4

There was one thing to be said for bad summer weather. It kept the number of tourists down. By the time Isobel and Michael had fought their way down the M4, through sluicing rain, to be at St George’s Chapel by 10.45, when it opened, there were already a few of the more dedicated tourist nations in evidence—Germans, Japanese, Dutch. But it could have been much worse.

Neither Isobel nor Michael had been to the chapel before. They stood for a moment looking up at the stained-glass windows, four rows of saints in scarlet and deep blue. On either side, the chicory-coloured wood of the gothic choir stalls stretched down to the altar, each one surmounted by the banner of its present Garter occupant—purple slashes, yellow squares, black eagles. The pageantry was perfect.

As she looked above her, Isobel said, ‘Why do you think the painter gave Mercury a chain with St George on the medallion? Wouldn’t a garter have made more sense? It is the Order of the Garter, after all.’

‘That had occurred to me. I suppose a garter would have been too obvious, or didn’t suit the composition. Look, there’s a vicar or curate or something. Let’s ask him where we can find a list of members.’

He crossed the nave and approached the man who had just slipped out from a corner door and appeared to be making for the organ. Isobel couldn’t hear the conversation but she saw the man turn and point back to the door he had entered by. Michael waved her over, and they both converged on it. Through the door they found themselves in a small courtyard with a glassed-in cloister running around all four sides. The stone, thought Michael, smiling to himself, was whisky-coloured. They walked along one side, then turned left. Through an arch they came to a cream-painted building on their right. Over a doorway in black letters were the words ‘St George’s House’. They rang the bell and a woman came out to meet them.

‘May I help you?’

‘Hello,’ said Michael, handing her his card. ‘I am an art dealer and we are researching a painting. We need to identify a member of the Garter from the sixteenth century. I wonder if you could let us see the Garter records for the years 1500 to 1550, please.’ In the car on the way down to Windsor, Isobel and he had worked out that if Mercury, as they referred to him for the time being, was about fifty in 1537 he could not have received the Garter before he was, say, fifteen, even in those days. That meant the earliest date they needed to look at was 1502 but Michael rounded down the date to be on the safe side.

‘What do you know about this person?’ asked the woman, showing them into an office.

‘Just his appearance,’ said Michael. ‘Which gives us an approximate age, that’s all.’

‘This way, then.’ She led them through the outer office into another corridor with windows down one side, looking out on to the Curfew Tower of the castle and the Thames beyond. They were quite high up. They were shown into a small room with a large window. The woman sat them at a large table and then took from a glass-fronted cupboard a large book, bound in blue leather. ‘This is the blue book,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid there are no statutes of the Garter before Henry VIII’s reign, 1509, so this is the best we can do. Also, in the first instance, I will have to ask you to use these. They are facsimiles of the original Garter ledgers. The originals are now quite fragile, as I’m sure you appreciate. Even so, I’ll have to lock you in, I’m afraid—but when you wish to leave just press that buzzer near the door and one of us will come and release you.’ She smiled. ‘Not everyone gets locked in at Windsor Castle. How long do you think you might be?’

‘An hour, two at the most,’ said Michael. ‘I’m hoping our task will be fairly simple.’

After the woman had gone, locking the door behind her, they sat side by side and opened the ledger.

‘Oh Lord! This is treason,’ said Michael, after a few moments. ‘It’s alphabloodybetical, not chronological.’ That meant they had to work their way through the entire volume, which applied to Garter activities from 1509, the date of Henry VIII’s accession to the English throne. Against each entry was a name, sometimes quite a long name, the date of the candidate’s elevation to the Garter and a brief description of why the award had been bestowed.

The writing was not easy to follow. It was in English but not modern English. ‘Much’ was written as ‘myche’, ‘duty’ as ‘duetie’, ‘audience’ as ‘awdiens’. Worse, the handwriting varied and the ink had faded patchily. Still, they made progress, and in about an hour and a half they had five names which, to judge from the dates of their elevation, might be Mercury. Two of them—Sir Ranulph Kenny and Sir Edward Whitlock—even came from the West Country. ‘I’d lay odds on it being either of them,’ Michael breathed, looking at Isobel.

But she shook her head and grinned. ‘I still owe you for the V and A catalogue. I’m not getting in any deeper just yet.’

As instructed, Michael pressed the buzzer and they were released. They thanked the woman and were led back the way they had come, into St George’s Chapel. An organ practice was now in full swing and many of the tourists, mindful of the heavy summer rain outside, were sitting in the chapel pews, enjoying the free show.

‘Lunch?’ said Michael, as they came out into the fresh air. ‘There’s a nice pub on the river here.’

‘Let’s get on,’ said Isobel tartly. ‘I’m surprised you want to stop now.’

Michael lit his cigar. ‘Ah … well. I happen to think a mild celebration is called for.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Although Molyneux started with such a time advantage, I think we have already overtaken him.’

‘Surely not. What on earth makes you think so?’

‘That woman back there in the Garter office. If Molyneux was ahead of us, he would already have been here, on the same errand. Two people making the same unusual request within a few days of each other would be bound to arouse curiosity and that woman would almost certainly have mentioned it. The fact that she didn’t must mean that Molyneux hasn’t worked out what we have worked out.’

They reached the National Portrait Gallery, just off Trafalgar Square, at a few minutes after two. The head librarian was still at lunch, they were told, and only she could grant access to the study collection in the basement. This was the vast bank of 8000 portraits which the gallery held but which were not judged to be of sufficient interest or artistic quality to be put on permanent display.

Michael gave Isobel a wink, to rub in the fact that they could have had a quick lunch in Windsor after all, and the two of them strolled around the gallery, killing time. Michael took Isobel to see the portraits of Elgar, Delius and Thomas Tallis.

Just on half past two they presented themselves back at the library and were shown in. They gave their list to the head librarian, a glamorous Indian in a peach-coloured sari, who cast her eye over the names and dates and scribbled a note in pencil. She looked up over her spectacles and said, ‘If you would care to wait at desks fourteen and fifteen, whatever holdings we have will be brought to you in a few minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘Does it help if I tell you all those names were members of the Garter?’

‘It might. If the names are not held separately, we may have some group portraits in which some figures are not identified. But let’s see what we have filed by name first.’

They found their desks and sat down. ‘You see,’ Michael whispered. ‘She didn’t respond at all when I mentioned the Garter. Molyneux hasn’t been on this part of the trail, either.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, looking around the library and at the other people using it. There was a dealer Michael knew vaguely, several students and a few better-dressed people who looked like foreign academics.

Then a young woman in a dark blue tracksuit moved towards them. Michael didn’t realise at first that she was the assistant librarian—it was fairly casual dress, after all. But she was carrying two large green folders, boxes really, and slid them on to the desk. ‘The others will be here in a moment,’ she said.

On the cover of one folder the words ‘Sir Ninian Greene’ were typed on a white label. Gingerly, Isobel turned back the cover. Sir Ninian wasn’t Mercury. He was fat, almost bald, and had onion-like eyes.

The second folder had ‘Sir Edward Whitlock’ typed on it. ‘Aha!’ said Michael, reaching for it and turning back the cover. Sir Edward had long flowing hair, a moustache and, to judge from his lace cuffs, was a bit of a dandy. He wasn’t Mercury either.

The librarian in the tracksuit had reappeared and this time she brought ‘Sir Wyndham Tyler’. Isobel pulled back the cover to reveal a blond, round-faced man with no chin at all, let alone one with a cleft in it.

‘Two left,’ said Michael. ‘I’m getting nervous. It must be Ranulph Kenny.’

The assistant librarian was approaching again with more green folders, which she put on the desk. ‘That’s it. One of these last is a family group, not a single portrait, I’m afraid. I hope it’s good enough.’

Isobel turned to Kenny first.

‘Oh no!’ cried Michael, but softly. Sir Ranulph was a pasty individual who also had a moustache—and red hair.

‘Here goes,’ said Isobel, reaching for the last folder. She read the label: ‘Sir Francis Waterlow and family’. ‘Cross your fingers.’

There were seven people in the engraving: Waterlow himself, his wife and, according to the note on the back, his brother, his brother’s wife and three children.

‘It’s not him either!’ whispered Isobel urgently. ‘Or his brother, come to that.’ She was right. Waterlow had a pronounced nose and very fleshy lips. His was a much more self-indulgent face than Mercury’s.

‘Dammit,’ said Michael. ‘Dammit, dammit, dammit. Where on earth have we gone wrong?’

Isobel was busy looking back through the folders but there was no way she could make any of the figures resemble Mercury. That shaven hair, those eyes of his, that chin—nothing on the desk in front of them fitted the face they were looking for. ‘Thank God we didn’t celebrate after all. It would have been a waste of money.’

Michael played with the cigar in his top pocket. Then he said, ‘I’m certain our reasoning is correct. We must have missed a name.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Too late to get back to Windsor today. And in any case there’s someone I’d like to talk to before we go back again—a man who deals in medals. He’ll know all about the Order of the Garter and he’ll be able to show us where we’re going wrong. Look, you hand these folders back while I call him. I’ll see you at the main entrance.’

Isobel checked in the five knights and found Michael waiting for her on the pavement outside the gallery. The rain had stopped and he had lit a cigar.

‘We’re out of luck,’ he said. ‘Willie’s at a coin auction in Amsterdam today. But he’ll be back over the weekend, so we’ll go and see him on Monday, before going back down to Windsor.’

‘Is there nothing we can do over the weekend? It seems such a waste.’

Michael shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anything. Galling, I know—but don’t forget Molyneux will have the same sort of holdup. At least it gives you a chance to go back to the farm. The cows must be missing you.’

‘Stop being so bovine, Michael. It doesn’t suit you. Now, what time shall we start on Monday?’

Michael brushed ash from his jacket. ‘Not before ten-thirty. The majority of dealers don’t get in very early. They don’t need to. Most people are more responsive later in the day—that’s why the biggest sales are held in the evening. Come to the office for coffee around ten.’

‘You’re sure there’s nothing else we can do today?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He took a step towards her. ‘You look … unsettled. Is there anything wrong?’

‘No. I don’t know. I mean, yes.’

‘Go on.’

She paused. A big red bus splashed up Charing Cross Road, spraying rainwater all over the pavement. ‘You’re the expert, Michael, but … but, the fact is, I think you’re wrong. I think the reason Molyneux hasn’t been to Windsor or here to the Portrait Gallery is not because we’re ahead of him at all. It’s because we’re going in the wrong direction.’

Willie Maitland’s coin and medal gallery (‘Maitland’s Medals’) was a bow-windowed shop, tucked away in Crown Passage, just down from the Golden Lion pub in King Street, almost opposite Christie’s. Willie was a tall, rangy individual with wispy fair hair and a glass eye. Michael had met him a few years before when Willie bought a painting from him. Apart from his gallery, he had an extensive collection of pictures with coins or medals in them.

It took Isobel and Michael only a few minutes to walk down from Mason’s Yard. Michael was itchy, prickling with outrage after attending over the weekend a film festival of old black and white movies which had been artificially coloured. ‘You wouldn’t add colour to a Rembrandt print,’ he complained to Isobel. ‘This is just as criminal.’

‘You call that criminal? We had hail on Sunday. Hail! At this time of year. God himself is sometimes the delinquent one on a farm. Any more dampness and some of the cattle are going to get problems with their hooves.’

‘Keep your hooves out of that puddle, and turn left here.’

Maitland’s face broke into a smile when he saw Michael enter, though almost immediately his one good eye roved across to Isobel. The gallery was empty and Michael was able to make the introductions. He came straight to the point.

‘On Isobel’s behalf, I’m trying to identify a figure in a picture. I’m not going to show it to you, Willie—you understand why.’ Maitland nodded. ‘We have a rough date for it—early sixteenth century—and we have reason to believe that the man was a member of the Garter. Unfortunately, we’ve compared his likeness with those they have in the National Portrait Gallery for members of the Order in the sixteenth century and the faces don’t match. We’re going wrong somewhere and I’m hoping you can help.’

Willie loved this sort of problem. He put aside a medal he was cleaning and gave them his full attention. ‘The Garter records are kept at Windsor, at Arundel Castle and in the British Library.’

Michael nodded. ‘We went to Windsor on Friday.’

‘Hmm. All Garter knights have banners designed for them when they are elevated, rather like coats of arms. Any arms in your picture?’

Michael shook his head.

‘How do you know he’s a Garter knight, then? Is he wearing it?’

‘No, he’s wearing the badge, on a chain around his neck.’

‘St George and the dragon?’

They both nodded.

‘Hmm. That’s something anyway. Can you describe the chain? There are several types of Garter chain, according to the monarch of the day. That would at least confirm your dating. Early sixteenth century would make it Henry VII or Henry VIII, right? As I recall, the chain should be gold, showing little knots of ropes set between precious stones, garnets or rubies, I think. Does that ring any bells?’

Michael looked at Isobel. She shook her head firmly. ‘It might be gold—it’s difficult to tell—but there are no jewels. It’s plain.’

Willie frowned. Before he could go on, however, the gallery door opened and a man entered. Michael and Isobel stood to one side as Willie attended to him. It appeared that they knew each other quite well. The other man was French and a collector of French coins. Did Willie have any new rarities in stock?

Just back from the auction in Amsterdam, Willie did indeed. ‘I even have a louis d’or eight,’ he said.

The Frenchman’s eyes lit up and Willie went into the back of his shop, coming out again immediately with a small, black leather-covered case. He unlocked it and took out a coin. The gold glistened in the morning sun. Willie and the Frenchman then went into a huddle, lowering their voices and speaking in French. Michael and Isobel stood near the door, trying not to overhear the talk of money. After a few moments, the Frenchman straightened up, said goodbye to Willie, nodded to Michael and Isobel, and left the shop.

‘A fish who got away?’ said Michael.

‘Oh, but no. He’s gone to arrange the money with his bank.’ Willie weighed the gold coin in his hand. ‘Have a look at this, Michael; it will interest you. This is a louis d’or eight, made for Louis XIII. Only twenty were ever minted and none of them was circulated. One of the rarest coins ever. They were used as gambling chips at court.’ Michael leaned forward as Willie grinned. ‘I bet you’d like one for your collection, eh? This little monster is worth forty thousand pounds. No one carries that sort of cash on him.’

Isobel whistled and stepped forward for a closer look. Willie let her handle the coin and she rubbed her fingers over it.

Willie suddenly cried out. ‘“Eh bien!”, as the French collectors say. I’ve had a thought. Describe the badge, will you? The badge in your picture.’ He turned and looked behind him. ‘Better still, draw it on this pad here.’ He gave Isobel a pen. She handed back the gold coin and, looking mystified, took the pad which Willie now passed to her.

She spoke as she sketched. ‘I’m not very good at this sort of thing but St George is standing in the middle—like this.’ And she drew a stick-like creature. ‘The spear goes diagonally down, from top right to bottom left—just so—pointing towards the dragon, which cowers at the bottom, looking up.’ She put in a few final squiggles. ‘You can just make out little puffs of steam or smoke, coming from the monster’s nostrils … There, what do you say, Michael … is that a fair likeness?’

He leaned forward. ‘You’re no Holbein but it’s good enough.’

Willie took the pad and inspected the drawing more closely. ‘Hmm. There’s no horse?’

‘No,’ said Isobel. ‘Of course not. I might not be Holbein but I wouldn’t forget something as big as a horse.’

‘Is the horse important?’ asked Michael.

‘You could say that.’ Willie was grinning. ‘Without a horse this isn’t St George.’

‘You’re kidding!’ shouted Isobel.

‘Joshua bloody Reynolds!’ gasped Michael at the same time.

‘It was that French collector who gave me the idea. Now I come to think of it, I can see it’s an easy mistake to make if you’re inexperienced. There are two dragon-slaying myths, not one. St George is always shown dressed in armour and riding a white horse. To the early Christians a dragon symbolised paganism. The St George legend was founded after he had supposedly converted the heathen country of Cappadocia to Christianity. Without a horse, the figure is not St George but the archangel Michael. In his case the dragon represents the devil, and Michael is vanquishing the devil from the world. That’s all the history I know, but what I’m saying is that your figure, the man you’re trying to identify, isn’t a member of the Garter but a member of the French Order of St Michael. As I said, it was that French collector who gave me the idea.’

Michael shifted his gaze from Maitland to Isobel. He felt himself blushing. And was that a slight smirk on her face? He had certainly been over-confident in reading the picture and his mistake had cost them time they could ill afford. No wonder Molyneux hadn’t been to Windsor!

Michael sighed. ‘Willie, top marks. You noticed more with one eye than we did with four. The old Maitland magic. You’ve done exactly what we hoped you would do. Set us straight on Orders. Not in quite the way I expected but—well, we now know where we’re going, which we didn’t when we came in this morning. I owe you one. Before we go, though, is there anything else you can tell us about the Order?’

‘Not offhand, but I think I have a book in the back. Hang on.’ Willie disappeared with the black leather case, the louis d’or now safely back inside it. He reappeared with a small volume. ‘Here we are. I’ll read the entry out to you.’ He leafed through the book. ‘Yes … Michael, Saint, Order of …’ He twisted his head slightly, to make it easier for his one good eye. ‘The Order of St Michael was instituted in 1469 by Louis XI and is one of the great Orders of chivalry in Europe, the French equivalent of the English Order of the Garter … The badge of the Order was supposed to be worn at all times … on ceremonial occasions it was worn as the “Grand Ordre”, suspended from a gold collar of cockle shells linked by intricate chainwork. At other times it was worn as the “Petit Ordre”, on a fine ribbon or chain … At any one time there were only thirty-six members of the Order … a sketch of the medallion by Holbein is preserved in Basle.’ Maitland snapped the book shut and looked up. ‘That’s it.’

‘And where,’ said Michael, ‘do you think the records of the Order of St Michael are kept?’

‘Hmm,’ said Maitland. ‘If it was founded by Louis XI and was closely associated with the court, it may have been abolished at the time of the French Revolution in 1789. The records might easily have been destroyed during the Terror. If they weren’t, then I should say they will probably be in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris.’

Isobel groaned. If the records had been destroyed, the search was over.

‘You might begin at the French embassy,’ said Willie. ‘They will have a cultural attaché there who may be able to help. Or you could try the university; their department of French will have a historian who might know something.’

Just then another customer came into the gallery so they quickly thanked Willie and got out of his way. ‘Give my regards to your sister,’ he called out, as they left. On their walk back to Mason’s Yard, Michael looked sheepishly at Isobel and said, ‘Sorry about the false start. I got carried away.’

‘Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that the French records were not burned in the Revolution.’ Her tone told him that she was not the type to dwell on past mistakes. ‘Your sister seems popular.’

Michael snorted. ‘She once had a famous rock star as a boyfriend. She turned him on to collecting and he bought up most of Bond Street. Of course she’s popular.’

Isobel threw him a glance. ‘But he didn’t fancy anything in Mason’s Yard—right?’ She went on before Michael could protest. ‘Shall we divide the labour? One do the embassy and the other the university?’

They were just passing Dalmeny’s, a small but expensive gallery that dealt mostly in French furniture and a few paintings. They had passed it two nights before, on their way to Keating’s. Michael brightened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet, anyway, I’ll call Jumble Jacques in Paris.’ When Isobel turned to look at him, he added, ‘Jacques de Selve, if you want the grown-up version. He’s an old friend, and a colleague of sorts. He tells me about any English paintings that come his way, and I let him know when any French art or furniture is included in the contents of a house sale I’m offered here. It’s not a regular trade, but enough for me to be able to ring him and ask his help.’

At the gallery there were several messages for Michael but before doing anything else he took down a large book from the shelves in his office. It was heavy and he dropped it on to his desk with a thud.

‘This is Chamberlain’s catalogue raisonnée on Holbein. Everything the painter did is in here.’ He turned to the back where there was an index of places where Holbein’s work was kept. He looked up Basle and flipped the pages until he reached it. There in black and white was a small photograph of the master’s drawing of the medallion. Michael showed it to Isobel. ‘The answer was in this very room all the time. Maddening. But at least we know we’re on the right track now. There’s no doubt … the designs are identical.’

Isobel nodded. ‘Why would someone living in England have a French Order?’

‘That had occurred to me too. I don’t see it as a problem, though. Presumably, if and when we find out Mercury’s true name, we’ll also find what he did to merit the honour.’

He reached into a drawer for his address book and found de Selve’s number in Paris. When his call was put through, it turned out that the Frenchman was at a sale. ‘Damn!’ hissed Michael, putting his hand over the receiver. He left word that de Selve should call him back as soon as possible. ‘All right,’ he said to Isobel. ‘You call the embassy and I’ll try the university. It’s better than sitting here, waiting.’

But it wasn’t. At the university Michael was told, in so many words, that the department of French did not exist to answer queries from the general public. Isobel was referred by the embassy to the French Institute in Belgrave Square but they said that, although they had books on chivalry, they had no records relating to any Orders.

Michael’s insides felt as if they were being ploughed over by the frustration—and he lit a fresh cigar to calm himself. Then Jacques called back. How different he was! Gentle, considerate, friendly. He couldn’t answer Michael’s query personally, he said, but there was a coin and medal dealer just across the street, the rue de Seine. The man was a good friend, would surely know the answer, and Jacques would call again the moment he had spoken to him. Just as Michael was about to hang up, de Selve added, ‘Michael, is this something you might have for me?’

Carefully, Michael replied, ‘I haven’t bought it yet, Jacques. But if I can identify the man, and he’s of more use to you than he is to me, you shall certainly have first refusal.’

‘Bon. A bientôt.’

They waited. It was lunchtime but neither of them could even think about eating until Jacques had called back. If the records had been destroyed …

Michael looked at his messages. One was in Greg’s handwriting and said simply: ‘Call Ed.’ Ed McCrystal was an Irish member of the gambling syndicate, and had a big job in a firm of Dublin stockbrokers. Michael was put through straight away. ‘Yes, Ed? Are we under starter’s orders?’

‘We are indeed, my boy, we are indeed. You may not have heard it on the news yet—Greg says you have better things to do with your time than listen to the radio—but late last night they finally netted a large object in Loch Ness—’

‘No!’

‘I’m Irish, remember, I exaggerate but I do not lie. The object, the organism as it is being called, is being towed ashore even as we speak. Unhappily, the TV screens in the office here show only what’s happening to the price of coffee, tin and bauxite. Otherwise I could watch it. Anyway, it’s too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘I agree. What’s the idea?’

‘Length.’

‘Of what?’

‘The entire object, the whole organism, Michael. Don’t be crude.’

‘All right, all right. Good idea. I’m in. Who’s got what, so far?’

‘Greg has thirty feet, Charlie has fifty, the fool, Doug has fifteen, one-five. I haven’t spoken to the others yet. You?’

‘A ton.’

‘A hundred feet!’

‘That’s what it usually is. In the civilised world.’

‘This is the last chance to change your mind.’

‘No thanks. If they are towing it in, and haven’t already hauled it aboard, it must be pretty big.’

‘Done!’ cried McCrystal. ‘Rien ne va plus.’

Michael put down the phone.

Isobel had been frowning during most of this exchange. Michael’s cigar had gone out and as he relit it he smiled and explained the wager.

‘Your bets are your own business, Michael. But what if de Selve has been trying to get through?’

Michael buzzed the secretary. There had been no calls from Paris.

So, again, they waited. For each minute that passed without de Selve calling back, Michael grew more apprehensive. He drew hungrily on his cigar. He tried to think of old Julius Samuels, working on the woman in Dover Street. The old man should be finished soon. Michael looked at the cigar between his fingers, inspecting semi-consciously the brown leaves, intertwined like the scales of a crayfish. He was one of a dwindling band. Who smoked now? Widows, the French, prison inmates, who still rolled their own, so he’d heard. That made sense. Widows and prisoners had little else to do. Why the French? But that only brought his mind back to de Selve. Why hadn’t he called back? Had Jacques been told the records had been destroyed, and was hesitating to give them the bad news? Was the coin dealer away?

After more than half an hour the phone eventually rang and, when Michael snatched at it, Jacques was at the other end of the line. ‘Michael, I am sorry to be so long but Eclier, the dealer I must speak with, he had a client with him and was not free until a few moments ago.’

‘I understand, Jacques.’ Michael tried to keep the edge out of his voice. ‘What did he say?’

‘Good for you, I think. Eclier has a book that goes back to 1643, the reign of Louis XIV. All the members of the Order until the Revolution are in it.’

‘No, Jacques. I am interested in an earlier period—1500 to 1550.’

‘Eh bien. In that case you must go to the Bibliothèque Nationale, here in Paris. It is the old Palais-Mazarin. You know it?’

‘No.’

‘It is a little like the reading room in your British Museum.’

Michael’s pulse was racing now. He gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign to Isobel. ‘The Bibliothèque is open normal hours?’

‘For sure. But Michael, can I help? My French is better than yours, I think.’ Jacques laughed. ‘And it will save the air ticket.’

‘Thank you, Jacques. But for the moment I must respect the confidence of the present owner of the painting. She is an Englishwoman and doesn’t want any information about her picture to be widely known before she is ready.’ It was only a white lie, he told himself. ‘I am sorry—but don’t worry. If I think France is the place for the picture, Jacques, you’ll be the first to know. I promise. And thank you for being so helpful, I knew I could rely on you.’

He put down the phone and sat back. ‘So, the Bibliothèque Nationale it is.’

‘Are we both going?’

‘Nnno … I don’t think so. One ought to be enough. How’s your French?’

‘Not brilliant.’

‘Then I’ll go to Paris tonight, so I can be in the Bibliothèque first thing in the morning, when it opens. I’ll get the names, then phone them through to you here. You can check them out at the National Portrait Gallery—’ He saw Isobel’s eyebrow rise quizzically and explained, ‘There must be a French equivalent of our National Portrait Gallery, which we may be forced to use later. But I’ve been thinking: this is an English picture, it must relate to someone who, whether he was French or Florentine or Finnish, was famous in England. So let’s stick with the NPG for the time being. Now, I’d better get on to Air France.’

It was raining in Paris. Away from the main boulevards, as the Bibliothèque Nationale was, the streets were narrow and the wind had less chance to whip the drops into cutting edges than it did in the wider thoroughfares. And, despite the wet, the smells of Paris, half forgotten yet immediately familiar, were welcoming. Michael felt invigorated.

The Bibliothèque was tucked away in the busy, clogged area of Paris just to the north of the Louvre and the Palais-Royal—an area full of pâtisseries and stationery shops, of coffee merchants and print sellers, small squares, dogs and, Michael was delighted to observe, cigar wholesalers. The entrance to the Bibliothèque Nationale was nowhere near as imposing as the British Museum’s. It was a simple gate on the east side of a small, leafy square. Michael took a quick coffee, bitter and black as the clouds above, in a café on the corner, before passing through the gate, which was plastered with posters of forthcoming exhibitions. He crossed a courtyard to a large glass porch, inside which was the dark entranceway to the Bibliothèque proper.

Jumble Jacques had been right; it was rather like the reading room of the British Museum. The work tables, each with a bright green glass lightshade, radiated out from a central circular issue desk like the spokes of a wheel. Whatever the weather outside in Paris there was always a kind of winter fug in here.

Michael gave his order at the central desk and waited for more than an hour before the documents arrived. Naturally there was no smoking in the library. When the documents were placed in front of him they turned out to be two large piles of scarlet, leather-bound books. No facsimiles this time: this was the real thing. Michael looked at the spines of the books: nothing. Opening one he was dismayed to see that it was handwritten in a flowery, ornate scrawl which he found very difficult to read. ‘Bibliobloodythèque’, he whispered to himself. At the same time he was relieved that the names were laid out chronologically. One book, he found, ended in 1518 and the next, beginning in that year, contained names up to 1556. So he just needed to concentrate on those two volumes.

After about an hour, he found that he was reading the handwriting much more easily and within another hour he had completed what he had come for. Between 1500 and 1537 only fifteen awards of the Order of St Michael had been made. He therefore wrote down all fifteen names: he was taking no chances. Like the British Museum, the Bibliothèque Nationale had a system whereby, if someone wanted the same books two days running, they were not returned to the main shelves but held in an ‘overnight stack’. Michael used this facility now, just in case he needed to consult the ledgers again. Then he found a telephone in the corridor and phoned London. Isobel, at the gallery in Mason’s Yard, was soon on the line and writing down the names he gave her.

‘I’m staying at the Saint-Simon,’ he said after he had finished dictating the list. ‘It’s a small hotel on the left bank near a marvellous one-star restaurant and the Beaux-Arts area.’ He read the telephone number out to her. ‘But I also have a reservation on the seven-thirty Air France flight tonight, in case we make progress. Call me the minute you’re through in Trafalgar Square. Good luck!’

Isobel was more nervous today than she had been on their previous visit to the National Portrait Gallery. Owing to Willie Maitland they had been given a second chance; they wouldn’t be given a third. This trip to the gallery had to succeed, or they were lost.

She pushed her way through the main glass doors and mounted the staircase. To her right there was a poster of a woman who vaguely resembled the friend she was staying with. She wore an off-the-shoulder dress and advertised an exhibition of portraits by John Singer Sargent, the American artist who painted all the fashionable people of his day. The dress in the poster was red, like Michael’s braces.

The head librarian nodded and smiled—she was on her way out to lunch this time. But the assistant took the names Isobel gave her and disappeared through a door. Isobel sat at a different desk this time feeling that, unless she did so, their luck might not change either. After a few minutes, the assistant came back. To Isobel’s alarm she saw that the woman was carrying no folders.

‘Some of these names look French,’ the assistant said softly.

‘They all are,’ Isobel replied.

‘Which means there may be some we don’t have—you realise that, don’t you? Only if someone came to England to live, or on a mission to the court, or was perhaps distinguished in his own right, so that they were painted or drawn while here—only then would we have them.’

‘I understand,’ said Isobel. ‘Just do what you can, please.’

Twenty minutes elapsed. The library was not as busy today, but Isobel recognised the dealer whom Michael knew vaguely. He was seated at the same desk as before and nodded.

When the assistant librarian reappeared, Isobel immediately noticed with relief that she was carrying a number of green folders: at least her mission wasn’t a complete wipe-out.

As the assistant put the folders on the desk, she said, ‘According to our master index, we only have four of the fifteen names you are interested in. The rest you would have to check out in France. Sorry.’

Isobel smiled, though inside she felt anything but cheerful. Four names only! She reached for the folders, her hands clammy from nerves.

The name on the first label said ‘Albert Martres’. She opened the folder. Albert Martres was tall, grey-haired, a slim and slender figure, a graceful-looking priest, and he didn’t fit. The second was Jean Duquesne, a man with a squashed-in face and large ears. Isobel sighed. Two down, two to go. The third was Philippe du Croix. Her body told her what she saw moments before her mind registered it. She felt a pleasant rubbing sensation at the back of her eyes. She stopped breathing. Her spine itched. Du Croix’s haircut was familiar, the nose was identical, the gaze was the same gaze. But it was the jawline, that and the cleft in his chin, that clinched it. Those features gave the face its character and it was the same character as in the painting—without a shadow of a doubt.

They had their man.

Isobel started to breathe again. Her sigh was audible. She turned the print over. On the back was written: ‘Philippe du Croix: du Croix came to England in 1528 to marry Elizabeth Goodwin, the eldest daughter of Sir John Goodwin, after which he anglicised his name to Cross.’

And that was all. Nothing about what sort of life he had led or where he had lived. Isobel got up and moved to the main desk. The assistant librarian looked up and smiled. ‘This man, Philippe du Croix, Philip Cross,’ said Isobel. ‘How can I find out more about him, please?’

The assistant took the print from her, turned it over, and read what was on the back. She pursed her lips. ‘You might try the Dictionary of National Biography,’ and she nodded across the room to a long row of brown volumes.

Isobel moved over to the shelf, took down the volume marked ‘CAG-DRE’ and carried it back to her desk. She riffled through the pages—yes!—here was a bit more at least. The entry read:

CROSS, Philip (1485–1536), born Philippe du Croix, was a French nobleman who achieved prominence as a diplomat, devoting his energies to a reconciliation between Catholic and Protestant countries. From 1514 he travelled in Germany and the Low Countries. In 1525 he crossed to England on a diplomatic mission and while in London met Elizabeth Goodwin, daughter of Sir Thomas Goodwin [q.v.], of Godwin Magna in Dorset. In 1526 du Croix narrowly escaped death when engaged on a mission for the French king in Spain. The Spaniards, believing that du Croix was a favourite of the French king, held him hostage in Seville, pending settlement of a number of matters disputed between the two countries. But du Croix escaped and made his way to Paris, undergoing a series of adventures en route when he was pursued by Spanish forces. Twice he escaped death only narrowly. In Paris his loyalty and bravery were rewarded, the king bestowing on him the Order of St Michael, then France’s highest honour.

The following year du Croix, who seems by then to have had enough adventuring, returned to England and married Elizabeth Goodwin. On condition that he anglicised his name, Cross, as he became, and his new bride were given extensive lands in Dorset and, when Sir Thomas’s only son died young, without marrying, to be soon followed by Sir Thomas himself, Cross and Elizabeth succeeded to the entire Goodwin estate. In his later years Cross wrote two books which returned to his earlier interest of trying to reconcile the Catholic and Protestant faiths. His books, for example, are chiefly notable for Cross’s enlightened discussion of divorce. He was buried in the Goodwin family chapel at Godwin Magna, near Dorchester.

With growing excitement, Isobel took the opened book and the print to the main desk where she was directed to a small office with a photocopying machine. She needed several copies made: Michael would want to see the likeness and the dictionary entry for himself.

‘Going to be an exhibition on Cross, is there?’ said the girl who operated the machine.

‘No. I don’t think so. I haven’t heard. Why do you ask?’

The machine flashed green as the copies were made. ‘There was someone else in here the other day. He wanted copies of the same man. I remember the haircut—’

‘When was that? Can you remember?’ Isobel felt her heart race in her chest. Every time they took a step forward, there was always a step back soon after.

The girl stopped the machine and handed Isobel the photocopies. ‘Can’t say exactly … some time last week, probably. Yes, it must have been, because the photocopier was out of order …’

Isobel paid the girl, took the photocopies, returned the print and the dictionary, and hurried out of the library, anxious to telephone Michael in Paris and tell him the news. She ran down the stairs, reached the mezzanine landing and turned, ready to descend to the marble tiles of the entrance hall. As she did so she noticed, coming through the glass doors, a tall, stringy, grey-haired man with creases in his cheeks, and a thin upper lip. Molyneux.

Isobel halted. Feeling her skin go clammy, she turned and retreated back up the stairs. What was Molyneux doing here? She had to think. As she did so she climbed the stairs back to the first floor, as far away from Molyneux as she could. Had he seen her? She thought not. She had stepped back instinctively and could not have been on view for more than a few seconds. She reached the corridor which led to the archive. That was it! Molyneux had come for his photocopies. Thank God, she hadn’t bumped into him in the archive, or the photocopying room. Isobel hurried on past the archive, beyond the entrance to the Sargent exhibition and on up to the top floor, where the Tudor and Georgian portraits were kept. She didn’t dare look round.

When she reached the top floor she followed the gallery as it wound round, deeper into the building, and found a small room with a green-painted beam-engine. It was full of complicated levers and was about eight feet high. She hid behind it and began studying a series of small silhouettes on the wall.

How long should she give Molyneux, she asked herself. She had been in the library herself for about forty minutes. It would take about fifteen minutes for his order to be fetched up—that was the safest time to leave. She looked at her watch.

‘Bit sinister, silhouettes, don’t you agree?’

Isobel’s blood seemed to jerk in her veins. He’d seen her and followed her! She turned.

‘Miss Sadler, what a pleasure. I thought it was you downstairs, but you turned suddenly and came up here. Did you forget something?’ His eyes moved to the photocopies she was carrying. ‘Are you a regular visitor to the gallery?’

Isobel was filled with alarm. Gripping the photocopies in her right hand, she let her arm fall and half hid the papers behind her back. Molyneux mustn’t see what she had.

She searched her brain for an answer to his questions. She must look, and sound, as natural as possible. ‘I … I was visiting the Sargent exhibition …’ Thank God she had noticed the poster on the way in. ‘Then I thought I might as well come and see the rest of the gallery while I’m here. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you downstairs. Any news about those documents yet? Has your client stopped travelling?’

‘You are interested in Sargent?’ Molyneux ignored her questions.

Isobel suddenly felt out of breath. He didn’t believe her. She looked about. There was no one else in this small part of the gallery and the levers of the beam-engine were like bars in a surrealist prison. She searched her memory for something Michael had said. What was it? Yes. ‘He spent some time near us, you know? Broadway in Worcestershire. I’ve always been interested in his work.’

‘Hmm.’ Molyneux pointed to the photocopies in Isobel’s hand. ‘Have you been taking notes?’

She gripped the photocopies more tightly. ‘No.’ Now her voice was growing unnatural. She knew it but she couldn’t help it.

‘Have you seen these over here?’ Molyneux walked to the other side of the gallery. ‘These are life masks which Benjamin Haydon made of Wordsworth and Keats. Bit grisly, don’t you think?’

Isobel looked at the masks.

‘I have some similar ones, except that mine are death masks, taken from corpses.’

Isobel tried not to shudder. He wasn’t going to frighten her.

‘Did you like Sargent’s portrait of Lady Eden?’

Now completely out of her depth, Isobel could only say, ‘Is that the woman in red?’

‘Maybe you preferred Miss Cicely Alexander?’

Isobel felt as if she was melting. She could feel the sweat from her hands making the photocopies greasy. She nodded her head uncertainly.

Immediately there was a change in Molyneux’s expression and she knew she had made a mistake. He had caught her out, as he intended. She had lied to him and he knew it. He couldn’t be certain of her reason for coming to the gallery but he must have a good idea.

Isobel wanted to scream at him but knew that she had to act as relaxed as she could. And she had to leave quickly before the situation got any worse. She ought to carry the fight to him, to ask him what he was doing in the gallery, to press him on the documents, where his gallery was if he had one. At the back of her mind was the thought that she might confront him and ask his real name. But she realised they couldn’t be certain he was using a false one and she would look very foolish, and very suspicious. No, she had to get away. She looked at her watch again. ‘Mr Molyneux, my train leaves in forty minutes. I’m afraid I must dash. Please forgive me.’

He looked hard at her and stepped aside. Isobel shot him the briefest of smiles and hurried by. Outside the gallery, she turned south and forced herself to stroll towards Trafalgar Square as if she was looking for a taxi. Once she reached the square, however, and was out of sight of the entrance to the Portrait Gallery, she ran most of the way back to Mason’s Yard.

Michael cheered loudly into the phone when Isobel told him what she had found at the Portrait Gallery. ‘Specbloodytacular.’ Then, immediately more serious, he asked, ‘Where exactly is Godwin Magna?’

‘I’ve checked. It’s about three miles east of Dorchester.’

‘Right there’s a hotel in Dorchester called The Yeoman. You’d better book a couple of rooms there for tomorrow night.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll make the seven-thirty back to London tonight. I’ll pick you up at Montpelier Mews at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, in my car. Not too early, is it?’

‘I’m a farmer, remember. That’s the middle of the day for me.’

‘Well, it’s quite early enough for me. That way we’ll be down in Dorset by eleven. That should give us enough time.’ Michael smiled again into the phone. ‘That was a great piece of detective work today, Inspector Sadler. Marvellous. Now, I’d better make a move. The traffic on the way to the airport might be heavy at this time of the day. Anything else before I dash?’

‘Well, yes, there is—’

‘What is it, Isobel? What is it?’

She repeated her conversation with the girl in the photocopying room at the Portrait Gallery.

‘Molyneux!’

‘Yes, and that’s not all.’

‘Go on.’

‘I saw him as I was leaving the gallery. I tried to avoid him but he followed me up the stairs where I was trying to hide. He must have come back to get his photocopies. I had our photocopies in my hand but I pretended I had been to a show, the Sargent exhibition That’s on at the moment.’

‘Good. That was quick thinking.’

‘Hold on.’ Isobel shook her head at the phone. ‘He was very suspicious and I’m sure I put my foot in it. He asked me about some paintings of Sargent’s. I think one was called Lady Eden and the other was something like … Sister Alexander? Does that sound right?’

‘Cicely Alexander?’

‘Yes, that’s it. What’s wrong with them, Michael? Are they not in the exhibition?’

In Paris, Michael groaned into the phone. ‘No, they are not in the exhibition, Isobel. There’s no reason they should be. They are both by James Whistler,—one of Sargent’s main rivals.’