘It was . . .’
‘And it isn’t now.’
Wilkie Phillips was still speaking in an insidiously quiet voice. ‘Lord Teversham is such a foolish man. As soon as I saw it I knew that I had to have it. And he never even knew.’
‘Will you let me out?’
‘I am afraid I can’t, Miss Kendall.’
‘What if I promise not to tell anyone about the painting?’
‘I don’t believe you . . .’
‘The police know I am here.’
‘I am not afraid of men in uniform.’
Amanda wished she had brought Sidney. ‘I am sure they are on their way even now,’ she said.
Wilkie Phillips’s reply was both calm and wheedling. ‘Well, we’ll just have to wait and see. I’m not sure I’ll be letting anyone else come into the building. That would be as much of a mistake as letting you through the door in the first place. In fact, I am rather upset. I was distracted by your beauty.’
‘I hardly think so . . .’
‘If I could see more of you, of course, I might be a better judge. I could be kinder.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘You are in no position to call me absurd, Miss Kendall . . .’
‘What are you going to do?’
Wilkie Phillips still had his mouth close against the door. ‘I don’t quite know. I haven’t made my mind up. Exciting, isn’t it?’
The next Thursday evening, on 26 August 1954, Geordie Keating and Sidney Chambers were about to begin their routine game of backgammon in the RAF bar of The Eagle. The inspector was in a good mood: the children were back at school, the football season had begun – his beloved Newcastle United had even won 3-1 at Arsenal – and Scotland Yard had commended him for his help on the Templeton case. He therefore took the opportunity to josh Sidney about his future marriage plans, asking him explicitly about Amanda.
‘If you want my opinion you should stop all this shilly-shallying and propose.’
‘I don’t think anyone would ever see Amanda as a vicar’s wife.’
‘She could break the mould.’
Sidney threw his dice to begin: a six and a one. ‘Besides, I like things the way they are. We are good friends. I don’t want to ruin it with romance even if I had the chance. There’s a lot to be said for celibacy, you know. More time for God.’
Inspector Keating responded with a four and a three. They were even. ‘It’s unlike you to be so reticent.’
‘I’m being realistic. There is a difference.’ Sidney stopped before his next turn. ‘Although it’s a curious thing, Geordie. I haven’t heard from her for a few days. I left a message with my sister and Amanda hasn’t replied. That is quite unusual.’
‘She’s probably found someone else by now.’
‘There is always someone else, Geordie. I am quite used to that.’
Keating put down his pint and gave Sidney one of his irritatingly ‘concerned’ looks. ‘It’s strange that she hasn’t returned your telephone call. Why don’t you try her again?’
‘I don’t want to pester her.’ Sidney threw down the dice too aggressively. They bounced off the board and skidded off the table and on to the floor. He could not concentrate at all.
Trapped in the lavatory of a remote farmhouse outside Ely, Amanda was beginning to lose sense of time. As soon as she was sure that Wilkie Phillips had gone to bed, she took the opportunity to wash and brush up. There was no hot water and only a slim bar of Cidal soap. Then she did a few exercises that she had remembered from the Girl Guides: running on the spot, touching her toes and three or four star jumps. She remembered the motto ‘Be Prepared’ and was furious with herself all over again; a woman who had always prided herself on her intelligence being duped into this!
She found sleep on the cold lino of the lavatory floor nearly impossible. She eventually drifted off and tried to think of the good things in her life but the dawn came all too soon. Then, what at first she thought to be a strange bird-like sound, turned out to be Wilkie Phillips whispering a high-pitched song through the barred window.
‘Oh dear, what can the matter be
Two old ladies stuck in the lavatory
They’ve been there from Friday to Saturday
Nobody knew they were there.’
‘Please let me out.’
Wilkie Phillips’s rabbit eyes were visible through the bars. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands.’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘I’ve left you a sandwi
ch.’
‘I can’t eat it.’
‘It’s salmon paste. I made it especially for you.’
‘I don’t want it.’
Wilkie Phillips had a colder tone to his voice. ‘I think you’ll have to look after yourself if you want to survive.’
‘Are you threatening me?
‘I might be. And then again, I might not. How unpredictable life is.’
‘This is ridiculous. My friend knows I am here. He will bring the police.’
‘No sign of him, though, is there?’
‘I trust him to come,’ Amanda replied.
‘Who is “he”?’
‘A good man. Far too good for me.’
‘You are fortunate that someone loves you. I only had my mother.’
‘Why you are doing this? It can’t be to make me understand you, Mr Phillips.’
‘You can call me Wilkie.’
‘Why can’t you let me go?’
‘Because the painting is mine and I can’t let you take it away.’
‘I don’t have to take it away. I could just leave.’
‘But then you will tell your friends and they will come and I will be removed from this lovely home and I will never see such beauty again.’
Amanda saw that she was getting nowhere. She was beginning to understand the nature of his obsession. She decided on another course of action. ‘I meant to ask. The Holbein seems an odd choice?’
‘Does it indeed? Perhaps so. But it is because the lady in the painting looks unerringly like my mother. As soon as I saw her I knew that I would have to own it. Do you know how old Anne Boleyn was on her coronation?
‘Either twenty-six or thirty-two. Her birth date is disputed.’
‘You do know your history. I am very impressed. We’re going to get along grandly. My mother was in between those ages when I was born, and I think she must have looked very much like this. And now she will always be with me, preserved in the timelessness of art, where death cannot touch her. I can look at her as much as I like: all day if I need too. I don’t have many fine qualities but one of them is astonishing patience.’