They went downstairs. Jones secured the front door by jamming it closed. It would not be open again before the spring. The gallery was pristine, the house restored.
‘The man on the steps. The one I saw. Was it her father?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jones said, truthfully.
And then Saul was off on another tangent, laughing loudly, braying, his voice breaking up and coughing as he pointed to the wall in the snug, towards that little smudge of painting that hung without a frame on a hook near the big nude and next to the shelves with the teapots. He reached for it, took it down and turned it round. There was another painting on the back.
‘Dürer,’ he murmured, reverentially as if saying a prayer. ‘It’s only Dürer, painting St Jerome on a piece of wood, and then when you turn the panel over, he has the sun in a black sky. How Thomas had it, I don’t know. We’ve been researching it for years, Thomas and me. The National Gallery has the equivalent. This is really for them. The worth of this smudge? Not a million. Nearer five. And they missed it. They came into the house, walked straight by and missed it.’
‘You mean it’s worth that, and they passed it by and took two fucking frauds?’
‘Not frauds, no,’ Saul said, hurt. ‘Genuine works of art.’
Jones looked at the tiny, dirty painting. Turned it over and saw the glowing sun in the dark sky.
‘You could have taken it,’ Jones said slowly. ‘You could have taken it any time and run.’
Saul nodded.
‘Yes, I might have done, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t really love it.’
‘What’s love got to do with it?’ Jones said. ‘Everything,’ said Saul.
The next day, Di wrote to Raymond Forrest.
Dear Raymond, I think, I think, I think, that due to certain events, we might be able to insist on getting Thomas out of the morgue.
Late afternoon, early evening. In his office, which was devoid of any decoration, Raymond Forrest was staring at a blank wall and having a surprising day. He had received extraordinary communications from Edward, to the effect that Edward and family were no longer wanting to contest the will of the late Thos P; no longer wanted the second post mortem and that his son Patrick was free to visit whenever he wished. Raymond tried to phone his client, to leave a message, thought again and sent an email, to which he got a stunning reply in the form of an image.
Picture. A funeral cortege, with plumed horses, drawing a gun carriage, in which the body lies in a coffin, draped with a blue cloth rather than a flag, the carriage flanked by men in dinner suits and ladies in evening dress. Petals and confetti are thrown, as if at a wedding. A life is being celebrated. Possible fanciful reconstruction of the funeral of the Duke of Wellington, like a picture in the dormitory.
That’s how I’d like it to be, Di wrote.
Raymond wrote back.
No. Thomas wanted his ashes scattered at sea.
So he did, she wrote. So he did.
And now, Raymond thought, let us see. Perhaps now the real Diana Porteous will emerge.
Now she has it all.
EPILOGUE
May, the next year
Di’s diary.
We have learned to fish on the pier and we learned about birds in the sanctuary on the far side of the bay. The hide’s a wooden shed, reached by a concrete path, flanked by a couple of benches at each corner of the route which led around the edge of a high bank, covered with every variety of wild flowers and foliage; it’s a riot of intense colour at the best time of the year. The hide has nothing else in it but a bench and a narrow slit of a window, facing on the hidden lake, with the graceful reeds surrounding it, swaying in the breeze that made ripples in the calm water, and we watched, through the long window, peering through the slit.
The plover’s so small, you can scarcely see it without binoculars even from twenty-five yards, unless you had spectacular eyesight, like Patrick has. The bird’s a mere fifteen centimetres; a tiny little wader with a furtive, hunched attitude that has nothing to do with confidence, often seen alone, feeds singly; has rapid, graceful movement. The plumage changes with the season, so that it’s always disguised. It loves to eat spiders and other insects, is partial to very small, marine snails invisible to the eye. It’s a dowdy little tough, with a limited voice, that either goes wit, wit wit, or makes a dry prr, prr, prr; Thomas could mimic it, so can I. I taught him, I’m teaching Patrick.
Then I said, My, it’s close in here. Look out, look, over there. It’s an egret, has legs like a pair of wands.
And then beyond that on the far bank of the hidden lake, there was a figure coming over the near horizon, wearing a cap and carrying either a stick or a gun. The illusion of him shimmered.
Then I looked again.
It was only Jones, coming to find us.
And Gayle is coming to fetch Patrick tomorrow.
On a day like this, Thomas, I really think I’ve got it all.
Better than gold.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With profound thanks to Angus Neil, for the ideas, the passion for painting, and the generous imparting of knowledge, some of which I’ve retained.
You have enriched my life and sharpened my eyes.
All mistakes are my own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FRANCES FYFIELD has spent much of her professional life practicing as a criminal lawyer, work which has informed her highly acclaimed novels. She has been the recipient of both the Gold and Silver Crime Writers’ Association Daggers. She is also a regular broadcaster on Radio 4, most recently as the presenter of the series ‘Tales from the Stave.’ She lives in London and in Deal, overlooking the sea, which is her passion.
www.frances fyfield.co.uk
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ALSO BY FRANCES FYFIELD
A QUESTION OF GUILT
SHADOWS ON THE MIRROR
TRIAL BY FIRE
SHADOW PLAY
PERFECTLY PURE AND GOOD
A CLEAR CONSCIENCE
WITHOUT CONSENT
BLIND DATE
STARING AT THE LIGHT
UNDERCURRENTS
THE NATURE OF THE BEAST
SEEKING SANCTUARY
LOOKING DOWN
THE PLAYROOM
HALF LIGHT
SAFER THAN HOUSES
LET’S DANCE
THE ART OF DROWNING
BLOOD FROM STONE
COLD TO THE TOUCH
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book was originally published in Great Britain by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, in 2012.
GOLD DIGGER. Copyright © 2012 by Frances Fyfield. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
EPub Edition JULY 2014 ISBN: 9780062301604
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062305473
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