It took several days of internet searching and phone calls before Rachel eventually tracked down an art historian, Oliver Bathurst, who specialised in religious art. Luckily for them he lived in neighbouring Suffolk, about twenty miles away. She called the number she’d been given and with a quick grin and a nod of her head as the phone was answered, she went into her now well-practised spiel of how they’d found an old triptych in the family chapel. She smiled as the man offered to drive over the following day to take a look. In the meantime, he suggested she send him some photographs so he had an idea of what he was coming to see.
The two women punched the air in excitement as Rachel jotted down his email address and ended the call.
‘I didn’t think we’d find an expert in the next county; I hope when I’ve sent him the photos he still wants to see it and doesn’t decide it’s some old fake of little interest,’ she said as they went back to the drawing room. Mathilde ran upstairs to collect her camera and the best lens she had for the artificial lighting indoors and she soon had pictures of all three panels, the frame and the crest, in case they were also of interest to him. She sent the shots over to Oliver including the ones inside the chapel whilst Rachel was busy searching for him online to confirm his credentials.
‘He’s a professor at the local university,’ she read from the screen, ‘and an expert in Medieval and Restoration art. I think we may have struck lucky.’
An enthusiastic reply arrived from Oliver saying he was very intrigued and he looked forward to seeing them both the next day.
Chapter Sixteen
June 2021
With Oliver due at nine the following morning, both women went to bed early the night before. Mathilde realised she was looking forward to sleeping inside and the novelty of a double bed.
She was asleep within minutes, falling into a deep, shadowy dream. Surrounded by darkness a small pool of dim light hung above her like the sun trying to push through the clouds on a foggy day. There were walls around her, damp and close. Desolation clutched at her, enveloped in a desperate air of misery, sadness. A dank smell crawled up her nose and settled in her pores. The worst place in the world, an oubliette, a cramped dungeon deep beneath the floor. A movement above her in the light caught her attention. Someone passed something to her and she reached up to take it. Looking at what she held in her arms it looked like a small alabaster doll, almost weightless, wrapped in a ragged scrap of linen. Carefully she laid it on the floor beside her, so precious, so small. Then she held her arms in the air and someone reached in and pulled her up towards the flickering glow above her.
And then she awoke, sitting bolt upright, her heart racing. The dream had been so real she was relieved to find herself in her own bed and she gave a shudder as she slowly lay back down again. It was nothing – just a dream – she told herself. But not one she ever wanted to revisit. The feeling of grief and sorrow the dream had initiated was still lodged in her chest, like a hideous memory twisting her heart. As she drifted off again she was being rocked from side to side, a cool breeze on her face and the splashing of waves against the boat she was standing in. Ahead of her she saw the Dover cliffs rearing up, huge and brilliantly white reflecting the sun shining from behind her and throwing her shadow across the deck.
The following morning, Mathilde was up and out early watering her plants. Having spent the remainder of the night continually waking up, unable to shake off the despondent feeling, she was now pleased to be outside in the open again. Perhaps she shouldn’t have abandoned her van. There was no doubt her bed in there wasn’t as comfortable as the one in the house but in the van she could relax. Nobody was trying to reach out to her. It was almost as good as sleeping outside with just the inky black sky and stars to blanket her. And she’d done that often enough as a child.
Oliver Bathurst arrived promptly at nine o’clock, his black Mini pulling up beside Mathilde’s van with a small spray of gravel. As he unfolded himself from the seat, Mathilde, who was watching from the drawing room, wondered how on earth he squeezed his tall body into such a small car. He paused for a moment and looked up at the house, as if taking it all in. Even though she knew nothing of English architecture Mathilde knew it was an impressive building, the weathered wood frame and the tall decorative twisted chimney stacks reaching up to the sky. For the first time, she felt a tiny frisson of pleasure it was now hers. There was a bang on the front door and she and Rachel walked through the house to open it, with Fleur scampering behind.
‘Hello, pleased to meet you,’ Oliver shook hands with the two women and then with a grave look on his face he bent down to shake hands with Fleur, who stared up at him silently. Close up, Mathilde could see he was not only well over six foot but also his shirt was straining at the seams over his broad shoulders. Not remotely similar to the ancient, scruffy old professor she and Rachel had both agreed he’d undoubtedly look like. No sign of the tweed jacket, waistcoat and carpet slippers that Mathilde had drawn to make her sister laugh. She wondered again about the logistics of him fitting into that small car. Leading the way, Mathilde returned to the drawing room where the triptych was still propped up against the sofa. Oliver’s eyes roved around the walls, taking in the antiquity of the building’s interior.
‘Amazing,’ he breathed as he gazed at the painting. He’d removed an eye glass from his pocket and leaning as close as he could without disturbing it, he slowly looked over every inch. ‘Where did you say you found this?’
‘In the chapel; it’s a private one for the occupants of the house. The painting was hidden behind a wooden panel,’ Rachel replied, ‘we can show you later if you want.’
Mathilde was standing to one side, her arms wrapped around her body as she watched Oliver scrutinising the picture. She noticed he was humming to himself under his breath and it made her smile. She was content to wait until he’d seen everything he needed to but Rachel was more impatient.
‘So, what do you make of it? Is it as old as it looks?’ she asked, ‘and what’s this coat of arms on the frame? Would that belong to whoever had originally owned the painting?’
‘From first look, I’d guess it’s possibly sixteenth century, or earlier, maybe fifteenth. If I can collect some shards of both the paint and frame to have them carbon dated then we’ll know for sure. It’s in the style of Hieronymus Bosch; all these little people in scenes remind me of his Garden of Earthly Delights. But although the style is similar, this is far cruder. Of course, it may be a facsimile. The testing will confirm either way, although, given how you found it, it seems unlikely.’ He examined the crest on top of the frame. ‘This crest has the crowned English lion rampant of the Tudor royal family, just here, can you see? Together with a crown on the top. It was treason to include that on a coat of arms unless it belonged to the monarch, or they decreed it. In fact, this appears to be the royal crest which might mean this once belonged to the sovereign. That may explain why it was boarded up, if it was stolen. You wouldn’t be able to show it off if you valued your head staying on your shoulders.’ He roared with laughter at his own joke but his amusement was infectious and both the women joined in.
‘How about a coffee while we show you where we found it and then we can discuss what needs to happen next?’ Rachel suggested. Oliver looked reluctant to leave the triptych but after taking several photos on his phone he was finally ready.
‘If it’s okay with you, I’ll take some samples as we discussed? I can do some very basic cleaning of it here but obviously a full restoration can be done at a later date at the university art department or a gallery or museum if you prefer, once we know what we’re dealing with. But it’s very exciting; you may have unearthed a masterpiece.’
Taking their coffee with them they all walked over to the chapel. As it came into view Oliver whistled through his teeth in a low hiss.
‘How amazing to have this on your property,’ he said, ‘made of local stone, so it’s been here at least as long as the house and quite possibly longer. Has it been
in use as a place of worship?’
‘Not for several years,’ Rachel admitted, ‘I asked my aunt, who lived here as a child, but she said nobody has been in it recently. She wasn’t very happy that we had either. She lives in the farmhouse on the estate now, if you want to ask her any questions.’
‘How long has the house been in the family?’
‘Goodness knows, but a long time. Our father said it was generations.’
Listening to the conversation, Mathilde felt a stab of sadness that she hadn’t had the same opportunities as her sister to ask their father any questions. There were so many things she wanted to know and now she’d never get the chance.
Inside, the sunlight streamed in through the grubby windows, the caked-on dirt filtering the light into soft shafts catching the dust particles hanging in the air, disturbed by the draught they’d caused. Oliver wandered around the tiny room gazing around him, his eyes wide, before coming to a stop beside them in front of the wall where they’d discovered the painting.
‘What a fabulous place,’ he said, ‘just imagine having this on your doorstep. It must have looked amazing when it was in use. And this is where you found it?’ he pointed at the wall, ‘did you say it was behind a panel?’
‘Yes, this,’ Mathilde showed him the piece of wood, still leant together with the smaller piece against a pew. ‘There’s a picture here of a locket and chain which we have in the house. This was also covered up,’ she added, indicating the memorial stone on the wall. Oliver took a step closer to look at it.
‘I wonder why they were both hidden,’ he mused, ‘I can’t read this but I expect a colleague could take a look; it might give us a clue. There’s definitely someone’s name which you’d expect on a memorial plaque.’
‘So, what’s next?’ Mathilde asked as they walked back out into the open.
‘I’ll take some fragments for testing as I suggested and then would you mind if I came back with some cleaning brushes to remove the worst of the grime so we can have a better look?’ He was smiling at both of them and Mathilde, who at five foot ten inches was not used to having to look up at people, realised she needed to tilt her head back in order to see his face. She liked his open smile, his white, even teeth and the way his blue eyes crinkled at the sides.
‘Yes, come back again,’ she told him. As he drove away down the drive, she realised with a shock, she was still smiling.
Chapter Seventeen
July 1584
Tom had almost forgotten about Walsingham, his days busy with work, tending his plants and trying to catch the occasional glimpse of Isabel who sometimes walked in the gardens whilst he was outside in the physic garden. In fact, she often appeared to be there at the same time as him when the weather was fine. After her visit to the stillroom he frequently thought about the way she had smiled at him and his heart beat faster. He cherished the moments he saw her from a distance but his heart sank knowing that was all he’d ever have.
The low supplies of vanilla continued to worry Hugh and Tom. The Queen was requesting more and more custards and tarts to be flavoured with the sweetness she loved and the two men went out one morning to search the warehouses at both Wheatsheaf and Baynard Castle to try and buy more. The sooner they could grow their own, the better.
As the wherry, the small, two-person boat slowly made its way up the Thames towards the city, Tom looked around him taking everything in. The river was full of boats, from small ones similar to the one they sat in to huge ships berthed as they waited for their turn to dock at Customs House and have their freight unloaded. On the far bank the village of Rotherhithe crouched amongst the marshy fields dotted with grazing sheep. Small, wood framed houses with spirals of smoke climbing into the sky huddled around a lone church. The murky, pewter grey water slapped against the side of the boat splashing up droplets making his knitted hose damp.
Only one merchant could provide some vanilla; having no idea what it was used for he hadn’t been able to sell it on. Hugh and Tom were delighted to take the large bundle of pods from him. It would keep them going at the palace for a while and they explained to him that he could charge a handsome price if he brought more to the palace.
With their valuable prize tucked under Tom’s jerkin, Hugh encouraged Tom to follow him with a wave of his hand; there was something he wanted to see. Happy to be away from work for a few hours, Tom did as he was bid and they hurried along the city streets. He realised that the crowd surrounding them were all heading in the same direction and it was starting to increase. Amongst all the jostling it was difficult to keep up with Hugh and Tom wondered where they were all going.
Eventually the throng stopped in front of a wide, open space surrounded by tall elm trees, their densely packed leaves dancing in the breeze as a fine rain draped over the waiting crowd like a morose blanket. Tom recognised they were at Tyburn and before him a wooden scaffold with gallows on top swayed slightly in the wind. He wriggled through the crowd until he was stood next to Hugh and nudging him with his elbows, he raised his eyebrows.
‘There’s going to be a hanging,’ Hugh demonstrated a rope around his neck. Tom nodded, even he could work that out, but he wondered why there was such an enormous crowd gathered. He pointed to the people all around and pulled his questioning face again. ‘He’s a traitor,’ Hugh explained, ‘It’s Throckmorton.’ He repeated the word slowly. ‘Remember I told you he was plotting to kill our Queen? Well now he is about to receive his punishment.’ Tom didn’t understand most of what he’d just been told; it would have to wait until they were back at the palace with the wax tablet.
He stood with the rest of the onlookers, their faces alight with expectation and he could tell from their jeering faces just how much they were enjoying the spectacle as the prisoner was dragged up onto the scaffold. A priest was praying for his soul but Tom was certain that even if he’d been able to hear the man his words would have been lost in the noise from the crowd who were pushing and shoving as their enthusiasm swelled. Within minutes, the man was thrust up onto a tall step and the rope placed over his head. With a heavy boot the executioner kicked the stool away from underneath the prisoner, his body jerking and dancing as the rope tightened and squeezed the life from him. Tom’s stomach heaved and although the others around him – men, women and even young children – continued to watch on enthralled, he looked down at the grass beneath his feet. The fragrant scent from the vanilla still inside his jerkin caught in his throat.
Pushing his way out of the mob around him he stood at the back where he could breathe more easily and waited for the nauseous feeling to subside. Slowly the people were beginning to drift away and after a couple of minutes he felt Hugh touch him on the arm and they began to make their way towards the river to find a wherry to take them back to work. For once Tom was pleased he couldn’t talk, he didn’t want to discuss what he’d just witnessed. Why people found watching another man killed entertaining, he had no idea.
Back in the stillroom, Hugh found the wax tablet and wrote out a brief explanation for Tom about why the hanging had been so important. How this man had been in collaboration with both the Spanish and the English Catholics to remove Queen Elizabeth from the throne and the Queen’s spies had found evidence damning him. Tom began to realise the extent of the work Walsingham carried out and exactly why he shouldn’t displease the spymaster. He was certain it wouldn’t take much to make him angry and Tom didn’t want to find himself swinging on the end of a rope. The sick feeling from earlier washed over him once more.
Chapter Eighteen
August 1584
Kneeling at the edge of a newly turned patch of earth Tom carefully plucked the top shoots of mint from the bush, the smell of rich, fertile promises making him nod to himself in appreciation. A movement to one side made him turn and he saw Lady Isabel bending and picking stalks of the abundant lavender which grew around the borders in both the physic and kitchen gardens. Noticing him watching she inclined her head and scrambling to his feet he bowed
to her whilst rubbing his muddy hands against his jerkin. Expecting her to turn away and continue with what she was doing to his surprise she walked across smiling as if she’d come to the garden hoping to see him.
‘Good morrow, Tom Lutton,’ she spoke slowly, her eyes vibrant as if she was lit up from within. He bowed again and waited for her to continue. ‘As you can see, I am selecting some lavender flowers to dry and use for pomanders, could you please assist me?’ He knew how cherished the silver or gold perforated case filled with sweet smelling flowers and spices was for disguising bad smells that often accumulated inside.
Nothing could please him more than accompanying her as they strolled around the gardens and he selected the finest scented blooms for her. He was convinced she’d sought him out and as their eyes caught and held for a moment, he hoped she felt the same attraction that he did. Albeit one that was doomed; the chasm of their positions in society a vast gulf between them.
He could have walked with her all day but as they strolled together she suddenly tapped him on the arm and pointed behind them. Turning around he spotted a small page boy who came to a halt in front of him. His inability to notice if someone walked slowly towards him from behind was a constant concern to him. If someone strode on dry, hard ground or indoor floorboards he could feel the vibrations beneath him but soft wet grass absorbed all indications and warnings. He looked down at the impish face of a young page, his dark hair a shining cap on his head. Tom smiled at him and after a moment’s hesitation the boy gave a quick smile in return. He could just imagine what had been said to the page, given his worried face; probably that he was a monster. The child bowed to Isabel and then beckoned to Tom to follow. With a wry smile of apology Tom bowed his head to the woman he’d rather have stayed with and followed the page.
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