Джеффри Арчер - And Thereby Hangs a Tale

‘And what might that be?’

‘Allow the painting to come under the hammer in our next Renaissance sale.’

‘When is that?’

‘Next October, in New York. We’re preparing the catalogue at the moment, and I can assure you your painting would attract considerable interest.’

‘But that’s not for another six months,’ said the priest. ‘By then I may not have a roof, just a swimming pool.’

When the service the following Sunday had to be moved to a church on the other side of town, Grebenar felt that Our Lord was giving him a sign, and most of his parishioners agreed with him. However, like the lawyer, when it came to selling the painting they felt it had to be his decision.

Once again, the Monsignor prostrated himself before the masterpiece, wondering what his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather would have done if faced with the same dilemma. His eyes settled on the thirty pieces of silver scattered around Judas’s feet. When he finally rose and crossed himself, he was still undecided. He was about to leave the church, when he found the stranger once again sitting in the front pew. The stranger smiled, but did not speak. He extracted a cheque for seven hundred thousand euros from an inside pocket, handed it over to the priest, then left without a word.

When they were told about the chance meeting, several of Monsignor Grebenar’s parishioners described it as a miracle. How else could the man have known the exact sum that was needed to repair the roof? Others looked upon the stranger as their Good Samaritan. When a part of the roof caved in the following day, the priest handed the cheque to the master builder.

The stranger returned within the hour and took away the painting.

This tale might well have ended here, but for a further twist that Monsignor Grebenar surely would have described as divine intervention, but would have caused Herr Grebenar to become suspicious.

On the day the new roof was finally completed, Monsignor Grebenar held a service of thanksgiving. The church was packed to hear his sermon. The words ‘miracle’, ‘Good Samaritan’ and ‘divine intervention’ could be heard on the lips of several members of the congregation.

When Monsignor Grebenar had given the final blessing and his flock had departed, he once again thanked God for guiding him in his hour of need. He looked briefly at the blank, newly painted white wall behind the altar and sighed. He then turned his eyes to the brand new roof and smiled, thanking the Almighty a second time.

After returning home for a simple lunch prepared by his housekeeper, the priest settled down by the fire to enjoy the Hertzendorfer Gazette, an indulgence he allowed himself once a week. He read the headline several times before he fell to his knees and thanked God once again.

The London Times described the loss of Friedrich Bloch’s work as devastating, and far more significant than the destruction of the museum itself. After all, the arts correspondent pointed out, Hertzendorf could always build another museum, while the portraits of Christ and his twelve disciples were works of true genius, and quite irreplaceable.

During his closing prayers the following Sunday, Monsignor Grebenar thanked God that he had not taken the lawyer’s advice and transferred The Last Supper to the museum for safe-keeping; another miracle, he suggested.

‘Another miracle,’ murmured the congregation in unison.

Six months later, The Last Supper by Friedrich Bloch (1643–1679) came under the hammer at one of the leading auction houses in New York. In the catalogue were Bloch’s Christ’s Sermon on the Mount (1662), while the portraits of the twelve disciples were displayed on separate pages. The cover of the catalogue carried an image of The Last Supper, and its unique provenance reminded potential buyers of the tragic loss of the rest of Bloch’s work in a fire earlier that year. The foreword to the catalogue suggested this tragedy had greatly increased the historic significance, and value, of Bloch’s only surviving work.

The following day a headline in the arts pages of the New York Times read:

‘Pink forty-three.’

‘You’ve won first prize,’ said Sybil excitedly as she looked down at the little strip of pink raffle tickets on the table in front of her husband.

Sidney frowned. He’d wanted to win the second prize — a set of gardening implements which included a wheelbarrow, a rake, a spade, a trowel, a fork and a pair of shears. Far more useful than the first prize, he thought, especially when you’ve spent a pound on the tickets.

‘Go and collect your prize, Sidney,’ said Sybil sharply. ‘You mustn’t keep the chairman waiting.’

Sidney rose reluctantly from his place. A smattering of applause accompanied him as he made his way through the crowded tables and up to the front of the hall.

Shouts of ‘Well done, Sidney’, ‘I never win anything’ and ‘You’re a lucky bastard’ greeted him as he climbed up on to the stage.

‘Good show, Sidney,’ said the chairman of Southend Rotary Club, handing over a brand new set of golf clubs to the winner.

‘Blue one hundred and seven,’ the chairman announced as Sidney left the stage and headed back to his table, the golf clubs slung over his right shoulder. He slumped down in his chair and managed a smile when his friends, including the member who had won the gardening implements, came over to congratulate him on drawing first prize in the annual raffle.

Once midnight struck and the band had played the last waltz, everyone stood and joined in a lusty rendering of ‘God Save the King’.

As Mr and Mrs Chapman made their way home, Sidney received some strange looks from passers-by who had rarely seen a man carrying a set of golf clubs along the seafront, and certainly not at twenty to one on a Sunday morning.

‘Well, Sidney,’ said Sybil as she took the front door key out of her handbag, who would have thought you’d win first prize?’

‘What use is a set of golf clubs when you don’t play golf?’ Sidney moaned as he followed his wife into the house.

‘Perhaps you should take up the game,’ suggested Sybil. ‘After all, it’s not long before you retire.’

Sidney didn’t bother to respond as he climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing he pushed open the hatch in the ceiling, pulled down the folding ladder, climbed the steps and dumped the golf clubs in the loft. He didn’t give them another thought until the family sat down for Christmas dinner six months later.

Christmas dinner at the Chapman household wouldn’t have differed greatly from that in a thousand other homes in Southend in 1921.

Once grace had been said, Sidney rose from his place at the top of the table to carve the turkey. Sybil sat proudly at the other end of the table while their two sons, Robin and Malcolm, waited impatiently for their plates to be laden with turkey, Brussels sprouts, roast potatoes and sage and onion stuffing. Once Sidney had finished carving the bird, he drowned his plate with thick Bisto gravy until the meat was almost floating.

‘Superb, quite superb,’ declared Sidney, digging into a leg. After a second mouthful he added, ‘But then, Sybil, everyone knows you’re the finest cook in Southend.’

Sybil beamed with satisfaction, even though her husband had paid her the same compliment every Christmas Day for the past eighteen years.

Only snippets of conversation passed between the Chapman family as they dug contentedly into their well-filled plates. It wasn’t until second helpings had been served that Sidney addressed them again.