He was long gone by then, but the rest of the village was seething. All of them had read the article, but no one would admit to having anything to do with it, pointing the finger, rather, at the figure of the ‘woodsman’ who’d featured so prominently in the text. A member of the unit ‘steeped in country lore’, knowing the area like ‘the back of his hand’, and that reference to “third class accommodation” – their scepticism about the secret army evaporating as they warmed to the theme. He it was who must have written the article, supplied the information at least; the man had a track-record after all. They, too, remembered the sudden incursion of all those reporters back in the fifties, but already part of local folk history. How Sir Desmond – the ‘respected figure’, ‘accustomed to command’, ‘experienced in the armed forces’, with ‘previous knowledge of espionage’ – obviously leader of the group, had been so concerned. Understandable now the way he’d by-passed PC Granger, summoned up the flying squad in their black cars with swept-back mudguards, expelling them from the village – just as Peter had told it. An explanation also for why Jimmy had fallen so unexpectedly out of favour, his hurried exit. His cottage had been identified as well. Used as storage by then but, prompted by Mildred, vague memories of a break-in emerged. Shortly after Jimmy’s departure the place had been trashed, but – again – no mention of this in the press. Nothing either of Mappa Mundi, or any other painting come to that.
Geraldine had gone to Bereden hoping to find the solution to one problem, but she’d uncovered something far more disturbing. Previously I’d suspected Jimmy of crude indoctrination, perpetrated for his own selfish ends, but darker undertones were emerging. The auxiliary units, of which he’d been a member, had remained the closest of secrets till 1968, when the story was leaked. They’d been operational in the early forties, at a time of war. If what the article was hinting at was correct, then he had not only betrayed the trust of those around him; Jimmy was a traitor to his country, too.
Peter refused to take the suggestion seriously. Mildred rounded on him. ‘Make what you like of it,’ she growled. ‘It certainly ties up all the loose ends.’
Chapter Twenty-One
His Last Duchess
‘So many loose ends: Jimmy’s falling out with the Squire, his unpopularity in the village.’ Mildred counted out the incidents on her fingers. ‘The sudden departure, following that visitation from the press.’ Peter might have been some child learning his catechism. ‘Reporters scrambling over themselves to reach all the places mentioned in the article, photographers to take their pictures. Yet one brief telephone call from Sir Desmond sends them packing, and not a word heard about it for the next fifteen years. Not till that American spilt the beans on the auxiliary units. “Churchill’s underground army”, isn’t that what he called them? With the South Hants Observer filling in the local details, in their Now It Can Be Told article. No doubt among the villagers as to who leaked the information either. Someone who’d been a member of the group himself; living in “third-class accommodation”, “steeped in county lore”. A tracker, able to “hunt down the enemy” – just as he did that time Howard needed to be rescued.’
She might have gone further. Campanologists meeting regularly, yet not a bell rung till the war was over. Chosen for their knowledge of the countryside, rather; one of them who’d “run with the hare, hunted with the hounds”.
‘And it wasn’t only him that disappeared, was it?’ Geraldine took up the story. ‘What about that last picture of his: Mappa Mundi? The reason we were there in the first place.’
‘Whatever’s that got to do with it?’ Up to this point Peter had remained silent, mesmerised so it seemed, by Mildred’s accusations.
‘Everything, if you ask me. All of us know how he liked to play games in his paintings. Using Birds of Pray to get back at the nuns, popping the bishop into Fiddlers Three, even parodying himself in Home Thoughts.’ Mildred recommenced her finger-ticking litany. ‘Caught the habit from that American tutor, most like. Adoration in the Forest was it? The Night Watch? So isn’t it possible that he might have used the Squire’s wartime activities in the same sort of way? Painted out on canvas what had been hinted at in the Now It Can Be Told article? That this was the final straw; first all that trouble over the Jutish stories, then giving away wartime secrets? No wonder the Squire decided that enough was enough. Sent him packing. After which the picture had to be destroyed.’
Accounting for the trashing of Third Class Cottage. The hallmarks of the search procedures we were then beginning to read about in the papers. MI5 turning the place over in their search for the picture, then wrecking the cottage to make it appear there’d been a run-of-the-mill burglary? All fitting together to form an alternative scenario.
Incontrovertible, as far as Mildred was concerned: ‘Not that you’d have known much about it, occupied as you were with your grown-up friends.’
‘Just because I saw less of him after I changed schools doesn’t mean we weren’t close.’ Peter had not hit it off with her, that much was obvious. First the notion of cockatrices, grampuses and the like, dreamt up merely to keep his gang clear of the woods. Now the suggestion that he’d deserted his hero at his hour of need. ‘He’d begun treating me as an adult by then, showed me all of his later works. If there’d been a Mappa Mundi I’d have known about it. As for his last painting: nothing but a daub.’
Mildred pounced: ‘Meaning that you actually saw the picture?’
‘And you’ve not thought to mention it till now?’ Geraldine’s stick clattered to the floor.
‘It was nothing, I promise you.’ Peter shrugged his dismissal. ‘Something he’d given up on, had difficulty with, or hadn’t the heart to finish. Probably left behind when the cottage was trashed.’
* * *
There was no great mystery, regardless of what Helen or the other two wanted to make of it. There’d been no mention of Mappa Mundi till the day before, by which time revelations of my teenage indiscretions had driven all other matters clear from my mind. One brief glimpse of the picture – if you could call it a picture – was all I’d had, following hard on the heels of the Grigorio incident. Little wonder it had slipped my memory. Till Mildred’s mention of Jimmy’s skills as a tracker brought it flooding back.
The blame had fallen squarely on his shoulders. Howard’s escapade in the woods, the way Jimmy handled the situation, both of them ignored. Thanks largely to Codpiece’s sermon, BadEgg’s diatribes. All our parents remembered was the outlandish nature of the tales he told and the affect they’d had on Howard – sensitive lad as he was. My brother milked the situation for all it was worth, but those who sneaked a visit to Third Class Cottage in the days that followed found the door locked, the curtains drawn, garden unattended. There was no reply, no matter how hard or how long they knocked or rattled the handle; no response to their tapping at the window. Yet smoke could be seen rising from the chimney, refuse was put out regularly and, if they stood still and listened, someone could be heard moving about inside. Jimmy was in there right enough, sulking like a five-year-old and determined to take no further part in village life. And, as the weeks passed, it seemed that this was no idle threat. His door remained shut to all comers; the patch of worn grass beside the war memorial remained unoccupied. Milk and groceries were delivered, payment in tattered envelopes pushed through the letterbox. We had fleeting glimpses of him disappearing into the woods; besides which, nothing.
All my doing, I was certain of it. Veronica, ace reporter, determined to discover all she could about him, closing in on a scoop, her sudden disappearance coinciding with the arrival, mob-handed, of the press – there had to be a connection. Worse still, Jimmy must have realised that one of ‘his own’ had betrayed him, hence the self-imposed incarceration. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became – and the more I knew what was required of me.
My parents were told I was going camping. Nothing
unusual about this; I’d spent several weekends under canvas, they themselves having given me a tent on my recent birthday. The weather was fine and they didn’t worry as long as they knew where I was and when I would return. This, however, was to be the only occasion on which I deceived them. My destination was not Scapegoat Heathland, as I’d said, but Third Class Cottage. No doubt they would get to know this sooner or later, but there was always the excuse that I’d sprained my ankle or the weather had turned bad. Besides which, the lie was a white one, and well worth the telling.
On arrival I banged on Jimmy’s door, shouted through the letterbox that I knew he was there and had no intention of leaving until he let me in. There was a shuffling inside, but no response. I had his attention at least. So, if I wasn’t to be admitted, he’d better come out to me. I was camping in the front garden, brewing up; tea made the old way, ready in half an hour, and willing to share it – provided he brought his own condensed milk and newspaper. There were provisions enough and I intended to stay for as long as it took. Still no reply. I think I caught a glimpse of him at the window as I pitched the tent, set up the primus stove, boiled the saucepan and performed the tea-bomb ritual in time-honoured fashion. The results, which I’d recalled as ambrosial, were revolting. Nevertheless, I marched up the pathway and banged on the door once more. Again, no response. Not at first, but then I heard movement, a key was turned in the lock, a bolt shot back, and Jimmy’s head appeared.
‘Come in and bring the water with you. I’ve got all the rest of the ingredients ready.’
I fetched another cup from the tent and followed him into the cottage, not knowing what I would find, but expecting to be greeted with harsh words and accusations. His attitude, though, differed little from normal, but it was obvious that things were far from well. I don’t think he’d slept for several nights, nor changed his clothes in days. His beard, usually short and well trimmed, was ragged, as was his hair. Streaks of stubble ran down either side of his face, there was bruised colouration to the skin; his eyes, permanently deep-set, appeared now to have been gouged still further into their sockets.
‘Quite like old times. Here’s to absent friends.’ The cup quivered in his hand. ‘Friendly absents more like. Well, I’m glad you especially could make it, knowing the whole story the way that you do.’
He knew of my disloyalty, then. The excuses I’d been rehearsing all these weeks came out in a garbled rush: ‘I meant no harm, Jimmy, honestly. It was all a trick. Her ruse to get a good story for the newspaper. They warned me about it but I wouldn’t listen. All that’s happened – the reporters, photographers, prying into your business, tramping all over your garden – it’s my fault, I know that now.’
His reaction was the opposite of the one I’d expected. ‘Conned by the power of the press, were you?’ Tipping back in the chair, laughing, the whole of his demeanour transformed. ‘It’s their job, lad, what they’re trained to do. Given half a chance and they’re over you like fleas. Blood-suckers the lot of them. Shame you found out the hard way, it happens to the best of us.’ Seeing my surprise, he leaned forward and patted my shoulder. ‘A lesson well learnt if you ask me. And just you remember it.’
So Jimmy knew I’d spoken to the press, but only after they arrived in the village. A reprieve; the smallest, most acceptable, of betrayals. ‘Howard should have come to thank you,’ I said, eager to move the conversation forward. ‘After all you did for him. As should the rest of them.’
‘He’s young, knows no better. And I suppose I’m just as much to blame.’ Jimmy swirled the dregs of the tea around the cup, found it had gone cold and pushed it aside. ‘As to the others, wouldn’t have expected any more of them, really.’ He got up, adjusted the gaslight and took my cup through to the kitchen, refusing my offer of help with the washing up. The furniture, I now realised, had been drawn back, making space for an easel which had been set up at the other end of the room; beneath it a sheet, daubed with paint that had splashed down from the canvas above. A Shakesphere from the look of it, or what had started that way, sketched out on the rectangular canvas. There was the space reserved for the text at the centre, the bare outline of figures clustering round it on all sides. An old man, some courtiers maybe, a dog – rabbit perhaps – a jester, or was it Punch, or Harlequin? Clouds, young people joking, plotting, gambling. King Lear? Othello? Twelfth Night? It might have been any one of them, but for the two ragged brushstrokes, virulent green, that ran corner to corner across the canvas, obliterating most of what lay beneath.
‘My Last Duchess,’ Jimmy called through from the kitchen. ‘Outstayed our welcome, the both us.’ I heard him moving hurriedly about, shifting furniture so it seemed, whilst the radio, muffled yet audible, announced the weather forecast. ‘Time I was moving on, anyway.’
It was the obvious ploy: to make himself scarce for a week or two. ‘Just let us know where to find you,’ I said, searching for the elusive Duchess amid the welter of green paint, ‘and we’ll let you know when it’s safe to return.’
‘’Fraid it’s going to be rather longer than that.’ He’d rejoined me, wiping his hands on an ink-splashed tea towel.
‘You don’t mean you’re leaving us?’
‘Seems like it.’
“What, forever?’
Jimmy stood contemplating the picture for a moment. In the background the weather forecast had given way to a news bulletin. He threw the towel aside. ‘Come and see.’
As I followed him the reason for so much frenetic activity became apparent. He’d been emptying the drawers and bookcases, piling most of the contents in heaps on the floor, placing a few items of clothing into a battered suitcase, stacking what crockery he had onto the draining board, the chairs up onto the table. Without a word to any of us, or the hint of an explanation, he’d been preparing to leave – and leave in a hurry.
‘No need to worry. I’ve a talisman as looks after me.’ He held the medallion he wore around his neck up to the light. ‘Constant Companion.’ It pirouetted in the gas-flame. ‘Where I go she goes. We’ve seen a good few adventures together, the two of us. And no doubt there’s more to come.’
Which was all I got out of him. Within the week, both he and the picture were gone. I never set eyes on either of them again. Never having fully confessed the part I’d played, or thought that I’d played, in his departure.
* * *
‘…Outstayed his welcome.’ Mildred picked up on Peter’s words immediately. ‘Seems fairly obvious to me. It was the auxiliary units rather than the Shakesphere prints or his rescue of Howard that attracted the press; Jimmy himself who tipped them off. Destroyed the picture he was working on – the Duchess was it? In a fit of pique.’
‘Browning actually,’ I told them. ‘His Last Duchess. An apologia from the Duke of Ferrara on his ex-wife’s fall from grace. Wanting to keep her all to himself.’
‘And another example of his following in his master’s footsteps.’ Mildred was onto it almost before I’d finished. ‘First, the penchant for messages hidden in pictures, now aping that American’s love of Browning. Or is that just another in the long line of coincidences as far as that man – Derek, Jimmy, Saintley, or whatever he chose to call himself – is concerned? How many more of them must there be before you start taking him and what he was up to seriously?’
Peter was cornered and outnumbered. ‘If we didn’t take him seriously why do you think we’re here?’
Which was where we left it. There was little more to be said. Apart from Peter’s: ‘Soroyan, I swear I’ve heard that name somewhere. Just can’t place it. Infuriating.’
And Geraldine, taking me on one side before we departed: ‘You will follow this through, my dear, won’t you? Everyone Mildred spoke to was convinced Mappa Mundi existed. I know she’s got it into her head it’s been destroyed, but somehow I can’t believe it. Peter’s made his mind up, I know, but there might be something he m
issed; some detail that meant nothing to him at the time? Or, how can I put it…’
‘He’s gone out of his way to forget?’
‘For the kindest of reasons. It’s good that he respects your beliefs. Count yourself lucky if it’s all he’s hidden from you. Something you must have realised over the last few days.’ She took both my hands in hers. ‘Believe me, Helen, I’m not asking you to be disloyal, but there must have been more to it than that. The whole truth may never be known, it’s been thirty years after all, but if any trace still exists or there’s anyone else who actually saw it – and remembers – then you’re heading in the right direction.’
Even then, not yet married to the man, I knew Peter better than she did. He’d dismissed her story, to begin with at least; taken it as deluded, the ramblings of an old lady, with Mildred’s hostility doing nothing to convince him otherwise. Now, though, he’d begun to reconsider. As Geraldine had said, the chances of corroborating her suspicions were slim, but at least they provided a framework for the next stage in our investigations. And, should any such evidence remain, it was at Bereden it was most likely to be found.
Part Three
Mappa Mundi
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Stranger in my Own Land
‘Trapped in a pincer movement between Portsmouth and Southampton, progressively criss-crossed by commuter traffic and diesel highways, its chalkface the bedrock of some future Solent City.’ Helen was reading from a guidebook she’d purloined from the library.
‘Trapped’ explained exactly how I felt. I’d roamed this countryside every day of my childhood; cycled to villages that could not be reached on foot; thought I was intimate with every inch of it. But now I was lost. Scapegoat Heathland swallowed up by bungaloid detritus, Harry buried together with his tollgate beneath a five-way roundabout. Gone, the easy-going signposts of my youth –single uprights, their wooden arms pointing finger-shaped: Bishops Waltham four miles, Swanmore five; Wickham merely two miles to the west, but no hint that it was uphill all the way, with a further five miles’ hard cycling back to Bereden. Vanished, the lot of them, once the fear of invasion took hold, to be replaced by peacetime’s metal monstrosities. Occasionally there was a pub sign I recognised; a church tower that seemed familiar; the brick wall along which the Americans – ‘Got any gum, chum?’ – had camped prior to D-Day. The landmarks had been uprooted, the boundaries forgotten, just as Jimmy had predicted. I found myself a stranger in my own land.
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