Their guest was already in the drawing room with the triptych and Rachel carried through cups of coffee and a packet of Jaffa Cakes. He got to his feet as they entered and gave Mathilde a warm smile that made her stomach flip in a way completely alien to her. She couldn’t help a shy grin as she turned away, sitting down in an armchair and deliberately avoiding the seat next to him on the sofa. Thankfully Oliver didn’t seem to notice her reticence and immediately began to explain his findings.
‘I have an excellent update,’ he announced, ‘as I suspected the triptych itself is mid to late sixteenth century. The paint has been analysed but it’s thrown up some anomalies because some of it has a different chemical compound to other samples, indicating it was made in different places. Possibly different countries. I showed the photos I took to some colleagues who specialise in ecclesiastical art from the Middle Ages but they didn’t immediately recognise the style. It’s similar to Bosch and yet more naïve; it’s possibly a copy or facsimile. However, the exciting thing is this.’ He stood up and pointed to the crest at the top centre of the frame. ‘This crest doesn’t belong to your ancestors or whoever painted this because it’s the coat of arms of the monarch. Or, to be more precise, Queen Elizabeth I. Isn’t that incredible?’
‘Wait, what? Are you saying this belonged to her? Was it stolen and brought here?’ Rachel held up her hand to stop him talking for a moment, her mouth open in surprise.
‘Who knows? If it is and it could be proven it would be reclaimed by the government for sure. But they would have to establish that, otherwise it’s yours. It adds to the provenance of the period though. If it’s okay with you I’ll give it a rudimentary clean and then we can see what we’ve got here more easily. I’ve still got some feelers out with experts across the world, so we may yet get more answers.’ He looked to the two women for agreement.
‘Yes, of course,’ Rachel answered, ‘what about the plaque that was also hidden, have you got any answers about that?’
‘Not yet but maybe we can take a closer look another day?’
‘Good idea. So, what do you need for your cleaning?’ Rachel got to her feet as if to start collecting items but Oliver held up his hand to stop her.
‘I have everything I need,’ he explained, indicating the canvas bag at his feet, ‘but it’s quite dark in here. Do any of the other rooms have better daylight? Could we move it? And if you have some old towels that would be helpful. I don’t want to spoil anything, although I’ll be very gentle so unlikely to do any harm.’ Again, there was that smile making Mathilde feel a warmth creep down inside her. After the disastrous start to her day, her tiny break-through with Fleur followed by Oliver’s open friendship had gone some way to mend her mood.
‘Of course.’ Rachel nodded. ‘Let’s put it on the table in the dining room.’ She and Oliver lifted it and began to carry it through, while Mathilde went on ahead opening doors.
As Rachel took Fleur through to start making lunch Mathilde settled back down in her chair, crossing her long legs and tucking her feet underneath to watch what was about to be revealed by the cleaning process. Pulling her phone out of her pocket she typed ‘Queen Elizabeth I’ into Wikipedia and started to read about this queen who’d possibly had a connection to her new home. She felt a ripple spin through the air in the room and turning around she looked for an open window but there was none. Something had disturbed the atmosphere and she rubbed her arms briskly as a chill crept along them.
The triptych was now propped up on the dining table which was still covered by a dust sheet. Rachel had insisted on a proper cover, explaining the walnut veneered table was an antique, and she’d protected it further with a thick wadding of felt on which Oliver assembled an easel.
‘This is only preliminary cleaning,’ he explained, ‘it can have a professional restoration at a later date; either an auction house or a museum can organise that. And in the meantime please don’t touch any of it. The oils and sweat from your fingertips could do untold damage. Where it’s been hidden for so long it’s helped preserve the pigments in the paints but this will soon start to degrade. It’s also better if you keep the curtains closed in here when I’m not working so the sun doesn’t do any harm either.’
From time to time Mathilde darted glances towards Oliver as he worked, the pair of them in silence. She noticed how he caught his tongue between his teeth as he concentrated and it made her smile, such a simple quirk and yet it made him more human. As if he could tell she was observing him he suddenly looked up and their eyes met. Her heart thumped hard in her chest.
‘Come and watch,’ he suggested, his eyes creasing at the edges as he smiled. They were the clearest blue colour she’d ever seen, the sort that appeared in children’s picture book illustrations but were never found in real life.
‘Are you sure I won’t disturb you?’ She was embarrassed he’d caught her watching and although she wanted to run from the room she was too interested in what he was doing.
‘No of course not. But stand well behind me so that if you make any movements it won’t cause a draught. I don’t want any of the debris I am trying to remove getting blown back across a section I’ve already cleaned.’
Getting to her feet she skirted around the edge of the room, sliding between the pieces of furniture still hidden by dust sheets until she was leant against a window jamb. She watched over his broad shoulder as he delicately swept the surface with a fine brush until eventually he stood up and beckoned her over.
‘I’ve made a good start,’ he pointed to the left-hand panel which was now considerably lighter than the other two, ‘but it needs proper restoration to show the colours in their true intensity. All these scenes are connected, I think, as if it is one person’s journey.’
Mathilde moved closer so she could see, conscious of the heat from Oliver’s body beside her and the musky scent he gave off mixed with a warm spicy aftershave.
‘So have you lived here your whole life?’ Oliver spoke as he continued to work, stooping over the triptych. ‘It really is the most incredible house.’
‘Non, no.’ She explained briefly about what had happened over the past few weeks, the letter that had led her to the house and the discovery her father hadn’t died in Beirut as her mother had been told. That he’d spent years looking for them, if only they’d known.
‘Wow, that’s a lot to take in. Your head must be all over the place.’ He turned slightly to look at her so their eyes met. She smiled and nodded.
‘A whole new family, and the knowledge that right here was my proper childhood, the one I didn’t get the chance to live.’
‘So what will you do, are you going to live here now?’ Oliver had turned back to his cleaning as he talked.
‘No, although Rachel really wants me to … but no, I need to keep on the move. I’m just staying for the summer.’ She paused for a moment before continuing, trying to both change the subject and distract herself from the attraction she was feeling standing so close to him. ‘So, what else can you tell me about the painting? Have you any idea who the artist was or how it got here?’ All around her the air quivered and she wondered if he could feel it too.
‘Not yet and to be honest we may never do so. But once it’s properly clean, hopefully we’ll know more. I need to do some more research, see if any of my colleagues in universities on the continent have seen anything similar. Now, let me cover it up then I can give you a hand to close the curtains again and I must be on my way.’ Mathilde felt a stab of disappointment that he was leaving before reminding herself he was only there because of the triptych.
The curtains proved to be difficult to close and they were both soon laughing at their own efforts. As the final pair came together and the room was plunged into a semi darkness, Mathilde almost tripped in her efforts, stopped from falling forwards by Oliver’s hands on her arms as he helped her upright. She could feel the heat of them burning through to her skin, his chest only inches from hers. She looked up at him in the half light, f
or a moment his pale eyes holding hers before he let go and laughed a little, brushing his hands against his trousers.
‘It’s a good thing you don’t have to open and close these every day,’ his voice sounded thick as he quickly stepped back. There had been a flash of magnetism and she was certain he’d felt it too.
Long after she’d closed the front door and the sound of his car had disappeared, the heat in her body continued to curl its way further down inside.
Chapter Twenty-Two
September 1584
Tom wasn’t surprised to receive a summons from Walsingham the morning following his visit to The Magpie. A page arrived with a note telling him to go not to the usual apartment but to the Walsingham family home on Seething Lane. Clutching a map drawn for him by one of the secretaries, he set off. He also carried a full purse of coins to try and purchase some vanilla at the merchant warehouses at Queenshithe quay. They’d almost run out again and although he’d nurtured the plants he’d brought with him he had not been able to encourage any flowers to grow. He had no idea how or when the plant would produce blooms but he was certain that unless it happened, there was no chance of cultivating the black pods filled with seeds which produced the sweet creamy flavour now loved by the courtiers and of course, Her Majesty. Whatever the Queen wanted, she got. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that.
The weather hadn’t improved overnight and Tom tried to skirt along close to the buildings to shelter under the overhanging upper floors but after narrowly avoiding a bucket of slops left out for the night-soil man to collect, he moved out into the street. This was not without its dangers and he was knocked sideways as a water carrier’s horse, spooked at a noise he hadn’t heard, danced across the cobbles and barrelled into him, almost sending him flying and soaking him in the process. People around him looked askance and he realised they’d probably been shouting at him to get out of the way. It wasn’t the first time his lack of hearing had resulted in an injury; he still had a deep scar under his hair where a raft of roof tiles had cascaded down upon him. Often, he could tell in advance something was about to happen because of the reactions of people around but not if they were behind him. Rubbing his shoulder, he looked down at his map and walked past St Olave’s Church, cutting through the churchyard. He paused for a moment to take a drink from the lead conduit on the church wall, from which locals could collect their water, and then proceeded on to the leafy wide Seething Lane. Opposite him stood Knollys Inn, here there were less people and the houses were considerably larger, their huge oak frames infilled with majestic red bricks instead of the pale wattle and daub panels of the small and cramped together city houses. As with every city there was a huge gap between the rich and the poor.
It didn’t take long to find Walsingham’s stately looking manor house; exactly what Tom expected from a man who had the ear of the Crown.
The rooms were airy and despite the small windows still appeared reasonably light. The boards beneath his feet were covered in rush mats, the walls hung with thick, luxurious tapestries and colourful paintings of what appeared to be heroes from Greek myths. He followed the steward into a room dominated by a huge, ornately carved wooden desk. Two walls were covered in shelving mostly stacked with documents and bound files, with an occasional book bound by thick ribbed leather laid on its side as if placed there momentarily and never returned to; by someone busy with fingers in numerous pies. A man who devoted his life to protecting his Queen.
‘Well?’ Walsingham was sitting in a big wooden chair behind the desk. Tom noticed there was nowhere for him to sit down. He’d written down everything he’d seen and he handed it over. He’d wanted to give a full account of what he’d seen but the previous evening sitting beside a paltry fire in the stillroom with a stinking tallow candle and his still damp clothes freezing into ice prickling against his skin had made him desperate to write it all as quickly as possible. Over the years his writing had become similar to his sign language where one word could communicate a whole sentence; it was far more condensed than talking. He’d remembered to get up early and simplify it where necessary into a document that could be understood by anyone, before he arrived before his new master.
‘You have done well,’ Walsingham said slowly, ‘this way of writing is very interesting and I am pleased with your work. I will have more jobs for you in the future. For the present though you are dismissed.’ He rummaged in a small wooden coffer on the desk and tossed a coin over to Tom who caught it before he waved his hand in dismissal. Turning to leave the room Tom quickly glanced at what he held. A quarter-angel: now that made a stinking night in a tavern and having to walk the dangerous streets in icy rain worth it. Smiling to himself he set off for the warehouses where Hugh had suggested he try to purchase more vanilla.
There had only been a small amount of the spice available and Tom spent hours walking from merchant to merchant around the warehouses at the foul smelling docks where the effluence from London’s streets flowed into the river. As he approached London Bridge, its wide arches marching across the wide river, the wooden buildings on top so tall they looked as if they would topple over and into the fast-flowing, churning current beneath, he saw some guards pulling a bloated body from the water. He averted his eyes from the gruesome heads on spikes as he passed underneath, their eyes pecked out from hollow dark sockets, skin pulled back from the teeth in a rictus grin. After seeing Throckmorton’s execution and Hugh explaining the constant dangers faced by the Queen he now understood why Walsingham wanted the gruesome body parts of conspirators displayed at city gates or here on the bridge to deter others. It was not far to Traitors’ Gate at the Tower, the entrance that nobody wanted to cross. There was rarely a return journey and passing by these heads was sure to remind those prisoners of their fate.
A pale watery sun was finally trying to break through the clouds making the wet limestone beneath his feet shine and Tom screwed his eyes up, temporarily blinded. He could tell from where it hung above him together with the growling deep in his belly that it was already past lunchtime and he still had an errand of his own to run. One that would be made more pleasant thanks to the coin in his pocket. Turning westwards he headed towards the burnt spire of St Paul’s, no longer standing high above the buildings that surrounded it after a bolt of lightning had all but destroyed it.
The streets surrounding the great cathedral were busy. The repulsive stench from Fish Street market turned his stomach and he decided against sating his hunger with a pie, instead pushing on to the enormous churchyard full of bustling bookbinders, goodwives shopping and preachers reading from religious tracts. Tom could see the zeal they felt without needing to be able to hear them as he tried to edge his way through the throng. He kept his eyes alert at all times for the numerous street urchins who darted through the crowds on skinny legs and bare feet looking for an opportunity to snatch anything which could contribute to their next meal. The shops in the vicinity of St Paul’s were mostly book shops and printers but Tom was certain he could find what he was looking for. Away from the smell of fish his empty stomach refused to be ignored and after buying himself a hot pasty from a street trader he set off down Paternoster Row where he soon spied a shop selling inks, quills … and paints.
When Tom returned to the stillroom it was mid-afternoon and Hugh had a scowl on his face; no doubt displeased with how long he’d been without his assistant. Hugh’s muscles were taut as he ground something into powder in the mortar, the still with its candles burning beneath the glass flasks bubbling with a pale yellow liquid giving off a noxious gas, and instantly Tom identified the smell of crushed prunella flowers and juniper oil. He showed how little vanilla he’d been able to purchase and Hugh pulled a face at the paltry amount. They really needed to be able to cultivate their own, Tom thought. Removing his jerkin he left it in his room with the paints he’d just purchased still in the pocket.
He helped Hugh pour the liquid he’d created into a small earthenware jar. Snatching up the table book, a
small memo pad they used to communicate when Tom’s tablet wasn’t handy and simple lip reading or signing wasn’t enough, he wrote that one of the Queen’s ladies, Cordelia Annesley, was complaining of a bad cough and Tom was to take the remedy up to the withdrawing room. He’d noticed that Hugh, who often had trouble with his lungs, had all but given up walking upstairs when he could send agile Tom to run the errands. He didn’t mind, enjoying the opportunity to gaze at the luxurious opulence of the royal chambers where everything shone. No wonder when the Queen was so much closer to God than her subjects.
He’d been sent previously to the withdrawing chamber so knew where he was going, passing through each set of guards as he made his way towards the Queen’s inner sanctum. He was never sure if she’d also be in situ but just in case he pulled a rag from his pocket and rubbed it over his face in case he was still grubby after the soot and grime from the streets he’d walked that morning.
Outside the chamber stood two further guards. He held up the jar and knowing he couldn’t speak they just nodded and opened the door. Stepping inside behind one of the guards Tom watched him say ‘the apothecary’ which made him smile and wonder what Hugh would say to that. Maybe as he never ventured upstairs now people didn’t realise he was still working for the Queen.
To his surprise, instead of a group of ladies sewing, playing the lute or enjoying a game of cards, there were only two women present. One of whom he suspected was his patient. Sure enough she took the proffered medicine and hurried through a door to the rear, leaving Tom and the guard together with the other lady in the room who remained seated. The most beautiful woman in the palace, indeed the whole of England. He gazed at Isabel, a small smile spreading across his face making his eyes crease up in delight. He wanted to stand there for hours just looking at her but having delivered the medication he knew the guard was waiting for him to leave. He bowed low and Isabel, whose face had remained completely straight despite the sparkle in her eyes, inclined her head in dismissal. He turned and left the room, his heart beating hard in his chest.
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