by Peter Watson
Michael cheered loudly into the phone when Isobel told him what she had found at the Portrait Gallery. ‘Specbloodytacular.’ Then, immediately more serious, he asked, ‘Where exactly is Godwin Magna?’
‘I’ve checked. It’s about three miles east of Dorchester.’
‘Right there’s a hotel in Dorchester called The Yeoman. You’d better book a couple of rooms there for tomorrow night.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll make the seven-thirty back to London tonight. I’ll pick you up at Montpelier Mews at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, in my car. Not too early, is it?’
‘I’m a farmer, remember. That’s the middle of the day for me.’
‘Well, it’s quite early enough for me. That way we’ll be down in Dorset by eleven. That should give us enough time.’ Michael smiled again into the phone. ‘That was a great piece of detective work today, Inspector Sadler. Marvellous. Now, I’d better make a move. The traffic on the way to the airport might be heavy at this time of the day. Anything else before I dash?’
‘Well, yes, there is—’
‘What is it, Isobel? What is it?’
She repeated her conversation with the girl in the photocopying room at the Portrait Gallery.
‘Molyneux!’
‘Yes, and that’s not all.’
‘Go on.’
‘I saw him as I was leaving the gallery. I tried to avoid him but he followed me up the stairs where I was trying to hide. He must have come back to get his photocopies. I had our photocopies in my hand but I pretended I had been to a show, the Sargent exhibition That’s on at the moment.’
‘Good. That was quick thinking.’
‘Hold on.’ Isobel shook her head at the phone. ‘He was very suspicious and I’m sure I put my foot in it. He asked me about some paintings of Sargent’s. I think one was called Lady Eden and the other was something like … Sister Alexander? Does that sound right?’
‘Cicely Alexander?’
‘Yes, that’s it. What’s wrong with them, Michael? Are they not in the exhibition?’
In Paris, Michael groaned into the phone. ‘No, they are not in the exhibition, Isobel. There’s no reason they should be. They are both by James Whistler,—one of Sargent’s main rivals.’
5
By 8.30 the next morning they were leaving on the M3, heading west. The rain had started again and the windscreen wipers of Michael’s small Mercedes 190 swished back and forth in a steady ‘Du—Croix’, ‘Du—Croix’, ‘Du—Croix’. Michael, who was driving, was feeling elated. There was no news yet on Margaret Masson’s marriage plans, but the Loch Ness monster, which had finally been landed the evening before, just as Michael was flying back from Paris, had proved to be a form of eel. More important to his mood, it was eighty-nine feet long and Michael had won the wager. Today he was £500 richer.
Isobel had a book of maps open in her lap. ‘It looks to me,’ she said, ‘that the quickest way to get to Dorchester is to turn off the motorway just before the end, then take the A303 until we see the sign for Sherborne. It’s duel carriageway mostly until then. We turn off south there. That eventually takes us on to the Sherborne—Dorchester road. Out of Dorchester we take the Wareham road. The turning to Godwin Magna is a few miles beyond. Two and a half hours more, I’d say.’
‘You managed to book us into The Yeoman—yes?’
Isobel nodded.
Michael was relieved that they had now got beyond library research and were out of London doing something. For him, getting out of town was always associated with excitement. All the best art dealers subscribed to the maxim that ‘Anyone can sell; it’s the buying that counts.’ That was more and more true, especially in the old master field. Provided you could find the first-rate pictures, they would walk out of the gallery all by themselves; but you had to find them in the first place. As Michael did his best deals in private, with the owners of country houses who did not care for the glare of the auction rooms, a drive such as the one they were now making was invariably associated with an acquisition: good news. If only it would be like that today.
‘You think Molyneux went back to the NPG just for photocopies?’
‘I can’t think of any other reason, can you? The girl did say the machine had been out of order.’
‘Bad luck bumping into him like that.’
‘Hmm. I was in so much of a hurry to call you, I didn’t have my wits about me.’
They drove on, watching the rain, listening to The Dream of Gerontius on the tape deck. The deep, mellifluous tones and the majestic rhythms contrasted warmly with the iron rain outside. ‘This was Elgar’s favourite as well as mine,’ said Michael. ‘He once admitted, “This is the best of me.”’
‘I know people who are mad about Wagner, or Mozart—but you’re the only one I’ve met who’s so keen on Elgar.’
‘I told you, it was school that did it. But Elgar is so romantic for an Englishman, don’t you think? So romantic for a Midlander. When I was a boy and first had to play his cello concerto in E, I liked to think that the E stood not just for the key but for Edward and Elgar himself, England and English, epic and elusive, evaporate and eternal, erupt and erotic—’
‘Ease up, ease up …’
They drove on in silence for a while, listening to the music. But then they switched their attention to the next clue in the picture, the next figure in the ring, in a clockwise direction. Isobel had had the foresight to take back with her to Montpelier Mews as many of the reference books as she could carry, and these were now on the back seat of the 190.
They reached Salisbury Plain, where the wind was worse, gusting the rain in huge sheets. The chalk showed through here and there in the landscape, wet scoops of white, like ice-cream. The second figure in the picture was every bit as puzzling as the first, albeit in a different way. It was certainly much odder—a small, plump, rather dumpy man, lying on the ground. Even more strange, he had what appeared to be a bush or a tree growing out of his stomach. He was holding the hand reliquary. Now, as they swished past Stonehenge, barely visible in the rain, Isobel reached back for the reference books.
She opened one after the other.
Under ‘Tree’ she could find only that it was associated with ancient fertility rights, and that Adonis, the Greek god, had been born from a tree. But the dumpy male in the painting was clearly not the beautiful Adonis, with whom the goddess Venus had fallen hopelessly in love. Next, Isobel looked up ‘Tree of Knowledge’ but found that it should be either an apple tree or one with serpents entwined around it. Neither fitted the tree in the painting, nor, so far as she could tell, was either plant ever depicted growing out of someone’s stomach.
‘Look up individual species of trees,’ suggested Michael. ‘Ash, beech, oak.’
‘I do know what a tree is,’ said Isobel, raising an eyebrow and looking across at him. She was quiet for a while, reading. The car descended from the plain and the visibility improved a fraction. Presently Isobel said, ‘Ash, nothing. Beech, nothing. Olive equals peace, of course, and stands for Minerva and wisdom. The oak is sacred to Jupiter and to the ancient Druids—that might mean something. A bishop in the act of baptising while his foot rests on a fallen oak symbolises the conversion of the pagan, Boniface.’ She looked up Boniface. ‘Maybe this is relevant. “Boniface was an English martyr born at Crediton in Devon”—that’s right next to Dorset and not too far from Monksilver. “He became a missionary and travelled abroad, became Archbishop of Mainz in 744 …” no, all this stuff is irrelevant. Damn!’ She went back to oak. ‘An oak was the badge of certain popes … no, it doesn’t look like oak either.’ She tried palm. ‘Nothing.’
‘Leave it,’ said Michael. ‘We’re coming to the turn-off. We’ll be at Godwin Magna in just over half an hour. Let’s find the tomb, look around and see what we see.’
Isobel threw the reference book on to the back seat. ‘Fine by me. And, if you see anywhere we can get coffee first, that’s fine too.’
They stopped for a late breakfast in S
herborne and both felt better for it.
The rain was easing as Michael turned the 190 off the Dorchester—Wareham road at around 11.15. Once away from the trunk road, he slowed to negotiate the many twists leading to Godwin Magna. The lane rose till they were riding a ridge with a view of the rolling Dorset hills on either side. To their right the countryside sloped away in a graceful green shoulder. A clutch of beeches, their barks dusty with mould, flashed by. The rain hung in black nets out over the sea.
Michael slowed still more to squeeze around a tractor coming in the opposite direction, then picked up speed again. They passed one hamlet which appeared to consist only of a pub, the Quiet Woman, three grey stone houses and an orchard. Then they were back amid the hedges of the countryside again. They skirted a small reservoir, disturbing a heron, grey as water. A small village was to be seen below them.
‘That must be it,’ said Michael.
‘And there’s the church,’ said Isobel, pointing. ‘Turn left when you can.’
The rain hereabouts was fiercer and, as Michael drew the car to a standstill at a T-junction in the village, the water rattled heavily on the roof. They turned left, followed the road round to the right as it curved past some copper beeches, cowering in the rain, and came to the church. Before getting out, they both manoeuvred into their raincoats as best they could. Then they ran for it, up the stone path that led to the porch.
The church was open. Inside, it was surprisingly light, thanks to the white walls. There was no one else about so they could take in what the building had to offer in their own time. The stained-glass window at the east end was modern, an abstract design in crimson and blue. But the rest of the church was very old. A Cromwellian-type helmet was displayed at the north side of the nave together with a pre-war photograph of the church, now rather brown and faded.
Presently, Michael said softly, ‘Here we are.’
Isobel crossed to where he was standing.
Off the north transept was a wooden screen, through which could be glimpsed a small chapel. He pointed to the stone lintel above the screen. Inscribed faintly was one word: ‘Goodwin’.
Michael motioned for Isobel to step forward into the chapel and then followed her. It was tiny, containing barely enough places for a dozen people. There was a small altar, with a simple brass cross, and a number of tomb plaques set into the walls. But by far the most dominant feature of the chapel was the enormous window which made up almost the whole of the north wall. This window, which must have been nearly twelve feet high, flooded the chapel with light. The rain, driving against it, drowned the chapel in sound.
‘Here’s Philip Cross’s tomb,’ said Isobel, pointing to a slab on the floor. ‘With his wife’s next to it.’
The pair of them stood at the foot of the slabs, looking down, reading the wording carefully. It was the usual details—dates, names, a Latin legend: Crux crucem sequitur.
‘It beats me,’ said Isobel, after a while. ‘There’s nothing here that has the slightest thing to do with trees.’ She looked around. ‘There’s the screen, of course. That’s made of wood. Do you think that’s relevant?’
Michael shook his head. ‘It looks fairly new to me.’ He poked around gloomily. ‘Quite a bit looks new, actually. The cross on the altar, the cloth it’s standing on, the glass in the window.’ He took out a cigar.
‘Not in here, Michael. Please.’
‘But I think better when I smoke.’
‘Rubbish. That’s silly.’
‘Okay, okay. Let me play with it, then. I promise I won’t light it until we are outside.’ He looked down at the tombs. ‘“Crux crucem sequitur.” Cross follows the Cross. Neat, eh?’ He put the cigar into his mouth and sucked it. It was better than nothing. He looked down again. ‘I wonder …’
Isobel reached across and took the cigar from his mouth. ‘Speak clearly. I can never understand you with that thing in your mouth. What did you say?’
‘What I was about to say was: the True Cross was made from a tree. Cedar, according to tradition, unless I’m mistaken.’
Isobel handed him back his cigar. ‘You’re right. You do think better with this. Clever, Inspector Whiting. Very clever. All we have to do is find a cedar tree or some cedar wood.’
They searched the chapel for any reference to cedar. Nothing.
‘Could the original screen have been cedar?’ Isobel wondered aloud.
‘Possible, possible. I suppose it could have been carved in such a way as to contain further clues.’
‘If that’s true, then we’ve had it.’
‘Let’s go back to the car and look up cedar in the books,’ said Michael. ‘That way I can have a smoke. Cigar boxes are made of cedar, you know. Keeps them fresh.’
She glared at him.
He led the way back to the car. The rain—large, pewter-coloured pellets—bounced off the yellowed, crusty paving stones. Michael fished an umbrella out of the boot of the car and spread it open. As Isobel dipped her head inside the car and retrieved the reference books, he put a match to his Havana.
‘That’s better. Larranaga, Corona, Aguiles Imperiales—even the words take you out of yourself. You must have some sins, Isobel? There must be some fault, some blemish, some stain on your character, as the courts put it?’
‘Oh yes. I’ve garrotted three people who blew cigar smoke in my face, quartered several gamblers, and guillotined at least two men who kept the umbrella to themselves. I’m getting wet, Michael! Stand closer, turn your head the other way and listen to this.’
He did as he was told. The rain on her hair had released the smell of her shampoo. He turned his head halfway back, so as not to give up that pleasure entirely.
‘“Cedar. A blond wood from a sacred tree, traditionally the tree from which the True Cross, on which Jesus was crucified, was made. In the Middle Ages, alleged splinters of the True Cross appeared all over Europe and were venerated as holy relics. According to Professor Polkner of Tübingen University, if all known splinters were brought together in one place, they would weigh three tons and comprise a cross that would measure fifty feet high and thirty feet wide.”’ Isobel turned her face to his. ‘Do you think they had a splinter of the True Cross here, Michael? Perhaps Godwin Magna was itself shown on that silver map—the one with the emeralds?’
Michael shook his head. ‘To the medieval mind, a relic of the True Cross was much more valuable than emeralds or rubies or silver. Bad Bill would have mentioned it in his letters or it would have been in the inventory. No, I’m beginning to think that this blond wood is a red herring.’ He stared into the churchyard. ‘I don’t see any cedars out here either. Copper beeches, yews, oak—but that’s all. Let’s scout the graveyard, just in case. Here, you take the umbrella.’
There was little to see. Gravestones, pitted and septic with black and yellow lichen. The carved names, scathed by centuries of wind and rotted by the rain, meant nothing to them, even when they were legible. They drifted back to the car.
‘We should look for the local vicar,’ said Isobel. ‘He might know something about the chapel that we don’t.’
‘Snap,’ said Michael. ‘My thoughts exactly. The vicarage must be that large house over there. Any chance of the starboard side of the umbrella?’
The house—a flinty structure with sharp gables and a thicket of chimnies—was the vicarage but they were out of luck. The vicar, they were told by his housekeeper, was in Bath all day but would be back tonight. They told the housekeeper where they were staying and asked if the vicar would mind contacting them when he returned. Michael left his card.
‘Now what?’ said Isobel. ‘It’s nearly one and I’m starving. How about you? A pub lunch at the Quiet Woman?’
‘Hmm,’ said Michael. ‘No, why don’t we drive over to Dorchester, check into the hotel, have lunch there and then, instead of trudging around in the rain, put in some systematic research with the reference books? There’ll be a library in Dorchester, in any case. We might make use of that.’
Isobel saw the sense in Michael’s suggestion and they set off, reaching Dorchester within half an hour. The Yeoman was an old-fashioned hotel with an archway through which they could drive the car to a courtyard at the back. They checked in but before going to their rooms decided to have lunch. At Isobel’s suggestion, they each ate a ploughman’s, washing the cheese down with cider. Then, around 2.30, they settled in Michael’s room, taking the reference books with them.
‘Let’s not rush things,’ he said. ‘The answer must be in here somewhere, if only we know where to look. The person who painted this landscape would have been educated by the standard of his day, or else instructed by someone who was. But he would not have had massive libraries at his command. I remember reading somewhere that the average noble in the late Middle Ages had something like twenty books in his library. The answer must be here.’
They had brought their coffee upstairs with them and they sat in silence as the rain beat against the bedroom windows. The room had a view of the red-tiled roofs of Dorchester, which resembled an uneven piecrust, some slopes more highly baked than others. After half an hour Isobel got up, stretched and went to the window. She stared down at the main street of the town. She was watching a crocodile of schoolchildren, a line of dark blue raincoats being led along the pavement like so many goslings, when, behind her, she heard Michael breathe out.
‘Eubloodyreka!’
She turned. ‘Any luck?’
‘Gloss among the dross, my dear.’ He held up Gertrude Saxl’s Iconography of Christian Art. ‘Under “Tree”, it says, among many other things, “See Jesse”. So I saw Jesse.’ He rolled his eyes, imitating Isobel’s eyebrows. ‘Jesse … joy … jubilation … jackpot!’
She leaned back against the window-ledge.
He read aloud. ‘“Jesse, Tree of (Stem of). The prophecy of Isaiah, chapter eleven, verses one to three, that a Messiah would spring from the family of Jesse, the father of David, was interpreted visually in the Middle Ages as a genealogical tree. A tree rises from Jesse’s loins on the branches of which appear the ancestors of Christ. The theme also occurs in Renaissance painting, especially of the early Netherlands.”’