Bernard Cornwell - Sea Lord

“And I’ll be dead.”

“Not with your Uncle Harry looking after you” – he gave me an evil grin with his tombstone teeth – “and if I’m clever,” he went on, “I’ll have your sister and Garrard behind bars, Jenny-baby will be married to that Swiss cheese, Sir Leon will have his painting, and you’ll be as poor as a church mouse because you gave your family fortune away. So shall we start letting the evil ones know that you can’t wait to be knifed?”

I went to a gap in the hedge to see if Jennifer had followed us out to the gardens, but the empty lawns just shimmered in the day’s heat. Which meant I was alone, and poor, and about to be a target.

Five days later, on a summer’s day as beautiful as any that could be wished, I sailed Sunflower into Dartmouth. The sun shone benevolently and the wind was a well-behaved force three, just enough to shift Sunflower along nicely, yet not strong enough to jar the launches which carried the television news crews.

This was Harry’s malicious way of baiting his hook: publicity.

Sir Leon’s publicity department had made the arrangements. John, Earl of Stowey, once suspected of stealing his family’s Van Gogh, was returning to England to help the authorities find it. The press release carefully ignored the fact that I had twice visited England earlier in the year; instead it was implied that like a prodigal I had just sailed back from unknown waters. As I neared the river mouth more launches joined the procession till I began to feel like one of those record-breaking circumnavigators coming home. Questions were shouted across to my cockpit, but I waved them away. I wanted to berth safely first.

A berth had been reserved for me on the inner side of the town pontoon. I sailed Sunflower into the narrow space which was just, but only just, wide enough for me to turn her. I was showing off. Most people would have used the motor for the final approach and the turn into the tide, but I hoped Jennifer Pallavicini was waiting for me on the quay, so I sailed Sunflower into the confined water between pontoon and quay, swung her bows hard over, knew I’d misjudged the flooding tide, began to panic, and prayed desperately that Sunflower would keep way on her as we came up to wind and tide. She didn’t, but hung up, and I realised that in twenty seconds the wind and tide would drive my new mast against the bridge which led from the town quay to the pontoon. I didn’t have time to start the engine, so swore instead, but then Sunflower was saved by a quick-witted yachtsman who told me to heave him a line. I did, and was ignominiously hauled into the vacant berth where one of the waiting reporters sincerely congratulated me on a fine piece of seamanship.

The questions were unavoidable now. Had I heard about the damage done to the painting? Yes. What had made me change my mind and come home to help? That damage. Where had I been? Everywhere. Would I sell the painting if it was recovered? All the time I was trying to secure Sunflower properly, tensioning her warps and springs and sometimes cursing at a reporter who got in my way. Two of Sir Leon’s publicity men were trying to impose order on the chaos and only managed to make things worse. One photographer went down into Sunflower ’s cabin and started taking flash photographs so I hauled him out and threw him on to the pontoon. Photographs were taken of that. Another photographer cheered me up by falling overboard.

I finally succeeded in locking the boat. The publicity men shepherded me towards a nearby hotel where a room had been reserved for a formal press conference. Jennifer Pallavicini was already there. I said good morning. She said good morning. The two of us then sat behind a table while the rabble arranged their lights and microphones. A full size reproduction of the Stowey Sunflowers was framed on the wall behind us. I noticed that Jennifer was not wearing her engagement ring, and decided that she must keep it for private occasions only. Or perhaps Harry Abbott was right, and most of the time it was kept in a bank vault.

Was it true, a woman reporter opened the proceedings, that the painting was being held to ransom?

“Yes,” I said.

Could I afford the price?

“You must be joking,” I said. “I’m skint.”

“So how will you save the painting?”

“By co-operating with Sir Leon Buzzacott.” Which was a cue for the questions to be directed to Jennifer who was present on behalf of the Buzzacott Museum Gallery. She coolly confirmed that her stepfather was taking full financial responsibility for the painting’s recovery.

“But if he pays the ransom,” the first woman asked, “will he then have to pay a purchase price to the Earl of Stowey?”

“That purchase price has already been agreed,” Jennifer said.

“How much?” That was about fifty voices.

I waited for quiet. “I’ve decided to donate the painting to Sir Leon’s gallery.”

That reply caused pandemonium. I patiently confirmed that they had not misheard me and that I had indeed given the painting to Sir Leon, and wanted nothing for myself.

“Why?” a dozen voices wanted to know.

“Because I want the painting to stay in Britain, and because Sir Leon’s gallery will provide the perfect home.”

But why had I given it away? Weren’t there galleries that would have paid me millions for the picture?

“I’m a philanthropist,” I said. “Ask the Contessa here. She can vouch for the benevolent side of my character.”

Jennifer’s lips tightened slightly. Not that any of the reporters noticed. How did I feel now, they asked instead, about my arrest four years before?

“I was never charged,” I said, “so I feel it was all a mistake.”

But I had been the chief suspect. How did I feel about that?

“Flattered.”

“Did you steal it?” one idiot asked.

“Of course I didn’t bloody steal it. Don’t be so bloody stupid.” Sir Leon’s publicity men had impressed on me that I must not be nasty to the press, but I didn’t really see why. They were nasty to me.

How had I heard about the damage done to the painting?

“The Contessa flew out to the Azores and told me.”

How did I think my presence in England would assist the police in finding the picture?

“I don’t know,” I said, “ask them.”

Had the police given me any indication of who they thought might have stolen the picture?

“Yes.”

That simple affirmative, as it was meant to, caused a flurry of further, eager questions and, just as Harry had instructed me, I qualified the answer. I hadn’t been given any names, I lied, but I had received the strong impression that the police weren’t entirely clueless. The reporters tried to suck more meat off that bone, but both Jennifer and I refused to elaborate.

Jennifer then confirmed that her stepfather was employing specialists in ransom psychology to back up the police effort. That was news to me, but I imagined it was all a part of panicking Elizabeth into rashness. Jennifer gave the impression that a vast organisation was about to descend on the thieves. She was very impressive.

After the press conference I went back to Sunflower and did four interviews for television reporters. They all asked the same questions and all got the same answers. I obliged the radio reporters afterwards, then posed like an idiot for some press photographers. By midday the fuss had died down, all but for one man who waited till the other reporters had gone, then told me his paper would pay me a six-figure sum if I’d dictate a candid account of how I’d nicked the painting from my mother. I told him to get lost.

“Think about it, my lord.”

“I told you to get lost.”