Trouble at the Little Village School (21 page)

‘Well, yes, I ’ave to admit,’ agreed Councillor Smout, ‘she’s a rum-un, but there might be summat in what she says.’

‘Nonsense,’ said the major.

‘Anyroad, that apart,’ said the councillor, ‘Mester Richardson ’as been in t’county longer than she ’as, ’e runs a tight ship and I reckon ’e’s right for t’job an’ I’ve said as much to ’im.’

‘Was that wise, councillor?’ enquired the major before taking another sip of his drink.

‘Was what wise?’

‘Promising Mr Richardson the job before the interviews have taken place?’

‘I ’aven’t actually promised ’im t’job,’ replied the councillor, ‘just that Urebank governors will be reight behind ’im and that there will be some on t’Barton governors who’ll be votin’ for’ im an’ all.’ He winked at his young companion and then smiled at the major. ‘No names, no pack drills.’

The councillor sucked in his teeth and leaned back expansively in the chair. His stomach pushed forcefully against his waistcoat, revealing a show of white shirt and the top of his trousers. ‘I think it’s your round, major, isn’t it?’ he said.

The great black door to Limebeck House was opened by the butler. The visitor was a short, thick-necked individual with a curiously flat face and dark hair greying at the temples. He removed his plain brown woollen scarf and kid gloves, which he handed to the butler, and took off his camel-hair coat, beneath which he wore a finely-cut brown herringbone suit, a mustard waistcoat draped with a gold chain and fob and a yellow silk tie. The cuffs of his pristine white shirt emerged from below the sleeves of his coat and revealed large gold cufflinks.

‘Would you be so kind as to inform her ladyship that I have arrived, my good man?’ he said without a trace of a smile. ‘I am expected.’

‘May I take your name, sir?’

‘Mr Thomas Markington, of the Markington and Makepeace Fine Arts Auction House.’

The butler disappeared into a small adjacent room to deposit the coat, scarf and gloves and, on returning, closed the heavy front door with a thud and rearranged the draught-excluder in front of it.

‘If you would follow me, sir,’ he said.

Suddenly Gordon the border terrier appeared around the corner. He eyed the visitor for a moment and then skittered across the wooden floor toward him, his nails clicking noisily, his tail wagging wildly. The visitor gave him a look that would freeze soup in pans, and the dog came to an abrupt halt and flopped on to his stomach, burying his head between his legs.

‘I dislike dogs,’ the visitor told the butler.

‘And I don’t think the dog has altogether taken to you either, sir,’ replied Watson drily.

As he walked down the decidedly chilly corridor to the library in the footsteps of the butler, his expensive chestnut-brown brogues making a dull sound on the wooden floor, Mr Markington glanced this way and that, taking everything in but with seemingly scant interest. He paused occasionally to examine a gilt-framed portrait of some ancestor or an item of furniture. He picked up a cracked china vase and ran a finger around the rim. His face was expressionless.

The visitor did not have to wait long for the arrival of Lady Wadsworth.

He stood as she breezed into the library, and gave a short bow.

‘It’s very good of you to come, Mr Markington,’ said Lady Wadsworth. ‘Do take a seat.’

‘I am travelling north,’ he told her, ‘so it was of little inconvenience for me to break my journey here.’

‘Tea?’ she asked.

‘Thank you, no,’ he replied. ‘Time is of the essence and I must be away. May I see the picture in question?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘I should tell you that I have already had an art specialist look at the painting and he is of the opinion that it is not an authentic work of art by George Stubbs.’

‘So mine will be a second opinion,’ replied Mr Markington coldly.

‘Indeed,’ replied Lady Wadsworth.

The fine art expert adjusted his cuffs and gave a thin smile. ‘Shall we take a look?’ he said.

He was shown into the drawing-room. It was a cheerless, ill-lit and draughty chamber full of furniture draped in white dust-sheets. They approached the great white marble fireplace, before which was a small stool. Mr Markington stared up at the picture for an inordinate amount of time, all the while sucking his upper lip in a portentous manner. It was a shrewd, considering gaze which gave nothing away. The expression on his flat face was impassive. He then climbed up on the stool, took a small eyeglass from his pocket and examined the picture, occasionally touching the canvas with the tip of a finger.

Lady Wadsworth watched intently, a quiver briefly distending her mouth.

The fine art expert descended, put his eyeglass back in his pocket, straightened his suit and breathed in deeply through his nose. Then he gave a dismissive grunt.

‘It’s a copy,’ he said simply. His face was as blank as a figurehead on the front of a ship.

Lady Wadsworth tried to control her emotions but her voice betrayed the extent of her disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘Unquestionably,’ he replied in a flat tone of voice.

‘And the value?’

The man shrugged. ‘A few hundred guineas at most.’

‘Well, Mr Markington,’ said Lady Wadsworth, ‘I am, of course, very saddened to hear that. I am very much obliged to you for making this visit. I shall bid you good day. Watson will see you out.’ She swept from the room.

The man nodded dully, his face still expressionless.

‘I had some kid gloves,’ the visitor told the butler as he put on his coat and scarf in the hall.

‘Ah, yes sir,’ replied the butler. ‘I must have left them in the anteroom. I shall get them.’

Mr Markington stared up at the ornate ceiling, noticing where bits of plaster had crumbled away; he saw the damp patches on the walls, the scuffed floor, the chipped tiles and the old knitted draft-excluder like a fat grey snake beneath the door. How many times had he been called upon by some impoverished Lord this or Lady that to value a supposed painting or antique thought by them to be worth a small fortune, and how many times had he had to inform them the item in question was virtually worthless? It would not be long, he thought, before this cold, neglected mausoleum of a place was turned into a fancy five-star hotel.

‘I appear to have mislaid your gloves, sir,’ said the butler, emerging from the small room.

The visitor sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘I’ll help you look,’ he said.

It was a cluttered room with an ornate carved oak bench underneath the window, various walking canes and brollies in an elephant’s-foot stand, a stack of coloured prints, an ancient black bicycle resting against a wall, a huge pram with a torn hood and various cardboard boxes crammed with all manner of bric-a-brac. Along the walls was a row of brass coat-hooks.

‘They’re here,’ said Mr Markington, discovering the gloves on the floor behind a crate. ‘They must have fallen out of the coat pocket.’ As he stooped to retrieve them he froze when behind the crate he caught sight of a shapely white marble foot poking out from under a dust-sheet. He stood and, leaning over, slowly uncovered the figure beneath the sheet like a mortician gently uncovering a corpse. When all was revealed he staggered back to the door and steadied himself on the architrave. ‘I think I am about to swoon,’ he murmured.

‘I’ll get a glass of water, sir,’ said the butler.

‘Fetch Lady Wadsworth immediately!’ cried Mr Markington.

‘Begging your pardon, sir?’ said the butler.

‘Now, man! Fetch her now!’

‘Really sir, I—’

‘Quickly, man! Quickly!’ ordered the visitor.

Watson hurried off.

When Lady Wadsworth arrived at the anteroom she found her visitor on his knees like a supplicant. He was stroking the reclining statue.

‘Are you not well, Mr Markington?’ she enquired, startled by the scene before her.

‘I’m lost for words,’ he told her.

‘Perhaps you might like to rest somewhere a little more comfortable?’

‘The sculpture, Lady Wadsworth,’ he whispered, getting to his feet. ‘From where did you acquire the sculpture?’

‘Oh, it was brought back by that rascally forebear of mine, the one who probably sold the Stubbs,’ she told him, ‘that young Tristram Wadsworth. He gallivanted around the Continent on the Grand European Tour that so many idle young men with more money than sense went on in the past and brought it back. My grandmother refused to have it on show. It’s disgracefully revealing and leaves little to the imagination.’

‘It is a nude study,’ pronounced Mr Markington haughtily. ‘Nude sculptures are perforce revealing.’

‘Well, my grandmother had it removed to where it is now, out of sight and covered up. She felt it might corrupt the servants. As a child I was never allowed to view it, although as most curious children would have done I did occasionally take a peep.’

‘Lady Wadsworth,’ said Mr Markington in measured tones, ‘what you have in your possession is Hermaphrodite.’

‘Who?’

‘This is one of the most beautiful sculptures it has been my pleasure to behold. It is probably a sixteenth- or seventeenth-century study of the reclining Hermaphrodite, executed in the finest Carrara marble. The sculptor captures the very essence of her beauty with dramatic naturalistic realism. It’s a masterpiece.’ He caressed the figure.

‘That may be, but it is not the sort of thing one displays in the entrance to one’s home.’

‘Lady Wadsworth, you are right,’ he replied, misconstruing her meaning. ‘This magnificent piece should be displayed for the entire world to see. I think this might very well be the work of one of Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini’s students or indeed be by the master himself. He was one of the greatest sculptors of the sixteenth century. This life-size reproduction of the classical Roman figure—’

‘Another copy,’ huffed Lady Wadsworth.

‘Yes, but not at all like the Stubbs painting. The first-century representation of the reclining Hermaphrodite now in the Museo Nazionale Romano in the Palazzo Massimo alle Terme in Rome was frequently an inspiration for the great sculptors of the sixteenth and seventeenth century. There are many versions, the most famous being the Borghese Hermaphroditus in the Louvre and the one at the Vatican. This, Lady Wadsworth, could be a work of great significance, a lost treasure.’

‘And worth something?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he replied, smiling for the first time and displaying a set of formidable teeth.

‘How much?’ she asked bluntly.

‘It is difficult to put a figure on such an object. Sadly there is some damage, which will affect the price but—’

‘How much?’

‘As I said, it is very difficult to put a price on such a work of art as this.’

‘Try.’

‘Certainly several hundred thousand pounds,’ he replied. ‘Possibly a deal more.’

‘You hear that, Watson?’ said Lady Wadsworth, showing her own set of formidable teeth.

‘Of course, had there not been the damage I could not venture to put a price upon it.’

‘I don’t think the other one has any damage,’ said Lady Wadsworth. ‘Does it, Watson?’

‘I believe not, your ladyship.’

‘The other one?’ repeated Mr Markington, steadying himself on a chair. ‘You have another one?’

‘In the stable block,’ Lady Wadsworth told him. ‘Would you care to see it?’

Danny, on his way to the graveyard with some flowers for his grandfather’s grave, was passing Miss Sowerbutts’s cottage when a strident disembodied voice came from behind a large bush.

‘Daniel Stainthorpe!’

The boy jumped and dropped the flowers.

The former head teacher of the village school appeared.

‘Daniel Stainthorpe,’ Miss Sowerbutts repeated. ‘Come here. I want a word with you.’

‘I ’aven’t done owt, miss,’ the boy said defensively.

‘I didn’t say that you had. I would like you to take a message to Mr Massey. Tell him I am still waiting for him to come and deal with the moles on my lawn. I have asked the man umpteen times to get rid of these annoying little creatures. I might as well talk to a brick wall. Tell him I need them dealt with immediately. Is that clear?’

‘I can sort out yer moles for ya if you like, miss,’ said Danny.

‘I think it is best left to those who know what they are doing,’ Miss Sowerbutts replied stiffly.

‘I know wor I’m doin’, miss,’ the boy told her. ‘I cleared all t’moles from Mrs Devine’s garden.’

At the mention of the name, Miss Sowerbutts pursed her thin lips. ‘Did you indeed?’ she said.

‘They ’aven’t been back after I set t’traps.’

‘Mr Massey poured some bleach down their holes.’

‘Dunt work,’ said Danny.

‘You are quite right, it doesn’t. I imagined that this cold weather would put a stop to all their digging and burrowing but it hasn’t. The lawn looks worse than it ever has. It’s most distressing.’

‘Moles don’t mind frost an’ snow, an’ they can swim so it’s no good tryin’ to flood ’em out,’ said Danny. ‘Only way to get rid of ’em is by layin’ traps.’