by Peter Watson
Around 9.30 he went to his desk. In a pigeon-hole there were a number of invoices from Helen Sparrow, for work she had done cleaning some of Michael’s own pictures. The invoices had her phone number printed on them. He called her. Yes, she said, she had nothing she couldn’t put off and would be pleased to help. She knew as well as Michael did that she was ‘in waiting’ for when old Julius retired and it was a boost to her career to be taken on by a London gallery. She said she would expect him some time that afternoon.
He hung up. ‘Now,’ Michael said, motioning Isobel to a seat. ‘We need a little planning. Molyneux’s a foxy snake and we can’t afford to let our guard slip. See what you think of this. We’ve got to have the picture cleaned – right? Either we sit with it the whole time, which will be very tedious, or we have to make sure Molyneux doesn’t know where we leave it. Which means making sure he’s not following us when we get to Helen’s. What I suggest is this. The frame I have over the fireplace, the one with half a million pinpricks, is roughly the same size as the Landscape. I’ll pack it into the portfolio and give it to you. I’ll then pack the Landscape into my large suitcase along with the clothes I will need for the weekend –’
Isobel looked mystified but Michael raised his hand. ‘Hear me out. We both leave the house together and take a taxi. I drop you off with your case and the portfolio at Liverpool Street station, where I wait and watch you take a train to Cambridge. Then I get back into a taxi, cross London to King’s Cross station, and take a train to Peterborough.’
Still Isobel looked perplexed, but Michael grinned and said, ‘This is the clever bit. You do not get off at Cambridge but at Audley End, about half an hour before. Why? Because Audley End is a tiny station and you can easily see if Molyneux gets off with you. If you are being followed it doesn’t matter because you don’t have the picture. Just smile at Molyneux, cross the line and catch the next train back to London and come here – I’ll give you a key. If he’s not following you, take a taxi from the station at Audley End to the Royal Garden Hotel in Cambridge and wait there in the bar for me to join you.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Running roughly parallel. At King’s Cross I shall catch the Peterborough train but get off at St Neots. Just like Audley End, it’s a tiny station and I shall be able to see anyone else leaving the train. If Molyneux has followed me, I shall tell him he’s been duped and that you’ve taken the picture with you. But my bet is that, if he does follow us to Liverpool Street, he’ll be torn between which one of us to pursue – and will opt for you because you will have the portfolio and are the weaker person – physically, I mean. He doesn’t know you’ve been to more wars than I’ve had cigars. If Molyneux doesn’t follow me, I shall take a taxi from St Neots to Cambridge – it’s not much further from there than it is from Audley End. If you’re not there, I shall go to Helen’s alone, leave the picture with her and meet you back here this evening. If we do meet up in Cambridge we shall be certain we’re not being followed. We can leave the picture with Helen and enjoy the weekend. What do you think?’
‘How do we get from Cambridge to Helen’s?’
‘By hired car. Which I shall now arrange, if you approve the script.’
Isobel was impressed by Michael’s idea and couldn’t think of a better one. He therefore telephoned a car rental company and reserved a medium-sized vehicle at its Cambridge office, for later that day. He then telephoned the Harbour Inn at Southwold, on the Suffolk coast south of Lowestoft, and reserved two rooms for three nights.
They took down the frame with the half a million gambling holes and exchanged it for the Landscape in the portfolio. Michael wrapped the painting in tissue and put it at the bottom of his suitcase, packing fresh shirts and shoes and other things on top. He phoned for a cab.
On their way to Liverpool Street, they kept looking back but, if Molyneux was following them, he was being very clever about it. The traffic behind them appeared completely anonymous.
At the station Michael queued with Isobel while she bought her ticket. They had forty minutes’ wait before the next Cambridge train and passed the time having coffee. Then Michael watched as Isobel boarded the train. To begin with he watched all the other passengers too – but he didn’t know Molyneux so he quickly abandoned that and went off to catch his taxi to King’s Cross.
As he paid the driver at the other end, Michael now began to feel very alone and he guessed Isobel was feeling that way too. Without being aware of it, they had begun to rely on each other very much.
He hurried across to the ticket office. He had to kick his heels for another half an hour before the next Peterborough train left. When it did so it was seven minutes late and Michael was beginning to fret. He paced along the train’s corridor looking for very tall, grey-haired men. There must have been four candidates at least. As the train moved off he walked back through the carriages, carrying his suitcase. To be on the safe side he spent the entire journey in the buffet car. It was always busy there and he felt safer surrounded by lots of people.
The train arrived at St Neots at about twenty past twelve. Michael did not leave the train immediately. If Molyneux was aboard, Michael wanted to give him as little opportunity as possible to observe that this was where he was getting off. Michael waited until he could hear doors being slammed and the train was ready to leave again. Only then did he open the door where he was standing and jump on to the platform. A guard was standing nearby and moved forward aggressively to close the door after him. ‘You asleep?’ he growled at Michael.
Michael had never been more alert and hurriedly cast his gaze along the platform. It was bigger than he had anticipated and had an old-fashioned, ornate glass roof – the kind which people wanted to destroy fifteen years ago but now campaigned to save.
No one else had jumped down from the train since he had done so. Someone else was getting on to the train as it began to move off. He counted five other people on the platform, two of them women and one of them the guard who had grumbled at him. The other two consisted of a soldier in uniform and a thin man with a briefcase, no more than thirty. He couldn’t be Molyneux either.
Michael gave a silent cheer but then thought: maybe Molyneux was already outside. This didn’t make sense because Molyneux could not have known Michael was going to get off at St Neots until he did so. But Michael was so worked up, he believed anything was possible and would not be happy until he saw outside the station.
He lifted his case and strode in the direction of the ‘Way Out’ sign. Before he had reached the ticket barrier the train had all but left, its back half disappearing. He inspected the platform again: it was deserted. He handed in his ticket and went through into the small booking-hall. He could see no one who would fit Molyneux’s description. The solitary taxi outside was a big white Ford and Michael clambered in. ‘Cambridge, please,’ he said, and looked back to the station as the driver sped off. The station forecourt was empty. His plan had worked.
It took about thirty minutes to reach Cambridge and as they approached the city Michael began to feel on edge again. There was no possibility that Molyneux could have followed him but Michael didn’t relish going to Helen’s all alone, should Isobel have had to turn back. He was slightly surprised at how disturbing he found this thought.
The taxi turned into Downing Street, then along the Parade. Another left turn and the Royal Garden Hotel was in front of them. Michael quickly paid the fare and got out. He hurried into the hotel, lugging the case with him. The bar, he knew, was on the right. It was a big room but he immediately sized up that Isobel wasn’t there. Jesus bloody Christ. They had been right to be careful. He looked at his watch: just on one. She wouldn’t be back at Justice Walk yet, so he was stymied—
‘Michael? There you are. I’d nearly given you up.’
He pivoted. Isobel came towards him from the direction of the hotel shop, where she had obviously just bought a newspaper. She held it up. ‘This is the fifth paper I’ve read. I know more about y
esterday than any day in the history of the world.’
‘Molyneux?’
‘Not on my train. You?’
‘All clear.’
‘So, Detective Whiting’s plan worked.’ She grinned. ‘An ash-free weekend after all.’
‘Don’t remind me. I’m dying for a smoke.’ He took a cigar from his pocket, smelled its leaves and replaced it.
Isobel threw the unopened newspaper into a waste bin. ‘I shan’t need that. Let’s get going.’
The porter at the front desk showed them to a phone in the lobby which was a direct line to the car rental firm. Michael arranged for the vehicle to be dropped off for them at the hotel and was told it would take about twenty minutes. That allowed time for a sandwich in the bar.
The car, when it came, was more like a minnow than a Mercedes but at least its boot was intact. Michael completed the formalities, they packed away the portfolio and the suitcases and drove off.
Outside Cambridge, the countryside became flatter. It was not the kind of landscape that appealed to Michael ‘in the flesh’, so to speak, but he loved it in the paintings of Constable and others of the Norwich School. Low horizons in a picture, he believed, made the rooms where the pictures hung more airy and spacious. People liked that.
They joined the main London-to-Norwich road, turned off at Thetford and headed towards Bungay, where the road then followed the River Waveney until they turned north and headed for Aldeby. The road was narrower now and their speed was much reduced. There were few hedges hereabouts and the sky came all the way down, like a backdrop which reached to the stage. Lines of loam lay out to their right, deep furrows in the plum-coloured earth. Buckled trees, oak and ash that had spent years labouring against the cold Russian winds, leaned east, giving the landscape a lop-sided look. Isobel and Michael arrived at Aldeby just before three o’clock.
Helen Sparrow’s studio was in a converted stable, just off the High Street. She lived on the ground floor, and there was an outside staircase up to where she worked. There, they could see, part of the slate-tiled roof had been removed and replaced with glass, to give added light. Michael noticed Helen’s van in the garage one stable along.
Hearing their car, Helen Sparrow came down the stairs to greet them. Michael made the introductions. She belied her name, being a tall woman, though she was rather awkward and jerky in her movements, like a bird. Somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, she had a long face with a surprisingly ruddy complexion for someone whose job was so sedentary. She had long thick hair that had gone grey very early on. It swooped down on either side of her forehead, like curtains, and was held at the back in a long pony tail. She wore a red smock over a faded blue dress and what had once been very white espadrilles. Her fingers gave away the fact that she was a restorer; they were long and supple. She led the way back up to her studio while Michael hauled his suitcase up the steps. Inside the studio there was a wooden easel all ready to receive the picture. Michael opened the case and unpacked it. He placed the canvas on the pegs.
Helen Sparrow returned from a kitchen off the main studio, carrying a tray with three mugs. They stood sipping tea and surveying the picture.
‘It’s an unusual composition,’ said Michael. ‘The landscape is English, part of Dorset, I think. The figures are religious, mythological, and real. Where I need your help is just here.’ He indicated near the monk’s feet. ‘It looks to me as though there is something under this grime.’
Helen leaned forward. ‘Yes, it looks like dirt, or discoloured varnish, rather than overpainting. Is that all you want me to do?’
‘Well,’ said Michael, who had examined the picture in detail the night before, while Isobel was sleeping, ‘there are one or two other areas we might as well have cleaned.’ He pointed to the flesh on one of the faces and a patch at the foot of one of the columns, at the top of which was the carved Adam and Eve scene where it had all started. ‘I don’t know if there’s anything concealed in these areas but, just in case and provided you can have it ready by Monday morning, you might as well clean them too. This is not my usual type of picture, Helen, as you can see, and this time speed is all important.’ He stood for a moment looking at the picture and drinking his tea. ‘Can you have it done by Monday morning?’
‘Hmm. There’s something I ought to get out of the way today. But I can work all day tomorrow and on Sunday. Do you want me to bring it down to London?’
‘Oh no. In fact, we’re planning to stay in the area over the weekend, in the hope that you can finish it quickly. There’s more than the usual urgency in this.’
Helen thought. She knew better than to ask, with a dealer, what the urgency was. ‘I shall have to charge you extra for working on Sunday. Is that all right?’
‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘A rush job is a rush job.’ He took his pocket-book from inside his jacket and, tearing a slip of paper out of it, he scribbled some names and numbers. ‘If there are any problems, I have checked into this hotel for the weekend. It’s at Southwold, not far from here. You can always call there.’
Helen took the paper and pinned it to a board on the wall. Then she took their cups from them and showed them to the top of the outside staircase.
‘How’s Julius?’ she asked.
‘Fine, so far as I know,’ said Michael. ‘I saw him last week, as a matter of fact.’ Then, responding to her unasked question, he added, ‘But Jules won’t last for ever, Helen. He’s still the best there is at the moment, but you’re getting there. There’ll be more to follow after this, I promise.’
‘Should we have told her about Molyneux?’ said Isobel, once they were in the car again and heading for the coast.
‘The fewer people who know the better, don’t you think? Even though she lives out here, and is discreet, Helen still knows plenty of people in the trade. There’s always the risk of gossip. We must keep this to ourselves as much as we can.’
They reached Southwold around six, having stopped off to look at the church of St Edmund, King and Martyr, which was also in the village. It had a magnificent two-storey porch. Then they checked into the Harbour Inn.
At dinner that night, which they took in the hotel, Michael said, ‘At last we can relax. Without the picture, Molyneux’s had it. However slow we are at deciphering the Landscape of Lies, it doesn’t matter any more. We have the only key that fits the lock. So let’s enjoy our weekend. Let’s forget about your farm and the picture. We’ll head south tomorrow – to Constable territory. Then come back north, take in Gainsborough’s house, and end up at the museum in Norwich. How does that sound?’
‘I think it’s a lovely idea, Michael. But first, you’ve got some making up to do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Last time we had one of these dinners, I did all the talking, about the farm, about Tony. Now it’s your turn.’
‘Oh yes, the night I thrashed you at chess, you mean?’
She smiled. ‘Now it’s not late, there’s plenty of wine left. Last time, you said you were interested in Englishness. What did that mean?’
Michael took out a cigar. ‘Am I allowed one of these now?’ She nodded, and for a moment he played with his matches. ‘Have you never noticed how, with many people, to be English is not enough? They have to have some Scottish blood, or Welsh, or French. Or more important than being English is being a Yorkshireman, or a northerner. Being just English is too negative for many people, too wishy-washy, too . . . zero. Everyone else is proud of being Irish, say, or Indian, or Italian. But the English are rather – well, reserved, embarrassed almost. Yet England has as colourful and important a history as most places. There have been just as many famous – and notorious – English men and women as there have been French or Germans, and a good deal more than the Welsh or Swiss, say. Yet it appears to make no difference. If you have to describe a Frenchman, an Italian or a Scot, you can do it in a very few words. But an Englishman? Impossible.
‘Now, look at all the activities of mankind, especia
lly all the creative, artistic activities that reveal things about their authors . . . There’s only one thing which the English do well and which other nations hardly do at all.’ He held the cigar low down so she would not be disturbed by the smoke. ‘Care to guess what it is?’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘Make gin? Hardly art, I suppose. Play cricket? Except that others do it better now, don’t they? Foxhunt? Overcook beef? Drive on the left? Come on, tell me.’
He drew on his cigar and breathed out, turning his head away from Isobel as he did so. ‘Watercolours. We paint in watercolours. Only the English do it superbly. The French tried it in the eighteenth century – but they simply produced pale oil paintings. The Americans had a go in the nineteenth – but they were never very original. The Japanese do it – but again their watercolours are scarcely any different from their paintings in other materials. No: English watercolours are unique, in subject matter, in technique and in quality. It must therefore be a distillation of Englishness.’ He tugged at an eyebrow. ‘Next question: what does it show?’
Isobel said nothing.
‘Delicacy. A concentration on landscape. Few firm outlines. Impressions. Few people. The English are always called literary, cold, unemotional. Not true. The colours in watercolours are promiscuous – look at Turner or Constable. But everything else is hinted at. Nothing is rubbed in. The forms have few outlines – and are indistinct anyway. The pictures capture a mood but within the picture nothing has any real substance. It’s as if nothing is trusted. The lack of people in watercolours is the biggest give-away of all. They prove that the English look outwards, not inwards, and we only do that with the minimum conviction. Art, whether it’s painting, literature or music, seeks to give comfort. Or at least it thinks it does. Some people think that the comfort of art is only transitory – that the beauty of a phrase or a tune vanishes as soon as it’s uttered. They are more right than everyone else but still wrong. The truth is that there is no comfort. Riffle through any book of quotations – you can find hundreds of occasions where one fine epigram cancels out another. Oscar Wilde said that was the definition of truth – when the opposite was true also. I think that, just this once, Oscar had it upside-down. Both epigrams may sound beautiful but they can’t both be true. Without truth there can be no comfort. Bleak, eh?