Monument.
1 mile.
Gillian made a U-turn at the mouth of the next side street and turned right where Nat was pointing. His directions led them onto a country road with a national speed limit and flanked on both sides by farmland. More signs followed. Monument ¾ mile. ½ mile.
“There’s a small lay-by near the entrance,” Nat said, seeing a sign for parking in 200 metres. “It should be on the left.”
Gillian also noticed the sign. She could feel the excitement growing inside her. The possibility was irresistible. They had missed out at Edgehill by a smidgen.
With any luck, Cooper and his accomplice would still be there.
The Battle of Naseby had been fought in fields between the parishes of Naseby, Sulby, Sibbertoft and Clipston on 14 June 1645. It had started late morning after several hours of dense fog. When the war was over, it became famous for one reason.
For winning a commoner a war and losing a king his head.
Gillian parked at the first available opportunity, and immediately they got out of the car. A sturdy wooden fence separated them from a large yellow field that stretched as far as the horizon. A gate was situated at a forty-five-degree angle at the left end of the fence, at which point the field was flanked by hedgerows.
Gillian and Nat passed through the gate and headed along the left side of the field. Even from the car Gillian had been able to see where they needed to go. A long line of greenery separated the yellow-covered ground from the hedgerow and led directly to a large stone ornament that was guarded by further fencing.
Gillian ran at a steady pace, not stopping until she reached the next gate. The monument was different to the one at Edgehill. Rather than the pencil-like design she had expected, she saw an octagonal stone column that thinned in the middle and thickened at the lid and base to form the shape of a capital I. There was an inscription at the base, the wording still legible.
Battle of Naseby
14 June 1645
From Near This Site
Oliver Cromwell
Led The Cavalry Charge
Which Decided The
Issue Of The Battle
And Ultimately That Of
The Great Civil War
Gillian grinned uncontrollably. “This is incredible. It’s just like the one in the painting.”
Nat was so familiar with the site the thought had never registered. He remembered the painting: the texture, the man, the time period clearly 1640s. Indeed, Hesilrige had been leaning against a stone column.
The monument in front of them and the stone column in the portrait were almost identical.
Gillian circled the monument a second time and took some photographs on her smartphone of the wider surroundings. Though the wind had picked up, the rain had ceased, the downpour replaced by a gentle light spray that reminded her of waves breaking against rocks. A cross of St George was raised on the nearby flagpole, its long rope banged against the frame as it caught the wind. It wasn’t until she focused on the sound that she noticed how lonely it was. It was quiet, even so close to the road. There was an atmosphere about the place, yet somehow not as heavy as at Edgehill. The varying shades of yellow and green flat farmland, punctuated only occasionally by small dwellings, stretched out ahead as far as the eye could see.
Gillian moved toward the fence that lined the battlefield. Whereas the actual site of the battle at Edgehill had been difficult to distinguish from neighbouring farmland, the Naseby site was visitor friendly. Three poster-size tablets had been erected against the fence that overlooked the battlefield, and included several paragraphs of text explaining the story of the battle and a reproduction of a contemporary account that mapped out the order of the day. They were standing at a point where once upon a time one of the units had lined up.
“This is wrong.”
She heard Nat’s voice behind her; she’d been so taken with what was in front of her she had got lost in her own thoughts. Nat was still standing by the monument, his eyes fixed on the base. Turning, she walked toward him. Nat had found a second inscription on the opposite side from the first; Gillian had seen it without paying it close attention.
She peered in close, taking in the words on the stone.
This Memorial
Was Accepted
On Behalf Of
The County
By The Chairman Of
The County Council
May 1996
Nat was standing with his arms folded, shaking his head with disappointment. “The stone is too modern.”
Gillian simply stared. The shape of the monument, the type of stone, the setting, the situation…everything added up perfectly.
But the date didn’t lie.
Her head was spinning. Her first thought was that the monument was a replacement for something older, the same as the one at Edgehill. The idea was credible enough: three hundred and fifty years was plenty of time for an original to be eroded, particularly in a location so exposed to the elements.
She returned to the displays. There was a map on one of them that confirmed the geography of the wider area. She looked at her location and realised her mistake.
“This isn’t a memorial obelisk.” She turned her attention to the next display. The middle of the three was the smallest of the displays in size, but definitely the most useful. “This is called the Cromwell Monument.”
Nat could have kicked himself. “There is an obelisk,” he said, remembering. “The Cromwell Monument is one of two.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“About two miles away. It’s on the other side of the village.”
19
The drive to the second monument took less than five minutes. Gillian turned left on entering the village and then left again, following the signs. She parked on the side of a main road, another lay-by designated for visitors.
Again there were no other cars around.
Gillian felt a sense of déjà vu. Across the road, she saw a gate at a right angle, its thick wooden frame guarding a narrow pathway that led up to a large obelisk. Three visual displays, almost identical to those at the Cromwell Monument, highlighted the key aspects of the battle and included a map of the locality. According to the displays, the obelisk had been erected at the site of an old windmill, the area where the Parliamentarians had gathered before the battle.
Gillian stopped to read the displays, the majority of which repeated what she had learned already. The obelisk had been constructed in 1823 at the site where a smaller one had once been.
Just like the one at Edgehill.
They left the displays and continued along the pathway. Wooden fencing flanked the path on both sides, narrowing toward the end. The pathway ended at a steep grassy mount, where the obelisk stood proudly.
The design was similar to the one at Edgehill, though on a far grander scale. A thick foundation of variously sized granite blocks extended over an area of at least five metres in width and depth, its eight layers of stone rising to a height of over two metres. Above its walled foundation, the main column rested on a plinth, with a slate inscription covering part of the front portion. Decorations from the civil war had been integrated into the design, including four round stones in the shape of cannon balls lining the area above the plinth at equal levels. Higher up, the monument’s appearance matched the one at Edgehill exactly.
A thin tall column that narrowed as it rose in height before ending with a pyramid.
Gillian climbed the steps and stopped on reaching the base. The eight layers of stone were staggered, creating the illusion of a stairway. Iron railings had been erected around the plinth, prohibiting a clear view of the inscription.
A translation had been put up among the displays.
Nat, meanwhile, had moved to the right side of the obelisk, his attention on the grassy mount. The mount was perfectly symmetrical, the obelisk lying at the point dead centre.
Gillian headed for the left side, looking carefully for anything unu
sual. The grass sloped down into a ditch at the rear, which separated the area from neighbouring fields. The grass was wet. Water dripped from the leaves of tall trees, while surface water ran down the slope, forming puddles in the ditch. Despite the heavy rain, the mount had a fresh grassy overcoat, its shade a healthy green.
Yet amongst the dense greenery was an area heavy in topsoil, its appearance uncannily reminiscent of the scene at Edgehill.
Gillian knelt down beside the mess. Her jeans were already dirty from the afternoon of searching in woodland. The dark shade of the soil confirmed that the ground had recently been disturbed, almost certainly that day.
“Look here,” Nat said. “Footprints.”
Gillian looked to her left. Nat was standing on the opposite side of the obelisk from her, his attention on the ground. Gillian rose to her feet and joined him on the other side, immediately seeing what had grabbed his attention. The imprints of muddy shoes circled the base. She compared the size to her own, estimating them to be eights or nines.
“Cooper got big feet?” Nat asked.
Strangely she couldn’t remember. In practice she knew it was possible they belonged to someone else. All of the monuments were well signposted, with designated parking close by. On a typical summer’s day they were unlikely to be the only visitors.
The hole in the ground suggested Cooper had come and gone.
Nat looked at her. “Where next?”
The three great battles of our time – that was how the message had read. They had visited the first, and arguably the last.
That only left the second.
“Marston Moor,” she said, looking again at the hole. “We need to call Edmund.”
20
Daniel Cliff had been preparing for the Van Dyck exhibition as if nothing had happened. The opening had been scheduled three weeks ago; the press had billed it the gallery’s ‘Highlight of the year’.
The purchase of the Van Dyck had officially gone through three months ago after a yearlong pursuit. It had been offered to the gallery by a private collector who had inherited it from a relative in a will. The price was agreed on the advice of three independent valuations.
£10.2m.
The funding had been achieved in three parts. The first was through the Heritage Lottery Fund grant, totalling £6.3m. The second portion was from the gallery’s own funds, just under a million, and the remainder from public donations. In June, the portrait had been acquired, and after three months of research and preparation it was ready for unveiling.
In just over forty hours it would be time to officially reveal it to the world.
Cliff was standing in room seven, less than ten feet from where the empty frame still hung, hidden from passers-by by a large green curtain. Something was bothering him, a niggling feeling in the back of his mind. He had encountered it first earlier that day when watching the CCTV footage of the theft. The door to the storeroom had been accessed. The room had been searched. In total Cooper and his accomplice had spent over three minutes in the room.
Yet from video evidence nothing had been taken.
The total collection of the National Portrait Gallery amounts to approximately 195,000 works, most notably 11,000 portraits that cover a huge range from kings and queens, princes to politicians, inventors to writers, and sportsmen to suffragettes. At full capacity the forty-two rooms that make up the gallery can accommodate a display of 1,400 portraits at any one time.
A fraction of what it officially owns.
The main storage areas of the National Portrait Gallery are located in both the basement and on the top floor. Access to the portraits by members of the public is usually achievable with sufficient notice, but in Cliff’s experience such occurrences were rare.
The storage areas had been divided into two categories. While the archive and library store was located beneath the ground floor, primarily for prints, drawings and books, the paintings were housed in the special collections’ store on the third floor.
The door was locked, accessible via a four-digit code. There was evidence of minor damage to the handle, but CCTV footage confirmed entry had clearly occurred.
Cliff entered the room and searched the area the intruders had concentrated on. To make best use of the space, the paintings were held in thin drawers inside a series of strong silver cabinets. The video footage confirmed which drawers had been searched.
One of which Cliff found to be empty.
He checked the database and noticed something strange. The painting that had been stored there had been removed earlier the previous day.
The entry indicated it was Cooper who removed it.
Sending it to another area of storage.
A thought was gnawing away like a parasite in Cliff’s mind. The 11,000-strong collection placed far too much stress on its capacity for everything to be stored onsite.
There were other places the gallery stored its paintings.
He had a feeling. The more he thought about it, the stronger it became. He checked his watch and headed for the door.
If the entry in the database was correct, the answer lay over forty miles away.
21
Throughout history it has often been said that whoever holds York holds the north. Over three hundred years ago, the leaders of both the Royalist and Parliamentarian movements held the same view.
The Civil War was at deadlock. The two-year struggle that had started with disassembly and discontent had developed into an epic armed struggle between the powerful landowners who supported one side or the other. The Parliamentarians had been besieging York all summer.
Neither side had complete control.
As the Royalist forces gathered to relieve the city, their leader, Prince Rupert, sought to confront the enemy in open combat, despite possessing inferior numbers. While the Royalists took stock as their reinforcements headed north, the Parliamentarians caught them off guard. The reported battle lasted two hours on an early July evening, in fading light, a precursor to a thunderstorm. Cromwell’s forces routed the Royalists with their cavalry.
The Royalists lost the north.
There were few places in England that evoked the same strength of feeling as Marston Moor. Cooper had never forgotten the way he had felt the first time he had visited it six years ago. There was something about the place that he just couldn’t quite put his finger on, a sense of timelessness that possessed not only the site but the surrounding area as well. It was the type of place where history was at one with the landscape, where the echoes of the past occupied every nook and cranny. Every nearby village had a story to tell, be it of a fleeing Roundhead, a wounded Cavalier or something more romanticised. There was something about the place, yes. Be it tangible or not, he had never quite made up his mind.
Only that it was there.
Cooper was familiar with the rumours that surrounded the battle site. As with Edgehill, it was reputedly one of the most haunted in England, with tales ranging from floating mists to headless horsemen.
It was still broad daylight in North Yorkshire. The thick cloud that had engulfed the sky on the way up had been replaced by calming blue. Strong rays of sunshine beat down from the highest point in the sky, casting long shadows across the distant greenery.
There was no great mystery regarding the location of the battle. As at Naseby, the open fields and moorland at Marston Moor were enclosed on all sides and had been used exclusively for farming ever since the battle. The nearby villages of Long Marston and Tockwith had expanded, but neither had encroached onto the battle site. As a past visitor, Cooper knew the stories well. It was a battle whose story had survived better than most.
And whose memory continued to arouse intrigue in the hearts of the local and visitor.
A white helicopter was flying overhead. Cooper heard it before he saw it. As the sounds became louder, he noticed a small white speck racing across the horizon, approaching from the south at a surprisingly low height. There were two people in the cockpit: an older
man with a grey beard and a young pilot wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses.
The older man seemed particularly interested in the surrounding area.
François was digging by the nearby obelisk whilst Alain was leaning against the bonnet of the car, smoking a Camel cigarette. He shot Cooper an annoyed look and told him to return to work. They had been digging less than five minutes.
Not for the first time that day, François seemed to know exactly where to dig.
Cooper moved a shovelful of topsoil to one side, doing his best to ignore the steady hum that was becoming progressively louder. He could tell from its trajectory the chopper would be landing imminently. He knew from past visits there was MoD land in the close vicinity; most likely it was heading for a base. As it passed overhead, he felt the force of the blades creating a dust storm around his eyes and causing his clothes to move.
The noise was briefly deafening. As the helicopter disappeared behind a low hill, Alain threw his cigarette to the ground and drove off along the main road toward Long Marston.
The helicopter came down in a field just outside the village. The Duke disembarked and found Alain parked on the side of the main road.
Moments later, they set off.
The villages of Long Marston and Tockwith were connected by an ancient road that dissected the battlefield. The first thing the Duke noticed was how flat the landscape was. Farmland stretched from the side of the road as far as the eye could see in both directions, a sea of green or yellow interrupted at regular intervals by long straight lines created by the recent use of a combine harvester.
It was lonely, despite the summer’s weather; had it not been for the car and the overhead power lines, he could have conned himself into believing he had slipped backward in time. Hedgerows flanked the road on both sides, restricting his view into the fields that flashed by in a blur of colour. The road had a 30mph limit, but if Alain had seen the signs, he paid them no attention. The road was narrow, even with the dotted white line.
The Cromwell Deception Page 9