‘We all have relations we’re not too proud of,’ said Patrick. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘It’s in a book I found at Jane’s,’ Liz answered. ‘The abbot of the day and two monks were hanged from an oak for speaking out against the marriage of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn.’
‘Do they haunt the place?’
‘Not as far as I know – but there is supposed to be a ghost,’ said Liz. ‘I suppose there are in all these old houses.’
‘If you believe in them,’ said Patrick.
The abbey, as they approached, lay bathed in sunlight, a mellow building.
‘It is like Oxford!’ cried Manolakis.
Architecturally, it was. They went inside and were at once in the Grotto, an amazing apartment where the walls were covered in sea-shells like mosaics. The house was not crowded and they were able to move at their own pace. Liz particularly liked the porcelain, and Patrick the pictures.
‘These old faces,’ he said, standing on the staircase looking at a portrait of the third earl with his arm in a sling.
‘They are like in the time of your Shakespeare,’ said Manolakis, who was much taken with Lucy Harrington.
There was a minor commotion as they went through one long room, and the other sightseers separated to allow a small group through.
‘VIPs,’ said Liz. ‘Look who’s with them.’
Patrick recognised the tall young man who was personally guiding a party of three men through to the corridor beyond. It is not every day that a tourist sees a member of the peerage in the flesh, so this one had to be pointed out, and Manolakis duly observed the Marquess as he went past with his guests.
‘Why, that’s Senator Dawson with him,’ said Liz. ‘He was at Stratford. Remember, Dimitri?’
‘You are right,’ said Manolakis.
The senator was a slim man with grizzled hair cut neatly in the American style. He peered eagerly round through rimless spectacles as he walked along, hands clasped behind him, and nodded his thanks to the group of sightseers who had made way for his party. Patrick met his eye and thought how alert he looked; only later did he realise that there was a satisfied expression on his face, almost a look of triumph. Well, no doubt it was gratifying to come from the mid-West farm where he had been born to Washington, and eventually to visit this ancient place not like any humble tourist, but as an important guest.
‘How were the Canalettos?’ Jane asked, when they were reunited, and all sitting on rugs eating slabs of veal and ham pie under a huge oak tree.
‘Overwhelming,’ said Patrick. ‘Almost too many at once.’
‘It is very splendid in the house,’ Manolakis said. “You go there, Jane?’
‘Another day,’ said Jane. ‘Let’s wander round the stables – that’s where the antique shops are, isn’t it?’
The children were clamouring to go on the roundabout, so Michael took them off to the playground and the others strolled on through the courtyard towards the pottery and the shops. As they ambled along, they saw Senator Dawson again. His little group disappeared round a corner as they approached.
Patrick, who had been silent for some time, suddenly stopped.
‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘Those pictures!’
‘What pictures?’ asked Jane.
‘In the house – those old ones. Really old paintings are on wood – they’re thick. Canvases are thinner.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Dendrochronology.’
‘Whatever’s that?’
‘Dendro – it means a tree – and chronos is a year,’ said Manolakis.
‘Quite right,’ said Patrick.
‘Tree years?’
‘Ring dating. The weather signatures.’
‘Patrick, please, I do not understand,’ said Manolakis.
‘Ring dating – you mean that method of telling the dates of early paintings from the growth pattern on the wood they’re painted on?’ Liz asked.
‘Exactly.’ Patrick looked at her approvingly. He turned to Manolakis. ‘There is a way of dating early paintings,’ he explained. ‘They were done on wood. The rings marking each year’s growth follow a pattern according to the weather at the time. By recording the rings on various paintings it has been possible to date such paintings more accurately than before, and to prove which are the originals and which are copies.’
‘Before cameras, much importance was for artists,’ said Manolakis. ‘It is what you see, and what I see, that may not be the same. But the camera – it tells the truth.’
Everyone listened respectfully to this remark. Then Liz brought them back to what had raised the subject.
‘But why are you talking about this now, Patrick?’
‘We were looking at those paintings in the house. It reminded me about the solidity of early portraits. Those awful paintings that girl Tessa had – they were solid. I’m wondering about them. The art robberies—’ There had been several lately, all in the Midlands.
‘You mean they could have been painted over, to hide what was really there?’ Jane was used to what she thought of as Patrick’s wild ideas and could follow his line of thought. ‘But that would wreck them.’
‘Not necessarily. Not if they were turned around and the backs painted. Or some sort of covering introduced,’ said Patrick.
‘Well!’ Jane would have mocked the notion, but Patrick had been right about many strange things before. ‘You mean that woman – Tina whatever-her-name-was – might have been mixed up with art thieves?’
‘Perhaps without knowing it. She might have been looking after those paintings for a friend or something.’ It sounded pretty unlikely, said aloud like this. ‘I’d like to have another look at them.’
‘Well, forget it now,’ said Jane. ‘Come on,’ and she led the way into the nearest shop.
Michael and the children were looking at the monkeys in the playground area when they joined them later. Patrick glanced uneasily at the little beasts.
‘Let’s all go and have tea,’ he said.
They sat in the sun outside a rotunda-style building with cardboard mugs of tea, fruit juice for the children, and a variety of cakes. Two peacocks prinked past, flirting their tails.
‘Gorgeous, aren’t they?’ Liz said. The blue and green plumes shone in the sunlight; the birds’ breasts were iridescent. ‘What colours!’
‘Their heads are strange,’ said Manolakis. ‘One—two bristles only.’
Everyone stared at the birds’ heads, which were adorned by sparse feather coronets.
‘They do look rather bald,’ said Michael.
‘These are not English birds,’ Manolakis pronounced.
‘They come from India and Ceylon,’ said Patrick, pleased that he knew the answer. ‘Pheasants of a sort, that’s what they are.’
‘They’re almost too much of a good thing,’ said Liz, who found herself unnerved by the calculating glare with which a nearby bird was eyeing her.
‘Wouldn’t you like to live in a stately home with peacocks on the lawn?’ Michael asked her.
‘No – not with mobs of people everywhere,’ Liz said.
‘But they are happy here, the people,’ said Manolakis. ‘Look at them.’
It was true. Everyone in sight looked thoroughly content.
‘It is good to share this fine place with the people,’ Manolakis went on.
‘It’s the only way they can make it pay,’ said Patrick. He thought the modern, concrete pavilions which ministered to some of the wants of the visitors struck a crude note among the splendid background buildings, but how was such a problem of design to be solved? It was one which faced the university all the time. His eye lighted on a notice staked into the ground near them: No Picnicing.
‘This illustrious family can’t spell,’ he said, and began to laugh.
‘How very endearing,’ Liz said.
Miranda had been tossing cake crumbs to the peacocks, and a handsome cock advanced towards her.
‘I don’t trust those birds,’ said Jane. ‘Keep away from it, Miranda.’
‘Don’t molest the bears,’ said Liz dreamily.
‘What?’
‘It says that – or something like it – in Yellowstone Park,’ said Liz. ‘In America,’ she added, to Manolakis.
‘You have been there?’ he asked, amazed.
‘Yes.’
‘And Patrick? Have you?’
‘To New York,’ he said. ‘Never the west.’
Manolakis did not attempt to hide his envy.
‘You’ll have itchy feet now, Dimitri, after this trip of yours,’ said Michael.
‘Itchy feet! Ha!’ Andrew liked this. ‘Do they itch, Dimitri?’
‘Like blazes,’ said Manolakis, who had learned this phrase from Andrew earlier in the day.
Liz, who had felt herself suspended, all afternoon, in a limbo of contentment, decided that she must leave; the others, reluctantly, agreed that it was time for everyone to go. ‘You have enjoyed yourself, Patrick, haven’t you?’ Liz asked him, as they walked back to the cars.
‘Yes. But I still think lions and tigers belong in Africa, not Bedfordshire. Dartmoor ponies would look wrong in the veldt, don’t you agree?’
‘It’s not a fair analogy,’ Liz said.
‘They’d be out of context,’ Patrick insisted. ‘Things aren’t right, when they’re misplaced.’
‘Like strawberries in November. They don’t taste as they should,’ Liz said.
‘And Brussels sprouts in June.’
‘I see what you mean, but I’m not sure I agree,’ she said. She turned to Jane. ‘Thank you for a lovely day, and for putting me up,’ she added.
Patrick and Manolakis, one on either side of her, shepherded Liz into her car. They both kissed her, then stood side by side waving her out sight.
‘Very salutary for Patrick, that,’ said Jane, watching.
‘He certainly does seem to be suffering,’ Michael admitted.
‘He takes her too much for granted – she’s handy, always there if he wants a companion for a night out in London. Do him good to realise she might not always be around,’ said Jane.
‘Why? Where might she go?’ demanded Andrew, who had been listening to this.
‘Oh – to Crete, to visit Dimitris,’ said Jane. ‘Now – into the car with you. We must go home.’
Patrick and Manolakis piled into the back of the Peugeot with the children.
‘I shall see Liz again tomorrow,’ Manolakis told them all. ‘I am going to London to visit her. We go to the theatre, and I take her to dinner. It will be very good,’ This news kept Patrick quiet all the way home.
Part XIII
1
‘You haven’t seen a cross-section of British life,’ Patrick told Manolakis over breakfast the next day. ‘We must put that right.’
‘You don’t know what I have done when I have been in London,’ said Manolakis, his large dark eyes glittering. ‘Nor do you know what I shall do with Elizabeth. She will take me about. Her friends will be other.’
They would, but in what way? Patrick realised he had not met many of them and knew little of what she did between their meetings.
‘Dimitri—’ he said, and paused. He had no right to warn Manolakis off. What Liz did was her own affair, literally; he had no business to interfere.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh—nothing.’
How long did he mean to stay in London? More than one night? Patrick hoped not. Soon the college would be working at full stretch; the kitchen staff would be back on duty; Manolakis could be feasted off the college plate emblazoned with the winged lion of St Mark, and given the full treatment before he went home. He would like that. Or would he? Were there other things he might prefer?
‘I have enjoyed it all so very much. It has been a privilege,’ said Manolakis, looking earnestly at Patrick.
Patrick felt ashamed of his thoughts. He looked at The Times crossword to avoid the penetrating eye of the Greek.
‘You might, perhaps, ask who made the identification of your friend Sam?’ Manolakis suggested. ‘There could be a way, through that person, to find out more of his life?’
Patrick sat up and threw down The Times.
‘Good idea. Why didn’t I think of it?’ he exclaimed. ‘But the police will have done it.’
‘Yes, but you may have a new thought,’ said Manolakis.
It was possible.
‘I’ll do as you suggest,’ Patrick said. ‘And I’ll go back to Pear Tree Cottage for a look at those paintings. That will keep me busy while you’re in London.’
He put Manolakis on the eleven forty-eight train to Paddington, and watched till he had vanished, giving an occasional restrained wave of the hand to acknowledge the Greek’s less inhibited gestures from the window of his coach. Then he went back to St Mark’s and rang up the Evening Standard. After that he set off for Stratford-upon-Avon, turning over in his mind what possible significance there could be in the fact that it was Leila Waters, the theatrical agent, who had officially identified Sam at the inquest, and that she had not told him this when they met.
Why should she? It was no secret. She probably thought that he knew.
2
Things were very different at Pear Tree Cottage. Curtains hung at the windows, there were tulips and lilac in vases, a line of washing, mostly faded, frayed jeans and drab-hued singlets, hung between two apple trees in the garden.
Tessa, in a long cheesecloth dress with the arms of a maroon sweater protruding from its loose sleeves, was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by piles of papers; they looked like bills.
‘Hullo,’ she greeted Patrick.
‘I’m back rather soon,’ he apologised. ‘You’ve accomplished a lot over the weekend.’
‘Yes – I’d plenty of help. I’ve got three lodgers now. They’re all asleep,’ she said. ‘From the theatre – just walkers-on. So I’m financially solvent – or I thought I was.’ She indicated the pile of papers. ‘Tina’s bills are following me.’
‘You’re not paying them, are you? You must pass them on to the executors,’ said Patrick.
‘Oh, I’m doing that all right. But I’m sorting them out. She owed for clothes, and electricity, and a man who did the garden at Strangeways has sent in a bill for twenty pounds. How do I know if he earned it?’
It would take months for things to be sorted out, Patrick knew; even a year. But better not depress her by saying so. She looked quite cheerful in spite of it all. He agreed that it would be difficult to check up on the gardener but thought he should probably have the benefit of the doubt.
‘You’ve discovered no more about Sam Irwin?’ he asked.
‘Not a thing.’
‘May I look at the theatre programmes again?’
‘Of course. I found another great bundle of them.’
She settled him down with them, in a basket chair in the kitchen, and they sat there companionably, she totting up her aunt’s debts and Patrick looking through the programmes. They went back over nearly twenty years and covered many celebrated productions.
‘These might be quite valuable,’ he said. ‘Collections of almost anything are, you know.’
‘I suppose they might be.’
‘Don’t throw them away without looking into it,’ he advised.
‘No, I won’t.’
Many of the programmes included photographs of actors. Some were straight, without costume or make-up, but others showed them dressed for various roles and it was sometimes hard to recognise even well-known faces.
‘She must have been really keen on the theatre to keep all these,’ said Patrick.
He supposed that if the names on the programmes were fed into a computer, a pattern might show whose appeared most, possibly indicating any she followed particularly; but such an exercise might only prove that Tina had seen many of the great performances in recent years, as he had himself.
‘Did she know Joss Ruxton?’ he asked.
‘I expect so.’ Patrick got up. ‘Those pictures – have you hung them anywhere?’
‘I’ve got rid of them,’ said Tessa. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? I sold the lot for sixty pounds – wasn’t it a fantastic price to get for them? It’ll buy a mower for all this wild grass.’ She waved a hand in the direction of the open back door.
Patrick was taken aback at this.
‘Who bought them?’ he asked.
‘Some man called Gulliver – he’s got a gallery in Stratford. He came round touting. Yesterday morning, it was. He said the tourists would grab them. Fancy coming on Sunday,’ she marvelled.
Fancy indeed, thought Patrick, his suspicions growing.
‘I might have got more, by haggling a bit, but a bird in the hand, and all that, I thought,’ Tessa was saying.
‘Quite,’ said Patrick. There was no more to be learned here, it seemed. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he added. He must find Gulliver quickly.
‘’Bye. Thanks for calling,’ said Tessa.
He left her still frowning over her aunt’s bills and as he made his way out through the front of the house, he encountered a youth at the foot of the staircase. He was short, pale, and had shoulder-length hair and a large moustache. Patrick knew that he must be a spear-carrier or a tribune.
‘Hi,’ said the youth as they passed.
‘Hi,’ said Patrick, feeling huge and healthy by contrast. He walked on.
‘Darling, I’ll die if I don’t have some coffee,’ he heard the youth say, and Tessa made some soothing response.
He went on down the path and got into his car. There, he opened the glove compartment and put into it two theatre programmes which, without Tessa seeing, he had filched from her pile. They contained photographs which he wished to study at leisure.
3
The gallery Tessa had mentioned was in a narrow alley behind a solidly restored brick building through whose leaded window panes Patrick could discern folk-weave caftans and peasant blouses hanging from the beams amid festoons of costume jewellery.
A sign beside the building pointed the way to Gulliver’s Gallery, and Patrick followed it along a cobbled path to a barn set in a yard behind the boutique. The walls inside the gallery were hung with new masters, and Gulliver himself, a small man with a pointed beard modelled on that of Shakespeare, stood at an easel in a corner busily turning out another. Scenes of Stratford-upon-Avon were ranged along one wall, facilely executed and easy on the eye, but commonplace. On another wall hung copies of Victorian illustrations to the plays, darkly painted and sombre: Macbeth loomed through thick Scottish mist, and the body of Ophelia drifted, flower-bedecked, in a river that seemed to flow through an underground cavern. Patrick could see nothing remotely like any of the paintings that had been at the cottage. If they were disguised stolen ones, perhaps they had already been passed on.
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