The family home of Oliver Cromwell was one of the most famous buildings in Ely. Like the surrounding streets, it had undergone changes in style between the 13th and 18th centuries and had become almost impossible to characterise in a broad, general description. Above the light yellow stone façade of the lower storey, the upper was decorated in the traditional Tudor timber style. The main entrance was on the street side, a black wooden door that was presently closed.
Presumably locked.
Cooper was nervous. Yet again the fate of the entire operation rested on his shoulders. Jérôme had found details for the curator on the Internet and put through a call to that number on his mobile in the guise of a visiting academic hoping to arrange a meeting: a personal visit for the curator of 17th-century art at the highly esteemed National Portrait Gallery to inspect the famous portrait of Cromwell that hung in the upstairs study.
The request was accepted.
A car pulled up in the nearby car park at precisely 5:15pm. Moments later a man appeared, grey hair, suited, heading for the main door. Although the evening was not totally dark, the light had faded enough to obscure the man’s facial features. According to the Internet, his name was Brendan Ellison.
Jérôme was sitting alongside Cooper in the back seat. “I think, Monsieur, our man has arrived.”
Cooper felt a sudden knotting sensation in the pit of his stomach. The plan had been discussed in detail. The more he heard, the worse it sounded. The problem they had was access. A break-in was a risk, whereas entry by appointment at least guaranteed access. Watching through the window, Cooper saw the man in the suit waiting by the door, checking his watch and looking both ways expectantly. He prayed the man wouldn’t linger.
Go now, and never come back.
Jérôme unbuckled his seatbelt. “Monsieur. If you please.”
Ellison saw Cooper approach from across the road.
“Mr Ellison?” Cooper said, taking the concrete footpath that intercepted the small green between the house and the road. “My name is Cooper.”
“Ah, Mr Cooper, Brendan Ellison,” he said, his Cambridgeshire accent unmistakeable. “I’m really delighted to be of service. You really couldn’t have picked a better evening for it.”
Cooper smiled graciously, doing his best to disguise his anxiety as he prepared to introduce Jérôme. “I believe you’ve already spoken with my colleague, Mr–”
“Avondale,” Jérôme interrupted and offered his hand, his usual phonetic English demonstrating no hint of his native accent.
“Yes, Mr Avondale is one of our…umm…chief portrait restorers from down in Kent,” Cooper continued. “We were on our way back from the north and, as we were passing…”
“Absolutely,” Ellison said, his over-the-top smile illustrating that famed mutual-respect-style enthusiasm that after fifteen years in the industry Cooper now saw as par for the course. “In fact, we are currently in the process of putting together a little collection in honour of the anniversary of the arrival of Oliver’s uncle in our city. It’s amazing just how deep the family connection runs.”
Cooper smiled, doing his best to maintain a calm demeanour. There was something about Ellison’s smile, stance, stature and gait that just cried out awkwardness, as if he was personally looking for a kind word or a positive evaluation.
“You’re most kind.”
Ellison unlocked the front door and gestured inside. “Would you like to follow me?”
The interior of the house was exactly as Cooper had remembered. Every room on the lower floor possessed the character and charm of a period property with props and plastic manikins set up to deliver an audio and visual commentary of Cromwell’s life in Ely.
Ellison led them into the kitchen, a cold room with a combination of brick and white walls that dated back to the 13th century and a long wooden table lined with fake food. Ellison talked freely, going into minute detail of the family and their day-to-day activities. A model of a maid had been put in next to the table, replicating the process that went into the preparing of a meal.
Cooper moved to the other side of the table, the nearest he had come all day to getting a moment to himself. Ignoring the artificial maid, he moved slowly toward the window and looked out at the grounds. Across the greenery the nearby church dominated the view, its stone walls casting a long shadow across the grass as the sun sank behind the main tower. In the distance to his left he could see Church Lane was presently deserted, a good thing, he decided. With the kitchen lights on, surveillance from the outside became easier. The less people there were out, the more chance they had of success, which would at least mean he would see his wife and daughter again.
Bang!
The noise came from behind him. Something hard and heavy had crashed against the floor.
He turned. Ellison was on the floor. Unconscious.
Jérôme looked at Cooper. “He will be fine. When he awakens, he will find himself in the pantry.”
They moved the body to the pantry, placing it between a Hoover and a dustpan and brush. Jérôme placed a stool against the lower portion of the door.
Getting out would be almost impossible.
Cooper was sweating. In the space of twenty-four hours he had already been made an accessory to theft and trespassing on private and government property.
Now he was looking at the same for Grievous Bodily Harm.
Less than a metre away, Jérôme studied the diagram without remorse. Leaving the kitchen, he entered the darkened parlour, comparing the room to the diagram. A model of Elizabeth Cromwell was sitting in a chair by the fire, her plastic eyes fixed on her sewing. A strong aroma of pine emanated from within the authentic setting with which Cromwell would have been familiar.
Nevertheless, nothing resembled the picture.
Led by Jérôme, Cooper climbed the stairs and entered through the first door. He recognised it as the portrait room, a quiet room in which a fine portrait of Cromwell hung on one of the walls and where a video of his biography had played on a loop everyday for the past ten years. Leaving, they passed the study, ignoring the plastic model of Cromwell writing at his desk.
The final room was the bedroom, the ‘Haunted Bedroom’, so read the signs. Cooper remembered hearing a story on his previous visit of how a woman who had stayed in the room before the house was opened to the public awoke one night to witness a man in Jacobean garb pacing at the foot of her bed.
The ghost of the Lord Protector, apparently.
The room was exactly as Cooper anticipated: original floorboards and a large four-poster bed occupied by a model human figure representing Cromwell on his deathbed. Fake candelabra shone eerily from every corner, illuminating a cosy room that was furnished with heavy curtains.
The diagram they found at St Ives made sense. The only difference was the location of one of the doors, which Cooper knew had changed due to more recent alterations. There was a painting of Cromwell on the wall that was electronically rigged to appear to change its shape; Cooper’s wife had been so shocked during their previous visit she’d jumped almost out of her skin, leaving Cooper speechless and Megan in hysterics. The diagram confirmed one other thing. Once upon a time another portrait had hung on the wall.
Concealing something.
Jérôme saw what Cooper saw. Wasting no time, he removed the painting from the wall and tossed it onto the bed.
Next, he removed a claw hammer from his inside pocket and banged against the wall.
29
Tea was served in the great hall. Under the circumstances it seemed the only logical thing to do.
Gillian was sitting beside Nat on a large three-seater couch, adjacent to Cliff and opposite the fire. For the last five minutes she’d been quiet. She’d spent the entire hour and a quarter of the drive from Naseby to Buckinghamshire either shouting at Nat or talking on the phone, whereas now she had literally nothing to say. The first thing she did on arrival was to check the portrait; Cliff had guessed it would be the first item on t
he agenda. Next, they showed her jpegs of the x-ray and infrared tests by logging into the gallery network on Cliff’s laptop.
The message was clear.
The jewels had been moved.
In 1666.
“I’m going to need everyone to be unbelievably clear with me on this,” Gillian began, eyeing Nat and Cliff in turn. “Do either of you know something that others don’t?”
Nat spoke frankly, “I assume the real question you’re asking is, have any of us found the treasure. To which the answer is no. Though, admittedly, not for the want of trying.”
Gillian remained unmoved. “You’ve been aware of this message for six years. Why the sudden change?”
“I suppose if we’re speaking candidly, we simply didn’t pay it close enough attention,” Nat said. “The painting of Hesilrige had two very special things going for it, which the Unknown man and woman did not. Aside from the fact that Hesilrige was a well-known man in his day, the original composition of Cromwell beneath came up very clearly on the tests; so clearly, in fact, there was no difficulty comparing his face to the famous portrait alongside it in the gallery. The message included Oliver’s signature. Something we could easily verify.
“The daughter portrait, on the other hand, was renamed Unknown man and woman because it was the opinion of the scholars of the time that there was little evidence to confirm it was Oliver. Visually I would have some sympathy.”
Gillian shook her head. “On the contrary, I see a visible likeness.”
Nat rolled his eyes. “Sometimes the mind sees what it wants to see. In any case, whoever the artist was, I’m sure we can all agree they didn’t share Walker’s talent. But, be that as it may, the most important thing is, of course, the concealed message. Until recently, we were unaware it was Elizabeth Cromwell’s signature.”
“What made the breakthrough?” she asked.
“Coincidence,” he replied. “Daniel here was reading the right book at the right time.”
“Six years too late.” Cliff frowned.
Gillian leaned toward the table and sipped her tea before reaching for a biscuit. The revelations of the morning had subdued her appetite, but for the first time that day she was ravenous.
“Any news from Mrs Cooper?”
“Actually, yes,” Cliff replied. “Apparently their daughter wasn’t seen in school on Friday, and this was completely news to her. She’s on her way home. I’m afraid she might have contacted the police.”
Gillian nodded. “She hasn’t spoken to her husband?”
“Not yet. Apparently his mobile has been switched off.”
Gillian removed her mobile phone from her handbag and stared at the display, deep in thought.
“Perhaps it’s time to give Andrew a call.”
There was a large cavity in the wall that somehow seemed out of all proportion to its surroundings. It had been cut into the stone behind the timber panelling. In addition to the area of two by four feet that Cooper expected might exist behind the portrait, the opening continued into the stone for a further couple of feet in depth.
Jérôme had toiled with grim determination. Manual labour had never been his strong point, but Cooper could tell from the expression on his face that nothing was going to prevent him from reaching his goal. The debris had created a cloud of thick dust that covered the floor and was difficult not to inhale. Cooper did his best to cover his mouth as Jérôme continued to discard random pieces of timber in his direction, accompanied by rusty nails that had come loose during the removal of the panelling. He worked frantically, like a machine, the noise becoming so loud that Cooper was concerned that the curator might awaken or the sounds be heard from outside.
Jérôme didn’t care. Only inches separated him from his objective.
Cooper watched from the side of the bed, anticipating the moment of truth. It was clear there was a hidden compartment in the wall, and it matched the proportions shown in the diagram. There was just one problem.
It was empty.
Jérôme stood facing the hole. Sweat poured down the sides of his face, gathering around his jaw and ears. His hair had become dusty and dishevelled, his side parting falling askew across the middle of his forehead. Even with his back turned, Cooper could tell he was out of breath. For several seconds he stood there. Panting. Looking. Thinking.
The Frenchman threw the hammer at the debris and turned away from the wall. His stare caught Cooper straight in the eye. Cooper had seen the look before, but never in real life. It was like something from the movies: that inevitable moment at the climax of the film when the two enemies face up for the final showdown. They say a picture paints a thousand words.
Cooper only needed a sentence.
A mobile phone was ringing, the sound coming from inside Jérôme’s pocket. He removed the phone, looked at the screen, and chose not to answer. Cooper had no idea who was trying to make contact. François, he guessed. Common sense told him the brothers might know better than to disturb them in full flow.
Unless it was trouble.
“That might have been important. Someone may have heard the noise,” Cooper observed.
Jérôme struggled to catch his breath. He pushed his hair to one side and walked slowly away from the debris.
“The time for playing games is over, Monsieur,” Jérôme said, his breathing back under control. For several seconds he looked at him in silence.
Just staring.
Cooper felt a lump in his throat. “Look, Mr de Haulle, I have cooperated with you in every way possible. I honestly don’t know what else I can do.”
“This was always a possibility.” Jérôme gestured to the hole, his tone remaining surprisingly calm. “The finding of great treasures is rarely an exact science. Fortunately, I came prepared.”
Jérôme removed a cigar from his pocket, lit it and exhaled. “Within your gallery there was a second portrait of the Lord Protector; I’m sure you are familiar with the one of which I speak. Officially its title is Unknown man and woman. Once, it was known by something else.”
Cooper nodded. Oliver Cromwell and his daughter.
“Six years ago an x-ray was taken, along with infrared examination. You know of the portrait. You are aware of a similar message written beneath the paint. Tell me now, Monsieur. What does it say?”
Cooper tried to speak, but the words refused to come. “The message was unclear. Until recently we didn’t even realise there was a connection with the Hesilrige.”
Jérôme banged his fist against the wooden wall. “Do not underestimate me, Monsieur. I have no desire to make lives a misery, but as long as that painting remains out of my hands, the anguish must be prolonged.” He moved toward Cooper, not stopping until their faces were practically touching. “Think carefully, Monsieur. Perhaps you might remember.”
“The message contained no precise directions. It said only that Lady Cromwell had taken her secret to the grave.”
“The exact words, Monsieur.”
“They were some of them. I honestly don’t remember the whole thing.”
Jérôme removed his mobile phone from his pocket.
“In that case, perhaps we need to speak to someone who does.”
30
Gillian disconnected the call.
“Still nothing,” she said after dialling Cooper’s number for the third time in as many minutes.
Nat and Cliff were still seated in the same place, their expressions tired and forlorn.
“Gillian, I hate to remind you, but the exhibition is due to start in less than forty hours,” Cliff said, noticing that the sun was fast beginning to set behind the nearby woodland. “We need to make contingency plans.”
Gillian exhaled vigorously and swept her hair over her head. She felt exhausted, frustrated and furious. She was now convinced the motive of the theft had never been primarily art-related. There was an opportunity to find something priceless: a collection of national treasures once belonging to the Royal Family that had not been s
een since the English Civil War.
Their final whereabouts had been described in a second painting.
“Let me see that message again.”
Cliff brought up several images on his laptop. Gillian recognised the first jpeg immediately. The image, marked Unknown man and woman, was clearly of the painting she had recently seen hanging on a wall in the upstairs sitting room, a slight difference in colour easily attributable to the low resolution of the image. Of greater interest were the second and third jpegs alongside it. As with the tests conducted on the Hesilrige portrait, the message was visible only under special light.
My dearest daughter,
Whilst recent papers have been passing between us, His Majesty sent the lieutenant general with a party of dragoons, horse and foot, to endeavour to reduce our estate. The very gentleman, having obtained from me reassurances regarding your late father’s estate, stayed many a day to treat with me about the surrender of many precious heirlooms that were late in his possession. My propositions of their return being prepared, I later received word from one who remains our friend that His Majesty is ready to send agents to assist him unto us. The time of reckoning, it seems, is now upon us. Those who were once our friends, it appears are friends no longer, whilst our enemies, more than ever, can no longer be trusted. This is a dangerous time. I am aggrieved to say that many of the great heirlooms which your father took into his possession are recently returned to unworthy hands. Unless some great mercy is bestowed upon us in these next weeks, I fear there shall be no alternative than to seek safe passage to the country.
The Cromwell Deception Page 13