David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Orlando explained that he was working on a lost Giovanni Bellini. It had adorned the walls of a church in Venice until the building was ravaged by fire about twenty-five years before. Everybody assumed the painting of Christ with a couple of saints had been destroyed. But the canvas was about to be rediscovered, having left Venice with the family who rescued it. First, the lost masterpiece had to be born. In Orlando Blane’s Long Gallery.

‘These people know their business,’ said Orlando. ‘A picture known to have existed is much more likely to be believed in than one that turns up out of the blue. It has a history already.’

The wind had dropped from the night before as Imogen stepped out of the front door, the redhead a respectable few paces behind her. Rain was falling steadily across the countryside. A tattered group of crows was flying across the fields. She walked away from the house to a path that led on to the main drive. She wondered how far down the drive she would be allowed to go. To her right the fields stretched out for a couple of miles before they stopped at a wood. Ahead, set back from the path, was a little church. Even at a hundred yards Imogen could see the holes in the roof, tiles blown away by the wind. To her left a red-brick stable block where she presumed there must be horses. Horses. She wondered if she and Orlando could creep down in the night and ride away. Steady, she said to herself, steady. We don’t even know where we are yet. The great Jacobean house, the derelict fields, she could be anywhere. She set off down the drive, remembering that she must have come this way the day before. Ten paces behind her, like a faithful guard dog, the redhead maintained his vigil. She was passing a pond and another group of abandoned buildings. Perhaps this had been the home farm in better days. As the path rose up a little hill Imogen wondered if it was time to talk to the redhead. What was his name? Where did he come from? Did he like it here? She rehearsed the opening moves in her mind and decided against it. Too soon.

Six hundred yards away a man was fiddling with the aperture on his binoculars. It was as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The man was lying in a circle of trees to the right of the drive and was virtually invisible from all directions. Yes, it was. It was definitely a woman, young and very attractive if these German glasses were to be believed.

Johnny Fitzgerald had seen the redhead before. He had seen all the guards. He had heard the carriage coming to the house the previous evening but he could see nothing at all. This girl must have been inside, Johnny decided. Was she a prisoner? Was the redhead a warder? Or a nurse in some form of mental asylum? Were these people guarding some dangerous lunatic in there? Was the girl the lunatic? Was the girl deranged?

Johnny Fitzgerald had based himself in one of the few hotels left open on the sea front of Cromer. The main rooms looked out over the grey sea, occasional fishermen venturing out for crab or lobsters. The waiters were bored, serving bored food in a bored dining room where only one other couple came to dine. They were so bored that they scarcely spoke to each other. Even Johnny’s bottle of Beaune, a cheerful draught in happier places, seemed bored. It tasted flat as if it had had enough of Cromer and its beach.

He watched as the little drama continued on the drive. When the girl was about three hundred yards away from Johnny’s hiding place, the redhead came up to her. They spoke a few words. The girl turned round. Johnny could not hear what was said. He watched as the slim figure walked slowly back to the house, possibly deep in thought, or lunacy. This afternoon, Fitzgerald said to himself, I’m going to work my way round to the other side of the house. I’ll go to those woods at the back and see how close I can get.

Imogen thought later that she could so easily have missed it. A grey stone blended into a grey wall between the house and the stable block. The stone made her heart beat faster and the blood rush to her face. It was a milestone, aged and worn now but with the legend still faintly legible through the green lichen. She pretended to retie her boot as she bent down and tried to read the words. The redhead was about twenty paces behind her, approaching fast. She peered desperately at the milestone. One arrow pointed in a southerly direction. Norwich, twenty miles, it said. Another arrow pointed north over the woods. Cromer, three miles.

Imogen and Orlando were on the north coast of Norfolk.

Alice Bridge had declined Powerscourt’s invitation to Markham Square. Instead he was making his way to 16 Upper Grosvenor Street on one of those rare winter days when the sun shone on London for tea at four o’clock. He wondered how Johnny Fitzgerald was faring up in Norfolk.

The drawing room in Upper Grosvenor Street was formal. Portraits lined the walls. A fire burned brightly in the grate. Cucumber sandwiches and a fruit cake were already in position. Powerscourt thought the house was probably run like a military operation.

Alice Bridge was not alone. The room was dominated by her mother, Mrs Agatha Bridge, who sat very erect in her chair, her hair tied in a formidable bun, her ample bosom jutting forward like the prow of a ship. Her daughter sat nervously by her side, looking as if she were in protective custody. Powerscourt felt the interview might prove difficult.

‘Lord Powerscourt,’ Mrs Bridge boomed out to him as he faced her on the sofa, ‘I understand you want to ask my daughter some questions.’

Powerscourt put on his most deferential manner. ‘Yes, I do, Mrs Bridge,’ he said, ‘just a few simple questions. It shouldn’t take long. And thank you so much for inviting me here to tea.’

‘Do you make it a habit, Lord Powerscourt, to go about London making inquiries about people’s private lives?’

‘I am an investigator, Mrs Bridge. It is my profession.’

‘A profession?’ Mrs Bridge was peering at him as if he were some lowly form of pond life. ‘A profession of prying and peeping into respectable citizens’ privacy? Surely this great city of ours has other professions which might occupy your time more properly?’

‘In my time,’ said Powerscourt, determined not to be engulfed by this wave of hostility, ‘I have been an officer of Her Majesty’s armed forces. I have letters from the Prime Minister thanking me for services rendered to the Government and the country. Please, Mrs Bridge, I am sure it would be better if I asked my questions and troubled you no more.’

Tea arrived, an enormous silver teapot polished to perfection. ‘Tea, Lord Powerscourt?’ Powerscourt wondered if it was a peace offering, or merely a truce before hostilities were recommenced.

‘Thank you very much,’ he said, watching Alice Bridge carefully out of the corner of his eye. She looked very uncomfortable, but whether that was caused by her mother’s manners or the delicacy of her own position he could not tell.

‘Tell me, Miss Bridge,’ Powerscourt moved to take the initiative, ‘how well did you know Mr Christopher Montague?’

Alice Bridge blushed bright red. She glanced quickly at her mother before she replied.

‘I knew him quite well.’

‘Did you go with him to the opening of the Venetian exhibition at the de Courcy and Piper Gallery in Old Bond Street?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘I did,’ said Alice Bridge, avoiding her mother’s gaze and looking down at the carpet.

‘I was not cognisant of the fact that you had accompanied him to that exhibition,’ said Mrs Bridge, looking at her daughter sternly. ‘And how did you come by this information, Lord Powerscourt? More snooping about, I presume, more impertinent questions?’

Mrs Bridge was beginning to irritate Powerscourt considerably.