‘Name of Tantris. I know nothing about him. Sounds foreign. But then so do we. None of us has met him. He works through intermediaries.’
‘Why does he want the place?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It might. What does Dad say?’
‘He says “no deal”.’
‘That’s that, then.’
‘Not if we talk him round. Show a united front.’
‘So that’s why I’m here.’
‘Not really.’ Irene looked reproachfully at him, as if disappointed by the suggestion that this was all there was to it. ‘I thought you had a right to know. You stand to benefit along with the rest of us. Or lose, of course, if we throw Mr Tantris’s money back at him.’
‘It’s Dad who’d be doing the throwing. And the benefit’s questionable. It would just take Gorton Lodge that bit longer to work their way through the money. As far as I can—’
‘Mr Tantris will pay the fees.’
For the second time that night, Nick stared at his sister in astonishment. ‘What?’
‘Mr Tantris will pay. Some kind of trust fund. Legally watertight, according to Baskcomb.’
‘Why would he be willing to do that?’
‘To seal the deal.’
‘But—’
‘And to overcome our objections, of course. I imagine it’s a ploy to get us on his side. I have no illusions about his motives.’
‘But what are his motives? Why does he want Trennor so badly?’
Irene shrugged. ‘Like I said, does it really matter?’
She was being evasive once too often. Nick leaned forward across the table towards her. ‘Do you know, Irene?’
She devoted several seconds to stubbing out her cigarette, then said, ‘Yes. We all do.’
‘Except me.’
‘Quite.’
‘Well?’ He did not bother to hide his irritation at having to prompt her.
‘It’s a little unusual.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Surprising, even.’
‘Surprise me, then.’
‘Actually ’ She smiled appeasingly at him. ‘I’m going to leave that to someone much better qualified than I am.’
‘Oh yes. And who might that be?’
‘Mr Tantris’s assistant, Ms Hartley, wants to meet you and explain the situation. She’d much prefer it came from her first, and, frankly, so would I. She’ll be able to answer all your questions.’
‘She’d prefer it? She knows about me, does she?’
‘She knows of you. I made it clear to her that your views would have to be taken into account. And she’s anxious to ensure they are.’
‘How very considerate of her.’
‘Sarcasm.’ Irene’s smile broadened. ‘That’s a good sign, Nick.’
‘What of?’
‘Of rejoining the human race.’ She looked at him with all her old sisterly fondness, which he felt unable either to match or to reject. ‘It’s where you belong.’
‘When have you arranged for me to meet Ms Hartley?’ he responded, clutching at practicalities.
‘Tomorrow at noon.’
‘Here?’
‘No. St Neot. At the village church.’
“St Neot?’
‘It’s about halfway between Liskeard and Bodmin.’
‘I know where it is, for God’s sake. What I don’t know is why I should have to go all the way over there to meet this woman.’
‘No. But you will when you get there.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s supposed to mean that Ms Hartley will explain everything.’ Irene drained her glass. ‘Which is why I’m going to say goodnight.’
CHAPTER TWO
Trying to persuade Irene to tell him something she was determined not to was a waste of energy, as Nick well knew from previous, indeed lifelong, experience. He derived some small satisfaction when he woke the next morning from not having made the attempt. He had at least avoided that mistake. But there was another mistake he had not avoided and was only now paying for. He had drunk more than he was used to, far more. And he regretted the second Glenmorangie, polished off after Irene had gone to bed, with every wincing movement of his head.
His customary Saturday morning run was thus more of a torment than a tonic. At least the weather was kind to him grey, still and bracingly chill. He headed south, out past Saltash School and back along the path beside the railway line. He wound down afterwards on Town Quay, watching the swans and the seagulls and a graceful flight of geese across the Plymouth skyline. The headache was no better—worse, if anything. But at least he had atoned in some measure for inflicting it upon himself.
The aroma of frying bacon reached him as he approached the Old Ferry, an aroma which, to his surprise, he found distinctly alluring. Crispy bacon and scrambled eggs turned out to be Irene’s patent hangover cure. Even more surprisingly, it worked. After topping up his cholesterol and caffeine levels and soaking in the bath, he felt more like the reasonably fit and relatively clear-thinking person he was supposed to be.
By eleven o’clock, he was on the road—an hour away from an explanation that was already overdue.
Nick could not remember whether he had ever visited St Neot before. It was one of several villages on the southern fringe of Bodmin Moor that family excursions from Trennor had probably taken him to in his childhood or adolescence. An ice-cream stop, perhaps? He could not say for sure. Nor were any specific memories jogged as he drove into it along a curving, wooded road up the Loveny valley. It looked a pretty place, though, smoke climbing lazily from the cottage chimneys beneath the gently sloping foothills of the Moor.
The church stood on the highest ground of the village, four-square yet elegant, a weathered granite testament to the skills of its centuries-dead builders. Nick pulled up beneath the churchyard wall at its western end, where parking was shared with the scarcely less venerable London Inn. The pub appeared to be open, but there was little sign of trade this early. The church clock showed the time as ten minutes short of noon. He was early.
But so was someone else. He had pulled in beside a small red Peugeot. As he climbed out of his car, so did the driver of the Peugeot.
She was a short, slim woman dressed in jeans, sweater and sheepskin coat, dark curly hair framing a pale, serious face. Nut-brown eyes regarded him solemnly through small, gold framed glasses. ‘Mr Paleologus?’ she asked, with the barest hint of a Midlands accent.
‘Yes. Ms Hartley?’
‘The same.’ They shook hands, Elspeth Hartley with a surprisingly strong grip. All in all, she was not living up to his expectations of PA—if that was what she was—to a millionaire—if that was what he was. ‘Glad you could make it.’
‘My sister didn’t leave me much choice in the matter.’
She raised her eyebrows slightly at that. ‘How much do you know?’
‘I know your boss wants to buy Trennor. Virtually at any price, apparently. And I believe you’re going to tell me why.’
‘Actually, he’s not my boss. More patron, really.’
‘You’re not his assistant?’
‘I’m an art historian. Mr Tantris subsidizes my researches at Bristol University. But you’re right in a sense. I do seem to have turned into his assistant. Kind of, anyway. The real one’s too busy with high finance to come down here.’
‘Down from where?’
‘London. New York. Zurich.’ She smiled, instantly persuading Nick that it was something she should do as often as possible. ‘The location varies.’
‘And Mr Tantris? What’s his location?’
‘Monaco, so I’m told. But I’ve never actually met him. I’m just grateful to him for funding my work. It’s led me in some unexpected directions. I certainly never expected to come across descendants of the Byzantine emperors in the course of it, for instance.’
‘Our lineage doesn’t bear much scrutiny.’
‘That’s not what your father said
. Shortly before he showed me the door.’
‘Well, it’s his door.’
‘I know. But it’s not as if Mr Tantris wants to pull Trennor down and build twelve executive houses on the site, is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘All right.’ She smiled again. ‘I’d better get to why we’re here, hadn’t I?’
‘Seems a good idea.’
‘Come into the church. Then you’ll understand.’
Taking that on trust, Nick followed her in through the churchyard gate and round to the south door, near which were clustered amidst the gravestones the worn uprights of several Celtic crosses.
‘Ancient precautions against the Devil,’ said Elspeth Hartley, noticing him glance at them. ‘A good deal older than this church, which replaced a pre-Norman structure in the fifteenth century. Come on.’
She stepped into the porch, raised the latch on the door, pushed it open and led Nick into the body of the church.
He stopped and looked around. The nave and aisles were well enough proportioned, but what immediately took his eye were the stained-glass windows, glowing vibrantly yet delicately, somehow seeming to magnify the thin grey light he had left behind in the churchyard.
‘I see you’ve noticed,’ said Elspeth.
‘Nice windows.’
‘More than nice, I think. Magnificent. And historically precious. Pre-Reformation parish church glazing schemes are extremely rare. This is second only to Fairford in Gloucestershire for quality and completeness.’
‘Why so rare?’
‘Civil War iconoclasm’s mostly to blame. Cromwellian troops were accompanied by the sound of smashing glass wherever they went.’
‘Why did this survive? Too far off the beaten track?’
‘Hardly. There was as much destruction of church windows and statuary in Cornwall as anywhere else. The Puritans were nothing if not thorough. No, no, St Neot’s survived thanks to special pleading and elaborate planning. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. First of all, I want you to look at the glass, I mean, really look.’
She led Nick along the south aisle and through the gated rood-screen into a lady chapel filled with blue, red and gold light from the two corner windows on the southern and eastern sides.
The Creation and Noah windows, substantially unrestored and dating from the fourteen nineties. Exquisite, I think you’ll agree.’
‘I do.’ Nick was no expert, but he could recognize fine craftsmanship when he saw it. And he could also recognize the Creation story, set out in the brightly tinted panes, from God with his compasses planning the world to the treacherous green serpent coiled around the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The last pane, clearly designed to lead on to the next window, showed God commanding Noah to build the Ark. And there, as he turned to look, was the Ark, golden bowed and floating on a sea of light.
‘It looks as if the original plan was to tell the whole Old Testament story window by window. But we can assume money ran short, because as we move back along the aisle what do we find but local dignitaries and their pet saints. Sponsorship, by any other name. But sponsorship of artistic excellence.’
The five windows between Noah and the south door were indeed a sequence of haloed saints and pious family groups, kneeling in prayer. Nick walked slowly along the row, Elspeth keeping pace beside him.
‘And after the local dignitaries came the common parishioners. The windows in the north aisle were funded by subscriptions from particular groups: wives, young women, young men. The young men’s window, depicting the life of St Neot, is particularly fine.’
Nick turned to admire these humbler but no less beautiful compositions, walking slowly back along the nave to the rood-screen, where he stopped and gazed up at the east window. ‘The Last Supper?’ he murmured, deciphering the scene.
‘That’s right.’
‘But different somehow from the others.’
‘You’re getting good at this. That’s an eighteen-twenties window. There was a lot of cleaning and restoration done then, with quite a few tracery lights moved or replaced and several whole new windows installed. It takes some sorting out.’
‘I’m sure it does.’
‘But, however you look at it, there’s one rather odd omission.’
‘There is?’
‘This is a church. These windows are not just objets d’art. They’re lessons in glass. The Creation. The Fall. The Flood. In the ordinary way of things, you’d expect at least some reference to the Day of Judgement.’
‘Isn’t there any?’
‘Not as it stands. And there should be. Take it from me, a Doom Window was de rigueur.’
‘So, why isn’t there one?’
‘Oh, there was. We have that from a churchwarden of the period. And talking of churchwardens, one of the present incumbents has lent me the key to the tower. This way.’
She walked back down the nave and unlocked the door leading to the ground floor of the tower. Nick followed her into the bellringing chamber. The ropes were tied back against the walls to either side, allowing a clear view of the west window, hidden from the rest of the church. But all Nick could see were illuminated saints. The Day of Judgement did not seem to have dawned in the glass.
‘We think this is where the Doom Window was. Well, / think so. There were two major periods of iconoclasm: one in the mid sixteen forties, another in the early sixteen fifties. St Neot came under most serious threat during the second period, specifically in the spring of sixteen fifty-one. There were lots of raids on neighbouring churches around then. But not here.’
‘Why was St Neot spared?’
‘It was down to the churchwardens. The vicar had been expelled from his living by then. They enlisted the help of the Rous family, who lived at Halton Barton, beside the Tamar, just a few miles north of Landulph. A member of the family, Anthony Rous, was a Parliamentary colonel and county commissioner. But other members seem to have had High Church sympathies. And some cousins of theirs, the Nicholls, sponsored one of the windows here. So, strings were pulled. The windows were whitewashed, to avoid causing offence, but preserved for posterity.’
‘Where’s all this leading, Ms Hartley? You just mentioned Landulph.’
‘So I did. What is it from here? Twenty miles? A long but feasible day’s return ride in sixteen forty-six.’
‘Sixteen forty-six? I thought you—’
‘A letter from one of the churchwardens at the time, Richard Bawden, has recently come to light. He refers to precautions taken prior to the ‘fifty-one crisis. “Our finest window”, he writes, “was removed six years prior thereto. We could not suffer it to stand at risk with Cornwall in the Parliament’s hands. It was immured safe in the keeping of our staunch friend, Mr Mandrell, and is safe there still, I warrant.” The letter dates from sixteen sixty-two, two years after the Restoration. “Safe there still”. Interesting, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Why wasn’t it brought back and reinstalled?’
‘Good question. To which I think I have the answer. The Rous connection led me to look for Mandrell in the Halton Barton area. The Lowers of nearby Clifton were Royalist sympathizers and definitely High Church. Their friendship with your own forebear suggests deep antipathy to Puritanism. A son of Theodore Paleologus died fighting for the King at Naseby, as you probably know. Well, a parochial neighbour of the Lowers turns out to be one Thomas Mandrell, who was married to a Rous. I think the window was hidden with him. But he died in sixteen fifty-seven and his property was made over to the Parliamentarian holder of the manor of Landulph, Sir Gregory Norton. A member of the Norton family continued to live in Mandrell’s house after the Restoration. And Bawden says the window was “immured there”, by which I think he means walled up in some way. If the new occupant remained at heart a Parliamentarian, then it was probably best not to draw his attention to the Royalist treasure lying unsuspected within his walls.’
‘And where were these walls?’
‘Can’t you guess?�
��
Nick smiled in grudging recognition of the obvious. ‘Trennor?’
She nodded. ‘In one.’
They left the church and went into the pub, where Elspeth surprised Nick by ordering a pint of beer and a round of sandwiches. Irene’s fry-up had left him in little need of lunch, so he contented himself with mineral water. With those preliminaries out of the way and a fireside table commandeered, they returned to the subject of the long-lost and perhaps soon to be found Doom Window of St Neot.
‘You’re seriously telling me this is all about antique stained glass?’
‘Yes, Nick, I am.’ First-name terms had been adopted somewhere between church and pub. ‘It’s Mr Tantris’s consuming passion, so I’m told.’
‘Has he been down here?’
‘Apparently. But he’s something of a recluse. It’ll have been a discreet visit—not to mention a flying one.’
‘And he wants to buy Trennor on the off-chance of finding the missing window there—in a wall, under a floor?’
‘It’s a rather good chance, actually. The Bawden letter doesn’t leave much room for doubt.’
‘Except that Trennor’s a fair-sized house. And the people who know where the window was concealed have been dead for more than three hundred years.’
‘Exactly. Which is why vacant possession is essential. We might have to pull several walls apart to find what we’re looking for. Remember, the window will have been dismantled before it was transported to Landulph. That means thirty or more separate panes of glass, wrapped and stored in a large wooden trunk for the journey, then immured. I understand your grandfather extended the original dwelling, so we’re probably talking about walls that are now internal. They all looked plenty thick enough for the job to me. As far as I could judge, anyway. I wasn’t exactly given the run of the place.’
‘Dad a bit curt, was he?’
‘No more than he had a right to be, I suppose, given what I’m proposing to do to his home.’
‘Glad you appreciate that.’
‘It’s why Mr Tantris is prepared to be so generous.’
Days Without Number Page 2