Locket Hall, with its grand E-shaped exterior of Ham Hill stone and mullioned windows, had been built at the beginning of the sixteenth century and was one of the finest stately homes in the vicinity of Cambridge. It was the official seat of the Tevershams, a family able to date their lineage back to the Norman Conquest, and an invitation to attend a social function at the Hall was considered an honour, and even a right amongst those socialites whose bible was Debrett’s. Accustomed to abbeys and cathedrals, Sidney was not as humbled either by aristocracy or architecture as others might have been, but he still felt apprehensive as Mackay, the butler, opened the door and asked him to climb the grand staircase up to the long gallery, where Lord Teversham was entertaining his guests to midsummer drinks.
Sidney had mixed feelings about the nobility. He enjoyed the spaciousness of their homes and the warmth of their hospitality but he found their sense of entitlement unnerving. ‘And if that isn’t enough,’ he could hear Lord Teversham complaining, ‘the government now wants us to open up to the public. This is my home, for goodness sake, not a tourist attraction. I might as well give it lock, stock and barrel to the National Trust.’
This was a man who clearly took great pains over his appearance. He was the same height as Sidney, with an angular, matinée-idol jawline and luxuriant silver hair that, despite needing a cut, had been groomed in a manner designed to make bald men tremble. He was dressed in a handmade three-piece suit, with both tie and pocket handkerchief in matching navy blue; while his steel-rimmed pince-nez and silver accessories – cufflinks, fob watch and tie-pin – had all been chosen to set off his coiffure.
He greeted his guest with manners that were so practised that they came without effort. ‘Canon Chambers, how very good of you to come; you’ll take a dry sherry, I presume . . .’
‘That would be most kind,’ Sidney answered. There was no point making a fuss.
‘Mackay will see to it. I can’t remember whether you’ve met my sister?’ He gestured into the middle distance where an elegant lady with similar hair was holding court. ‘I think you might have seen her last Christmas at King’s after the carols. I must introduce you.’
Sidney knew that the family came to church on high days and holidays, and for social rather than religious reasons. When he was at his most mean-spirited, he sometimes wished that he had the courage to turn such people away.
He looked around the room. There were over a hundred people in attendance but Sidney knew very few of them. He was just about to resort to bland clerical bonhomie with a lady of middle age, who was sporting a pair of unpleasantly practical sandals, when Ben Blackwood introduced himself. ‘Lord Teversham sent me over,’ he explained.
Ben was an aesthetically pale young man who had studied at Magdalene. He was, he said, an architectural historian, and he was writing the official history of Locket Hall. ‘Of course, once they open it to the public it will make the family a fortune,’ Ben began. ‘Architecturally it’s one of the unacknowledged gems of England.’ He placed a Black Sobranie into a cigarette holder. ‘The art collection alone is worth millions. Have you seen the portrait of Elizabeth I? She sent it as a gift after one of her visits . . .’
Sidney tried to keep up. ‘I remember reading that the Royal Progress was very expensive. Hosts had to lay on banquets, masques and hunting expeditions . . .’
‘The Queen sometimes stayed for weeks! Nearly bankrupted the place. Now the government is trying to do the same thing with its insistence on death duties. It’s rather unfair considering the art has already been paid for.’
As Sidney was a guest, his behaviour was restricted by the etiquette of a world in which he only had visiting rights. His only advantage, he thought, was that, as a priest, he could say things that others might not. And so he found himself suggesting that perhaps the loan of a few paintings either to the Fitzwilliam Museum or to the National Gallery might not necessarily be a bad thing.
Lord Teversham overheard him and was unenthusiastic. ‘And why would I do that, Canon Chambers?’
‘I believe that you can then offset the death duties while retaining ownership . . .’
‘But then I have to go to a museum to see paintings that have been in my family for generations . . .’
His sister, Cicely, intervened. ‘It’s hardly as if you look at them on a daily basis. We could just let them have one or two. I’m sure we wouldn’t miss them. And we do have a few pecuniary issues . . .’
Lord Teversham was building towards one of his famous tantrums. ‘But they’ll want the best ones!’
‘If it helps,’ Sidney continued, ‘I do have a very good friend at the National Gallery.’
Lord Teversham was ill at ease. ‘I don’t want some chap with a monocle coming down here and eyeing up the family silver.’
‘She’s not a chap.’
Cicely Teversham interrupted once more. ‘I’ve no doubt Canon Chambers’s “friend” would be tactful.’
‘I don’t like letting go of my possessions,’ Lord Teversham muttered. ‘Once those people start there’ll be no stopping them.’
Ben Blackwood tried to compromise. ‘I suppose you could let them have one or two as divertissements – or loan them in lieu of tax. The lesser-known works, obviously . . .’
Cicely Teversham put her hand on her brother’s arm. ‘What about the lady with the swollen chin? You never cared for her. I am sure you wouldn’t miss such a thing . . .’
‘I would miss it,’ Lord Teversham grumbled. ‘This is a collection. That is the point.’
His sister did not agree. ‘You don’t like the painting, Dominic. You said as much when I sent it away to be restored. You thought it was a waste of money and then complained that she came back even uglier than when she left.’
‘Well, you could see more of her. Warts and all.’
‘She doesn’t have any warts, darling. Don’t be ridiculous.’
Sidney tried to calm the situation. ‘Perhaps I should not have made the suggestion. I wouldn’t want to create discord . . .’
Lord Teversham turned to him. ‘Who is this woman of yours, anyway?’
‘Miss Amanda Kendall. She is the curator of sixteenth-century paintings. She trained at the Courtauld Institute under Sir Anthony Blunt.’
Lord Teversham was surprised. ‘I was at Trinity with him. His father was a vicar. Do you know him?’
‘I’m afraid not. But Miss Kendall is a friend of my sister.’
‘Why isn’t she here?’ Cicely Teversham asked. ‘You could have brought her along.’
‘She is in London.’
Lord Teversham was unimpressed. ‘There are trains every hour to Cambridge. It’s not difficult.’
Cicely Teversham stepped in to smooth the way. ‘Do ask her, Canon Chambers. I am sure the collection will interest her. Only a few people realise what we have here because the insurance is so high. We have to be so careful. The portrait of Queen Elizabeth is known, but there’s a Raphael Madonna, and a Titian portrait. Some of our paintings are also without attribution, and so if Miss Kendall has a good eye then perhaps she would like to come and have a look?’
‘I am sure she would be glad to do so.’
‘I would like to show her our lady in black. The restorer did such a good job.’
‘Who is the painting by?’
‘We’re not too sure,’ Lord Teversham explained. ‘Netherlandish School, probably. It used to be in the attic. Cicely had it brought down.’
His sister smiled. ‘Do bring your friend. Next time you must stay to lunch. It will be intriguing, I’m sure.’
‘Intriguing?’
‘You speak of her so fondly.’
‘Oh, it’s not what you think,’ Sidney replied hastily.
Cicely Teversham smiled. ‘And how do you know what I think, Canon Chambers?’
The painting in question was a sober, almost devotional piece, a full-length portrait of a russet-haired, dark-eyed woman in her early thirties. She wore a black, high-buttoned blouse that covered a long neck, and a headdress edged with pearls. Her hands were half-clasped, but not quite in prayer, and the only lightness of touch lay in the hint of a smile on the lady’s wide mouth. Her necklace consisted of a simple medal on a chain. In the background, and to the left, stood a table with a vase half-filled with water containing three carnations and sprigs of rosemary. A painting of Adam and Eve hung on the wall behind the table; a picture within a painting.
Amanda Kendall inspected the panel from every angle, looking at it closely and then stepping back to ascertain its effect. She was dressed elegantly, in a chemise dress by Coco Chanel that made her look decidedly French.
‘Do you mind if I take the picture down?’ Amanda asked.
Ben Blackwood stepped in. ‘Let me help you . . .’
‘It’s all right. I am perfectly capable . . .’ Amanda put on a pair of gloves, lifted the painting away from the wall, and carried it over to the window. She placed it on a side table and then knelt down and looked at it closely, inspecting the edges with a magnifying glass.
She looked at Lord Teversham. ‘Could I take it out of its frame?’
He turned to Ben, who nodded in resignation. ‘As long as you don’t do any damage. It’s Tudor wood, you know . . .’
‘Indeed . . .’ Amanda removed a scalpel from her handbag and prized the panel away from the frame.
Sidney had never seen her at work before.
‘The frame is original,’ she said before putting the panel back. ‘It would be good to get the painting back to the Gallery and take some samples. You’ve had it restored, I see.’
‘Ten years ago.’
Amanda hung the painting back on the wall, and then put her magnifying glass and her scalpel back in her handbag. ‘A very unusual piece,’ she said.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ Ben asked.
‘By no means. Has this portrait always been in your possession?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ Lord Teversham replied. ‘It’s an heirloom. It must have been in the family since the sixteenth century.’
‘No, I’m sorry to have to repeat myself. I have to be sure of the provenance. Has this portrait always been in your possession? It has never left the building?’
‘Not apart from when it was restored.’
‘And who did the restoration?’
‘Some chap in Saffron Walden. He was very good value.’
‘I imagine that he was. What differences did you notice when the painting was returned?’
Lord Teversham could not understand why Amanda was asking such an obvious question. ‘Well, it was cleaner and brighter. You could see everything . . .’
‘And he got rid of the woodworm,’ Cicely Teversham added. ‘I was worried that the panel had a bit of rot and that it would get worse.’
‘Well,’ said Amanda. ‘There’s certainly no woodworm now; just a little residue in the frame.’
‘The panel is as good as new . . .’
‘Tell me, did the panel once have a cartellino?’
Lord Teversham was confused. ‘A cartellino?’
‘A painted inscription, often giving the name of the person represented.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No trace of any over-painting?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. Why do you ask?’
Amanda explained. ‘The cartellino was a common feature of the Lumley Collection, a group of paintings dispersed in 1785. It is possible the work comes from that collection. Do you have a library?’
‘I don’t imagine our household accounts go back that far,’
‘The provenance is crucial. We do have a copy of the Lumley Inventory at the Gallery.’
‘Why are you asking all this?’
‘Do you still have the restorer’s address?’ Amanda asked.
‘Yes, I think so.’
Cicely Teversham remembered. ‘Frederick Wyatt was his name . . .’
‘Although if he recognised the painting I would be surprised if he was still living there.’
‘Recognised? Is something wrong?’ Sidney asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Amanda replied. She turned to Lord and Lady Teversham. ‘I think we all need to sit down with a cup of tea. Or something stronger.’
‘Very well; but why are you looking so concerned?’
Amanda was still guarded. ‘The frame is the original sixteenth-century mounting, but the panel itself has been replaced.’
‘Replaced?’ Ben Blackwood asked. ‘Impossible.’
‘It’s a copy; a very good one, but a copy nonetheless. The paint surface is even; the wood is new. I would need to take a sample to be sure . . .’
‘Good heavens . . .’
‘Which would not matter so much if this was originally the work of a minor Netherlandish master . . .’
Lord Teversham could not believe her. ‘I thought it was . . .’
Amanda continued. ‘So did I. But look at the jewellery the lady is wearing. I am pretty sure that it was made either by Cornelius Hayes or John of Antwerp. It is an exact match of a coronation medal in the British Museum.’
‘A coronation medal?’
‘The carnations in the background are a symbol of betrothal; the portrait of Adam and Eve represents the hope of children in a marriage. The original of this painting can be dated to 1533.’
‘Who is she, then?’ Cicely Teversham asked.
Ben had guessed. ‘You’re not saying?’
Amanda paused. ‘There is only one of Henry VIII’s six wives with no surviving contemporary portrait. If you once had this original painting, and I am only saying “if”, then you were the possessors of one of the most valuable pictures in the world: a lost portrait, by Hans Holbein the Younger, of Henry VIII’s second wife, Queen Anne Boleyn.’
‘A sleeper!’ said Ben.
‘Exactly,’ Amanda replied. ‘A work of art that has been misattributed but which turns out to be far more valuable than anyone thinks. I found a Van Dyck in a similar situation only the other day . . .’
Cicely Teversham pressed. ‘We had an invaluable Holbein?’
‘Possibly . . .’
‘And now we’ve lost it? That painting could have saved our entire estate. How can we get it back?’
‘Well, obviously it’s not going to be easy,’ Amanda replied. ‘And we do need to track down your restorer.’
Sidney decided to step in. ‘Who else knows you had this painting, Lord Teversham?’
His host was nonplussed. ‘Most of the family, of course, and the servants. Mackay always took a dim view of it, but I think that’s because it reminded him of the wife who ran off. Then there’s Ben, of course, although portraits of pious ladies are quite far from your sphere of interest, aren’t they?’
Ben Blackwood looked uneasy. ‘Indeed.’
‘Some visitors and friends, although most of them prefer horses or dogs.’
‘Anyone from the art world?’ Amanda asked.
Cicely Teversham spoke up. ‘There was also the man from the insurers. He came to value the collection. In fact, he was the person who suggested the painting needed restoring if I remember rightly.’
‘It seems peculiar, doesn’t it?’ Lord Teversham asked. ‘If a crime has been committed then it seems rather a bizarre choice – why didn’t they take a Titian?’
‘That would be harder to sell on,’ Amanda replied.
Lord Teversham couldn’t quite take in what she had been saying. ‘I always thought that this was a perfectly decent but rather insignificant painting. An unknown lady, Netherlandish School: hardly worth restoring. She’s no great beauty, is she?’
Amanda interjected. ‘Taste changes, Lord Teversham, but if your original painting is what I think it may have been, then it fills one of the greatest gaps in British art. Holbein was active at the time of the marriage between Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn. We know that he designed a table fountain as a New Year’s Day gift for the King in 1534, and even, probably, a cradle for the infant Elizabeth I. The theory is that if there was such a portrait it was destroyed or hidden after her execution and Boleyn’s name became Bullen or even Butler . . .’
‘And why would they do that?’ asked Cicely.
‘Fear. Anne Boleyn was once the most powerful woman in England. She gave birth to the future Queen Elizabeth, but she could not give the king a son. What I think is interesting is how little she realised the danger she was in. After she gave birth to a girl she thought that she would become pregnant again; and in January 1536 she was. Then, on the twentieth of January she miscarried. In the next few months her enemies rallied, and despite the fact that she had just lost a child, she was accused of multiple infidelity with half a dozen men including her own brother.’
‘Seems a bit rum,’ Lord Teversham interrupted.
‘Half a dozen men, and she had just lost a baby. She was put on trial and condemned to death but as she took the last sacrament she swore upon her soul that had never been unfaithful to her husband. On the nineteenth of May she was beheaded. In less than four months her reputation was ruined. In January she had been the Queen of England. In May she was dead. It is one of the fastest downfalls in English history. Eleven days after her death the king married Jane Seymour. Anne Boleyn’s memory was forgotten. Paintings were taken down as quickly as possible, dispersed, disguised and misattributed.’
‘Like mine . . .’ Lord Teversham cut in.
‘We must get it back,’ Cicely Teversham exclaimed. ‘For the sake of the estate and in the interests of the collection.’
‘No,’ Amanda cut in. ‘We must get it back for the nation.’
After lunch, Amanda returned to London and took the painting back to the National Gallery. There it was examined, photographed and subjected to a series of chemical tests. While she was waiting for the results, Amanda studied the inventory of Mr John Lampton, ‘Stewarde of Howseholde to John Lord Lumley’, that had been made in 1590. Above an entry for one of the National Gallery’s own paintings, ‘The Statuary of the Duches of Myllayne, afterwards Duches of Lorreyn, daughter to Christierne King of Denmark, doone by Haunce Holbyn’, she had found the following: ‘The Statuary of Quene Anne Bulleyne’.
It was a full-length contemporary portrait. There had been no record of where it had gone after the sale of 1785. Amanda’s suspicions had been justified.
Lord Teversham had rooted out the address of the picture restorer and, at the beginning of August, shortly after her twenty-seventh birthday, Amanda let Sidney accompany her on a visit to seek him out in the small country town of Saffron Walden.
She drove the cream MG TD which her parents had bought her as a birthday gift, and she wore a scarf and dark glasses against the low autumn sunlight that Sidney thought made her look like Gene Tierney in Leave her to Heaven. As they travelled through the lanes of Cambridgeshire, Sidney told her how much he had enjoyed introducing her to Lord Teversham and how proud he was to know her. ‘I cannot understand how you recognised that painting so quickly,’ he marvelled.
‘I do like to think that I am good at my job, Sidney.’
‘I have never doubted it.’
‘Some do. They think I am merely posh.’
‘You are far more than that, Amanda. But do you think we can get the painting back?’
‘If the restorer knew what he was doing then he will probably have sold it on. But this is our only lead. I have asked Lord Teversham to check the provenance. It would help if we knew how the family acquired the painting in the first place.’
Sidney tried to catch Amanda’s eye but she was concentrating on the road ahead. ‘You should have asked Ben,’ he said.
Amanda smiled and gave him a glance back. ‘I’m not sure about him at all. He’s very protective of his position in the house, whatever that might be.’
‘First impressions can be misleading,’ Sidney replied, ‘but perhaps not in this case. He does seem rather effete. Would you like me to look at the map?’
‘We’re just turning into Chaters Hill. Number one hundred and sixty nine appears to be some kind of souvenir emporium.’
‘Are you sure it will be open?’ Sidney asked. ‘Most of the shops seem to be shut.’
‘I thought I saw someone through the window.’
‘Then let’s go in and ask.’
They parked the car and approached a shop that consisted of toys, trinkets and teddy bears. The owner was a broad-shouldered man with a walrus moustache and twinkling brown eyes. ‘What can I do for you both on such a magnificent morning?’ he asked.
‘We are not sure that we have come to the right place . . .’ Sidney began.
The proprietor was unconcerned. ‘Ask me anything!’
‘I think we must be looking for the previous owner,’ Amanda continued. ‘Did this building once belong to someone in the arts, a painter or a restorer, perhaps?’
‘It did indeed: Freddie Wyatt; the most mild-mannered of men.’
‘But he is no longer here?’
‘Alas, he is not.’
‘He has retired?’
‘To Holland, I believe. He went in rather a hurry. He said he couldn’t wait to get out of England and just left me with a forwarding address.’
‘When was this?’
‘A few years ago now. The place was a terrible mess when I bought it. There were bottles of pigment, sugar, tea and alcohol all over the place with no way of knowing what anything was; no labelling, no order. It was chaos. I offered to send on any money received for work that people were late to collect but after three months that would be that. But you have not come to hear about this, I am sure. You have come for a bear, I hope, or a souvenir; something to remember your visit.’
Amanda kept to the subject. ‘We were thinking of having a picture restored but it seems we have come to the wrong place.’
‘I sell picture postcards, my dear, but not pictures.’
‘You knew this Freddie Wyatt?’ Sidney asked.
‘We used to drink together in The Swan Hotel. Do you know it?’
‘Unfortunately, I do not.’
‘They do a very fine jugged hare.’
Amanda pressed further. ‘And do you know what happened to the work that was left here?’
‘The paintings? I put a sign on the door. All work had to be collected and paid for within three months. I gave the rest to the church fête.’
‘How many paintings did you give away?’
‘About ten, I suppose.’
‘Can you remember them?’
The owner tried to think. ‘There were some hunting scenes, some seascapes, a few dreary portraits; some of them were even of clergymen.’
‘Any ladies?’
‘One or two . . .’
Amanda produced a photograph. ‘Any that looked like this?’
‘She looks rather soulful doesn’t she? Is she a widow?’
Sidney tried to help. ‘Do you remember seeing it?’
‘I can’t be sure,’ the owner continued. ‘Most of the paintings that were collected in time were because a woman came on behalf of someone else to fetch them. She paid for six or seven restorations and framings. I remember because we rounded it all up to five guineas.’
‘Do you think this picture could have been amongst them?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You didn’t keep a record?’
‘No. I just sent the money on.’
‘You cannot remember what the lady was called?’
‘I’m afraid not. But she came on behalf of a Mr Phillips.’
‘Do you, by any chance, have his address?’
‘Alas, I do not. It was all very slapdash, and poor Freddie’s bookkeeping was atrocious. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a bear or two? We have a couple of very good Stieffs.’
‘I don’t think so . . .’
Amanda smiled. ‘Oh Sidney. Don’t be silly. Let me buy you a bear. Then you can take me to lunch.’
‘You don’t have to.’ Sidney wondered about Amanda’s gift giving: first a dog and then a teddy bear. He should really get her something himself.
‘I know I don’t have to. But I want to, Sidney. Let me choose one for you.’
‘What an excellent idea,’ the proprietor exclaimed. ‘I sometimes think that’s all you need to be happy: a fine bear and an efficient hot water bottle.’
‘If only it were that simple,’ said Amanda as she paid the bill.
They remained in Saffron Walden for lunch. Sidney had offered the possibility of a return to Grantchester but Amanda was having none of it. She wanted to have a look round and make a day of it, visiting the ruined castle and the medieval buildings and examining the pargeting on the houses in Bridge Street. ‘Also,’ she added, ‘I don’t think I could bear one of Mrs Maguire’s toads in the hole.’
Sidney felt that he should stick up for his housekeeper. Not everyone could live in Hampstead. ‘Mrs Maguire does her best on very limited means, Amanda.’
It was approaching two o’clock in the afternoon and Sidney was worried that the Swan Hotel might not be serving food. He promised the waitress that they would be happy with anything and, as it was a Friday, both soup and fish would be perfectly adequate. Amanda, however, had other ideas.
‘A gin and tonic with ice and lemon together with warm bread rolls while we look at the menu, if you would be so kind . . .’ she asked.
The waitress was unimpressed. ‘Chef’s off in a minute and the gentleman has ordered.’
Amanda looked at the leather-bound menu. ‘I don’t think he’s done so. He has expressed a desire not to be of inconvenience. They are not the same thing. Is everything listed here available?’
‘In a manner of speaking . . .’
Sidney tried to alleviate the tension. ‘Amanda, please don’t cause a scene . . .’
‘What would you recommend?’ she asked.
The waitress looked at Sidney. ‘I would have the soup and the fish, madam.’
‘And what kind of soup is it?’
‘I’ll have to check with Chef . . .’
‘Never mind,’ said Sidney. ‘Let him surprise us.’
‘I think it’s mushroom . . .’
‘I can’t abide mushrooms,’ said Amanda.
‘We do a very good tomato.’
‘Tomato will be fine; and then the fish, I suppose. Thank you very much.’ Amanda handed the waitress the menu. ‘Honestly, Sidney. What a fuss.’
Two bowls of lukewarm tinned tomato soup arrived on the table. A sprig of parsley had been added but a dash of cream only served to lower the temperature further.
‘I might as well warm up with another gin,’ Amanda said, ‘or I could add it to the soup and spice it up. I can’t believe we’re paying six shillings for this.’
‘Let’s not worry,’ said Sidney. ‘I am sure the fish will be tasty. Then we can concentrate on the complexities of the case.’
‘There are certainly no complexities about the meal,’ Amanda brooded.
There were three other diners left in the restaurant: a silent pair of tourists and a man with a prodigious beard whose response to the inadequacy of the meal resulted in him wearing his food rather than eating it.
‘Extraordinary,’ Amanda muttered. ‘To take so little care . . .’
Sidney took out the photographs of the portrait of Anne Boleyn and looked at them once more. ‘We must find this Phillips chap . . .’
‘You think he was working in association with the picture restorer?’
‘It’s a possibility. Or the restorer never knew. It has to be someone who recognised the painting.’
‘An inside job? The butler, perhaps. Or one of Lord Teversham’s friends?’
Sidney considered the situation. ‘I was thinking about the man who came to assess the collection for insurance purposes. The painting was restored shortly afterwards, and he was the person who suggested that it should be done. How much do you think it is worth?’
‘I did some research. A Holbein sold for just under £4,000 in 1946. The Anne Boleyn would be worth far more; certainly enough for a nice house in the country.’
Sidney looked at the photograph once more. ‘It’s a less flattering image than I would have imagined,’ he observed.
‘It was the beginning of the age of realist portrait painting,’ Amanda began. ‘Holbein was trying to paint psychologically as well as representationally.’
The fish arrived and looked more promising than the soup. Sidney thought for a moment and then continued. ‘Anne Boleyn is, of course, one of the main reasons I am in my present job. Without her there would be no Church of England; no Archbishop Parker at my college, and no Cranmer Prayer Book.’
‘But you would probably still be a priest.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. But it was probably the moment in history when England first defined itself, don’t you think? It’s interesting that the picture restorer was called Wyatt. Didn’t Thomas Wyatt love Anne Boleyn – his great poem “Whoso list to hunt” and all that?’
‘Probably, Sidney.’
‘So, in the end, Anne Boleyn may well have inspired both the Prayer Book and the introduction of the sonnet into the English language.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more. . .’
‘Sidney, don’t get carried away.’
‘The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that furthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore,
Fainting I follow. . .’
‘Stop it. People are giving us odd looks.’
‘I was enjoying myself.’
‘You mean you were enjoying my discomfort?’
‘A bit of teasing shouldn’t harm you, Amanda.’
‘I don’t like being teased. It’s embarrassing.’ Sidney’s companion finished her fish. ‘So you think we should find this Phillips man? Perhaps we could ask your friend the inspector to help us?’
‘I think you would have to ask him that, Amanda.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes . . . you . . . I can’t bear to think of the look on his face if I do it.’
‘Alternatively, of course, I could telephone Lord Teversham and find out the name of his insurance company. If the man who came was also called Phillips, and he works for a specialist company, then tracking him down should be fairly straightforward.’
‘You think you can do that?’
‘We have a list of art insurers at work. I am employed by the National Gallery. It’s almost my job.’
‘But it’s probably not the job that you are employed to do.’
‘Sidney, that is the clearest case of the pot calling the kettle black that I have ever heard. Let me take you home.’
Wilkie Phillips lived in one of series of ramshackle buildings on the edge of a farm outside Ely. The surrounding land was fenced with barbed wire, the garden had been neglected for years and the house appeared as unloved as it was remote. Yet, on approach, Amanda noticed that the fabric of the building was sound. This was a home where the owner spent most of his time indoors.
A telephone call to Lord Teversham, followed by a visit to the offices of London Assurance, where she had used her considerable charms to good effect, had yielded her the address. She had decided to pursue the investigation on her own, on behalf of the National Gallery, and without troubling either Sidney or his friend Inspector Keating. She would make her visit to Wilkie Phillips as informal as possible, in order to avoid suspicion, and then, if she discovered that the painting was in his possession, or she had any doubts about his trustworthiness, she would summon aid. Until then, Amanda was confident that she was perfectly capable of doing a simple bit of detective work on her own.
On entering the building, she found herself in the hallway of one of the strangest houses she had ever seen. She had been permitted to enter by a small, bearded man who looked like an elderly version of Van Gogh. He apparently worried about neither appearance nor hygiene. The Harris tweed jacket and Fair Isle jumper, which he wore over a Viyella shirt, had clearly never seen a dry cleaner, and his loose-fitting corduroy trousers, in light tan, were held up with string. Although he was in his early sixties he sounded as if his voice had only just broken.
‘I don’t know what I can do for you,’ Wilkie Phillips protested. ‘There’s nothing of any value here.’
‘People have told me that you have a wonderful collection.’
‘I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to. I don’t have any friends.’
‘I am sure you do.’
‘Believe me, Miss Kendall. I do not.’
The hallway was filled with paintings of blowzy nudes by Renoir and Degas. Although they were clearly fakes, and not all of them were to scale, the amount of female flesh on display did make Amanda wonder about the owner’s state of mind.
‘I don’t have visitors. When my mother was alive people came all the time but I’m not a great entertainer. Besides, I like to keep the paintings to myself.’
‘They’re very good.’
‘All copies, of course.’
‘I can see that. Who did them for you?’
‘A friend. Unfortunately he’s retired and moved away so the collection is closed. But I find I don’t need friends if I’ve got paintings . . .’
Amanda could see that great trouble had been taken in the hanging, even though the walls were in need of re-plastering. Each painting had its own picture light, and the portraits that hung in the hall were large enough to evoke the sense of a sprawling, but neglected, country house. This was a poor man’s Locket Hall; and, like many a stately home, it was too cold and damp for art. However, Amanda did notice an open fire in the distance.
‘What is it that you are doing again?’ Phillips asked.
‘As I explained in the doorway, we are compiling a census of the nation’s great paintings so that we know where everything is . . .’
‘Then I don’t know why you have come here.’
‘Yes, I am afraid I must have been misled.’
‘Some idle gossip, either in the village or in town perhaps?’
Amanda was not going to give up easily. ‘I think you work in insurance?’
‘I’ve been retired for two years. I have a modest pension and I live frugally. I certainly could not afford any original works. Even these copies have cost me a great deal of money.’
‘You should come to the National Gallery to see the originals.’
‘That is very kind, Miss Kendall, but I like to keep everything close to hand. I do not like to be troubled by the world these days.’
‘Then I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Not at all. I would offer you tea but I am afraid that I only drink milk. I like it condensed.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘It’s not an affectation . . .’
‘I didn’t think that it was . . .’
‘It’s only that life can be so difficult.’ Wilkie Phillips wiped his eye. ‘I wear the same clothes and I eat the same food every day. Then I don’t have to think about those kinds of things. I can just look at my paintings.’
‘Is that how you spend your retirement?’
‘I spend each day in a different room. There are seven rooms and I have seven days. It’s all organised.’
‘And where are you today?’
‘In the snug.’
‘Which is where the fire is?’
‘You are observant.’
‘May I see?’
‘There’s nothing there, really. Only a few portraits; they are not very interesting at all.’
‘I am sure I will find them fascinating. This is your very own National Gallery, is it not?’
Phillips stepped back. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. But I believe that rooms should have their own themes. Italian Renaissance, Dutch still lives, Venetian views, and a salon of Vermeers. That is my favourite.’
‘And what about the snug?’
‘My Reformation room: Cranach’s Adam and Eve, Quentin Metsys and one or two Holbeins. I’ve avoided Henry the Eighth because he is too intimidating and, as you have no doubt observed, I prefer pictures of women.’
‘Could we go through?’
‘You won’t be staying long, will you?’ Phillips asked. ‘Only I haven’t finished looking today and I do like to see the paintings in the daylight.’
‘No, I won’t keep you,’ said Amanda. ‘I am particularly interested in the Northern Renaissance.’
‘You mean the Reformation. Such psychological realism I find . . .’
On the opposite wall was a copy of Lucas Cranach’s Charity that they had in the National Gallery. She recognised a portrait of Lady Guildford and then there, over the fireplace, was Lord Locket’s portrait of Anne Boleyn.
‘Oh,’ Amanda said, trying to sound as casual as she could. ‘I don’t think I know that one.’
‘Yes,’ Wilkie Phillips answered. ‘It’s rather obscure.’
‘It’s a copy?’
‘They are all copies, as you have noticed.’
‘Then where is the original?’
‘I can’t remember . . .’
‘I would have thought you knew where all your paintings came from?’
‘They are copies. It does not matter too much . . .’
‘But this one seems particularly good. It has a better patina. The sense of age is more convincing. Who is she?’
‘No one of any great importance.’
‘You don’t think so? It seems to have a cartellino.’
‘I don’t think that means very much.’
‘On the contrary. I think it means a very great deal. Could I have a closer look?’
The painting was hung too high but Amanda was convinced that the cartellino read ‘Quene Anne Bulleyene’.
Wilkie Phillips shifted on his feet. ‘Hadn’t you better be getting on now?’
‘Yes, of course. Only, it’s extraordinary . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose it must be very odd to come to a place like this. I’m only sorry you have wasted your journey.’
‘No not at all . . .’ Amanda hesitated. ‘You don’t think it might be someone important?’ she asked.
‘I am not so sure about that. I just saw it and liked it.’
‘Yet you can’t remember where you first saw it?’
‘I suppose that is a bit odd . . .’
‘And it’s hung in such a prominent position.’
‘Well, as I say, I rather like her.’
‘Haven’t you been curious to do some research?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Miss Kendall.’ Wilkie Phillips gave a nervous laugh.
Amanda wanted a closer look at the picture but realised she had outstayed her welcome. She needed time to think. ‘Could I possibly use your lavatory?’ she asked.
‘Must you?’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘No, forgive me, I am being unreasonable. I’m . . . I’m not used to guests, you see . . . and I don’t like other people looking at that painting. It’s a queer thing . . . but please . . . it’s along that corridor.’
Wilkie Phillips gestured towards the open doorway with his left arm. ‘I’ll show you . . .’
Amanda could not resist taking a further step forward to look at the painting. ‘I think this is the best work in your collection; the most convincing . . .’
‘Do you, indeed? As I said, the lavatory is down this corridor . . .’
Amanda passed Wilkie Phillips in the doorway but was unnerved when he started to follow her.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, trying to get some distance between them.
Her host gave another laugh. ‘I don’t want you getting lost.’
They turned left just before the kitchen and Amanda found herself in a small windowless corridor off the main building. The lavatory was at the end, with a sink and a small barred window. There was no key in the lock but she closed the door and took time to collect her thoughts.
It was quite simple, she told herself. She would be as polite as possible, leave, and then tell both Sidney and Lord Teversham. One of them would inform Inspector Keating and then the process of investigation would begin. They could requisition the painting, the restorers at the gallery would test her suspicion – for it was still just a theory – and then, if a crime had been committed, the rest would follow.
Amanda washed and dried her hands, adjusted her lipstick and gave her hair a quick brush. She walked down the narrow corridor that led back to the kitchen, already imagining herself on the drive back to London. There was so much to think about that when she first tried to turn the handle on the outer door she thought little of the fact that it was stuck. She tried the handle again. It turned but when she attempted first to push the door away from her and then to pull it towards her she found that it held fast. It appeared that she was locked in.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ she thought.
‘Mr Phillips!’ she called.
There was no reply.
She banged on the door.
‘Mr Phillips!’ She looked back towards the lavatory; the only opening to the outside was the small barred window. The corridor was windowless.
She banged again. Then she looked in her handbag. Perhaps she had a pair of tweezers or something that would enable her to pick the lock? She realised that she did not know how to do such a thing and, in any case it was a mistake to panic so soon. Wilkie Phillips was simply a very odd man. He couldn’t have locked her in deliberately.
She banged on the door again.
How had she got herself into this and, more to the point, how was she going to get out? ‘I’m such an idiot,’ she thought.
She returned to the attack, banging on the door and then rapping and calling for a good thirty seconds. Then she stopped.
In the ensuing silence she heard Wilkie Phillips. ‘Quite the woodpecker, aren’t we? Tap, tap, tap . . .’
His voice was quiet and close and there had been no preceding footsteps. Amanda realised that her host must have been standing on the other side of the door all along. ‘Mr Phillips, I seem to be locked in . . .’
‘That does seem to be the case.’
‘Do you have a key?’
There was a pause in which he appeared to be considering the complexity of the question. ‘I do have a key.’
‘Then can you please let me out?’
‘I am afraid I cannot do that, Miss Kendall.’
‘Why not?’
‘I saw you looking at that painting.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with looking at a painting.’
‘But you were looking at that painting, weren’t you?’
‘And what if I was?’
‘You know what it is, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘Would you like to tell me?’ Phillips’s tone was falsely parental. ‘I’m sure you know.’
Amanda sighed. Perhaps she should just get all this out of the way and be done with it all. ‘It’s Anne Boleyn,’ she said.
‘Very good.’
‘It’s from the Lumley Collection. The original was in Locket Hall.’
‘It was . . .’
‘And it isn’t now.’
Wilkie Phillips was still speaking in an insidiously quiet voice. ‘Lord Teversham is such a foolish man. As soon as I saw it I knew that I had to have it. And he never even knew.’
‘Will you let me out?’
‘I am afraid I can’t, Miss Kendall.’
‘What if I promise not to tell anyone about the painting?’
‘I don’t believe you . . .’
‘The police know I am here.’
‘I am not afraid of men in uniform.’
Amanda wished she had brought Sidney. ‘I am sure they are on their way even now,’ she said.
Wilkie Phillips’s reply was both calm and wheedling. ‘Well, we’ll just have to wait and see. I’m not sure I’ll be letting anyone else come into the building. That would be as much of a mistake as letting you through the door in the first place. In fact, I am rather upset. I was distracted by your beauty.’
‘I hardly think so . . .’
‘If I could see more of you, of course, I might be a better judge. I could be kinder.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘You are in no position to call me absurd, Miss Kendall . . .’
‘What are you going to do?’
Wilkie Phillips still had his mouth close against the door. ‘I don’t quite know. I haven’t made my mind up. Exciting, isn’t it?’
The next Thursday evening, on 26 August 1954, Geordie Keating and Sidney Chambers were about to begin their routine game of backgammon in the RAF bar of The Eagle. The inspector was in a good mood: the children were back at school, the football season had begun – his beloved Newcastle United had even won 3-1 at Arsenal – and Scotland Yard had commended him for his help on the Templeton case. He therefore took the opportunity to josh Sidney about his future marriage plans, asking him explicitly about Amanda.
‘If you want my opinion you should stop all this shilly-shallying and propose.’
‘I don’t think anyone would ever see Amanda as a vicar’s wife.’
‘She could break the mould.’
Sidney threw his dice to begin: a six and a one. ‘Besides, I like things the way they are. We are good friends. I don’t want to ruin it with romance even if I had the chance. There’s a lot to be said for celibacy, you know. More time for God.’
Inspector Keating responded with a four and a three. They were even. ‘It’s unlike you to be so reticent.’
‘I’m being realistic. There is a difference.’ Sidney stopped before his next turn. ‘Although it’s a curious thing, Geordie. I haven’t heard from her for a few days. I left a message with my sister and Amanda hasn’t replied. That is quite unusual.’
‘She’s probably found someone else by now.’
‘There is always someone else, Geordie. I am quite used to that.’
Keating put down his pint and gave Sidney one of his irritatingly ‘concerned’ looks. ‘It’s strange that she hasn’t returned your telephone call. Why don’t you try her again?’
‘I don’t want to pester her.’ Sidney threw down the dice too aggressively. They bounced off the board and skidded off the table and on to the floor. He could not concentrate at all.
Trapped in the lavatory of a remote farmhouse outside Ely, Amanda was beginning to lose sense of time. As soon as she was sure that Wilkie Phillips had gone to bed, she took the opportunity to wash and brush up. There was no hot water and only a slim bar of Cidal soap. Then she did a few exercises that she had remembered from the Girl Guides: running on the spot, touching her toes and three or four star jumps. She remembered the motto ‘Be Prepared’ and was furious with herself all over again; a woman who had always prided herself on her intelligence being duped into this!
She found sleep on the cold lino of the lavatory floor nearly impossible. She eventually drifted off and tried to think of the good things in her life but the dawn came all too soon. Then, what at first she thought to be a strange bird-like sound, turned out to be Wilkie Phillips whispering a high-pitched song through the barred window.
‘Oh dear, what can the matter be
Two old ladies stuck in the lavatory
They’ve been there from Friday to Saturday
Nobody knew they were there.’
‘Please let me out.’
Wilkie Phillips’s rabbit eyes were visible through the bars. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands.’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘I’ve left you a sandwich.’
‘I can’t eat it.’
‘It’s salmon paste. I made it especially for you.’
‘I don’t want it.’
Wilkie Phillips had a colder tone to his voice. ‘I think you’ll have to look after yourself if you want to survive.’
‘Are you threatening me?
‘I might be. And then again, I might not. How unpredictable life is.’
‘This is ridiculous. My friend knows I am here. He will bring the police.’
‘No sign of him, though, is there?’
‘I trust him to come,’ Amanda replied.
‘Who is “he”?’
‘A good man. Far too good for me.’
‘You are fortunate that someone loves you. I only had my mother.’
‘Why you are doing this? It can’t be to make me understand you, Mr Phillips.’
‘You can call me Wilkie.’
‘Why can’t you let me go?’
‘Because the painting is mine and I can’t let you take it away.’
‘I don’t have to take it away. I could just leave.’
‘But then you will tell your friends and they will come and I will be removed from this lovely home and I will never see such beauty again.’
Amanda saw that she was getting nowhere. She was beginning to understand the nature of his obsession. She decided on another course of action. ‘I meant to ask. The Holbein seems an odd choice?’
‘Does it indeed? Perhaps so. But it is because the lady in the painting looks unerringly like my mother. As soon as I saw her I knew that I would have to own it. Do you know how old Anne Boleyn was on her coronation?
‘Either twenty-six or thirty-two. Her birth date is disputed.’
‘You do know your history. I am very impressed. We’re going to get along grandly. My mother was in between those ages when I was born, and I think she must have looked very much like this. And now she will always be with me, preserved in the timelessness of art, where death cannot touch her. I can look at her as much as I like: all day if I need too. I don’t have many fine qualities but one of them is astonishing patience.’
‘But the painting is not of your mother.’
‘I can imagine it is her.’
‘And why does it have to be the original painting? Everything else here is a copy. You seem perfectly content with them.’
‘Because my mother is now the only real thing in a world of fakes, as she was in life. Do you see? It’s really rather clever of me.’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘So do you think I am going to give up the only original artwork I possess? Or perhaps I now have two: you being one yourself. A living sculpture. I am Pygmalion. Together, perhaps, we could have Paphus: a son. Try some of your sandwich . . .’
Amanda was still unsure how to deal with her captor: whether to be defiant or try to befriend him. ‘You know my friend will come for me. I have told him about my visit.’
‘I am afraid that I don’t believe you. You sound too nervous when you tell me. You’re not a very good liar, are you, Miss Kendall? Perhaps I should call you Amanda, seeing as we are about to be intimate. Or Mandy. Do you like being called Mandy?’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Milly-Molly-Mandy. You even look a bit like her. Were you pretty as a child? I imagine so. I wonder what you look like without your clothes on. I think I will have to watch when you wash.’
‘I won’t wash.’
‘We all have to keep clean, my dear. There is soap. It’s Cidal. My mother used to use it. And a towel. You see how I look after you. I’m a very kind man. I can be even kinder if you are nice to me.’
‘I feel faint.’
‘Then you should eat something.’
‘I do not want to be poisoned.’
‘I have left you a banana. You can peel it yourself.’
‘You could have interfered with it.’
‘It’s on the window ledge. I’m glad I put bars across. Another week and you could be such a slip of a girl you’d probably be able to squeeze right through them.’
‘Can’t you leave me alone?’
‘Aren’t you enjoying my company?’
‘I am not.’
‘I thought you liked our little chats?’
‘Go . . .’ said Amanda. ‘Please. Just go.’
‘I don’t think you should be rude to me. I’m not a very nice person when I’m angry.’
‘You’re not a very nice person in any circumstances.’
‘That’s not very generous of you. Have your banana . . .’
‘I don’t want a bloody banana.’
‘When I was a small boy it was my Friday treat. My mother used to take me down to the greengrocer’s and let me choose. We would eat them in the car on the way home. I like them when they are a bit sticky.’
‘I can’t stand bananas. They make me sick.’
‘That’s a pity. Especially since I brought one as a present.’
Amanda decided to mollify him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to appear ungrateful.’
‘Of course, you should give me something in return. I wonder what that might be. You don’t seem to have very much to offer other than yourself. But that would be quite nice. I could look forward to that. In fact, I might save you up as a treat.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘I wonder what you are going to let me do? There are so many choices. I think I’m just going to eat your banana while I decide.’
Sidney had been surprised by Inspector Keating’s anxiety about Amanda and found it touching, even though he was not unduly worried himself. She would often disappear for a few days to see friends in the country and their communication had its sporadic moments. After all, their friendship was relatively new and, as he had told Geordie, he did not like to make too many demands. Besides Sidney had concerns and duties of his own, not least Grantchester’s upcoming summer fête and the annual scout trip to Scarborough.
He was not even alarmed when his sister first telephoned early on a Tuesday morning to say that Amanda had not been home for several days. Although that was not unusual in itself, Jennifer then explained that the National Gallery had telephoned to ask whether Amanda was ill. Her car was missing, her parents were abroad and a strange address outside Ely had been written down on a notepad together with the name ‘Wilkie Phillips’. Did Sidney know anything about any of this and should she be worried?
Her brother pretended that all was well and told Jennifer that Wilkie Phillips was a member of the art world and that Amanda had been keen to talk to him about Holbein. There was nothing to worry about, but if she could just give him the address then he would make some enquiries and set her mind at rest. Jennifer was clearly not convinced by her brother’s attempt at a calm response, but obliged.
As soon as he had put down the receiver, Sidney went straight to Cambridge station, where he then took a train to Ely. He took his bicycle with him and, after he had alighted, he headed off across the Fens. A feeling of dread filled his being, a sentiment not helped by the fact that the villages he passed seemed to become more remote by the mile. He asked directions to the private road where Wilkie Phillips lived and turned off down a narrow track. This then widened to reveal the ramshackle dwelling that Amanda had approached three days earlier. Her car was parked outside. The roof of the MG was down but it had been raining and the seats were wet. Now Sidney worried even more.
He approached the front door and rang the bell. There was no reply. He rang again. Then he walked around the house. The main windows were boarded up. There was no sign that anyone lived there. He rang the bell again. Then he banged on the door.
There was silence.
Sidney bicycled back towards Ely but stopped at the first telephone box he saw.
He called Inspector Keating.
‘I’m worried about Amanda,’ he said.
‘Now you tell me. What’s wrong?’
‘It’s not good, Geordie. I think she’s been kidnapped.’
Inside the house, Wilkie Phillips was in a cheerful mood. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t hear the doorbell. I think it might have been your friend. What does he look like?’
‘He’s quite hard to describe. He’s very tall, with a kind face. He stands very straight. He has brown eyes. He wears black.’
‘He wouldn’t, by any chance, be a clergyman?’
‘He is.’
‘Oh dear. That will have been him, then. And now he’s gone. What a pity I couldn’t let him in. We could all have had a little chat. Is he your special friend?’
‘Not in the way that I think you mean.’
‘Then there’s room for me. Perhaps you are, as they say, “unattached”, Miss Kendall? Quite a catch, I would have thought. And you know about art. That makes you all the more attractive. We could have a series of discussions about the difference between the naked and the nude.’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.’
‘Don’t you? I could take up life drawing. Or we both could. We could draw each other. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’
‘I really don’t think so.’
‘You do know that you are going to have to be much kinder to me if you want to leave?’
‘Mr Phillips, I can see that you have no intention of letting me go.’
‘Wilkie, please. I have told you this before. It would be so much easier if you co-operated.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘Why, take off your clothes of course.’
‘And if I do so?’
‘I’m only going to look. I don’t want to touch.’
Inspector Keating made it clear to his friend that this was the last time he was prepared to go out on a limb and help. It was only because he was fond of Amanda, and recognised that she could, potentially, curb Sidney’s more extreme flights of fancy, that he had agreed to step in and provide two cars and six men on what could turn out to be an embarrassingly wild goose chase.
Sidney had already made enquiries in the area, and it was acknowledged that Wilkie Phillips had always been strange, that he had seldom been seen since the death of his mother and that the local vicar had given up trying to pay any pastoral visits since it had been made clear that they would not be welcome. The local shopkeeper said that Phillips came as little as possible but that, when he did so, he stocked up on condensed milk, salmon paste, bread and bananas. He seemed to eat little else. Whether this made him dangerous, or merely eccentric, was another matter.
Keating asked his men to park out of sight and approach the house across the neighbouring fields. Sidney was to try to make a normal visit once more and, should there be any problems, then the police would be on hand to give immediate assistance. If there were no reply at the door, Keating would issue a warning with a loudhailer. Any further silence would result in them entering the premises and retrieving Amanda by force. He assured Sidney that they would not leave the area without her.
For a short while Amanda had been able to sleep but when she woke she found that her hands and feet had been bound. She wondered if she had been drugged, or if she was still dreaming. Wilkie Phillips was in the lavatory and he was sitting on a stool. He had been watching her.
‘I hope you had a nice rest, my dear. I did so enjoy last night. Wasn’t I good to leave you alone? I was so tempted to be naughty.’
‘What have you done to me?’
‘I thought we might play a little game.’
‘How did you do this?’
‘You were tired, and so sleepy, and I just tampered with the water tank. Only a little, you see, but just enough to send you off. And then I was very careful. You didn’t notice me at all. But perhaps all this is a bit tight for you.’
Wilkie Phillips knelt down beside Amanda and began to unbutton her blouse. The speed of his breathing increased. His breath smelled of stale banana and fish paste. As he reached the lower buttons Amanda dipped her head and bit his hand. Phillips leaped back. His hand shook with the pain. She had drawn blood.
His face contorted but his voice remained calm. ‘That was a mistake, my dear.’
Amanda noticed a toolbox on the floor by the door. Phillips crossed to it and pulled out some black gaffer tape. He tore off a length and returned. He pulled back her hair and gagged her. He forced her on to her front, lifted up her blouse and undid her bra at the back. He turned her over and pulled the bra away. He leaned forward, over Amanda, but as he did so she twisted her head away to gain momentum and used her forehead to hit him in the face. Phillips’s nose began to bleed. He checked the blood. There was a momentary pause. Then Amanda saw his fist coming towards her face.
All was darkness.
The police took up their positions. Sidney approached the front door and rang the bell repeatedly. There was no reply. He walked round the outside of the house, banging on every window and every shutter. It was impossible to see inside until he reached the barred lavatory at the rear of the house. He looked in and saw Amanda half-dressed, bound, gagged and unconscious on the floor. He called out her name. He heard a noise from inside and saw the shadow of a man move across a doorway. He ran back to the front door and waved Keating forward. He shouted out what he had seen. The officers were summoned. The door was broken down. Two men ran to the back of the house. They found the lavatory unlocked. They knelt down beside Amanda. She was still breathing.
Police officers searched the house. When they came to the snug they found Wilkie Phillips standing before the painting of Anne Boleyn. He was shouting and swearing and blaming his mother for his impotence.
He was also naked.
As he sat by Amanda’s bed in Addenbrooke’s Hospital, Sidney realised that he had never seen her without make-up. He knew that she would not want him to see her like this, bruised and vulnerable, that she always liked to look at her best; but now that she was sleeping, and unaware of how she looked to the world, he had never felt so fond of her.
He began to pray.
‘O Lord, look down from heaven, behold, visit and relieve this Thy servant. Look upon her with the eyes of Thy mercy, give her comfort and sure confidence in Thee, defend her from the danger of the enemy, and keep her in perpetual peace and safety, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.’
He prayed in certain hope of an answer. Prayer was an act of will, Sidney thought; a discipline that had to be learned and practised.
He put his hand on Amanda’s.
It was so slender.
He gave it a gentle squeeze and hoped for a response but none came.
He looked down at her pale face.
He spoke aloud. ‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee, and give thee peace, both now and evermore. Amen.’
He kissed her forehead. He kissed her bruised cheek. He laid his hand on hers once more.
Then he stood up and walked towards the door.
He took a last look and left her sleeping.
As he left the building he saw Inspector Keating coming towards him carrying a bunch of Michaelmas daisies.
‘Cathy was on a walk with the children and they picked them for Miss Kendall. But you’ve already taken her some roses, I’ll bet.’
‘I thought I would wait.’
‘Then I will tell her they are from both of us.’
‘She’s sleeping.’
‘I’ll just leave them with the nurse.’
‘I have to return for Evensong, Geordie. I don’t suppose you’d like to join me afterwards?’
‘I need to get back to the station.’
‘I understand.’
When Keating arrived in the room he found that Amanda was beginning to stir. ‘Are those flowers for me?’ she asked.
‘Of course . . .’
‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Could I please have some water?’
‘I will get some for you,’ Inspector Keating replied. ‘And I will find a vase for the flowers.’
‘Has Sidney been here?’ Amanda asked.
‘He has just left.’
‘I thought I heard his voice. I dreamed that he was holding my hand and praying for me . . .’
‘I am sure he was.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘He prays for us all.’
‘Even the man who kidnapped me?’
‘Probably.’
‘What happened to him?’
Inspector Keating sat down on the end of the bed. ‘He is in our custody.’
‘Will I have to tell you everything he did?’
‘Not now.’
‘But eventually?’
‘You can tell me everything that you feel able to tell me. Or we can provide a female police officer. It will be in confidence.’
‘It could have been so much worse, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ Inspector Keating said quietly. ‘It could.’
‘Should I tell Sidney?’
‘If you would like to. He did see you in the house. And he knows that at least . . .’
‘I wasn’t raped or murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then perhaps that is enough. Let’s not talk about that.’
‘You were incredibly brave.’
‘And foolish. What has happened to the painting?’
‘We have returned it to Lord Teversham.’
‘Was he pleased?’
‘Very much so. He told me that he is going to invite you to lunch as soon as you are better. I think he is planning a surprise for you; a little thank you. But you do not need to think about that now.’
‘And my parents . . .’
‘They are on their way.’
‘What have you told them?’
‘As much as they need to know.’
‘I’m so tired.’
‘You must rest. Cathy is going to bring in something she’s baked. She thinks the food in the hospital may not be up to your usual standards. Sidney has told me that you take a sorry view of the catering facilities on offer in Cambridge.’
‘It is because I am spoilt.’
‘Or perhaps because you have high standards?’
‘Let’s just say I am spoilt.’
‘Sidney has been worried about you. As have we all.’
‘He’s such a dear man.’
‘He is, and I know he thinks the world of you.’
Amanda turned her bruised face away from the inspector. ‘I think it must be hard being a clergyman. You can never do enough for people. But you have a calling and that is what it is. Sidney once told me; “I did not choose. I was chosen.” It’s quite hard to love a man who will always love God more.’
‘Perhaps it’s a different love . . .’
‘I don’t know what it is, Inspector. I try not to think about it.’
‘Some things are best left unsaid.’
‘What we have is friendship and I do not want to do anything to endanger that. I know that one day he will preside over my wedding and he will be a godfather to my children.’
‘One day . . .’
‘Yes, Inspector, one day. But not soon. I am not ready.’
‘And after that day,’ Keating pressed, ‘you wouldn’t mind if Sidney married someone else?’
‘Ah that . . . yes . . . that is different,’ Amanda considered, before turning over to sleep. ‘I think I might mind that very much indeed.’
It was three weeks before Amanda felt that she was well enough to revisit Locket Hall. She was weak after her ordeal, and found it difficult to adjust to everyday life, but she told Sidney that she wanted to return both to her work and to her friends as soon as she could. She would not be defeated by events. ‘If I have to change my life then that man has won. I will not live in fear.’
Lord Teversham arranged the luncheon party he had promised and made sure that Sidney was in attendance. He was thrilled to see that Amanda had felt able to come back so soon and kissed her on her arrival.
‘The vision of loveliness has returned,’ he declared, with a triumphant and generous gesture that suggested his guest was appearing on the London stage. ‘Aphrodite is in our midst once more.’
‘You flatter me, Lord Teversham.’
‘I tell only the truth. And you must call me Dominic.’
Cicely Teversham hugged her tightly, and Ben Blackwood kissed her for the first time. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Champagne! I think . . .’ Lord Teversham called to his butler. ‘We can’t be having anything as prosaic as sherry on a day like this.’ He shook Sidney by the hand. ‘I imagine you must be sick of the sight of sherry, eh?’
Sidney smiled. At last people were beginning to get the message. ‘It does have its limitations.’
‘Then why don’t you ever say?’
‘I don’t want to appear rude.’
Amanda touched him on the shoulder. ‘Oh, Sidney, don’t be such a saint. Let’s get on with the champagne.’
Mackay poured out the glasses while Lord Teversham made a little announcement. ‘Miss Kendall, before we go into luncheon we have a surprise for you.’
‘I’m not sure I like surprises any more.’
‘I think this one will amuse you. Come into the Long Gallery. You too, Canon Chambers. Bring your glasses. Ben will explain.’
They walked out into the Long Gallery and stopped in front of the painting of Anne Boleyn. It looked darker than Amanda had remembered from before. Perhaps it was because the weather had turned for the worse. It was a dull and sombre day and the picture was illuminated only from the windows.
Amanda took a step closer.
‘What do you think?’ Lord Teversham asked.
Amanda paused. ‘Isn’t this still the forgery?’
‘It is. I knew that you would be able to tell. You are clever.’
‘Then where is the original?’
Lord Teversham opened the door beside him that led into a small anteroom. ‘Step this way.’ He pointed to a large packing case ‘It is here.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Lord Teversham laid a gentle hand on Amanda’s shoulder. ‘I have been on the telephone to the Director of the National Gallery. He knows what you have done. He reminded me that the painting was priceless. Then he started to tell me about the tax advantages of gifting the painting to the nation. He could take care of it and have it on permanent loan while I am alive, and he could take care of it in such a way that the picture would never be endangered again. I listened to him very carefully . . .’ Lord Teversham smiled.
‘And then?’ Amanda asked.
‘I thought of you and all that you had gone through. And I thought of what I do. Nothing much happens in Locket Hall, you know? I have my lovely sister, and I have Ben. I shoot, and I have parties, but what have I actually done with my life? Nothing. What will I be remembered for? Nothing. This is one small thing I can do. I am giving the painting to you, Miss Kendall, or rather I am donating it to your employer.’
‘Oh . . .’ said Amanda. She inadvertently took Sidney’s hand and he squeezed it. Then she began to cry. ‘That’s so kind.’
‘It is nothing, my dear.’
‘It is everything. I’m sorry. I cry so often these days. I can’t help it.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with crying.’
She let go of Sidney’s hand.
He remembered her lying on the hospital bed, and then, her bruised and broken body on the lavatory floor. He had never felt so protective of anyone before.
Amanda gave Lord Teversham a kiss on both cheeks. Then she took Ben’s hand. ‘Did you have something to do with this?’ she asked.
‘We all decided it was for the best,’ said Cicely, opening her arms.
Amanda collapsed into her embrace.
‘There, there,’ said Lord Teversham. ‘We can’t go on like this otherwise we will all start blubbing. We need a good bit of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and some heady red wine. I have a rather good Mouton Rothschild from ’49. Do you know the vintage, Canon Chambers?’
‘I can’t think of anything more appropriate,’ Sidney bluffed.
They walked through to the dining room, where Mackay was waiting. He placed Amanda to Lord Teversham’s right and luncheon was served.
The host was keen to hear the full story of the kidnap. ‘How frightening it must have been, Miss Kendall. Has Phillips confessed?’
‘I believe he has.’
‘He sounds a very unnerving man,’ Cicely added. ‘He must have had a very odd upbringing.’
‘Yes,’ said Amanda quietly. ‘Although, would you mind if we didn’t talk about it? I’m still finding it rather hard.’
‘Of course.’ Lord Teversham turned to Ben. ‘It’s surprising we didn’t notice that the man was mad in the first place. Perhaps it’s because we spend so much time with eccentrics in our own family. My uncle thought that pine nuts made you invisible. He used to come down to breakfast naked.’
‘I don’t think that’s the same thing’, Cicely said. ‘Mr Phillips must have been a different kettle of fish altogether.’
‘But that doesn’t mean we should take pity on him,’ Lord Teversham continued. ‘What do you say, Canon Chambers? Even madmen deserve our forgiveness? Surely in some cases people are beyond mercy? There is so much evil in the world.’
‘That is true, of course.’ Sidney answered.
‘You are thinking, I see.’
‘It is not the right time to discuss my thoughts.’
‘Go on.’
Sidney looked at Amanda who smiled encouragingly. ‘He always has something interesting to say.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ her friend began, but he recognised that he should move the subject of the conversation away from Amanda’s ordeal. ‘People often ask me about the problem of evil,’ he began, ‘but there is, of course, another way of looking at it.’
‘Which is?’ Lord Teversham asked.
‘The problem of good. If we are all animals why are some of us good, kind, altruistic when we do not have to be? The capacity to behave morally is as interesting as the will to behave badly.’
‘Ah, the question of the selfish good,’ Ben intervened.
‘But that is not always the case.’ Sidney replied. ‘Some people are selfless. They are good without any expectation of reward. It is almost, or perhaps it really is, natural to them.’
‘You do always think the best of people,’ Amanda replied. ‘If you’d been kept prisoner by someone as vile as that man you might feel a bit differently. Just thinking of him makes me feel sick.’
‘Then let’s not,’ said Lord Teversham.
Sidney explained. ‘Amanda’s been rather off her food ever since. I just think it’s an interesting dilemma that people overlook . . .’
Cicely Teversham began to clear the plates. ‘I see you managed the beef all right, Amanda.’
‘It was delicious, thank you, and it’s so kind of you both to loan the painting. You know that you can come to the National Gallery and see it whenever you like?’
Lord Teversham handed his sister his plate. It was unclear where the butler had gone. ‘Perhaps we should crack on with pudding,’ he continued. ‘I think Cook has organised one of her specials. It’s a childhood favourite of mine and now that the tiresome business of rationing is over we have it as much as we like. I hope you will crave my indulgence. I think we’ve also got a rather agreeable dessert wine to go with it.’ He stood up to look for it. ‘Let me see if it is here; a rather fruity little Gaillac, I believe.’
Cicely stood up at the same time and moved over to a silver serving dish on the sideboard. She took off the lid. ‘Banana fritters!’ she announced. ‘How wonderful. Can I help you to a couple, Miss Kendall?’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Amanda apologised, ‘I don’t think I’ll be having any pudding.’
‘Are you sure?’ Sidney asked.
‘What ever is the matter?’ Lord Teversham asked. ‘Don’t you like bananas?’