A Crowded Coffin (20 page)

She had time – a few seconds only, of complete and utter anguish – to stare down at her cousin Sam who was innocently riding an ancient bicycle across the cobbles before John Forrester whirled round to scream at her and Rory.

‘You bastards!’ There was a cold fury in his face as he turned on them, all his precarious mental harmony destroyed in a moment. ‘You’ve been stringing me along.’

He reached for the gun and fired downwards, again and again, more and more wildly, his control lost, and his captives sagged in horror as Sam Hathaway crashed into the doorway of the stable. As Harriet, completely distraught, opened her mouth to scream and scream there was a loud beating sound
immediately
above them. A huge shape, silhouetted dark against the bright sunrise and with outspread wings flapping, flew out of nowhere straight towards the vicar of Locksley. Harriet, beside herself with grief, goggled in terror as Rory, who was shaking almost uncontrollably, managed to summon the last dregs of strength. He landed a lucky kick on the other man’s shin.

With a scream, first of rage and then increasing terror, John Forrester lost his balance and slipped, bouncing on the slates and then, to their impotent horror, plummeting to the cobbled surface of the stable yard while the great winged creature whirled away.

Sam and Harriet stood a little to one side, watching the Attlins – Walter, Edith and Rory – as they clustered round the short, plump, fair-haired man who was closely examining one of the portraits, that of the sixteenth-century Richard Attlin, reluctant father-in-law to the nun, Margery. Professor David Porter, Rory’s boss, was almost crooning with delight as he turned the portrait this way and that, tossing his coat onto a chair and even taking off his steel-rimmed glasses to peer at a detail.

‘I think you could be right, Rory,’ he said in a stunned voice. ‘I honestly think you could be right.’ His eyes were shining as he turned to them.

Penelope Attlin had stayed downstairs. ‘I’ll go up in my own good time,’ she said firmly, so Walter, Edith and Rory had escorted the expert up to the gallery, with Harriet and Sam in tow, determined not to miss a thing.

Harriet was heavy-eyed and drawn, haunted during the day and in her fitful sleep by the memory of those long, agonizing minutes when she believed Sam was dead. Even now, two days later, she had to clutch at him frequently, tears springing to her eyes with no warning.

He put an arm round her now, and hugged her. Undemonstrative as they were by nature, both cousins were shaken to the core and Harriet thought she would never hear a sound more welcome than Sam’s voice yelling up at her from the stable yard. She shivered and he tightened his embrace.

‘It’s only …’ she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment. ‘Oh, Sam….’

‘Shh.’ He too was speaking quietly, so as not to disturb the discussion on art history. ‘I’ve told you, several times, when the first bullet hit the bike I had no idea what it was, only that I had to shift myself pretty damn quick. Good job I’m still pretty fit and knew enough to roll out of harm’s way.’ He hestitated, then gave her a gentle shake. ‘The sight of you trapped up there with that madman … well, I can only thank God it ended the way it did.’

She pulled herself together. ‘Oh well, we’d better catch up with Walter and the kids.’ Her tone was matter of fact but the affection in her eyes was heartfelt.

‘Mr Attlin.’ The others were hanging on the expert’s words as David Porter addressed his host. ‘At this stage I can only offer conjecture, and there’ll have to be extensive tests, of course, but I can say that I think – only
think
, mind – that this portrait, of a sixteenth-century Richard Attlin, could be an early Holbein, probably painted before he became court painter to Henry VIII, and as such it should be in the National Portrait Gallery. It’s a very significant find, if I’m right, and I’m pretty certain I am.’

He smiled at his open-mouthed audience. ‘It’s not one of his best and looks as though it was dashed off in a hurry to make the rent money, possibly with several other people giving a hand, but even so, if I’m correct, we could be talking about some very serious money indeed. Here, take a look.’ He pulled out his BlackBerry and showed them some images.

His explanation of style, brushwork, colour, all went over their heads. With the exception of Rory they were all stunned. Even Edith, who had joked about a Leonardo in the attic, was silenced; this was beyond her wildest conjectures.

‘Would you like me to get in touch with the appropriate people?’ David raised the matter with Walter Attlin who
beckoned
Sam to his side to support him. ‘I realize it’s Rory’s discovery and naturally he’ll get full credit, but this is a bit out of our league.’

‘What about security?’ wondered Sam. ‘It’s been perfectly safe here getting on for five hundred years. Another night or two won’t hurt, will it?’

They settled that the professor should take charge and Edith was about to suggest a drink downstairs to celebrate, when David Porter took another turn round the gallery, stopping now and then to inspect a portrait.

‘Rory? Any views on this lady here?’ He was standing in front of Dame Margery whose painted eyes gazed serenely at him.

‘I did wonder,’ Rory joined him, followed by the rest. ‘I just wondered about Lavina Teerlinc,’ he suggested, looking
diffident
.

‘Oh-ho, that was my first thought.’ To everyone’s annoyance the two artists said no more as they took a closer look. Edith tugged at Rory’s sleeve and David Porter turned to her, looking apologetic.

‘What? Oh yes, sorry. Levina Teerlinc was a Flemish artist, very distinguished family. Hang on, I’ll look her up.’ He flashed some more images under their noses. ‘Yes, here we are. She’s known to have painted a few miniatures of Queen Elizabeth I and she was even employed as court painter early in Elizabeth’s reign. There’s something about this picture that recalls her style and the dates would fit. Margery would be around fifty by then so it could be an early Teerlinc.’

Walter Attlin looked at his ancestress and smiled. ‘I don’t think I even need to consult Edith on this one,’ he remarked. ‘We couldn’t possibly allow Margery to leave the farm, however valuable her painting turns out to be.’

Edith slipped an arm through his and gave him an
affectionate
hug, nodding agreement.

‘The other portrait, though,’ Walter continued, ‘I’m more than happy to have you investigate that. If it turns out to be genuine I wouldn’t want it to be sold abroad so maybe we could come to some kind of agreement about that. As long as we have enough to secure the fabric of the building for the future and maintain what land we have left, as far as is humanly possible, that would be an enormous relief. Other than that, we’ll see. But Dame Margery – no, she stays here.’ He exchanged glances with the lady and gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘I saw her, you know, when I was young. Just the once but she was quite clear.’

Rory turned startled eyes upon Edith. ‘But I thought … a side effect of the medication I’m on is known to be hallucinations. You really …?’ He faltered into silence and Edith left her
grandfather’s
side to give Rory’s arm a squeeze.

Professor Porter had been talking to Harriet, asking questions and now he spoke to Walter. ‘This jewel, Mr Attlin,’ he said. ‘Would it be possible for me to take a look at the replica of Aelfryth’s Tears? I’m no expert on antique jewellery but it sounds a fascinating piece. What a pity the original is lost.’

As Rory went downstairs to fetch the small silver box Harriet became aware of an extraordinary expression on her cousin Walter’s face. Amusement, guilt and mischief mingled as he stood back and allowed Rory to show off the copy.

‘What is it, Grandpa?’ Edith had noticed it too. ‘Why are you grinning like that?’

Everyone turned to stare at him as he fished in the pocket of his old tweed jacket and pulled out a soft leather pouch. ‘I hadn’t thought of this for years,’ he said, with maddening
deliberation
, as he extracted a small, silk-wrapped object. ‘I dug it out this morning to show you, and then forgot all about it. This was a fob on my grandfather’s watch chain.’

On the palm of his hand lay Aelfryth’s Tears, unmistakable as he set it down beside the copy. The original workmanship was
superior in every line, the gold knotwork immaculately done, the pearls and the great garnet glowing at its heart and the runic symbols, although they couldn’t read them, were not the random markings of the copy. He touched the spring and there was the rock crystal that covered the recess containing the drops from the Virgin’s eyes.

‘It was always known that there was a copy,’ he said. ‘But they thought this was it. I’m certain nobody for generations ever realized there was that secret store behind the panelling and it was supposed that the door on the roof had been long out of use, particularly as it was sealed up.’

Edith spoke into the awed silence. ‘You mean this has been knocking around for years, in all that junk of your father’s that you keep in your bureau?’

He nodded, looking very like a naughty schoolboy. ‘I’ve been meaning to sort that out for years,’ he confessed. ‘It was always too big, far too ornate for Father, but my grandfather was a
flamboyant
old Edwardian and liked a bit of glitz.’

‘But—it’s priceless, Grandpa.’ Edith was still struggling with the idea. ‘Harriet, you’re the historian, tell them what we found out.’

‘Edith and I googled Saxon jewellery,’ Harriet told them. ‘And came up with the Middleham Jewel that was found some years ago. It was sold privately at first and then there was a public subscription to keep it in the country, to the tune of more than two million pounds. And that was a while back, so heaven knows what prices have done since.’

Harriet and Karen were in the Great Hall, which Walter Attlin had decreed was the proper place for a celebratory lunch. As Karen straightened place mats and cutlery, Harriet eyed her keenly.

‘Don’t overdo things, will you, Karen? There’ll be a lot going
on in the next few months and I rather think you’ll be busy. Just take care, that’s all.’

‘We always did say you were a witch, Harriet.’ Karen stared at her former headmistress almost in awe. ‘How on earth did you know? Nobody knows except my husband and Mr and Mrs Attlin.’

‘Lucky guess,’ Harriet grinned, looking smug. ‘You’ve been looking a bit peaky lately and I did wonder about the sickness and migraines you suddenly seemed to be getting. Congratulations! Will you be staying on here?’

‘I hope so,’ Karen nodded. ‘Mrs Attlin’s had a brainwave and as long as Edith is happy about it, I’m sure we can sort things out.’

As they tucked into roast pork, bred on the farm, Edith had a sudden thought. ‘Didn’t you say you’d gone off bacon and pork, Rory?’

‘I did.’ He glanced down at his laden fork. ‘When I was in prison I was very ill with food poisoning – some bad pork, they reckoned. Anyway, it put me off all things pig-related for a long time. But this,’ he smacked his lips and raised his fork in a toast to Walter, ‘this isn’t just pork; it’s the food of the gods. I guess I’m pretty much cured now.’

When they had finished lunch Walter Attlin called for silence. ‘I won’t stand up,’ he said, ‘Penny will kill me if I do. But I wanted to thank you all for your efforts over the last few days. I’m sorry Professor Porter couldn’t stay but perhaps it’s better to keep it in the family.’

He smiled round at them. ‘I don’t need to tell you all that it’s driven me mad, having to stay in bed for the past couple of days, just because I had a bit of a dizzy spell.’ He directed a frown at his wife, who smiled serenely. ‘Missing all the drama probably set me back worse than ever, but all anyone would promise was that they’d “tell me later”. Still,’ he glanced at Rory,
‘in the end I wasn’t the only one packed off to bed. I gather Harriet insisted on going home when it was all over, only for the doctor to send her off to be tucked up and sedated, and then Rory followed suit by flaking out with exhaustion. So,’ he held up his hands, ‘here we all are. Let’s have a brief rundown of what went on.’ He nodded to Sam. ‘If you hadn’t managed to sneak in now and then for a chat, I’d have gone stir crazy.’

Sam took up the story. ‘We all know now what happened on the roof, but I don’t believe you’ve heard it from my angle. I couldn’t get to sleep. My mind kept going over and over
everything
we’d discussed and I tossed and turned and dozed all night. It wasn’t till I went downstairs at about five o’clock, to make a cup of tea, that I heard my mobile beeping with Harriet’s text message.’ He grinned at his cousin. ‘I could have killed you, Harriet,’ he said with a heartfelt scowl. ‘Of all the stupid things….’

He waved aside her protest that she and Rory had, on the contrary, been extremely careful, and went on. ‘Oh well, never mind. I was in a bit of a fix because my cam belt snapped on the way to the dinner last night and I hitched a lift back with a friend. Needless to say, I had no idea Harriet and Rory were in such danger. I hadn’t liked to call Harriet back in case
something
was up but really I just thought you’d have done something sensible, like take photos and maybe go back to bed. At least,’ he looked rueful, ‘I
hoped
that was what you’d done.’

For once Harriet tightened her lips, merely looking at him reproachfully. Sam carried on, ‘I knew there was an old bike in the shed, left behind by the previous owner, so I wheeled it out and belted off up to the farm. I had to decide whether to check out the fields first but in the end I thought I’d better see if you were back at the house. I hoped it was all a storm in a teacup.’ He looked sternly over his glasses at his cousin, but his glance was affectionate.

‘I was just about to park the bike round in the yard when all hell broke out and, as you know, I managed to throw myself off and into the open doorway.’ He winced and made a face. ‘I’m black and blue but that’s a small price to pay.’ His expression sobered suddenly. ‘I’m never going to forget what I saw when I managed to peer round the door jamb. Harriet clinging to the roof and screaming like a demented banshee; Rory – even at that distance – looking like something the cat dragged in and John Forrester falling, his arms outstretched, almost flying, in a kind of horrible mimicry of the heron that distracted him. The police arrived about then, thank God.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘It goes against everything I believe in to rejoice at the death of a fellow human being,’ he said gravely, ‘but it’s hard not to be grateful to that heron for startling the vicar as it did.’