Probably a crypt.
Cooper heard a noise behind him. Alain and François had entered last, dressed in their black padded windproof jackets, with François carrying his usual black rucksack. Jérôme gave instructions to Alain.
“You stand here and keep watch.”
Alain nodded and looked across the chapel, catching Cooper staring at him.
“Something on your mind, Englishman?”
Cooper took a deep breath and shook his head. “No.” Even without his additional worries, he sensed an atmosphere about the place that was not wholly religious. According to its official history, although built as a chapel, it had later served as a tollhouse, a residence, and even a public house before being reverted to its original appearance as a national monument.
There was a staircase in the far corner, leading down to a lower storey. It was narrow and steep. From directly above, the drop appeared almost vertical. François had taken the lead, his footsteps making dull creaking sounds as he negotiated them one at a time.
Cooper went next. He saw Jérôme gesture with his eyes and decided to take the hint. He took his time, holding tightly to the wooden bannister to ensure his footing was secure before negotiating the next step.
There was light at the bottom, indicating sunlight was penetrating from somewhere. The smells were getting stronger, a familiar musty stench that cried out age and decay. As he reached the final step, Cooper saw a door on the far side with a small square window in the upper portion; he assumed it was the door he had seen from across the bank.
He stopped on reaching the final step and looked around. The walls were white, the floor tiled. The appearance more or less matched what he saw in the drawing, but the setting was far more austere. The bodies of those once laid to rest below the floor had been removed long ago, leaving its appearance reminiscent of a redundant cellar.
Jérôme was the last to enter, his large frame blocking any escape. He relaxed and smiled on seeing the room. This was it. The question was, was it still there?
François removed a small pickaxe from his rucksack. “Come on. Let’s not waste time.”
26
Gillian waited until Cliff had stopped speaking before offering a reply. “I don’t understand.”
At the other end of the line, Cliff did his best to remain calm. “The CCTV pictures at the gallery clearly show Andrew and his masked accomplice entering the storeroom on the third floor but taking nothing. The database confirms Andrew himself removed the daughter portrait early yesterday afternoon, and the security system at Mentmore shows him installing the painting himself in an upstairs sitting room.”
“You’re quite certain it’s the same one?” The question came from Nat.
“Of course I’m bloody sure; I’ve seen the painting myself. Lady Elveston let him in personally, even had tea with him. As he was a familiar face, she didn’t bat an eyelid.”
“Poor dear,” Gillian said. “Is she okay?”
“Fine; being honest, I still haven’t told her much.”
“She didn’t suspect anything?” Nat asked.
“Absolutely not. Said Cooper was on his best behaviour.”
Sitting alongside Nat in the car, Gillian felt nothing but confusion. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to bring me up to speed on why this is relevant. You’d better start from the beginning.”
“I think I best let Nat explain this one,” Cliff said.
Gillian looked to her left. “Nat?”
“I don’t know what you expect me to say!”
“Why would Cooper remove that painting? More to the point, why is it so important?”
Nat took a breath and combed his hair to one side, smartening himself.
“Nat?”
“There’s a reason why we stopped looking for the jewels in January. It was only then we realised there was also a connection between the jewels and this other portrait.”
Gillian was furious. “Why was I not told about this?”
“The research was completed before your arrival, within two months of the Hesilrige,” Cliff replied, much to Nat’s relief. “As with the Hesilrige, x-rays and infrared examinations revealed the existence of hidden text; however, the text, if anything, is even more obscure. It was written to a different person and clearly in a different hand.”
“The painting in question has never officially been confirmed to be of Cromwell,” Nat said. “The original title was changed in the late 1800s. Furthermore, the painting was never believed to be by Robert Walker until after the tests – there’s still no firm proof it is definitely his work.”
“Nat,” Gillian interrupted, venom oozing from her eyes. “I think this might not be the time to debate the authorship of a painting. Why was it important? And more to the point, why did Cooper move it?”
“Why he moved it, I honestly have no idea,” Cliff beat him to a response. “The message in the daughter painting was different to the Hesilrige. It was shorter and far less clear. Also, there was no previous painting beneath the one we see.”
“What was the message?” Gillian shouted.
“It basically said that she feared a Royalist backlash against her because of her husband’s role in the killing of the new king’s father…”
“Who feared a backlash?”
“Elizabeth Cromwell, Oliver’s wife. The message was to her daughter.”
Gillian couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Her daughter? Elizabeth Claypole?”
“No, Bridget. Claypole was already dead,” Cliff said. “Following Oliver Cromwell’s death and the restoration of the monarchy, Elizabeth Cromwell was actually treated relatively well; at least until she was apparently caught smuggling jewels that had previously belonged to the royal family out of London.”
“You’re joking?”
“They weren’t the jewels, of course,” Nat said. “However, she was clearly under intense scrutiny. Thanks to the Hesilrige portrait, we can now confirm the location where Oliver had hidden the Crown jewels had been brought to his wife’s attention. Thanks to the message in the daughter painting, we now know she found them and moved them on elsewhere.”
“Where?”
Nat huffed so loudly it caused his hair to move. “Really, Gill, if we’d worked that one out, we wouldn’t be in this bloody mess in the first place.”
Cooper banged his pickaxe against the floor and felt something solid.
“Step back,” François barked. He lowered himself down onto one knee and cleared away debris with both hands.
There was something hidden beneath the tiles. Cooper watched from a safe distance as the Frenchman revealed what had roused his attention. There was a large cavity beneath the floor, almost certainly once used to contain a tomb.
Now it contained something far smaller.
The box was identical to those found at the battle sites. It was about two feet by one with an arch-shaped lid that was decorated with one solitary symbol.
The fleur-de-lis.
François rose to his feet, box in hand. He blew dust from the lid and gestured Jérôme to hand over the key.
Strangely, the key was not necessary.
Cooper kept his distance, though still close enough to see everything. For the first time that day he felt genuinely excited, as if momentarily forgetting about his enforced captivity. For over six years he had embarked on the same activity, dreaming beyond hope that the answer to a three-hundred-year riddle lay buried somewhere in the ground and that he would be the one to solve it. He watched as the Frenchman opened the lid and peered inside, anticipating a grand reward.
The size of the box suggested to Cooper it was not the real thing.
François removed a piece of paper, its appearance identical to the others. He studied it with intense curiosity for almost a minute before handing it over to his uncle.
Jérôme took the paper and studied the content. Cooper guessed from the lack of talking, it was probably bad news.
“Monsieur.” He tur
ned Cooper’s way. “If you please.”
Wetting his lips, Cooper accepted the paper. As before, the clue was a diagram with no accompanying text.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Unlike the previous clues, the drawing was of a small interior, possibly a bedroom or a study. There was a portrait on the wall, a man and a woman, their features characterised by 17th-century style and garb.
He recognised the setting immediately.
“Monsieur?”
Jérôme was standing with his arms folded, his steely grey eyes staring right at him. It was clear the Frenchmen recognised nothing in the drawing, nor had any clear idea what clue it could conceal.
“Monsieur?” he asked again, this time with thinning patience.
Cooper swallowed, a nervous gulp, and tried to catch his breath. The choice was clear, just like at Marston Moor.
The jewels or his daughter.
“You recognise it, yes?”
Cooper nodded. “I think so.”
“And the room?”
The jewels or his daughter. That was the choice. And the risk.
“We’re close. It’s located in the old family home.”
27
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about the daughter portrait?” Gillian asked Nat as she made the turn that took them back onto the motorway. She had made up her mind and reprogrammed the satnav.
They would join Cliff in Buckinghamshire.
“The initial revelations of the x-ray and infrared tests were simply a couple of paragraphs of invisible ink, which at the time possessed no obvious connection with Hesilrige. It wasn’t until this January we finally ascertained the source of the signature.”
“So why didn’t you tell me?”
“The work predated your time at the gallery. You were never involved in the original tests. It really didn’t concern you.”
“You mean you were planning on finding the jewels for yourself?”
“We broke no laws, Gill. The three of us had made the discovery; together we tried to see it through. The PM knew, the royals knew. We couldn’t bloody well tell the entire world, could we? As we’ve already discussed, any leaks in the chain, we could have a major crisis on our hands.”
Gillian held her breath. And her tongue. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t control her thoughts. The original Crown jewels of England still existed. Found by Cromwell’s wife. Reburied.
Possibly still to be found.
“One thing still puzzles me,” Gillian said, trying her best to concentrate on the road. “Cooper clearly knew the daughter painting to be relevant. Until yesterday it was recorded as being located in the storeroom at the gallery. Yet he was the one who moved it. Why?”
Nat had been thinking of nothing else since Cliff’s phone call. He smiled philosophically. “Perhaps because you were correct after all.”
Gillian looked to her left, catching Nat’s eye for an extended pause. How the hell had they missed it? They knew Andrew Cooper. He had a wife, a daughter, a career he lived and breathed.
The man had been set up.
Gillian’s phone began to ring. She glanced at the display and saw the caller was Edmund.
She answered using the hands-free. “Edmund, what’s been happening?”
“Bad news I’m afraid, Gill. The Marston Moor obelisk had already been visited. There was a gaping great hole to the north side of the monument. Must’ve been made recently.”
Gillian cursed out loud. Disappointed, but not surprised. “Any sign of Andrew?”
“No sign of anyone at all,” he said. “Apart from tyre tracks on the side of the road. Also, there were cigarette stubs by the roadside.”
“Andrew doesn’t smoke, does he?”
Nat shook his head. Edmund said, “No.”
“Take a sample,” Nat interjected. “Well, you never know, saliva.”
“Sadly, Mr Johnstone, I think there’s very little chance it hasn’t already been contaminated. The stub had been trodden on and flattened – it had practically merged with the soil. However, I did keep it just in case.”
“Well done, Edmund,” Gillian said. “Where are you now?”
“Back in the car, heading south toward the A1. I’ve had a word with one of my old mates in the Old Bill. Turns out a Jaguar XF was caught on CCTV near all three sites within the past nine hours. They’re looking into locating the car. It’s not impossible the car has a tracker. If it does, we might have a chance of receiving cooperation from the manufacturer.”
Gillian smiled. “Well done, Edmund. See you back in London.”
She disconnected the call and glanced at the satnav. According to the projections, it would take them another hour to reach Mentmore.
“So tell me again,” Gillian began, her thoughts returning to the portraits, “what did the message on the daughter portrait say?”
Remembering the exact words was difficult. “The message was from Cromwell’s wife to one of their daughters. Due to her fears of Royalist spies and enemies amongst the republicans, she decided to move it on.”
“Where?”
“She didn’t leave an exact location. Just something about taking a secret with her to the grave.”
Gillian didn’t like the sound of that. “Come on, you must have some idea. Bridget Cromwell must have been able to look at the information and understand what in God’s name her mother was trying to convey.”
“She mentioned no location, Gill. When we get to Mentmore you’ll see for yourself.”
Gillian bit her lip, trying to think. Elizabeth Cromwell had been born in London. She’d lived with Cromwell in Cambridgeshire – St Ives and Ely – before returning to London, most notably Hampton Court. On leaving London she’d spent time in an unknown location in Wales.
“What was the date on the message? I’m guessing there was one.”
“Early 1666. Well after Oliver’s death.”
Gillian nodded, still trying to piece together the pieces of the puzzle. “After the return of Charles II she lived in Northborough, Cambridgeshire, along with her daughter Elizabeth’s widower, John Claypole.” She looked at Nat, expecting a reaction. “The manor house still exists.”
“Even if it does, do you really think the wife of Oliver Cromwell would have been daft enough to bury something of such extreme importance in her own garden?”
Gillian delayed her response. On reflection, it seemed a particularly poor choice.
“When we get to Mentmore I intend to read this thing for myself. In the meantime, there’s something else we need to do.”
“What’s that?”
She glanced again at her mobile phone. Keeping an eye on the traffic, she navigated her options on the control console and made a call to Cliff.
He answered.
“Daniel, I’m afraid I need to ask a rather awkward favour. I need a number for Christine Cooper.”
At the other end Cliff was dumbstruck. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“Because I’m working on a new theory.
“Andrew Cooper is currently being held hostage.”
28
Ely, 5pm
The drawing resembled the room’s modern-day appearance in almost every way. The bed, the walls, the position of the portrait…
There were so many similarities it would have been easy to overlook the differences entirely.
Cooper was genuinely surprised. Until now the clues had followed a particular pattern. The battle sites were famous in the context of the Civil War, but none had an obviously strong personal connection to the Lord Protector. England’s history repeated itself. Battles were fought, won or lost. Even for the victors it was unlikely the sites could hold special personal connection after seeing so much death and tragedy.
Personal property, however, was a different matter. An outsider hoping to chance upon another man’s belongings would always start the search at the man’s place of residence. Battlefields were never predetermined. It wasn’t as if
a time and location had been agreed in advance, its taking place subject to bad weather. The great battles had played an intrinsic part in shaping the history of the nation. A story no soldier could fail to understand.
The new clue, therefore, presented two obvious problems. Firstly, it was a property once owned by the man himself. Cooper doubted a man of Cromwell’s aptitude would take such a risk. Secondly, it was a property, so went the history books, he never visited again after 1647.
The choice seemed wrong.
The house was located in the centre of Ely, about halfway along St Mary’s Street, a dynamic and historic stretch of road that connected the entrance to the cathedral at Minster Place to the Cambridge Road that headed south out of the city. Even for Ely’s standards, it was a street of contrasts. Cooper saw the house for the first time on the right side of the road, adjacent a medieval church and across the street from a Domino’s Pizza house. The pizza place epitomised the modern city perfectly: it was tucked in between a pharmacy and an estate agents on one side and a row of character two-storey terraced cottages on the other. It was a place where the old and the new coexisted in harmony. Cooper remembered he’d smiled the first time he’d seen the pizza place.
A perfect way for the ruler of England to unwind after a hard day’s work.
Alain had found the house easily. After passing it once, he pulled up in a parking space on the opposite side of the road, ignoring the temptation to use the building’s own private car park.
The next fifteen minutes were pivotal. Five o’clock had passed, closing time. The small cluster of cars that had lined Church Lane outside the house had disappeared, joining the ever-growing flow of traffic that was heading out of the city toward Cambridge. The city wasn’t big enough for traffic congestion to be a major problem. With a population of approximately 20,000, it was officially the third smallest city in England behind Wells and what officially made up the historic boundaries of the City of London. A large gathering of people congregated around the grassy area in front of Ely Cathedral, soaking up the evening air or photographing its two great towers, while others walked in the opposite direction, stopping at one of the many shops or heading back home.
The Cromwell Deception Page 12