The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  ‘Yes, even then. An answer would be great, but failing that, the search is enough.’

  ‘Tristan?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘You are a Romantic.’ Julia trusted he would hear the capital letter.

  ‘Yes. I was born out of my time.’ He replied, acknowledging allegiance to the literary and artistic movement she alluded to.

  ‘Have you heard from the Wallace Collection yet?’

  ‘If I had, do you think I wouldn’t have told you? They’ve said probably Friday, but they’ll confirm tomorrow.’

  Chapter 36

  In the morning, Julia received Tristan’s call duly confirming that the Wallace Collection would have the earl retrieved from storage and ready for them to view on Friday. The appointment was 2PM, but he suggested they meet nearby, for lunch beforehand.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about your symbols,’ he said, almost before they had sat down, ‘Can you remember what else Harriet Fairfax said she saw?’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t want to hear. I thought the Assassin had affected her mind - turned her crazy - and if he’d done that to her, then what had he done to me?’

  ‘You still don’t like to talk about it, do you?’

  ‘I know it’s silly, but it’s like when you were a child and if you pretended something wasn’t there, you hoped it might go away.’

  ‘Fear of the unknown is a basic instinct. Fundamental rather than childish.’

  ‘Thank you. Fairfax said something about being caught in the web and wielding the whip.’

  Tristan looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps I should ask her directly, although I don’t really want to talk to her.’

  ‘There’s a spider’s web in the corner of the painting and something that might be a riding crop on a shelf.’

  ‘That might be it, or maybe something else under the conventionally visible layer of paint. Has anyone else touched the painting?’

  ‘And lived? Hugh did. When we hosted an evening event. Afterwards I was paranoid that he’d been infected by the Assassin’s spirit.’

  ‘And was he, do you think?’

  ‘I can’t believe you are taking this so seriously. It scares me more than if you laughed at me. Hugh has always scoffed at the idea of possession. He calls it supernatural hooey.’

  ‘Whether there’s a rational or a paranormal answer, you shouldn’t dismiss your instincts or think your feelings are worthless.’

  ‘Hugh has always had a strong commitment to Fathon House and he was hugely supportive when I was Acting Curator. Cassie’s claim that he’s trying to line his own pockets is hard for me to believe. But he said he had a lot riding on the success of the political reception that we ran.’ Julia had been reluctant to interpret that comment. ‘Hugh’s been different recently - but I put it down to the stress of running a business.’

  ‘And if the business were struggling, it would affect him financially.’

  ‘It would, but he’s said nothing about that. I suppose he wouldn’t. He hasn’t said anything about seeing things in a painting that aren’t there, either.’

  ‘I wonder what I would see if I touched it. Or if I’d be possessed,’ Tristan said.

  ‘No. Don’t even joke about trying it. But why do you think you might see something different?’

  ‘This is all mad amateur psychology: I said your guiding principle is justice. Two specific meanings of the snake and pomegranate are betrayal and rape - both injustices. Harriet Fairfax is - or was - a bully. A whip can stand for worldly domination and a spider’s web for intrigue. And for her, the snake could mean any number of things.’

  ‘So you think I didn’t dream about the spider’s web or whip because I loathe intrigue, and power means nothing to me. But we both dreamed of a snake that is somehow embedded in the painting?’

  ‘Barking mad I know. It’s an occupational hazard for anyone dealing with symbolism. Look at Dan Brown.’

  ‘I suppose the ideas in his books are mad. But they’ve made him very rich. I hadn’t thought of you as a real live Robert Langdon,’ Julia said.

  ‘That’s me. And it makes you the intelligent and beautiful companion.’

  ‘But what did these symbols mean to the artist and the subject?’

  ‘I have a few - mad, of course - ideas about that. Why they are not obviously visible is highly pertinent, I believe, but until we know if it really is Henry Morton, I’d prefer not to make a complete fool of myself.’

  They didn’t have long to wait before they could find out. They were shown through the baroque splendour of the Wallace Collection galleries to a below-stairs workshop. Julia was conscious of her pulse racing. The painting had been taken out of its storage crate, but was still enclosed in protective wrappings.

  The assistant curator removed the layers, lifting away the covering with the air of a morgue attendant permitting the viewing of a corpse. Julia half expected him to say “Is this your missing person, Madam?” but he just looked from her to Tristan for a reaction or comment.

  Initially neither of them said anything. Even allowing for the hand of a different artist, the painting bore slight resemblance to the Assassin. It was an overwhelming disappointment. And Henry Morton, 4th Earl of Somerset, couldn’t be the Henry of Edmond’s diary. The portrait in front of them was of an elderly man.

  Julia stared at the face, willing it to transform into the fine-boned, but harsh features of the Assassin. ‘It’s not him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A dead end.’

  ‘Julia, no it isn’t. Look at him. This Henry Morton couldn’t have killed someone in a sword fight, ten years after this was painted.’

  ‘You mean he was most likely dead by then. Sometime between 1775 and 85. So our Henry Morton would be the 5th earl.’

  ‘There’s still hope of finding him. Nil desperandum indeed.’

  ‘Do you think there’s any family resemblance? To the Assassin, I mean?’ Julia took out the print she now carried everywhere and they all scrutinised the works for similarities.

  Tristan looked mischievous. ‘Maybe something about the nose?’

  ‘If you say anything about noses running in families, I’ll probably hit you.’

  Instead Tristan held her face between his palms. He tilted his head, pretending to examine her own nose and then kissed it, lightly.

  Julia heard the Assistant Curator literally hurrumph and she wriggled away. She thanked him effusively for allowing them to see the work. Tristan managed to add some scholarly comments, which Julia interpreted to mean “eliminating him from our enquiries”.

  Tristan had to return to his office. He was giving another lecture that night and said he hadn’t yet prepared a thing. He promised to search for the 5th earl and call her.

  He didn’t suggest a date to meet and Julia felt too demoralised by their disappointment at finding the wrong earl to say anything herself. They parted outside the tube station. It was with a proper kiss, but constrained a little by Julia’s consciousness of the public location.

  When she got off the train and checked her phone, she found a missed call. The tunnels between Charing Cross and Sevenoaks meant there was patchy reception.

  She waited until she was home to replay the voicemail. She enjoyed listening to the sound of Tristan’s voice, as much as the information he conveyed.

  “Julia. I have great news. I could slaughter Dunstan. That’s not the news. He’s the one that’s been crawling through Debretts, so he should have cottoned-on to the dates. But then he found it, so I can’t kill him after all. The 5th earl acceded in 1780 and might not have got around to sitting for a portrait before he left the country following the duel. But while he was the heir - Viscount Exeter - he was painted in watercolours. And the portrait just happens to be in storage at… wait for it… our very own National Portrait Gallery. Can you come in next Friday? I’ve asked for expedited extraction - does that sound like what you do with spies? Anyway, the moles in the basement say they can’t exhume him
before then. Let me know if you’re free. And if you’re not, let me know when. I won’t have a sneak peak without you.”

  Julia checked the time. Tristan was probably in the middle of delivering his presentation, so she texted - hoping he had remembered to switch his phone to silent: Friday would be perfect. Really excited. Thank Dunstan from me. Let me know what time suits you.

  Another week of anticipation. Julia was sure that this time it would be the man. There had been a hint of the Assassin in the features of the elderly 4th earl. Enough to make it reasonable that the “Venetian nobleman” was actually his son.

  She would be missing another volunteer day, so she texted Penny to see if they could make use of her as a gallery steward over the weekend.

  Penny texted back to say she was duty manager for the weekend and would appreciate the company, but they weren’t short-handed, so Julia should make the most of her free time. She replied. I’ll come in Sunday lunchtime with a desk picnic.

  ~

  ‘So how’s it going with the brainy blond bombshell?’

  Julia gave her a you’re-not-as-funny-as-you-think-you-are look. ‘Next Friday. We have another picture to look at.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘We’re having dinner.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Julia said and glared at her friend.

  ‘I can’t wait for the next thrilling instalment.’

  ‘You’re as nosy as Tristan.’

  ‘I am, but I do have our own little drama for entertainment this week.’

  ‘You mean the board meeting on Tuesday?’ Julia was relieved Penny had stopped probing.

  ‘I do. It looks set to be a lively one. They are going to discuss the café scheme again and the pros and cons of selling a part of the collection. Do you want to see the board papers?’ Penny scooped up a slim folder and dangled it between her fingers.

  ‘I don’t think I ought to, now that I’m only a lowly volunteer again.’

  ‘You have great self-restraint.’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me all about it afterwards, but not if it’s confidential, of course.’

  ‘You’re entitled to know. After what you’ve done for this place. Have you ever thought of becoming a trustee, yourself?’

  Julia had sometimes daydreamed about joining the board. ‘I don’t think there will be a vacancy for quite some time. And if there were, Inspector Barrett would probably suspect me of nobbling whoever stood down or died.’

  ‘I shouldn’t try to nobble any of the incumbents on your behalf, then.’

  While they were chatting, Julia’s phone rang and she excused herself to answer it. It was Tristan, so she walked into the inner office and pulled the door closed, as Penny was shamelessly straining her ears to follow the conversation.

  Tristan told her he was planning to send Dunstan down to Fathon House the next day, so he could see the Assassin and have a look at the rest of the collection. He said Dunstan deserved an airing after being buried in gloomy libraries. He wouldn’t need looking after, but if Julia had time, Tristan had authorised expenses for him to buy her lunch.

  She promised to let the team know to welcome him and to collect him at lunchtime.

  ‘Don’t take care of him too well. I’m aware of the perils of sending a personable young man as a proxy.’

  She returned to Penny and requested that she relay the news of Dunstan’s visit in the morning.

  ~

  When Julia arrived at Fathon House to take Dunstan to lunch, she noticed a bouquet of flowers behind the reception desk.

  Anya was manning the desk. ‘The young man from the National Portrait Gallery brought these for you, but he said they were from Dr Kernow.’

  Penny emerged from the office. ‘Hi Julia. He’s in the main gallery at the moment. Your academic admirer has an eccentric taste in floristry.’

  The bouquet consisted of a central sunflower surrounded by bright red roses. Supporting greenery was provided by ornamental cabbages. The language of flowers, thought Julia. She would have to google to decipher the message being sent. A symbol specialist’s idea of a joke, no doubt.

  She walked into the gallery to meet Dunstan. He was easy enough to identify - the only unaccompanied man in the room. He was solidly built, as dark as Tristan was fair. He looked more like a rugby player than a student of 18th century art.

  ‘Dunstan? I’m Julia. Welcome to Fathon House.’

  ‘Ms Bailey, Hello. I have been enjoying my morning here very much.’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have many works of great artistic merit and a lot of the 18th century paintings are in storage.’

  ‘I have a particular interest in family portraiture, so domestic collections have a real attraction for me. But I mustn’t bore you with my obsessions.’

  ‘On the contrary, I hope you will tell me more about it over lunch. Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ he said, but with a backward glance at Emma Seckfield.

  They passed Cassie in the hallway. She greeted Dunstan very briefly and excused herself with the claim of an urgent call to make. Julia was curious about the look that had passed between them. She waited until they were in the street before she spoke.

  ‘You and Cassie know each other?’

  ‘She was a few years ahead of me at uni. Working on her doctorate when I was an undergrad. I recognised the name when Tris told me who was curator here, but I’d scarcely recognise her.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been very long ago.’

  ‘No, but she looks so formal. She was a real wild child - partying and ...oh, she might not like me to tell tales.’

  ‘We all have a past, don’t we?’ It was a diplomatic response but, Julia realised, hardly applicable for the youthful Dunstan.

  Over lunch she drew him out to talk about his professional interests. He had a project in mind to trace family resemblances across generations of portraiture - maybe making use of new facial recognition software - but Tristan was sceptical, saying the number of births originating from adulterous liaisons and the flattery of artists would prevent any sensible results.

  After lunch, Dunstan was returning to the station, but Julia walked quickly back to the museum to collect her flowers. Their message had come to her after realising the roses were ruby.

  When they had last spoken, Tristan had been asking about her academic studies, before her Art History MA. The symbolism came not from the language of flowers, but from English literature. The arrangement was a reference to the Andrew Marvell poem, To His Coy Mistress.

  Penny would tease her mercilessly, if she ever worked it out.

  Chapter 37

  By Tuesday night, Julia was anxious to know if anything had been resolved at the board meeting. She had consciously separated herself from management issues in order to simply enjoy her support role, as she had before.

  Her time as acting curator already felt like a previous life. She told herself she should be interested in the board’s debates only insofar as they might affect her role as a volunteer.

  She didn’t want to ask Penny to disclose confidential discussions, even if Penny had no such scruples herself. On Friday she would hear whatever the board chose to share with the team and would have to be content with that. She was planning to spend the morning at the museum, before travelling to London to meet Tristan.

  When Penny texted on Wednesday morning, proposing lunch at a snack bar near the MJL office, she accepted with alacrity, her good intentions to be patient, instantly forgotten.

  ‘Are you going to tell me all about the board meeting?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I can tell you why not, for starters: Cassie announced it would be a confidential meeting, so she would take the minutes and I was turned out.’

  ‘As if you couldn’t be trusted,’ Julia said with some irony.

  ‘Telling you doesn’t count. And I will tell you what I do know about the meeting, because it’s all a bit odd.’ />
  ‘Odd in what way?’

  ‘Odd in a spooky way. All of the trustees had confirmed they would attend, but Jennifer Johnson’s sister called to say she had been hospitalised with suspected food poisoning. Philip Smythe didn’t appear either.’

  ‘Unlike him not to send apologies.’

  ‘He had a good excuse. We heard yesterday he was seriously injured in a hit and run accident.’

  ‘The poor man, how horrible.’

  ‘The spooky bit is that Cassie drew my attention to the fact that Hugh’s Jaguar wasn’t in the car park. He said it was in the garage after some oik keyed it.’

  ‘You can’t think Hugh had anything to do with the accident?’

  ‘Jennifer and Philip were the two most opposed to selling off paintings. It would have been convenient for him if there was a vote.’

  Julia thought it just sounded like an unfortunate coincidence. ‘You can’t believe Hugh would incapacitate someone - for any reason - never mind something like a board vote.’

  ‘I don’t. He has plenty of faults, but I can’t see him mowing down trustees.’

  ‘But Cassie believes it? And was there a vote?’

  ‘I don’t know. Cassie has shut herself in her office and doesn’t look like a happy bunny. All the trustees left immediately after the meeting.’

  ‘So you don’t know if they decided anything at all?’ Julia said.

  ‘No. It’s really frustrating. And there’s something else. Sam says she could hear raised voices in the boardroom, from the workshop, but she couldn’t catch the conversation. When she came downstairs to go to the loo, Cassie was standing outside the door. The board must have asked her to step outside, while they discussed something about her.’

  ‘Cassie did tell me she thought Hugh was lobbying the other trustees to not confirm her probation.’

  ‘Frankly, I wouldn’t be unhappy if her position isn’t confirmed,’ Penny said.

  ‘I thought she might be settling in - relaxing a bit.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any wild mood swings recently. But I wouldn’t say she’s relaxed.’