To get the flavour of this interesting character, we spent a day filming around the cove. We also included the site where Dame Laura Knight painted Birch and his two daughters. Once again Penlee House loaned the painting, and a slow dissolve to the actual river bank brought the sequence to an end.
After six days intensive work, Roger Melville was content with the material we had put together. As he reminded me.
“All we have to do now, is film Laura Knight`s painting in Staithes. It won`t take long, nor require more than one vehicle. We`ll take just the cameraman, lighting and sound. Get that in the metaphorical can, and we can use that first followed by the Newlyn material. Simple.”
Chapter 25
We stayed in Whitby overnight, five or six miles down the coast from Staithes. Again the weather was kind to us, though much colder than in Cornwall.
Our first task was to film the picturesque village for background material. Jack, the cameraman, had profile shots of me leaning on the harbour railing, walking past the quaint houses, and standing in the middle of the footbridge that linked the two sides of Staithes. A couple of hours later it was done.
We arrived at Runswick Bay at eleven thirty, with instructions to seek out Bob and Cyril in an unmarked blue Ford truck, which would be parked among the boats overlooking the shoreline.
While there were several inlets and coves near Staithes, Laura Knight had used the southern end of Runswick Bay as the background to the painting in The Beach.
The vehicle was already there. I walked over and tapped on the window.
“Morning, Laing Art Gallery?”
The driver nodded, then added, “I`m Bob. Cyril has just gone to stretch his legs.”
Roger Melville joined me.
“So, we are all set then, Alan. We`ll have the painting out and place it on the stand against the backdrop of the sea and cliffs.”
He turned to the driver. “Are you on your own?”
I answered for him. “Apparently, Cyril has just gone for a walk.”
As I uttered the words, one of the largest men I have ever encountered strolled towards us.
Bob murmured. “This is Cyril, he is riding beside me today.”
Melville was also staring at the approaching figure. He muttered under his breath. “With someone like that beside you, who wants a bodyguard?”
I am six foot two; when Cyril came up to the truck he was a good four inches taller, and a great deal wider.
Bob broke the sudden silence.
“So… where do you want us to position the painting? The gallery was quite explicit. We are not to take it onto the beach, and it stays within fifty feet of the Transit.”
Roger found his voice. “Keep it in there while we shoot some footage further round the bay, where Laura Knight painted the rock formation.”
He pointed to the line of cliffs at the end of the car park.
“And you`ve got the picture frame?”
It was more of a question, to which Bob nodded.
“Right, well we`ll take that with us, and be back here in about an hour or so.”
We were going to shoot the bay featured in the painting of The Beach, while I talked briefly about Laura Knight and her husband during the period they spent at Staithes. Finishing this part of my commentary, I would walk up the shore and place my hand on an elaborate frame – seemingly holding the painting. In fact, it would be devoid of Laura Knight`s highly-prized picture.
At the top of the path leading onto the sands, we would begin the next sequence with my hand on the picture frame. Though, this time it would be the real painting on a sturdy stand. The camera would gradually zoom out to embrace the painting and myself, while I talked about the work, which featured a Cornish children on a Yorkshire shoreline.
*
“We`re off!”
Melville`s call started with a panoramic sweep of the bay. It came to a halt on me standing at the water`s edge, looking out to sea. As the camera zoomed in I turned and began to walk slowly up the sandy shore, narrating what I had memorised the previous day.
“Laura Johnson, as she was then, was born in 1877 in Long Eaton, Derbyshire. The house, with several generations of the family occupying all three floors, was always crowded. For much of her childhood Laura found it restrictive and frustrating to be constantly in the presence of others, and forever told to be quiet.
“To help with finances, Laura`s mother, a very capable artist, taught at the nearby Nottingham School of Art. In 1890, she managed to have Laura enrolled as an artisan student, which allowed her daughter to study without the burden of tuition fees.
“It was at the school that Laura met her future husband, Harold Knight. Having been on a brief holiday along the coast to Staithes, here in North Yorkshire, she, her sister and Harold Knight returned in 1898 and lived in the village of Roxby.
“Each day, they`d walk three miles into Staithes, laden with all their art materials, paint for much of the daylight hours, then trudge the three miles back to their rented cottage.
“Laura Johnson drew the people of the fishing village and the surrounding area showing the hardship and poverty of their lives. She made studies, painted in oil and watercolour, often in muted, shadowy tones. In this regard she was very much influenced by Harold Knight, whose work and attitude were more of a sombre cast.
“Staithes was where Laura Johnson declared that she had found what would sustain her future. She often proclaimed, 'Staithes was where I found myself and what I might do. The life and place were what I yearned for – the freedom, the austerity, the savagery, the wilderness. I loved the cold and the northerly storms when no covering would protect you. I loved the strange race of people who lived there, whose stern, almost forbidding exterior formed such contrasts to the warmth and richness of their nature.’
“Harold and Laura Knight married in 1903, and their first studio was in Staithes. A tiny cruck cottage with ships’ timber beams and thick stone walls, was one of the oldest buildings in Staithes. It is believed that it once served as a stable and forge in the heart of the old village.
“However, in 1907, attracted by the flow of artists to the south-west, they decided to move to Newlyn. For them, the contrast between the coasts of Yorkshire and Cornwall could scarcely have been more dramatic.
“Here the sun sparkled on an aquamarine sea bathed in light. Laura had shouldered enormous responsibility from a young age and had struggled through early adulthood to forge her career. Newlyn represented a carefree way of life in which she could relax in the company of like-minded friends and fellow-artists. Cornwall’s mild climate enabled her to work more often outdoors, in which she revelled. She became accustomed to dragging large unwieldy canvases across hostile terrain in order to obtain the perfect vantage point.
“Gone were the sober notes of the limited pallet fashioned by her husband. Her paintings now reflected a lighter mood, with the sea forming a backdrop to scenes of children playing on the beach, splashing about in the water or exploring rock pools.
“And a prime example of this freedom of spirit, the joy of working en plein air, surrounded by children, her favourite models, were expressed to the full in this work entitled simply, The Beach.”
I stretched out a hand to hold the picture frame.
“I should add, that although the children were from the village of Newlyn, Laura Knight opted to feature the coastline of North Yorkshire in the painting. Her memory of the shore at Runswick Bay, just along the coast from Staithes, served her well.”
“Cut! That`s it everyone. Well done, Alan. That will be the ideal intro to the piece we did on the Knights in Cornwall,” called Melville.
We did three takes. Each time moving further along the beach to avoid the previous set of footprints in the sand.
Chapter 26
We carried the equipment back along the beach, halting at the top of the path which led to the car park.
“If you start setting up, I`ll go and tell them we`re ready for the painting,”
said Melville.
“I`ll come with you, Roger,” I exclaimed. “I want to go to the mini-bus, and brush the sand off my face and out of my hair before the next sequence.”
As we strolled towards the mini-bus, Melville kept up a running commentary on the shots he wanted to include in the documentary, and the paintings yet to be taken by the rostrum camera.
“You realise, Roger, the revamped format of the programme runs for an hour. So, a special, like this one, should occupy no more than fifty minutes. We`ll fill that slot quite rapidly when we start editing. Perhaps, with the BBC`s. . .”
I never finished what I intended to say.
We were halfway across the car park, but the blue truck was nowhere to be seen.
I glanced at Melville. Normally he would be apoplectic if things were not going according to plan.
“Well, wherever they are, we can`t wait all day for them. We could lose everything to the weather. Let`s go for a take with you in close up. With a bit of work and wizardry in the studio, we could just about get away with it.”
I frowned. From what I had heard, even the slightest setback, and it took the best part of thirty to forty five minutes to bring him down from the ceiling. Now he was calmly suggesting a get-away–with–it route without losing his cool.
I shrugged. If that`s what he wanted to do.
“OK. I won`t be a minute.”
I was crossing the stretch of stony ground, past the open boats drawn up from the water`s edge, when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.
I stopped, and glanced towards the boats.
Perhaps it was a seagull. With the thought of what happened on the last occasion I was in their company, I hurried on.
Having wiped my face and put a comb through my hair, I was making my way back to the path when something moved again. Fleeting, but this time I was more certain.
I walked over to the line of painted boats, edging towards one in particular.
As I got close, an arm rose feebly above the gunwale. Startled, I hesitated, then peered cautiously into its interior. Among a tangle of oars, netting and sailcloth lay Bob and the mighty Cyril.
*
The others had hurried to my calls. While Roger phoned for an ambulance we helped Bob out. He could not stand and sank to the ground, his back against the boat.
It was impossible to move Cyril. He lay on his side in a difficult position. That combined with his height and weight made him too difficult to shift. I cleared various items from around his head, and a thick pullover I had brought with me was used as a neckroll.
When Bob eventually showed more awareness of the world, Roger asked what had happened.
“About twenty minutes after you`d gone, there was a tap on the side window, just like you did earlier,” he muttered, looking up at me. “I thought you`d come back for something. I rolled down the window, and was squirted in the face with something. I thought it was acid, it was hurting so much. Through a haze I was aware of Cyril jumping out and running round to my side of the truck. But then someone pulled out what looked like a gun and shot him. Then they shot me. All my muscles went into spasm, and I realised they must have used a Taser, a stun gun, or something similar.
“We were both immobilised and unceremoniously dumped in this open boat. I heard them start the truck and drive off... with Dame Laura`s picture. Christ… what am I going to tell the Gallery?”
I could hear the ambulance siren as it made its way up the narrow lane.
“We`ll soon have you and Cyril off to hospital. In the meantime I suppose you`d better phone the Laing Gallery, Alan, and explain what has happened. I`ll phone the police,” said Roger, choosing the easier task.
The ambulance pulled into the car park and drove over to where we standing.
“Right, what seems to be the problem?” inquired the driver.
Roger said, “We have two men who have been shot with Tasers. One,” he pointed to Bob sitting on the ground, “we managed to get out of this boat. But I`m afraid, for all our efforts, we weren`t able to raise the other one. He is still comatose in there.”
“Hmm… right. We`ll give you a muscle relaxant, sir, which will help with your movement. But the general effect will take an hour or so to wear off.”
He quickly gave Bob an injection, while the other ambulance man climbed into the boat to help Cyril.
He climbed out a moment later.
“No need to give him an injection,” he muttered to his companion. “The poor bugger`s dead.”
Chapter 27
The flashing blue lights of three police cars were attracting a few local souls. They stood the other side of the tape to take in all that was happening.
By now we had been there five hours. One car arrived from Whitby; then another from Middlesborough. The third came all the way from Scarborough; for the incident, we were informed, took place on their patch.
Other vehicles also appeared, bringing the medical examiner, a forensic team and senior detectives to the scene of the crime.
The chief inspector pointed at me. “Tell me once again what happened when you arrived at eleven thirty this morning.”
I had already told my side of the story first to a local constable, twice to a police sergeant from Whitby, an abbreviated version to the medical examiner, and now the policeman from Scarborough wanted to hear it all over again.
We walked a short distance away from the others, and I began to recount all that had happened up to the moment the police arrived. He did not interrupt, only at the end did he ask questions to clarify certain aspects.
“Thank you, sir. Please bear in mind I shall want you to come to the station in Scarborough to provide a written statement tomorrow. By the way, just to let you know, a blue Transit truck has been found abandoned in a car park near the Market Place in Thirsk. That`s about forty five miles west of here. Obviously, they changed to another vehicle, and with the M1 close by, well, they could have gone in any direction and be miles away by now.”
“If you don`t mind can we call at the police station tomorrow afternoon? I feel it right we should go up to Newcastle and speak with the gallery director there. To explain what happened.”
“Any time tomorrow, sir, will be fine. Now I want to speak to,” he consulted a sheet of paper, “to a Mr Melville. He`s the film director I believe.”
“I`ll tell him to come over, chief inspector.”
I walked back to the film crew.
“Your turn, Roger. He wants to give you the third degree.”
Was it my imagination? Melville looked agitated. It was a cold evening, but his brow was moist. It really had affected him quite markedly.
*
Roger and I were ushered into the chief curator`s office.
The broadside came with the coffee.
“You realise, Mr Cleverden, I hold you totally responsible for this affair. Not only is one of the Gallery`s staff dead, our most treasured painting is missing! I have informed the Trustees, and at the moment the feeling is that we should sue the BBC for the value of Dame Laura`s work, and for the inconvenience it has caused.
“I would add that that might still be the path we tread. But, in your defence, I accept that we were a willing party to the inclusion of her work in your forthcoming programme. So liability might be a moot point if it comes to court. More coffee?”
“Thank you, that would be welcome,” I murmured.
“Mr Melville?”
“Er… thank you, yes please.”
“So our position is this,” declared the chief curator. “The post-mortem has revealed Mr Cyril Fulton had an undiscovered heart condition, and the shock of being hit by a Taser caused atrial fibrillation which led to heart seizure. Perhaps, it was an event waiting to happen, we shall never know. But in law, at the very least, he was the victim of constructive manslaughter. The people who stole Dame Laura`s work are murderers, gentlemen, and we want them caught, even if we never see the painting again.”
I had spoken at length
that morning to the BBC`s principal legal adviser, and he had told me to make the following comment.
“Morally, of course, we share the burden with the gallery,” I said in a measured tone. “Both for the unexpected death and for the theft of the painting. However, in this instance, culpability is not a shared obligation. I think you`ll find that is how a court of law would define its verdict.”
“Hmm… I too have checked our legal position,” replied the curator. “You may well be right, Mr Cleverden. As a consequence, the Board of Trustees will assume responsibility for Mr Fulton`s funeral, and ensure his widow receives an adequate pension. What do you intend to do?”
“Until I have spoken with my employer, the BBC, I cannot vouchsafe how they will treat the matter. Give me a few weeks and I`ll be in touch with you again. I would add, the Corporation takes such events most seriously, and would never ignore their obligations.”
*
“So… how do you see the BBC reacting to this state of affairs?” Melville asked.
We were in the mini-bus on the way back to Whitby.
“They won`t be overjoyed, that`s for sure,” I replied.
The papers had carried news of the murder and details of the stolen painting on their front pages. I had turned off my mobile phone as soon as I got out of bed that morning. I could imagine John Beatty, the Culture Show`s senior producer, tearing his hair out on how this would reflect on the programme. Not being in contact would allow time for him to calm down and think rationally… hopefully.
Obviously, I could not postpone our conversation indefinitely, and I took the phone from my pocket and switched it on. Thirty seconds later it purred its demand.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” screamed the voice I knew well.
“Hello, John. Roger Melville and I have just left the Laing Gallery in Newcastle. You can imagine how they took the news. They were not best pleased, and we spent some time placating them.”
“Well, just to let you know our masters are not best pleased either, which means I`m not. What are you going to do about it? I`m in two minds… I might cancel the special if it`s going to reflect badly on us. You had better come in and see me as soon as possible.”
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