2

In the next few days Michael and Gregory Wood were very stretched. There was a house sale in Yorkshire which had to be visited, an offer of some eighteenth-century portraits from Ireland, which took another forty-eight hours out of the schedule, and Michael had to dance attendance on an Australian collector who suddenly appeared in London and expressed a serious interest in the Gainsborough. That meant three breakfasts in a row at the Westbury Hotel.

Then there was Robyn’s wedding. Michael’s younger sister had so far led an itinerant life. A zoologist by training, she had spent her early twenties in some of the remotest spots on earth, studying the local animals. Now she was one of the staff at a safari park near Bath. Her husband-to-be was a young Oxford don and, since Michael and Robyn’s father was dead, it fell to the brother to give Robyn away. The wedding was held in the local church in Somerset and Robyn, for once, was too nervous to tease Michael. He made her laugh when he told her that her old-fashioned lace dress made her look ‘Ottobloodycento’, and she was delighted with his present, a small oil by Rolandt Savery showing the animals entering the ark. His mother looked more relaxed than he had seen her since his father had died and he travelled back to London feeling very content and ready to make a few inquiries on Isobel Sadler’s behalf.

When she arrived back at the gallery two weeks after her first visit, Michael saw her not in the inner sanctum but in his office on the first floor, above the main showroom. She was led upstairs by Elizabeth Allsopp, his secretary. This time Isobel Sadler had left her raincoat downstairs to dry, and Michael thought the green dress she was wearing underneath did not entirely suit her colouring. He noticed that the plaster had been removed from her cheek. But her hair still flopped down one side of her face and she looked more Hayworth than ever.

‘No more burglaries, I hope?’ he said after she sat down.

‘No, thank God. And just as well. With all the rain we’ve had since I last saw you, we’re dropping behind with the silage.’ She brushed her hair off her face in a gesture Michael was already fond of. ‘Any news?’

Michael pointed up behind her head. She turned. His small office, which had two high windows looking out into Mason’s Yard, was lined from floor to ceiling with art books and auction catalogues, save for one spot, opposite his desk, which he kept free to hang his favourite picture of the moment, or something he was researching. Isobel Sadler’s picture hung there now.

‘When we have dinner—’ He smiled and held his hand up to steady her as she turned back to him eagerly. ‘There’s good news—and there’s bad news. On the one hand, yes, I think I have solved your mystery … on the other hand, it’s a good bet that I’ve uncovered a more tantalising one.’

She put an elbow on the edge of his desk and rested her chin in her hand. ‘Ryan was right; you are a good detective.’

Michael shook his head. ‘Hold on. So far it hasn’t been difficult. If I’m right, the real problems are just beginning.’

He took a cigar from the ashtray and wedged it into his mouth. He had taken off his jacket, revealing a pair of bright scarlet braces. He hooked a thumb inside one and rocked back in his chair.

‘Let’s get the Holbein thing out of the way first. I showed your picture to Frank Cobbold at the National Gallery—he’s the top-ranking Holbein scholar in Britain at the moment—and he confirmed there is not even the smell of the master in your painting. So you can forget that.’

She moved slightly and bit her lip. She blew the cigar smoke back towards him. ‘What else?’

‘I can’t rush this. I’ve got to give it to you in the right order or it’s confusing.’ He looked out into the yard. The weather had indeed changed: sluicing rain, bang on schedule to drench the rented morning-suits and fancy hats at Ascot races. He pulled on his cigar. ‘Cobbold also pointed out what I should have remembered. There were almost no English landscape painters of the sixteenth century. Your picture may have been painted in England but the artist himself was possibly Flemish. I haven’t actually been able to find out who painted the picture but, as I shall show you in a moment, that may not matter. In fact, let’s forget the picture completely to begin with and concentrate on the documents you didn’t buy. I know you didn’t ask me to, but the first thing I did, after that quick check with Cobbold, was with Sotheby’s. I thought I’d take a closer look at the documents in question. You may not have noticed but, according to Sotheby’s catalogue, the documents you tried to acquire were the property of one Matthew Hope—does that name mean anything to you?’

Isobel Sadler shook her head.

‘Since he wasn’t bothered about anonymity, Sotheby’s were happy to give me his address. Hope is a retired vicar living in Lincolnshire. Here I had a stroke of luck, since I had to go to Yorkshire for another reason. So instead of going by train I took my car and called in on the old boy. He was a talkative old chap and didn’t mind in the least that Sotheby’s had given me his address. At seventy-eight he still has all his marbles and was glad of the company. Like you he’s interested in the sixteenth century but in his case, being a vicar, his main concern is in how English Protestantism grew out of English Catholicism. He was naturally very interested in the dissolution of the monasteries and used to have quite a collection of documents relating to the whole business. I say “used to” because he’s been selling them off, bit by bit, to supplement his pension.’

Isobel Sadler nodded reflectively. Michael could see she identified with the poor man.

‘The ones you were interested in were just the latest batch to come under the hammer. But—and this is the good news—he has kept photocopies of everything he ever had. I told him, quite openly, that I had come on a simple errand, on my way north to a house sale in Yorkshire. I said that a friend of mine whose ancestors were mentioned in the latest batch of papers which he had sold had wanted to buy them but had been pipped at the post, so to speak. Yes, he said, they had fetched more than he expected. So I asked if he would be willing to let me take away a photocopy of his photocopy of the documents. He didn’t mind at all and, after a couple of sherries and I had given him an opinion on a painting he had, off we went into Market Rasen together to the photocopying shop.’

Michael leaned forward, placed his cigar back in the ashtray and reached into a drawer in his desk. He took from it a folder with some sheets of paper inside. ‘Here they are. They could be clearer but I think they are good enough for what we want.’

Isobel Sadler lifted her chin off her hand and took the folder. She opened it and scanned the papers. After a brief moment, she looked up. ‘These aren’t letters. And they’re in Latin.’

‘You don’t read it?’

The eyebrows lifted. ‘I’m a farmer.’

Michael nodded. ‘I know you were mainly concerned with the letters. They are in a separate file in the drawer here. But the Latin documents are much more interesting.’

‘Oh yes? Why?’

‘The important one consists of an inventory, a list of things that were in a monastery in Somerset, near the village of Monksilver. Now, I’ve checked in the history books and that was indeed one of the monasteries that Bad Bill was involved with. Sir William visited Monksilver in November 1537 to assess its assets and supervise its break-up. That time, however, it seems that he was too late. Most of the more valuable assets had gone by the time he arrived. Two of the letters you were interested in relate to his arrival at Monksilver, to find only the lead roof intact and some of the stained glass. On the other hand, most of the other treasures—and there was quite a lot—had vanished. Salted away into the Somerset air.’

Michael took back the photocopied documents from Isobel Sadler and arranged them in front of him. ‘Monksilver, I have found out, was a rich monastery. The monks were medical men, would you believe? And they had a number of wealthy patrons—patients, in effect, whom they had cured.’ He noticed a puzzled look on Isobel Sadler’s face and explained what he had himself learned only days before. ‘This was before the age of medicine proper, don’t forget. The monks were educated men and a lot of them were travellers: they picked up cures and treatments on their travels and learned how to use herbs as drugs. There was another similar monastery at Evesham and that also became rich through medicine—it was by no means unheard of.’

‘Rich monks?’

‘The monks took a vow of poverty of course but the money they made went back to the monastery and not just into the fabric of the building—they bought books and manuscripts, commissioned candlesticks, reliquaries, jewelled crosses. It became famous for its treasures—most of which were silver. That’s why the village is now called Monksilver.

‘None of it was ever found, either then by Sir William or later. According to legend—I’ve checked this in the books too—the monks took the silver north, intending to hide it in one of the many caves in the Mendip Hills. Unfortunately, they were in so much of a hurry that they took a short cut across the estuary of the River Parrett north of Bridgwater. So weighed down were the carts they were using, allegedly, that they could only travel at two miles an hour. Hence the need for a short cut. Unfortunately, they made the crossing of the Parrett in October when the tides in the Severn Channel are especially strong.’ Michael picked up a pair of scissors and dropped them on to the desk in front of him. ‘They got caught halfway across the estuary and the whole lot sank in quicksand and disappeared.’

Isobel Sadler groaned, but Michael held up his hand. ‘However, an inventory was found, a list of the most beautiful things that once adorned the abbey. Sir William even refers to it in one of his letters. Look—’ Michael took another file from his drawer. He drew out a sheet and turned it so that Isobel could read what he was pointing at:

Monksilver was as barren as a nun’s belly. Deceiving Order! Roman Rogues! An Index of furnishings showed a dowry that the King, and I, had been jilted of. Monksilver wasn’t worth a copper.

Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and went on, ‘The monks, obviously having good connections through their medical work, had been given a warning about Sir William’s visit. It didn’t happen that often, but it happened. Now, look at this inventory.’

Isobel Sadler leaned forward. Michael turned another paper and pushed it across to her. ‘This is a rough translation from the Latin. My sister’s got a new husband who’s an Oxford don. He helped.’

What Isobel read was:

‘Oh Lord, protect us and all that is yours.

Grant us thy vision and a faithful spirit to follow thy

path in troubled times.

Lead us, Lord.

Those who seek the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth

shall surely find thee, for thou hast said,

“I am the Way.”

The keys to the Kingdom of Heaven are thine alone.’

The Abbey of St Peter, at Monksilver

This Register was writ

in the year of Our Lord

1537

*One hand reliquary, in silver, with an emerald ring on the third finger. Ruby windows (no bones).

*One map of the True Cross, in silver with emerald stations.

*An eagle vase, in polished porphyry with a gold head and, as handles, gilt wings.

*An elephant-ivory crosier, showing three scenes from the Life of Christ. The knop set with cloisonné enamelled plaques representing the Blessed Virgin and Child. Silver-gilt panels show saints and angels.

*Four candlesticks, silver-gilt, showing fish, lions, dragons and griffins, overcome by man.

*Jewelled gospels from France, showing the Passion with the blood of rubies and a silver clasp.

*Incense boat and censer in German silver, a lion at each end of the boat, and the censer filigreed.

*Silver-gilt chalice from Spain, an ivory collar carved with leaves and, at the lip, the words ‘From hence is drunk the pure flow of the Divine Blood’.

* Altar cross, silver-gilt, set with amethysts and cornelians, and bearing miniatures painted on vellum. Tablets of glass cover lists of relics inside the cross.

No key but this

‘What’s a hand reliquary, and ruby windows?’ said Isobel Sadler. ‘And a map of the True Cross? The rest I think I understand. Just.’

‘Yes, they confused me too, so I asked an old friend at the V and A. A reliquary, as you know, is some sort of device containing the relics of a saint. A hand reliquary means it is a statue in the form of a hand. This one is made of silver and originally contained the bones of the saint’s hand—that’s why it was fashioned into that shape. Ruby windows means that the little glass panels in the fingers of the statue, so you can see the relics, were in fact made of rubies. A map of the True Cross, I now know, means it was a silver map of Europe and the Middle East showing all the places where pieces of the True Cross were believed to exist. The holy places were marked by emeralds. Hand reliquaries are not that unusual but silver ones are. The map is rarer—there is only one other known, in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.’

‘Engrossing, and grisly. But what has this to do with the picture?’

‘I was just coming to that. In the first place, there are apparently grounds for disbelieving that the Monksilver silver, so to speak, actually disappeared as legend has it.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Reverend Hope told me about that. Apparently, the Monksilver legend is identical with the story of the loss of King John’s state treasure, which disappeared in the sands of the Wash in October 1216. The details are exactly the same, down to the carts which could travel at only two miles per hour. The King John treasure really is in the quicksands of the Wash, for anyone to stumble across even today. So the Monksilver story may be just a smokescreen, to put Bad Bill and others like him off the scent.’

‘Are you saying—?’

‘Hold on. Hear what else I have to say first.’ He picked up his cigar from the ashtray and pulled on it. ‘Now, here’s the hot news. There is a link between the inventory and your painting.’

‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘There is?’

‘How many objects are listed in the inventory?’

She looked down and counted. ‘Nine.’

‘And how many figures in the painting?’

She turned and started to count again. ‘… nine, but—’

‘That’s right. Now look closer. Each figure in your picture is associated with something from this list! The man in the funny tunic is standing next to the eagle vase, the skeleton is holding the crosier—see?—one monk has the gospels, and the other has the candlestick. They are all there, all nine.’

She turned back to face Michael. ‘What does it mean?’

Now Michael got up and walked around his desk. He stood in front of the picture. ‘From here on, it’s guesswork. Pure theory. I haven’t checked what I’m going to say with any authority so I may be completely off the rails. But see if I can convince you.’ He paused and drew on his cigar. ‘Okay, here goes.’ He nodded towards the papers on his desk. ‘Have another look at the inventory. It tells us one thing we didn’t know before: the name of the abbey.’

‘St Peter’s.’

‘Exactly. Now look at the very last words on that list.’

Isobel Sadler moved her eyes down the paper. ‘“No key but this”—and then there’s a—well, it looks like a cross.’

‘Right! But a very special cross—’

The eyebrows were lifted, then lowered and bunched together as Isobel Sadler frowned. ‘The cross bar is lower than it should be?’

‘Abloodymazing! Ten out of ten. You’ve spotted it. Except that the bar is exactly where it ought to be—because it’s upside-down. Start with the fact that Monksilver was dedicated to St Peter. In the Bible, Peter was given the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven by Jesus. That’s why the papal insignia, at St Peter’s in Rome, are crossed keys. Then, according to legend, at the end of his life Peter was crucified upside-down.’ Michael loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. ‘Now move on to the possibility that these nine items were not lost in the sands of the Severn Estuary near Bridgwater but were hidden somewhere else. I think that the phrase “No key but this” followed by a drawing of an upside-down cross was intended as an indication of where the St Peter’s treasures had been put. The writer of the inventory is saying, in effect: “Look for another upside-down cross.” Now look at this.’

Michael turned and with the end of his finger traced the edge of the red curtain that partly shielded the chapel in the painting from view. Going from top to bottom, about half the way down, the curtain fell down a fraction to reveal, half hidden behind it, a small religious memento hanging on a wall. It was a metal moulding of a man being crucified upside-down.

‘And you think—’

‘Think is too hefty a word. If my sister were here she would say I’m playing Micawber again. But it is possible … possible that, taken with everything else, this upside-down cross links Monksilver Abbey, the inventory and your painting. The medieval mind adored riddles. They loved nothing so much as a session on the conundrums. They believed that secret wisdom was hidden in that way to keep it special. I reckon it is at least on the cards that the monks at Monksilver hid their treasures before Sir William arrived and that, not knowing what would happen to their order, whether they would be dispersed or imprisoned, or worse, the abbot commissioned this picture as a secret record of where the main treasures were hidden.’

‘Micawber? Or Machiavelli?’

‘Cruel—but hear me out. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries pictures were full of symbols, and educated people prided themselves on being able to “read” them. The abbot at Monksilver may have meant to keep the picture himself, or he may have intended to send it to another monk or abbot at a safer monastery. On the other hand, look at that prayer which was written as a preamble to the inventory. That’s also the kind of thing they did in those days … but read it again, knowing what you know now. It’s all about following paths, having a special vision, seeking heaven on earth, finding the key. Follow, seek, find: those are the verbs. Any other monk reading the prayer would also have known by then that the Monksilver treasures had gone. But no one else did get a chance to read it. Bad Bill got there first. Since it’s been in your family for such a long time, the picture must have been among the few things that Sir William did confiscate at Monksilver.’

Isobel Sadler frowned. ‘It’s neat, I grant you that, Ryan was certainly right about you—you do think like a detective. But you’re a gambler too. This sounds like long odds to me.’

‘Maybe. But there’s something else. Cobbold inadvertently suggested it when I showed the painting to him. He was the one who noticed the half-hidden crucifix. He told me that, although your picture wasn’t by Holbein, this device was borrowed from one of Holbein’s own pictures—in the National Gallery here in London, as it happens. The picture, called The Ambassadors, was painted in 1533 and shows two men wearing furs and surrounded by astronomical and mathematical instruments. But it also shows a crucifix half hidden by a curtain—I went to look at it only yesterday, to refresh my memory.’

‘You mean it’s the same crucifix?’

‘The similarity is marked, except that in Holbein’s painting the figure isn’t upside-down of course. Anyway, this device, according to Cobbold and all the textbooks, which I’ve also dipped into, is generally held to mean that the artist is saying that the truth, the Christian truth, is always hidden and that it can only be discovered through diligence and study. It all fits.’

He could see from the sparkle in Isobel Sadler’s eyes that, despite herself, she was beginning to believe him and to share his excitement. The silvery sheen coming off the wet paving stones in the Yard outside was reflected in her eyes. But she had one more doubt. ‘Why didn’t Sir William make the connection you have made? He was there, alive at a time when, as you say, they thought in conundrums.’

‘Good question. As a matter of fact I think Sir William did have some idea of what was afoot. That’s why I think he confiscated both the inventory and the picture. I think he intended to look for the treasure himself at a later date but he never got the chance. The king kept him very busy, and Bad Bill had better fish to fry than go chasing off after hidden silver. There were plenty of other monasteries less well organised than Monksilver. According to the Reverend Hope, Sir William was in Gloucester later that same month and Worcester after that. And, as you well know, he died before the year was out. It may have been then that the inventory and the picture were separated.’

‘But … wherever they were hidden, surely the monks retrieved them as soon as they could. You don’t think they are still—well, buried or locked up somewhere, do you? This all happened over four hundred years ago.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Now we get to the difficult bit. Do we go looking—or is that a romantic idea but a waste of time? Micawber mania, as my sister might call it. As you rightly say, it’s been four whole centuries since these things were hidden.’ He picked his cigar out of the ashtray and sucked the end. ‘But works of art do go missing for very many years. There is a censer and incense boat in the V and A which disappeared for five hundred years before turning up in Cambridgeshire—discovered by a man who was hunting for eels. Every year there are half a dozen great old masters found in someone’s attic or an old house in the country. The point is, so far as anyone knows, none of these nine very valuable objects has turned up anywhere. That means the odds are they are still in their hiding place—or lost for ever.’

‘How valuable are they?’ Isobel Sadler’s eyes gleamed.

‘Ah! Another good question. You may find your judgement even more muddled when you look at this.’ Michael returned to his desk and dipped into his drawer again. ‘It’s not easy to value objects like these, you know, since no two art works are exactly alike. But my friends at Sotheby’s helped out, checking against their computer records.’ He retrieved another sheet from the drawer and handed it to Isobel Sadler. ‘This is the best I can do, in the circumstances. The figures on the right are the auction records for objects as similar as I can find to those on the Monksilver list.’

Isobel Sadler put both elbows on the desk in front of her and leaned forward to look at the list. Almost immediately, she grunted involuntarily. What she read was:

1. Hand	£2,000,000
2. Map	£3,500,000
3. Eagle vase	£750,000
4. Ivory crozier	£450,000
5. Candlesticks	£1,000,000
6. Gospels	£4,000,000
7. Censer etc.	£1,000,000
8. Chalice	£450,000
9. Altar cross	£2,000,000
Total	£15,150,000

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘You should. The figures are, if anything, on the conservative side. For example, the world record for a manuscript, the Hughes de Lionne gospels, is $11 million, £8.1 million. But that was in 1983. The Monksilver gospels could fetch twice the value I have put on them.’

Isobel Sadler’s gaze kept alternating between Michael and the figures in front of her. ‘But … what I mean is.… if we found any of this, who would it belong to?’

‘Yet another good question. That depends partly on where it was found and partly on what happened to the order which St Peter’s belonged to.

‘The law on trove is clear: the stuff belongs to the Crown, which cedes it to the Treasury, which cedes it to the British Museum. If they take it—and they’d almost certainly take this—they pay the full market value to the finder.’ He paused. ‘In other words we would split more than fifteen million pounds, fifty-fifty. You could buy a few tractors with that.’

For a while there was silence in Michael’s office. The only sound was the distant hiss of traffic as it swished down Duke Street.

At length Isobel Sadler said, ‘I just can’t believe that something could remain hidden for so long without anyone finding it—or stumbling on it by accident.’

‘I know. But if that had happened the world would certainly know about it. Some of the treasure is so important it would have ended up in museums. We know that isn’t the case. Besides, aren’t you forgetting one other thing?’

‘Oh yes? What?’

‘Your burglar. He was convinced there is something in all this. I’ve asked around the dealers who specialise in medieval things, and the auction house people, and no one has ever heard of anybody called Molyneux. So he may have given you a false name. He may read Latin and therefore spotted the significance of the inventory. By itself it wasn’t worth a lot of money, of course, but it had academic interest, enough certainly for him to spend what he did spend. Your presence in the auction room, however, was a bonus. When he found out you were a Sadler, he must have seen his chance immediately. He wouldn’t have known about the picture, of course, not at that stage. He probably came down to your house hoping to spot one or more of the treasures from the inventory which, he hoped, you weren’t aware were so valuable. That’s how coups are made in the art world all the time. But when he saw the painting he must have noticed that the figures are holding the items from the inventory and he would have realised immediately how significant it was. That’s why he wanted it and that’s why he tried to steal it.’

‘So you’re convinced it was him, are you?’

Michael nodded.

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘For one very good reason, which I hope will finally convince you that we’re on to something. Look at this.’ He stood up again and walked round to the picture. He took a pencil from a jug and pointed to the part of the picture where the chapel altar was covered in a green cloth. ‘Look at the white lace edging. It’s very finely painted, see?’

Isobel Sadler turned and peered at the lace. ‘Yes?’

‘Now stand back a bit and look at the design overall. It’s very like the lace edging in one of Van Eyck’s paintings.’

‘But I don’t see—’

‘There’s some wording. Look, just here … three words picked out in lace.’

Isobel Sadler stared. ‘Good grief, you’re right! What does it say?’

‘It’s Old English. It says “Landskyp of Lees”. “Landscape of Lies”, in everyday English in the twentieth century. Your picture has a title, “Landscape of Lies”. Ask yourself why that should be …? Because, Isobel Sadler, this picture conceals the truth. Molyneux, or whatever his name is, may have spotted this when he came to visit you. He would have realised its significance straight away. That’s why he wanted it, why he wanted to steal it. Landscape of Lies. Now do you believe me?’

It was past noon and Michael thought they both needed a drink. He reached for a bottle of Islay malt which was hidden behind some books on Raeburn, Ramsay and Peploe—all ‘Scotch’ artists, which Michael regarded as a huge joke.

Isobel Sadler shook her head as Michael offered her a whisky. ‘I hope he was the burglar,’ she said. ‘Then I’ve maimed him.’

Michael had a glass in one hand and a cigar in the other. He was never happier. ‘In fact he was very crafty. It was cunning of him to offer you a thousand pounds to “swap” the picture for the other documents. If he’d offered you any more you might have been suspicious and if you had agreed he would have had both the inventory and the picture. As it is, the boot’s on the other foot. We have the important bit and he has nothing—what’s the matter?’

Isobel Sadler had jumped to her feet. ‘Oh no!’ She coughed as she regained her breath. ‘No, no. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t know it was important. It didn’t seem relevant.’ She took another breath. ‘When he turned up that day, when he said he had come across from Cirencester, and I showed him around, he brought a camera with him. I didn’t see him use it and he didn’t ask. But at one point I was called away to the phone. The vet, I think. For a few minutes Molyneux was alone and near the painting. He probably photographed it!’

There was a long silence in the room. It was still raining outside and pellets of water skidded down the windows, like tiny snails that left a hundred silver trails. At one point Patrick put his head round the door but before he could say anything Michael snapped, ‘Not now!’ Then, more softly, ‘Not now, Paddy. Later.’ The bow tie—today it was blue with yellow spots—vanished.

The silence resumed. Michael was again looking out of the window, down into Mason’s Yard. A new gallery had opened up recently, selling Scottish art. He had never imagined there to be so much, but the young man who ran the gallery seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. Michael watched him now as he took a number of canvases from the back of a car.

The rain worsened. Gusts of wind rattled the windows, as if the building shivered. Michael alternated between sips of whisky and pulls on his cigar. The blue smoke dissolved as it drifted from him, slipping away like the wake of a ship. He got up and went round the desk, to stand in front of the painting once more. Isobel Sadler turned in her seat.

‘So. Molyneux has a start on us. I don’t know why he needed to steal the original when he had a photograph. To stop anyone else following him, I suppose. Still, that’s not our main worry. The main thing is that he may be uncatchable, I’m afraid. It’s a pity about the photograph. A great pity. That snap may have cost you nearly eight million pounds. Still, what’s done is done, and we’ve either got to go forward or give up.’ He brushed his hand through his hair. ‘I’ll show you what I’ve worked out so far and then we can decide what we’re going to do. Whatever it is, the fact that Molyneux has a photograph means we have to decide today, now. He’s got enough start on us already. We mustn’t give him any more.’

Michael turned back to the painting and pointed the unlit end of his cigar at the canvas, at the chapel.

‘This is the easy bit. This is where we start. See this column here?’ He moved the cigar up and down a thick, red-brown marble column. ‘At the top there’s a scene carved into the capital—see?’

Isobel Sadler nodded.

‘A naked man and a naked woman, an apple and a serpent in a tree.’

‘Adam and Eve.’

‘Mr and Mrs Eden. Genesis. The first book, the beginning. We start here.’

Isobel Sadler stood up for a closer look at the scene.

As they stood there together, Michael could smell the shampoo on her hair. Willowherb. He moved his cigar to the right. Here, because of the way the column was drawn, a second side of the capital at the top was visible. ‘This isn’t too difficult, either. It looks to me like a man holding a stick, descending some stairs—agreed?’

She nodded.

Now Michael moved back to the desk to where there was a thick, brick-shaped book with a piece of paper wedged as a marker. He set down his whisky glass, jammed the cigar into his mouth, and looked at the spine of the book. ‘This is by an American named Rowland. It’s called The Classical Tradition in Western Art and it’s more or less an encyclopaedia of myths, gods and goddesses. I think I’ve found the right reference—tell me what you think.’ He sat down and opened the book at the place he had marked. ‘Here we are.’ Speaking out of the side of his mouth, he began to read. ‘“Wand: A red-hot iron wand, or staff, held by a figure, usually a man, is sometimes used to indicate the Truth. A long staff is used in classical tradition to fend off the Cloud of Unknowing.”’ He looked up at Isobel Sadler. ‘If I’m right, this figure with the wand represents the reader of the picture, chasing the truth. If that’s the case, then the path the figure is following is important. Remember the prayer: follow the path.’ Again Michael raised himself from his seat, edged around the desk and stood in front of the picture. He pointed to the top of the red-brown column. ‘As you can see, the figure is descending some steps.’ He took his cigar from his mouth and held it longways near the canvas so that it almost touched the tops of the steps and pointed diagonally downwards. ‘Now look where the path leads.’

With her eyes, Isobel Sadler followed the line of the cigar. ‘It points to that figure there, the one with the tunic, with what you called the eagle vase and a clock.’

‘Yes, I think so too. Whatever your friend Ryan says, this detective work is new to me, but I think we’re being instructed to start with this figure in the tunic.’

He returned to the ‘Scotch’ books and retrieved the bottle of Islay. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a drink? It’s Laphroaig.’

She shook her head again. ‘Not in the middle of the day.’

He poured himself another enthusiastic slug and splashed some water on top. ‘As I said, that was the easy bit. Now I’m stumped. I don’t recognise that first figure and, what’s worse, I haven’t a clue how to start finding out.’ He checked himself. ‘Well, that’s not quite true. I do know my way around the art libraries. But the question is: do we want to pursue this now? Is the chase worth it? Can we overtake Molyneux and, even if we do, will there be anything at the end of the line?’

Isobel Sadler was still examining the painting. She said nothing and Michael continued. ‘I haven’t been in this exact situation before but I have been in others like it. For example, it sometimes happens that I get a suspicion that a picture coming up for sale at auction is more than it appears. It’s more valuable than the auction house seems to think, and may even be by a quite different painter, someone who is much better known than the painter given in the catalogue.

‘That’s what this art game is all about. When that happens I have to drop everything and concentrate on just one thing for a few days before the auction takes place. I spend whole days in libraries, looking up books and articles in academic journals. I pore over countless photographs, comparing how this artist drew hands, or that one painted flesh. Sometimes that leads to the need to look at other paintings, in private collections—pictures by the artist I think painted the work to be sold at auction. That means I have to find out which collections and then persuade the owners to let me look. It’s frenetic but a lot of fun … and what I’m saying is this: if we are going to follow this up, that’s what it will be like. We have to give days—a week, two weeks—to the project. And we have to decide now, this minute. We have to get going today if we’re going to make a start at all. Molyneux has over two weeks’ start, which may mean it’s too late already. But last time you were here you sounded as though the farm couldn’t do without you, that you can’t get away for more than one night a week …’ He tailed off.

Again there was silence, if you could call the drone of a jumbo jet, two thousand feet above, and the hiss of driving rain, silence. At length Isobel Sadler took her gaze off the painting, sat down and put her elbows back on the desk. She seemed unaware of the way her dress strained over her breasts. ‘I do have a farm manager—Tom. He’s been an angel, especially since the break-in.’ She bit her lip and went on quietly, almost as if talking to herself. ‘If I take any days off at this time of year he may just leave.’ And then, just as on her first visit, she was gone, preoccupied, busy in her own world.

‘I understand—’ Michael began, but she interrupted him.

‘On the other hand, what the farm really needs now is investment, new equipment … some more land would make the whole operation more cost-effective … my father never had the chance to do that but I do. Three hundred acres have become available right next to us.’ She rubbed the back of her neck with a hand. ‘If I can’t raise the money to buy that land and some new vehicles, I’ll probably have to sell the farm in a year or so anyway …’ Absently, she waved yet more cigar smoke back towards Michael. ‘A few days, you say?’

He shrugged. ‘Probably more. If it took only a few days, that would mean Molyneux has already found it. I know how the art market works but, as I told you last time, my field is really late eighteenth—and early nineteenth-century English painting.’ He drained the whisky glass and sat back in his chair. ‘I am not necessarily the best person to decipher this picture for you. Possibly, I can find the right books and the right museums to help us with the clues, but it may be better, and much quicker from your point of view, to let someone else help you, someone who can read allegories better than I can.’

She shook her head firmly. ‘No. I trust you, Mr Whiting. You told me about all this when you didn’t have to. You could simply have taken a photograph of the painting, without telling me, and got on the trail yourself. Then you wouldn’t have needed to split any profits with me. If we brought in another expert he could do the same to both of us. Not only that: if medieval studies are as small a field as you say they are, anyone we got to help would be known to Molyneux. We could never be certain that he might not know our every move. As it is, although Molyneux has a start on us, he can’t be certain that we are on the trail. He doesn’t know that we know, if you see what I mean. He may not feel there is any urgency. That’s our one advantage.’

‘You sound as if you’ve made up your mind.’

‘I have. I won’t say farming is fun but it is satisfying. This may be a wild-goose chase. But I don’t have any choice. I’ve got to take my opportunities as they arise. This one is not exactly copper-bottomed but it’s all I’ve got. I must ask one favour, though.’

‘Yes?’

‘A raincheck on dinner.’ She looked at her watch. ‘There’s a train at two-thirty. That means I can’t get back to the farm till around five, five-thirty. I’ll need most of tomorrow to brief Tom on what to do at the farm while I’m away. I can be back in London, with a suitcase, by tomorrow night, ready for an early start the day after. I know it means more delay, but I can’t just drop everything. Tom would leave then and I couldn’t blame him.’

‘That needn’t matter. What matters is that I start today, digging in the libraries. Maybe, by the time you come back to town, I’ll have some news.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Where will you stay?’

‘I haven’t thought about that. A hotel could get very expensive, if this thing goes on too long.’

‘You could stay with me; there’s a spare bedroom injustice Walk.’

She shot him another sharp glance. ‘No, thank you, Mr Whiting. I do have friends in London, you know. I expect I shall be able to stay with them. I will have dinner with you soon, since you’ve won your wager. But that’s all. Who do you think I am—Rita Hayworth?’