by P A Latter
Can you talk? More revelations!
That was sufficient for Julia to call back straight away. ‘Hi Sam. I’m on a train, but you have some news?’
‘Oh yes. I dragged Will all over the graveyard at St John’s on Sunday.’
‘And you found Edmond?’
‘We did. Will’s here and says he didn’t need dragging.’
Julia could hear their mock-argument. ‘So when was he born? Edmond, I mean.’
‘1767. But that’s not the interesting thing. He was buried in the family vault. He died in 1785.’
‘Oh no. How awful. He never had an adult life at all. Perhaps he died of whatever illness he contracted in Venice.’
‘Yet another death to the Assassin’s account.’
‘More likely he caught whatever infection it was that killed Henry,’ Julia said.
‘The diary descriptions of Henry’s death and Edmond’s symptoms are completely different. Edmond said he “cast up his accounts”. That was slang for vomiting wasn’t it?’
Julia could hear the impatience in Sam’s voice, despite an intrusive announcement of delays on her train. And different again from the recent deaths here that were supposedly down to the curse, she thought. Did that make the curse more probable, or less?
‘Sam, I don’t have any answers. Well done to both of you for finding it out, though. Do parish records identify cause of death, do you think?’
‘No idea, but we’ll follow it up.’
‘Thank you. I’ll see you next week.’
Julia put her phone away and stared out of the window. Poor Edmond and his poor parents. Although infant mortality was still a significant threat in the 1700’s, having raised a son to maturity, they could have had little expectation of such a tragedy. If there didn’t seem to be quite so many deaths, it would be easier to dismiss their connection.
Sofia had replied to her email the previous evening. She and Alessandro had been theorising about Castelli. The only sort of obligation for which a nobleman would expect prompt payment was a gambling debt.
They hypothesised that, if he couldn’t lay his hands on cash, Castelli offered a portrait by way of settlement.
Alessandro had another tempting idea. Angelo di Morto was a double pun - one Italian and one in Latin: Angel of Death and “Anglo” - that is - English, Morton. Had it been Henry’s joke scribbled on the back of the canvas, when he saw the finished work?
The record of the debt linked Henry to Castelli, but had the artist given him an existing picture or undertaken to paint him?
There was still no evidence that Henry had been the sitter for the Assassin portrait.
Julia had complained to Sam that her brain was running in slow-motion. As soon as she found out Henry’s title, she should have realised she had a possible route to compare the appearance of the earl with the Assassin.
Chapter 32
Julia had intended to return to the British Library, but on her next trip to London she stayed on the Charing Cross train to the terminus. Inspired by her Venetian experiences, she walked up to the National Portrait Gallery. Noblemen often had multiple portraits. This time she had a name to search for, rather than having to wander through galleries seeking a likeness.
Turning up at the front desk and asking if they had a picture of the 18th century Earl of Somerset wasn’t the most professional approach, but she’d have to get Cassie’s sanction for a formal request. Although she had earned a favour, she wasn’t ready to share her latest findings with Cassie.
She explained to the woman at the reception that the painting she was looking for might not exist, but she gave the name, rank and approximate date. The receptionist’s impersonal smile remained fixed, until Julia produced the print of the Assassin.
‘I want to see if he looks like this,’ Julia said.
The receptionist’s expression became animated she examined the photograph. ‘Coo, he looks like a real villain. An earl, you say? Well, all the aristo’s were rotters, weren’t they? Still are, most of them.’
Julia murmured something non-committal, but the woman didn’t need any more encouragement.
‘I know just who you need to talk to. I saw him come in this morning.’ The recollection brought a misty look to her face. ‘The Curator of 18th Century Art.’
‘That sounds exactly who I need to talk to.’
‘If you like, I could call up and see if he’s free?’
‘That would be very kind. I’d be most grateful.’
The receptionist checked a list and punched some numbers on her switchboard. The phone rang for some time before anyone picked up.
Julia belatedly extracted a card from her bag and put it on the desk. It disingenuously named her as Curator, Fathon House Museum. “The Seckfield Family Art Collection” ran across the centre of the card in copperplate.
When the phone was answered, she couldn’t hear the voice on the other end. But the half conversation she could hear was encouraging - and curious.
‘... Yes, certainly… I’ll tell her…. Yes, ten minutes… Thank you.. Yes, it does sound intriguing… Erm… blonde, tallish, mid 30’s. She’s wearing a navy blue dress.’
The receptionist hung up and turned back to Julia. ‘Dr Kernow asked if you could meet him in the gallery coffee shop in ten minutes’ time.’
‘Ah, that’s why you were describing me. Thank you, that’s wonderful. Oh, and how will I recognise him?’
‘What do you think a specialist in the flora and fauna of Georgian portraiture would look like?’
Julia shrugged and the receptionist grinned.
‘He looks nothing at all like that.’
Julia only understood the smile, when a man slid into the chair opposite hers in the café.
‘Ms Bailey? I’m Tristan Kernow. I understand you’re looking for a missing person.’
He was extremely tall and thin. If he were female, the epithet “willowy” would have been inevitable. He was as fair as Julia herself and, she estimated, a similar age.
Unusually for a blond, his eyes were hazel. He wore a tie, but loosened and no jacket. And he had the warmest smile Julia had ever seen.
‘Dr Kernow. It’s very good of you to see me without an appointment.’
‘My principal failing is insatiable curiosity.’
‘I’m afraid I have a convoluted story. I bought you a coffee, I asked the server how you liked it.’
‘Thank you - that was thoughtful. Tell me your serpentine saga.’
Julia found he was incredibly easy to talk to, but she avoided mentioning the curse and the deaths. After half an hour, one of the café staff brought more coffees over to them and was rewarded with Tristan’s smile.
Julia showed him the print of the Assassin and explained how she had connected the diary to Henry Morton’s death and the story she had constructed of the portrait’s return to England.
‘If you’d like to come upstairs, we can take a look at some of the online registers and see if anyone has your nefarious nobleman.’
When they reached Tristan’s office, he had to shift a stack of books and papers so that Julia could sit down.
He switched on the computer on his desk - Julia suspected it was a tool he only used when unavoidable - the keyboard was also covered by papers. He gathered them into a bundle, set them to one side and then placed Julia’s print of the Assassin on top.
‘I can see why someone told you it might have been a self-portrait. But I think that’s unlikely. He wasn’t left-handed either.’
‘Despite holding the stiletto in his left hand.’
‘It’s not a stiletto. It’s a duelling blade - a poniard. Held in the left while the sword is used in the right hand.’ He mimed an elegant lunge and recovery.
‘You fence, yourself,’ Julia said, recognising the movements. She assessed his tall frame again. His long limbs would give advantages of reach, but more compact fencers might be more agile. Fencing required lightning reactions.
‘Very little, t
hese days. And never dual-wielding.’
‘I didn’t think anyone fenced with two blades,’ Julia said.
‘Not many people duelled with them either and by the end of the 1700’s almost all duels were with pistols. A single shot and honour was satisfied, without anyone getting hurt.’
Tristan sat and switched his attention to the computer screen. ‘We can check databases of works held in quite a large number of public and private collections now.’
‘That’s a great resource.’
‘I hope we might add your Fathon House collection into the system.’
‘I’m sure our curator would be delighted, but our own catalogue is pretty basic - no images, little description and I don’t think we have any works of real significance.’
Tristan sympathised. ‘I know what it’s like for small museums - little manpower and less money. But significance is a different matter entirely.’
‘You’re right, of course. I have no interest in who might have painted Henry Morton - as long as he made a good likeness.’
‘Don’t hold your breath, but we might have located your man.’
‘Really? Just like that? Where is it? A public gallery?’
‘Yes and in London, but it’s in long-term storage. The Wallace Collection.’
‘Oh. I don’t suppose they would take a work out of storage just because someone would like to take a look at it?’
To have come this close to a possible confirmation of the Assassin’s identity and discover it was literally locked away, was almost worse than finding nothing. She tried to hide the depth of her disappointment, but Tristan didn’t seem to find her emotion unwarranted.
‘Nil desperandum. At least, not yet. I will need to come up with a good reason to request access to view it.’
‘But there isn’t a good reason. There’s just my obsession.’
‘But you have now engaged my own curiosity. So we will find a reason.’
‘I have no right to burden you with this.’
‘You have been so resourceful in your quest. You shouldn’t be defeated by petty bureaucracy. But I do think you should tell your curator what you’re up to. It will be better if she doesn’t think you’re going behind her back.
‘Dr Kernow…’
‘Tristan.’
‘Tristan. I really am incredibly grateful, but you ought to know why I’ve got so obsessed about this, before you get involved.’
‘Which provides us with a convenient reason to meet for lunch, so you can tell me all.’
‘I’d like that very much.’ Julia found she had given her reply with no thought. It was a long time since she had accepted a date, without hesitation.
Tristan fished in a pocket of the jacket slung over the back of his chair and produced a diary. ‘Would you be free on Wednesday?’
‘I would, but I’m in Sevenoaks.’
Between the constraints of her location and his schedule, they struggled to find a time and eventually settled on early evening drinks, which Tristan could just fit in before an exhibition opening event.
~
Julia dropped into Fathon House early on Saturday morning, knowing that Cassie would be in her office. She had given some thought as to how she would tell Cassie about her findings and had decided it would be best to offer them as interesting information from the period, rather than arguing support for the theory that Cassie had dismissed. She tapped on the open door of the curator’s office.
‘Come in Julia. You’re early and I didn’t think we were seeing you this week.’
‘I just wanted a quick chat - if you have time.’
‘I’m only catching up with emails, so yes. But first - thanks again for covering last weekend.’
‘I’m happy to swap Friday for one weekend day now and then, if it helps.’
Cassie seemed more relaxed than previously and Julia was pleased that she might have found the way to establish a better working relationship.
‘I know you’re not convinced of my attribution of the diary to Edmond Seckfield and I haven’t come to argue about it,’ Julia said.
‘But you have something more?’
‘I just thought you’d be interested in a couple of snippets from 1785 - because it connects Bernadino Castelli to someone named as “Il Comte Inglese, Morton”. And the Earl of Somerset - who was Henry Morton - died that year in Venice.’
‘That certainly does add provenance for the diary, but I take it you haven’t been able to make a connection to the Venetian Nobleman portrait?’
The Angelo diMorto pun was too tenuous to mention. ‘I… I’m working on it.’
‘It would be satisfying to put a name to that face. So many visitors ask about it.’
After their initial brushes, Julia felt no warmth for Cassie, but it felt like their cold war was thawing. ‘I’ll keep you posted if I turn up anything, of course.’
‘Thanks. If you need to make any formal requests to other organisations, just let me know and I can make it official.’
Julia picked up her jacket and bag to leave, well satisfied with their conversation. ‘Thanks. I may need to call on you for that.’
~
When she met Tristan, he apologised for having so little time before he had to be elsewhere and promised to keep quiet so she could tell him all about the Assassin. Julia spoke about everything that had happened since the portrait had been taken out of storage.
She was hesitant at first, but became more fluent as he listened intently and without showing any signs of judgement.
The deaths; the theft and trial; her research in Venice and even her short-lived feeling of breaking the curse. The only time he interrupted was when she mentioned the meetings with Harriet Fairfax.
‘That appalling Fairfax woman. I heard she had some kind of religious conversion, but I had no idea what had happened beforehand.’
Julia had been worried he would laugh about the story of the curse, but it was clear he recognised the anxieties it had caused her.
‘Were those deaths related? Coincidences?’ He shrugged. ‘I feel Shakespeare got it right with Hamlet’s “There are more things in Heaven and Earth…”’
‘So you don’t dismiss the idea of ghosts or possession?’
‘I’ve never had a ghostly experience or seen convincing evidence - but that is rather the point, isn’t it?’
‘I honestly don’t know what I believe.’ Julia rubbed her arms, just as she had when the chill of the Assassin’s stare had first struck her.
‘Belief in witchcraft and evil spirits was still widespread in the 18th century, even amongst the well-educated. You said Edmond reported in the diary that Henry was associating with some sort of practitioner?’
‘Yes - but he named himself as an apothecary. Edmond was concerned - possibly frightened.’
‘If the portrait is Henry, whatever he was doing with the apothecary might be the key to its power.’
‘Tristan, you do think it has some kind of power.’
‘Belief is a powerful force and I’d like to keep an open mind. I think the Castelli connection gives me enough to put in a formal request to the Wallace Collection to extract the evil earl from their vaults. And I think I need to come and see your Assassin in the flesh.’
Chapter 33
Julia emailed Cassie that night to let her know to expect a message from the National Portrait Gallery. Cassie replied promptly: Tristan had arranged to visit the following week, to inspect the Assassin for signs of Bernadino Castelli’s hand in its execution.
When Julia arrived at the museum for her regular volunteering day, Cassie met her in the hallway.
‘I have invited Dr Kernow to lunch when he visits and I hope you will be able to join us.’
‘Thanks. I’d be pleased to,’ Julia said.
‘It looks like your story has really caught his attention. That’s pretty impressive.’
‘I think he likes trying to solve mysteries and find answers.’ Julia’s meeting with Tristan had
been little more than a quick drink. The pretext of a professional discussion had avoided the awkwardness of a first date. But it was enough time to know she would like to see more of him.
Cassie interrupted her thoughts. ‘If the portrait were authenticated as a Castelli, its value would be substantial and it could give the museum a nice bit of publicity.’
‘I don’t think we should raise our hopes too high for that.’
‘You’re probably right.’ Cassie dropped her voice. ‘Could you come into the office. There’s something else - I’d like your view.’
Cassie remained silent until she had closed the inner office door behind them. ‘I believe Hugh intends to sell paintings from the collection.’
Julia was taken aback. She had gradually become reconciled to Hugh’s arguments that the trustees needed to be shaken out of their petty bickering and the financial situation was becoming desperate.
He had assured her he was exploring sales in principle rather than imminent disposals. But it startled her - both that Cassie was aware of the possibility and that she should choose to discuss it with her.
‘Has he spoken about it to you? Do you know for sure?’ Julia said.
‘No, nothing. I overheard the end of a phone conversation. He was talking about a couple of the pictures on display in the Specials room and broke off as soon as he saw me.’
‘That could be perfectly innocent.’
‘I thought so, until I took a call here from someone trying to reach him. It was an Italian business attaché. He said it was a commercial matter, following up from the “private showing”.’
Julia was reluctant to admit that she knew Hugh was exploring possible sales. ‘I know the museum’s finances are rocky. It may be the only way to stay open.’
Cassie’s eyes narrowed and Julia read it as anger for defending Hugh. There was a long pause before Cassie spoke.
‘I know we need to raise money fast. But the thing is… I don’t think that’s why Hugh’s doing it.’
‘I don’t understand - why else would he want to sell the museum’s paintings?’
‘Because he will take a commission personally from the buyers.’