Finding Home (33 page)

‘That man is hoping he can sell that vase to build an extension so his mum doesn't have to go to a home,' Mum says. ‘Isn't that sweet?'

‘But I'm afraid that the chip in the base means it won't fetch much more than two hundred at auction…'

The rotund bloke looks crushed. I stand up and offer to make supper.

‘That would be nice,' Mum says (making me feel bad for not offering more often). ‘I've thawed some sausages, plus, these peas.'

Sausages! Peas
a la
Dad's ankle!

‘Actually, I was thinking I might do something different, like… uhh, chilli con carne—'

‘Shhh.' This time Mum holds up her hand. ‘This one looks interesting.'

I roll my eyes and start heading to the kitchen.

‘I've had my eye on this painting all day…
' The valuer says. ‘
Tell me how you came by it.'

I hover at the door. There's no denying that I'm a sucker for
Antiques Roadshow
.

‘My grandmother died, and I inherited it…' a young woman is saying. ‘She was Jewish and she lived in Germany before the war. Luckily, she got out.' The camera pans to a painting of two children playing at the seaside.

‘You could make one of those curries—' Dad says, struggling to sit up.

‘Shhh. Dinner can wait. I want to hear this.' I grab the remote off the arm of the sofa and turn up the TV.

‘A genuine Mary Cassatt!' the valuer says. ‘And a lovely one at that. But you said there's more to the story?'

‘A friend of a friend put my grandmother in contact with a Spanish artist who was also an expert smuggler. Walredo, his name was. He helped her hide it. Here's a photograph of her house…'

Oh my God. Walredo – the man in the photo with Sir George. I never did look up the name. My heart begins to thunder in my chest. I move closer to the TV. The woman holds up a black and white photo of a painting. But it's not the Cassatt. It's…

‘
That's fascinating. You mean, they hid the Cassatt to smuggle it out of Germany
…
?'

...a portrait of a Spanish flamenco dancer painted in a style that's remarkably similar to one I've seen. She seems to melt out of a background darkness, and dominate the canvas with her dark eyes and strong presence.

‘Yes, that's right…
' the woman smiles. ‘
The Nazis never found it.'

A painting that hides a secret.

‘It was pure genius to hide it so well…'

Buried treasure that could save a house.

‘…and the story you've told me makes it worth even more…'

And at this moment…

‘
I'd say you could easily be looking at seven figures…'

I know where it is.

Sir George might have been a devil, but he was also devious and shrewd. His beloved Rembrandt wasn't sold or destroyed in the fire – he made sure it was carefully hidden. And then, he died without letting anyone in on the secret. It's been right in front of me – and everyone else – all along.

All through dinner with my parents, followed by a game of three-handed bridge (Dad pulls the invalid card, so I can hardly refuse), I'm more and more convinced. In fact, the day I had coffee with Mary Blundell, I should have started putting two and two together. But I didn't, and now I've lost precious time. The sale to Hexagon will complete as soon as the probate decree comes through – any day now. But if I can find the painting, maybe there's still a chance to stop the sale.

There's only one little problem niggling in my head – I no longer have the keys to Rosemont Hall.

*

Of all the things I thought I might be doing as an estate agent, breaking and entering did not figure high on the list. Nevertheless, the decision comes easily. After the game, I settle my parents in front of the TV to watch
Wallander
, telling them that I've got a headache and am planning to get an early night. I change my clothes in my bedroom, then sneak out to the garage and find Dad's torch. Luckily my car is parked a little way down the road, so my parents don't hear me as I get in and drive off.

I reach my destination shortly after ten. Just as I'm about to turn into the drive, I slam on the brakes. The old stone pillars have been reinforced with new brickwork and the ornate iron gates have been rehung. They now meet firmly in the centre, shut with a heavy chain and padlock. Obviously, someone has got wise to the fact that leaving Rosemont Hall vacant is a security risk. Now, they're making an effort to keep people out – people like me.

I park the car in a lay-by and turn off the lights. There's no traffic at this hour, and disguised in my black leather jacket, leggings, black trainers and knit woolly cap, I blend in with the darkness.

No sooner am I out of the car, when a police car passes, its blue lights flashing. I flatten myself against the prickly hedgerow and take a few deep breaths. There's nothing to fear – I'm not here to steal anything. I haven't done anything wrong.

Yet.

The gates tower over my head, black and imposing. I try to climb the iron scrolls but can't get a good foothold. Instead, I follow the old stone wall a few metres from the gate. The wall is overgrown with brambles and ivy, and I find a place where the top stones have collapsed and I can scramble over. I thunk to the ground on the other side right into a nest of stingers.

The moon breaks through the clouds as I brush myself off and begin the long walk to the house. The wood is dark; the bare trees spindly and sinister like skeletons. It takes the better part of twenty minutes before I top the last hill and the Rosemont Hall is before me. The windows shine black in the distance like glassy pupils – seeing all. Seeing me.

Gravel crunches under my feet as I reach the front of the house. A tiny shape runs across my path – a mouse or a squirrel. My heart begins to pound faster.

I try the front door, but of course it's locked. I make my way around the side of the house. The paving stones are uneven and I have to flip on the torch. I creep up the gracefully curving staircase that leads to the back terrace. There are plenty of broken windowpanes, but unfortunately, none of them are at a level where I can reach a latch. I shine the torch over one of the sets of French doors that lead into the green salon. Clenching my teeth, I knock the torch hard against a cracked pane near the handle. The glass shatters. I unlatch the door and slip inside the house.

I'm now officially a criminal.

Inside, darkness swallows the beam of the torch. The parquet floor creaks and groans with my every step, as if protesting the illicit entry. I grope my way through the green salon to the great hall, not daring to turn on the lights. I tiptoe up the main staircase and stand before the portrait.

Now that I'm here, I'm not quite sure what to look for. I half-wish that I'd brought Mary Blundell along for some tips. I shine the torch over the painting. The oil paint glimmers, accentuating the shadows and the folds of the pink dress like moonlight. She truly is beautiful – though I'm still finding it hard to imagine that the lady is really a young Mrs Bradford. I try to visualise the ball she spoke of: the ballroom in the East Wing lit by candlelight, well-coiffed ladies swirling around with handsome men in old-fashioned costumes. The portrait painter sketching a young woman as she tries on costumes before the ball: her neck long, shoulders soft and white, the silk clinging to her body like a second skin.

The frame is thick and ornate, the gold partly rubbed off and dust in the crevices of the moulding. I shine the light over the date on the plaque that was meant to fool everyone: 1899. It's the frame from the John Singer Sargent painting sold a year earlier at auction. It seems so simple – but then, I suppose the best deceptions usually are.

I set down the torch and try to lift the painting off the wall. But it's almost as tall as me, and very unwieldy. Something thumps to the floor from behind the heavy frame. For a second I'm worried that I've broken something, but I lower the painting back to the wall and it's still firmly affixed in place. I pick up the torch and shine the light over the bundle by my feet. At first I think it's a book that's missing a cover, but then I look closer and realise that it's a stack of airmail envelopes bound together with an elastic band. I pick it up, squinting in the dim light. The envelopes are addressed to a ‘Miss A Reilly'. I haven't heard the name Reilly before, but surely it's Arabella like the other letters that I found?

And then I hear it: gravel crunching; the noise of a car engine. The blood freezes in my veins. Although it can't be – there's a car outside.

I shove the bundle of letters into the inside pocket of my jacket and switch off the torch. I can't see headlights, but the sky in front of the house lightens.

There's only one thing I can do – hide. I flatten myself against the staircase and begin inching down, my heart thundering. If I can just make it to the East Wing corridor then I might be able to keep out of sight until whoever it is goes away.

A cracked piece of marble gives way beneath my feet. I tumble down the last few steps; the torch clatters to the floor of the main hall splaying batteries. A car door slams. Terror grips me – is it Mrs Bradford? Or the police who drove past earlier? I'm not sure which is worse. Leaving the torch on the floor, I creep across the main hall to the front windows.

The car's headlights penetrate the darkness like the eyes of a cat, then go off. A door opens; a pencil torch flicks on. A dark silhouette of a figure opens the boot, takes something out, and closes it again. Another tiny light goes on – a BlackBerry or mobile. The intruder is composing a text message as they walk to the front door. Definitely not Mrs Bradford or the police.

I leg it to the door that leads to the East Wing corridor and pull on the handle. The door sticks; I pull with all my strength. Nothing – it's locked. Panic rises in my throat. I'm trapped in the open. The lock of the front door jangles as a key is turned. The hall is dark – if I can just stay absolutely silent, I might be able to slip out the front door―

The door opens. From the pocket of my jacket, my mobile beeps. I stifle a gasp and fumble for my phone. It's too late.

The beam of the visitor's torch jerks across the floor towards my feet. A deep and familiar voice cries out.

‘Who's there?'

Jack Faraday.

Oh my God, it's Jack Faraday! It can't be. But it is.

I cower against the wall, gripping my phone. Escape is now impossible. The beam of light flicks upward to my face. I put my hands in the air – I'm guilty!

‘Amy? Amy Wood? Is that you?'

I shield my eyes with my arm. ‘Oh, hi Jack. Umm, I left my uhh…' I lower my hands. His skin glows like marble in the near-darkness. My body begins to quiver in all those unmentionable places. I realise how much I've cocked things up. It's not like Jack and I have a future, but now, he must think I'm, at worst, a criminal or, at best, a nutcase – or the other way around. The one saving grace is that I didn't throw my phone at him.

‘Amy, what are you doing here?' His voice chills the air.

I slump to the floor, defeated. ‘I'm breaking and entering with an intent to poke my nose where it doesn't belong.'

He frowns – probably deciding whether or not to call the police.

‘It's the painting – the one on the stairs,' I say. ‘I had a hunch that I needed to follow up…' I swallow hard. ‘I'm sorry.'

He's silent for a moment, his eyes shiny and penetrating. ‘Any idea where the light switch is?' he says.

‘By the door, left side.'

I struggle to my feet and dust myself off.

Jack Faraday goes over to the door and flips the switch. Harsh light from the dusty, bare-bulbed chandelier floods the hall. But a second later, a loud pop makes us both jump. The chandelier goes out and everything is black. Unlike last time when the sudden darkness promised everything, this time he keeps his distance.

‘Another damn fuse,' Jack says. ‘Unless you've get a good torch, we'd better get out of here. And you can tell me exactly what the hell is going on.'

The atmosphere is glacial as he drives me to the main road where I've left my car. I try – and fail – to make a bit of idle chit-chat: ‘When did you arrive?' ‘Early this morning.' ‘How was your flight?' ‘Fine.'

I'm heartbroken over the unspoken questions I want to ask: ‘What are you doing here?' ‘Why didn't you ring me?' ‘What next?'

Things improve marginally when he drops me off at my car. ‘Now, I still want that explanation,' he says gruffly, ‘and you can buy me a drink for good measure.'

‘Sure.' Hope kindles inside my chest.

‘You can follow behind.'

‘Okay.'

He rechains the gates as I get into my own car. I follow him to the White Horse Inn just outside Little Botheringford. My palms are clammy on the steering wheel. I know the place – a traditional Elizabethan country hotel with diamond pane windows and wisteria vines growing up the front. We park our cars and go inside. At all times I'm conscious of his proximity – and his distance. Inside the bar area, a few tables are occupied. I point to a small table in the corner.

‘What would you like?' I say.

Jack shakes his head. ‘I was joking about you buying.' His tone is anything but light. ‘What would you like to drink?'

‘Red wine, please,' I croak.

He goes to the bar. I take the opportunity to nip to the loo. My reflection in the mirror is appallingly dishevelled: my eyes have dark circles underneath, my hair is dusty, my lips are chapped from the cold. I look less like a cat burglar and more like something the cat dragged in. Not that it matters. The disappointing reality is that there was never anything between Jack and me. Now, I'll explain myself and then leave. I've only got to endure his painfully attractive presence for maybe half an hour, max.