‘Henry Cadwallader,’ said Jack with a sinking feeling.
And it was.
Ten
Henry Cadwallader strode up the chantry towards them, coat flying behind him. ‘Desecration!’ he shouted. ‘Wanton desecration! Sacrilege!’
Bill stepped up to him. ‘Mr Cadwallader, calm down!’
Henry Cadwallader’s eyes were wild. ‘Calm down! Calm down when Mr Lythewell’s life work – Mr Lythewell’s work! – is being torn apart!’
‘That’s nonsense, sir,’ said Bill firmly. ‘See for yourself.’
‘We haven’t torn anything apart, Mr Cadwallader,’ said Jack. ‘Honestly. We’ve treated everything with the utmost respect.’ Cadwallader, chest heaving, cast darting glances round the chantry. ‘You can see for yourself,’ continued Jack. ‘Nothing’s been harmed in any way.’
Henry Cadwallader put a trembling hand to his face. ‘No. No, I can see that.’ He dropped his hand and glared at Jack. ‘When I heard what was happening, I was sure of the worst.’ He blinked at him. Jack could see recognition dawning. ‘It’s you! I didn’t know it was you. They told me the police were in here.’
‘As you can see, Mr Cadwallader, the police are here,’ said Jack. ‘Leave this to me, Bill,’ he murmured. Putting a hand on Cadwallader’s trembling arm, he led the old man to one of the pews. ‘We’re having a look to see if anyone’s been in here, using the chantry for some purpose they shouldn’t.’
Cadwallader drew back in fastidious disgust. ‘Are you talking about a common assignation? No one would dare.’
‘Of course they wouldn’t.’ Jack couldn’t agree more fervently. The chantry was the last place he’d expect to find anyone engaged in a romantic encounter. It was far too forbidding. ‘No, but we believe someone was here the Saturday before last.’
‘They mustn’t!’ Henry Cadwallader jumped to his feet. ‘They might damage the chantry!’
‘Exactly,’ said Jack soothingly, taking his arm and drawing him back to his seat. ‘Look, Mr Cadwallader, you probably know this place better than any man on earth. Have you noticed anything out of place or any recent damage?’
Henry Cadwallader reluctantly shook his head. ‘No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, young sir. I’d know if there was any damage.’ The lines on his face softened. ‘I love this building. I know every inch of it, every stone that Mr Lythewell placed here.’
He swallowed noisily and, taking a large, paint-stained cotton handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes. ‘It’s all I’ve got left of him. No one looked up to Mr Lythewell as I did.’ He pointed to the painting of Josiah Lythewell and St Peter. ‘I painted that. Mr Lythewell let me paint him from life. I’ve still got all my sketches. They’re my greatest treasures.’
‘Why did Mr Lythewell mean so much to you?’ asked Jack. ‘He obviously did.’
Mr Cadwallader blew his nose. ‘You’d never understand,’ he said distantly. ‘You’re an educated man. I was never educated, not at any fancy school. Art, yes, but not what you’d call an education. Things were different then. Lads now, they get free schooling and everything done for them. It wasn’t like that then. When I first met Mr Lythewell I could just about read and write. I was sharp-like, but not educated, but Mr Lythewell, he took me in. I was only a youngster and he took me in.’
‘I might understand,’ said Jack. ‘I know you were very poor.’
Cadwallader’s eyes were distant. ‘I was alone in the world. I lived on what I could pick up, sweeping the street and running errands and the like. Then – pray you’ll never be tempted – I fell into bad ways with bad company.’ He shook his head and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve testified to this at chapel, many a time. If you can believe it, I was a pickpocket, far gone in sin.’
Jack wondered if he should comment, but Henry Cadwallader didn’t seem to need any encouragement. His voice took on a well-worn quality. It was obvious he’d told this story many times.
‘One day – and my hand must’ve been guided that day – I stole a bag from none other than Mr Lythewell. But see how good can come from evil! A passer-by gave the hue and cry. I emptied the bag and threw it away but I was pursued. Pursued and cornered! Then Mr Lythewell arrived. “Do you give this lad in charge?” said the policeman, but Mr Lythewell, instead of having me thrown into prison, where I would have received my just deserts, refused. “No,” he said. “I have my bag back. No harm has been done.” He knew the bag was empty and the stolen goods were in my pocket and so did the policeman. They argued, but Mr Lythewell wouldn’t be budged. Mr Lythewell took me under his wing, and, when he realised I had the talent, had me trained in art.’ He paused in reverent silence. ‘He was a truly great man.’
‘He must’ve been,’ agreed Jack. ‘That’s an inspiring story.’ And it should’ve been an inspiring story, but he was curious. Why hadn’t Lythewell wanted to press charges? It could have been simple altruism, but … ‘What was in the bag? The one you took from Mr Lythewell?’
This was clearly an unexpected question. Henry Cadwallader blinked and seemed to realise that he was speaking to Jack and not addressing a congregation. ‘What does it matter what was in the bag?’ He ran a distracted hand across his forehead. ‘I can hardly remember. It was a small metal statue of some sort, a heathen thing. It had no value. It was only lead or some such, but Mr Lythewell, with his goodness, he turned it into gold.’
Yes, thought Jack. That’s precisely what did happen to the statue, at a guess. And if Lythewell had pressed charges, he’d have been asked to account for the fact the lead statue was in his bag and his part in the Great Museum Scandal would’ve been exposed. The game would’ve been up. No wonder Josiah Lythewell took such pains to get the young urchin on his side.
‘I’m not surprised you venerate his memory, Mr Cadwallader. You know the chantry – Mr Lythewell’s life’s work – inside out. Is there a secret chamber or hidden room somewhere? Perhaps even a hidden cupboard or hiding place? We wondered, you see, if someone was trying to hide something in here and perhaps the sound of knocking was the sound of a door being forced.’
Henry Cadwallader looked at Jack with sudden sly craftiness. ‘You’re looking for Mr Lythewell’s treasure, aren’t you?’
‘No, we’re not. However, if we do find it, we’ll restore it to its rightful owner, Mr Lythewell’s son, Mr Daniel Lythewell.’ Jack didn’t miss the expression of mulish obstinacy. ‘Mr Lythewell wanted his son to benefit. I’ve just read all the inscriptions he had engraved into the flagstones. “Stop, my son, to pause and pray for treasure”,’ he prompted. ‘That’s inlaid in stone in letters of silver.’
Cadwallader ran a hand over his whiskery chin. ‘I suppose so,’ he grudgingly agreed. ‘Not that Mr Daniel has ever shown the proper veneration for his father’s memory.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Jack, trying a little provocation. ‘After all,’ he said, gesturing to the empty tomb, ‘he had that statue of the mourner made, didn’t he?’
‘It’s not up to Mr Lythewell’s standards,’ said Cadwallader. ‘It’s a great shame Mr Lythewell didn’t make it. Now that would’ve been worth looking at. He was a wonder when it came to electroplating.’
I bet he was, thought Jack.
‘I’ve never seen his like,’ continued Cadwallader. ‘Mr Daniel, he tried his hand, but couldn’t produce real quality.’
‘But it did show proper feeling, didn’t it, though?’
Cadwallader reluctantly nodded. ‘If you say so. There were changes, though,’ he added darkly. ‘Right from the beginning there were changes. Mr Daniel, he shut down the metal workshop and sold everything off. Then there’s all this rubbish about a new sort of art. What do we want a new sort of art for? The old sort was good enough.’
Jack had no intention of being sidelined into a discussion of art. ‘So do you know of any hiding place?’
‘I might,’ said Cadwallader unexpectedly. ‘That is, I know there is one.’
Jack tried to keep the exciteme
nt out of his voice. ‘Really?’
‘I don’t know where it is, though.’
Jack’s spirits drooped. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain. Mr Lythewell, he was worried. You’re quite right, young sir. He wanted to hide his treasure away from thieves and the ungodly. He told me that his true treasure was in the church.’
‘Oh.’ That didn’t sound very promising, and yet Lythewell had been the brains of the Museum Scandal gang. He’d had money, all right. ‘Did he mean actual wealth? Money, I mean?’
Cadwallader nodded matter of factly. ‘Yes, he did, but he took his secret to the grave with him. Where it is, is something not I, or any other man, will ever discover.’
Which was wretchedly inconvenient of him, thought Jack. No wonder John Askern thought old Lythewell had gone off his head. ‘Thank you, Mr Cadwallader,’ he said, getting to his feet. He took his card-case from his pocket and gave Cadwallader one of his visiting cards. ‘That’s my address. If you do remember anything about this hiding place, or come to know where the hiding place is or might be, please let me know. I’ll see Mr Lythewell’s memory is respected.’
Cadwallader examined the card carefully before putting it away. ‘Respect,’ he echoed. ‘That’s what’s needed. Respect.’ He raised his head and gazed round the chantry. ‘I’ll do a painting,’ he said softly. ‘Not just a great painting, but a painting on a great scale. I’ll paint the chantry. People talk about Panini’s Interior of St Peter’s, but that will be nothing to what I’ll paint.’ His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. ‘It’ll be shown at the Royal Academy and, when it is, people will flock here. Then everyone will know about Mr Lythewell and his genius. I’ll show them! I’ll show them the man he was. Respect!’
He turned to Jack and gripped his hand. ‘Thank you, young sir! You’ve given me the spark of inspiration I needed. I’ll start work right away on the preliminary sketches. This painting will be a fitting tribute, the culmination of a life’s work.’ He rifled through his satchel. ‘Where’s my sketch pad? I must get my sketch pad. Work! I have to work! Work!’
He hurried off, leaving a slightly bemused Jack staring after him.
‘What on earth did you say to him?’ asked Bill, coming over to the pew. ‘I thought he was either going to attack us, burst into tears or have a nervous breakdown, then he jumped up like a jack-rabbit and scarpered off yelling, Work!’
‘He’s decided he’s going to do a monster painting of the chantry, exhibit it at the Royal Academy and, after everyone’s fainted in awe at the sight, they’ll run excursion trains and charabancs to Whimbrell Heath to see the chantry in real life.’
‘I beg your pardon? I heard what you said but I don’t think I understood it.’
Jack gave him the gist of his conversation with Cadwallader.
‘So Lythewell really was a forger, eh? And Cadwallader reckons there’s a real treasure hidden in the church but hasn’t a clue what or where it is?’ Bill sighed. ‘I can’t see that gets us much further forward.’ He looked round in mounting irritation. ‘I’m going to call it a day. Treasure, to my mind, especially when you think of the sort of treasure Lythewell could’ve had, means something small and precious, like a diamond, say. That could be hidden in a very small space, but to hide a body takes a fair old bit of room. It could be here, but if it is, I don’t know where to look. Come on. Let’s return the key to Mr Lythewell and get back to town.’
For the next fortnight, nothing much happened.
A note was added to the record of the long-closed Great Museum Scandal case, and Mrs Joan McAllister’s details, plus a list of aliases, were published in the Police Gazette as wanted for obtaining money under false pretences.
There was a brief stir of excitement when a Mr Andrew Alistair McKenzie, a senior clerk employed by the London, Midland and Scottish Railway in the left luggage department of Euston Station, followed his nose and his instinct for something out of place, and opened a trunk which had been despatched from Manchester London Road to be left until called for. The unappealing contents turned out to be an unclothed woman in an advanced state of decay.
Is this, Jack asked Bill hopefully, our body? No, it isn’t, Bill replied, quashing Jack’s hopes and theories at a stroke. The trunk had been despatched back to Manchester where the Mancunian Police had welcomed it enthusiastically as the main plank in their case against a Mr Nathan Ormskirk, a builder from Ardwick. Mr Ormskirk, a notoriously heavy and ill-tempered drinker, had a long history of disagreements with his wife, who had mysteriously vanished. It wasn’t, Bill asserted, much to Jack’s disappointment, anything to do with their non-murder in Surrey.
Jack, following his own train of thought, visited the British Museum Newspaper Library and, much to his private distaste, Bill Rackham was forced to interview John Askern once more.
‘It’s a case of bigamy, Jack,’ he said to his friend that evening in Jack’s rooms in Chandos Row. ‘And bigamy, no matter how broad-minded we’ve all become since the war, is a crime.’
‘I don’t know much about bigamy,’ said Jack, adding a splash of soda water to the two glasses of whisky he’d poured and handing one to his friend. ‘Here you are, Bill. Bung-ho.’
‘Cheers,’ said Bill gloomily, raising his glass.
Jack, glass in hand, sprawled comfortably on the sofa. ‘I’ve only ever used bigamy in passing, so to speak, when I’ve been writing a story. I’ve never used it as a proper motive, only to set things up, so that, say, a chap will go about marrying illicitly and often in order to bump off the newly-wedded for her insurance money.’
‘Bigamy’s a crime, all right.’
‘A real crime?’ asked Jack dubiously. ‘I can imagine, if you’ve managed to acquire more wives than are usually thought desirable, it’s not something you’d want talked about, but are we talking about a ticking-off from a magistrate or chokey?’
‘It’s chokey. Jail, prison, incarceration, detention at His Majesty’s pleasure or however else you want to phrase it. Under the Offences Against The Person Act of 1861, it’s penal servitude for not less than five years. I read up on it before I tackled Mr Askern.’
‘Five years?’ Jack whistled. ‘As much as that? That’s pretty serious. Isn’t there any way of wriggling out of it?’
Bill swirled his whisky round in his glass. ‘Yes, but I’m not sure if it applies. If the bigamist in question acted in good faith, then there isn’t any offence. By “good faith” the law means that the first husband or wife made themselves scarce for seven years before the second marriage and – this is the rub – the abandoned husband or wife didn’t know their spouse was alive during that period.’
‘How are you meant to prove what the abandoned did or didn’t know?’
Bill shrugged. ‘By investigation. Letters, diary entries, newspaper clippings or dated photographs that have been preserved, for instance. I’ll tell you something. Mrs Daphne Askern-as-was is blistering. She’s more than happy for us to dig away in John Askern’s papers to see what we can turn up. She’s suffering from a massive sense of injustice and, I must say, I have a lot of sympathy for her. Before she married Askern she was a widow and, by all accounts, was left very well-off by her first husband. She’s been, particularly where John Askern’s concerned, very generous with her money.’
‘I can see why she’d feel hard done by.’
‘Absolutely. Our Mr Askern was feeling the pinch a bit before she came along – admittedly, this is what Mrs Askern says – but not only does she feel as if she’s been made to look like a gullible fool, Signora Bianchi added some pretty deadly insults to her feeling of injury. D’you know Daphne Askern thought John Askern and Signora Bianchi were having an affair? She was prepared to overlook that, as long as it came to an end, but she has no intention of letting this be swept under the carpet.’
‘I imagine it’s out of her hands anyway.’
‘Legally speaking, yes it is. This seven-year rule is a beggar, though. If Mrs Askern has a change of heart and decide
s to hunt through Askern’s papers and destroy anything that’s incriminating, I doubt we’ll ever be able to prove a charge of bigamy.’
‘You’d better not let Colin Askern know that. I can imagine him destroying his father’s papers without turning a hair in order to get him out of trouble.’
‘So can I. He’s a very determined character altogether. And, Jack, the law is the law. Colin Askern is perfectly capable of finding out how things stand for his father without us telling him.’
‘Mmm, yes.’ Jack pulled the tobacco jar across the table and, reaming out his pipe into the ashtray, stuffed in fresh tobacco. ‘Forgetting about what can or can’t be proved for the moment, you’ve seen Mr Askern. Do you think he knew the Bianchi was still alive? For seven years before he married Mrs Daphne, I mean? And when was the date of the marriage?’
‘It was the fourteenth of May, 1921, which takes us back to the fourteenth of May 1914. As far as what I believe is concerned, well …’ Bill pulled a face. ‘It’s difficult to get him to make any sort of statement, he’s so rambling and disconnected. I honestly do wonder about his mental state. He’s drinking heavily as well, which doesn’t help matters.’
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘So it’s not a case of in vino veritas?’
‘It’s a case of in vino making him talk a load of old rubbish, as it often does. Half the time I couldn’t make out if he was talking about now or when Carlotta Bianchi left him, years ago. She clearly wanted money – a lot of money – then, just as much as she does now. John Askern kept maundering on about old Lythewell’s treasure.’
Jack put a match to his pipe. ‘He talked about old Lythewell’s treasure that day we saw him at his club. That’s before we knew old man Lythewell had been part of the Great Museum Scandal and was in a position to have enough dosh for it to be described as treasure. I’ve thought about what he said. They were after him. It drove him mad. It didn’t seem to make much sense at the time, but surely he has to be talking about old Lythewell and his fear that the little gang of forgers would come after him once they’d got out of prison.’
After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) Page 17