Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

The next day, in the privacy of his office, Tim Newman warned us that if the Bishop of Reims identified the picture as the original Bronzino, then the launch of Trumper's as a public company would have to be held up for at least a year, while the auction house might never recover from such a scandal.

The following Thursday the Bishop of Reims flew into London, to be greeted by a bank of photographers whose flashbulbs popped again and again before the monsignor was driven off to Westminster, where he was staying as a guest of the archbishop.

The bishop had agreed to visit the gallery at four the same afternoon, and anyone walking through Chelsea Terrace that Thursday might have been forgiven for thinking Frank Sinatra was about to make a personal appearance. A large gathering had formed on the curbside as they waited keenly for the cleric's arrival.

I met the bishop at the entrance to the gallery and introduced him to Charlie, who bowed before kissing the episcopal ring. I think the bishop was somewhat surprised to discover that Charlie was a Roman Catholic. I smiled nervously at our visitor, who appeared to have a perpetual beam on his face—a face that was red from wine, not sun, I suspected. He glided off down the passage in his long purple cassock as Cathy led him in the direction of my room, where the picture awaited him. Barker, the reporter from the Telegraph , introduced himself to Simon as if he were dealing with someone from the underworld. He made no attempt to be civil when Simon tried to strike up a conversation with him.

The bishop came through to my little office and accepted a proffered cup of coffee. I had already placed the picture on an easel, having at Charlie's insistence refitted the original old black frame on the painting. We all sat round the table in silence as the priest stared at the Virgin Mary.

"Vous permettez?" he asked, holding out his arms.

"Certainly," I replied, and handed over the little oil.

I watched his eyes carefully as he held the painting in front of him. He seemed to take just as much interest in Charlie, whom I had never seen so nervous, as he did in the picture itself. He also glanced at Barker, who in contrast had a look of hope in his eyes. After that the bishop returned his attention to the painting, smiled and seemed to become transfixed by the Virgin Mary.

"Well?" inquired the reporter.

"Beautiful. An inspiration for any nonbeliever."

Barker also smiled and wrote his words down.

"You know," the priest added, "this painting brings back many many memories"—he hesitated for a moment and I thought my heart was going to stop before he pronounced—"but, hélas , I must inform you, Mr. Barker, that she is not the original. A mere copy of the madonna I knew so well."

The reporter stopped writing. "Only a copy?"

"Yes, je le regrette . An excellent copy, peut-être painted by a young pupil of the great man would be my guess, but nonetheless a copy."

Barker was unable to hide his disappointment as he placed his pad down on the table, looking as if he wished to make some protest.

The bishop rose and bowed in my direction. "It is my regret that you have been troubled, Lady Trumper."

I too rose and accompanied him to the door, where he was faced once again with the assembled press. The journalists fell silent as they waited for the priest to utter some revelation and I felt for a moment that he might actually be enjoying the experience.

"Is it the real thing, Bishop?" shouted a reporter in the crowd.

He smiled benignly. "It is indeed a portrait of the Blessed Virgin, but this particular example is only a copy, and of no great significance." He did not add a word to this statement before climbing back into his car to be whisked away.

"What a relief," I said once the car was out of sight. I turned round to look for Charlie, but he was nowhere to be seen. I rushed back to my office and found him holding the picture in his hands. I closed the door behind me so that we could be alone.

"What a relief," I repeated. "Now life can return to normal."

"You realize, of course, that this is the Bronzino," Charlie said, looking straight at me.

"Don't be silly," I said. "The bishop—"

"But did you see the way he held her?" said Charlie. "You don't cling to a counterfeit like that. And then I watched his eyes while he came to a decision."

"A decision?"

"Yes, as to whether or not to ruin our lives, in exchange for his beloved Virgin."

"So we've been in possession of a masterpiece without even knowing it?"

"It would seem so, but I'm still not sure who removed the painting from the chapel in the first place."

"Surely not Guy . . ."

"Why not, he's more likely to have appreciated its value than Tommy."

"But how did Guy discover where it ended up, let alone what it was really worth?"

"Company records, perhaps, or a chance conversation with Daphne might have put him in the right direction."

"But that still doesn't explain how he found out it was an original."

"I agree," said Charlie. "I suspect he didn't, and simply saw the picture as another way of discrediting me."

"Then how the blazes . . . ?"

"Whereas Mrs. Trentham has had several years to stumble across—"

"Good God, but where does Kitty fit in?"

"She was a distraction, nothing more, used by Mrs. Trentham simply to set us up."

"Will that woman go to any lengths to destroy us?"

"I suspect so. And one thing's for certain, she isn't going to be pleased when she discovers her 'best laid plans' have once again been scuppered."

I collapsed on the chair beside my husband. "What shall we do now?"

Charlie continued to cling to the little masterpiece as if he were afraid someone might try to seize it from him.

"There's only one thing we can do."

I drove us to the archbishop's house that night and parked the car outside the tradesmen's entrance. "How appropriate," Charlie remarked, before knocking quietly on an old oak door. A priest answered our call and without a word ushered us in before leading us through to see the archbishop, whom we found sharing a glass of wine with the Bishop of Reims.

"Sir Charles and Lady Trumper," the priest intoned.

"Welcome, my children," said the archbishop as he came forward to greet us. "This is an unexpected pleasure," he added, after Charlie kissed his ring. "But what brings you to my home?"

"We have a small gift for the bishop," I said as I handed over a little paper parcel to his grace. The bishop smiled the same smile as when he had declared the picture to be a copy. He opened the parcel slowly, like a child who knows he's being given a present when it isn't his birthday. He held the little masterpiece in his hands for some time before passing it to the archbishop for his consideration.

"Truly magnificent," said the archbishop, who studied it carefully before handing it back to the bishop. "But where will you display it?"

"Above the cross in the chapel of St. Augustine I consider would be appropriate," the bishop replied. "And possibly in time someone far more scholarly on such matters than myself will declare the picture to be an original." He looked up and smiled, a wicked smile for a bishop.

The archbishop turned towards me. "Would you and your husband care to join us for dinner?"

I thanked him for the kind offer and muttered some excuse about a previous engagement before we both bade them good night and quietly slipped out the way we had come.

As the door closed behind us I heard the archbishop say: "You win your bet, Pierre."

"Twenty thousand pounds?" said Becky as she came to a halt outside Number 141. "You must be joking."

"That's the price the agent is demanding," said Tim Newman.