The trust, p.20
The Trust, page 20
She looked over the side of the boat. Cobb was standing in the back of his dinghy, his hand on the steering arm of an outboard engine. ‘Throw the rope – now!’ He swerved closer, almost bumping into the red buoys.
She gathered the rope in loose coils and threw it to him. He quickly found the end and lashed it round the last seating plank. She knew the ferry was close – she could feel the thrum of its engine in her chest. Hear the waves crashing off its hull. But she couldn’t look.
Cobb gripped the accelerator and the rope went taut. Slowly, the prow of her boat turned into the current until it was in line behind his boat. He twisted the accelerator and the water churned and boiled between them. The outboard engine was more powerful than it looked. Together they slowly moved away from the ferry. The houses on the shore retreated. Out across the channel – the wake of the ferry chasing them into the quiet waters of the bay.
When they were alongside the lagoon on Brownsea Island, Cobb cut the engine of the outboard and steered alongside. Astrid went to the rail. ‘Thanks, Cobb.’
He clambered aboard and walked straight to the control cabin. She caught up with him. ‘So how did you know I was here?’
‘I dropped by your boat and it was gone. Thought I’d check the harbour for you.’ He worked the key into the ignition and grunted a couple of times.
‘Don’t you think I tried that?’
He scowled at her. ‘I told you the boat wasn’t safe to take out.’
‘Yeah.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Well, I needed to do something.’
He tapped at the fuel gauge with a knuckle. It stayed flat down on zero. ‘You know – if I hadn’t rescued you, you’d be under that ferry.’
‘I didn’t ask to be rescued, Cobb.’
‘Huh… is that right?’ He went to the back of the boat, knelt down and worked the engine panel open. She watched him run his hand over some valves. ‘Toolbox. Small dog grip spanner,’ he said, without looking up.
She went into the toolbox and held up the first spanner she found. ‘That it?’
‘Yeah.’ He held out his hand and she slapped it into his palm. ‘Good job I got to you first – if the harbour master had spotted you, you’d be in big trouble. That’s a big fine right there.’
‘Look, Cobb, as I said – I’m not helpless.’
‘You could have fooled me.’ He cranked the spanner somewhere down in the engine well, muttered something under his breath and stood up.
‘Did you sort it out?’
‘Think so.’ He wiped his hands on his overalls. ‘The fuel line had come off from the engine mount. So basically, you were running on the fuel in the pipe. Only a matter of time before the engine would cut out.’ He took the panel and slid it back into place. ‘You been tinkering with the engine, Astrid?’
‘No.’
‘It was alright when I last saw it.’
‘Only person who’s been tinkering around down there is you, Cobb.’
‘Hey, now listen – you can say what you want about me, but I know what I’m doing with engines.’
‘If you say so,’ she said firmly. ‘No need to get moody.’
‘I’m not moody, Astrid.’
‘Fine. Shall I start the engine?’
‘No, I’ll take you back in.’ He walked past her and lowered himself into his boat, avoiding her gaze. Which was fine. Okay – he might have saved her. But then, if he’d screwed up the engine in the first place, it was his fault. She went to the back of the boat and sat on a folding chair. And he was moody, whatever he said.
When they got back to the river he unclipped the rope and tied it up on the post. It was almost dark now. He swung his boat out into the estuary, carving a deep turn in the water. Not looking back. Stubborn… AND moody.
24
Sunday, Day 12
The next morning Astrid woke from a bad dream. She’d fallen from the boat in a storm and was sinking below the surface. A tangle of seaweed held her legs, stopping her from swimming back to the surface. No surprise maybe, given the near-disaster yesterday.
She got out of bed, opened all the portholes and breathed in deeply. The air smelt different on either side of the boat. On the bank side it was dry and sweetly scented. Salty and damp by the river. Now the chill of her nightmare had gone, replaced by an excitement about the morning ahead. The kind of buzz she felt heading out to the airport for a holiday – bags packed the night before.
Her phone beeped. It was a text from Muraki. He’d run some tests on the sample she sent him and it was conclusive – it was a modern varnish. She thanked him and said she’d be in touch soon.
This was going to be a good day. Simon could give his opinions about the Constable. But now she had the evidence. It was definitely a fake, and he’d have to agree with her. His trip down to Dorset to patronise her was over. Bon voyage, Simon.
She showered, dressed, crammed in a couple of slices of buttered toast and was at Sherborne Hall a few minutes before nine.
*
Simon had arrived well ahead of her. He was leaning against the edge of Cressida’s desk, winding up an anecdote about a dispute with a minor royal that, having heard it at least a dozen times, she knew took at least ten minutes to tell.
‘That’s astonishing,’ said Cressida, clapping her hands, ‘just amazing.’
‘All in a day’s work,’ he said, playing with the sleeves of the beige jumper that was knotted over his shoulders.
The entire outfit was the same as yesterday. If he found a combination of clothes that ‘just worked’, as he used to say, he’d go out and buy three of each of the items. Then he’d line the outfits in the wardrobe in ‘quadrants’ for each of the seasons. At the time, it seemed to make sense. Now, it was just… yugggh.
‘Right then – shall we get on with this?’ Astrid sat down in the chair.
‘Let’s do it,’ said Cressida.
Simon reached into his briefcase and brought out a thick wad of A4 notes. Then he went over and stood next to the Constable painting, which was on an easel by the window. ‘So, this painting – Weymouth Beach, dated 1816. It is a rather gorgeous piece,’ he said, as if he were an auctioneer introducing it to an audience of potential buyers. ‘Before the sale to the English Trust it was appraised by a private dealers called Hassocks and Cole in Bond Street. Now luckily, I’m good friends with James Hassocks, who gave me access to all their research and tests.’
‘Good friends? I didn’t know that,’ said Astrid.
‘Astrid, please.’
‘Don’t mind me.’
‘And by the way, Astrid, I’ve already explained our situation to Cressida. In case things become volatile.’
Cressida looked between them and nodded sympathetically. ‘Please, Simon, carry on.’
Simon split the wad of notes, laying one half on the corner of the table. ‘So these are your copies of the tests I carried out, Cressida.’
‘Thanks, Simon,’ said Cressida.
‘Okay. So there’s something called a dendrochronology test. It’s used to establish the age of the frame from the pattern of growth rings in the wood. The result of that test, along with the labelling and signatures, shows us that the frame is authentic.’ He looked towards Astrid. ‘Would you agree, Astrid?’
‘Yes, the frame was made within ten years of the painting.’
‘Excellent.’ He studied the notes again. ‘The FTIR test then – it’s an infra-red technique to see what elements have been used in the paint sample. Pigment binders such as linseed oil and egg white.’
‘How fascinating.’ Cressida nodded.
‘It’s honestly not, Cressida,’ said Astrid. ‘It’s quite boring really.’
‘Thanks, Astrid.’ Simon shuffled his papers. ‘So basically, we’re looking for a recipe of paint that the artist was known to have used. And the good news is that the chemical composition of the paint in this work is peculiar to Constable.’
Astrid smiled to herself.
‘You want to jump in here, Astrid?’ said Simon.
‘No, no. You carry on.’
‘There are another couple of tests… ultraviolet, digital fingerprinting. Hassocks have really been thorough and…’ he put his half of the notes down on the table ‘…everything confirms that this is indeed the work of John Constable.’
‘Really? And you’re sure about that?’ Cressida got up from her chair and turned to Astrid. ‘I don’t understand… You said this was a fake.’
‘Because it is.’ Her voice was taut with excitement. ‘Simon, you’re wrong. The brushstrokes are too deliberate – it’s not the hand of a master.’
‘Is that right?’
‘And I’ve had a varnish sample tested and it’s come back as a modern varnish.’
‘Who did the test?’
‘Doesn’t matter – it proves beyond doubt—’ Astrid pointed at the painting ‘—that is not a genuine Constable.’
‘Okay, time out, guys,’ said Cressida. ‘Which is it? A fake or the real thing?’
‘I’m so sorry Cressida,’ said Astrid. ‘Simon has clearly come down here to try and humiliate me. It’s all a bit tragic really.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Not now, Astrid, please.’
‘Good try, Simon.’ She got up and strolled confidently over to the painting on the easel. ‘You can tell by just looking at it.’ She studied the painting. The sea, the path with the figure, the headland with the lighthouse. She ran her finger delicately across the surface. Then she pulled her hand back, as if she’d had an electric shock. ‘No… umm.’ Her jaw dropped.
She studied the rest of the painting for a few seconds. The cliffs, the path, the clouds. The clouds especially. They were gorgeous. Weightless. Luminous. As if someone had reached up to the sky with a stick, rolled them up like candy floss and cast them over the canvas. It was a masterpiece – God had breathed over this painting. There was no doubt – it was a Constable.
‘Are you alright, Astrid?’ said Cressida.
‘It can’t be.’ She couldn’t take her eyes off the canvas. ‘This is not the painting I worked on.’
‘Sorry?’ said Simon.
‘It’s been swapped… this is the original,’ said Astrid.
‘Oh, so did you take any photos of this mystery forgery?’ said Simon.
‘Well, actually…’ It dawned on her. ‘No I didn’t. I was so excited to discover it I couldn’t hold the camera still.’
Simon shook his head at her. ‘Honestly, I’m disappointed in you, Astrid.’ He began packing his notes into his briefcase. ‘And who would have swapped it?’
‘I don’t know. I mean…’
‘Okay.’ Cressida flipped open her laptop. ‘So, what should we do now, Simon?’
‘Well, if I may humbly suggest. You have a major art discovery on your hands. You should get this in front of the press as soon as possible.’
‘Super idea. We have a special moment here – I’ll set up a press launch for Tuesday… Get all the big papers in, and TV.’
Simon moved round the back of her desk. They carried on chatting as if Astrid wasn’t there. ‘And it would be a good way of publicising the whole exhibition later in the year. I would be more than happy to give the presentation.’
‘That would be brilliant – thanks.’ Cressida started typing on the laptop.
‘And you know, I could also finish restoring the collection. I could take time off and stay longer.’
‘Finish my work?’ Astrid leapt up from her chair. The brakes were off. ‘You’ve got to be bloody joking.’
‘For the record—’ Simon turned to Cressida ‘—can I say that all ties with Astrid were cut by the National Gallery a long time ago. Did she not mention that?’
‘Oh, give it a rest Simon – you creep,’ said Astrid.
‘No, you didn’t, Astrid.’ Cressida got her phone out. ‘So maybe the Trust should draw a line under your work here.’
‘Hang on,’ she protested.
Cressida tapped a number into her phone. ‘I am so sorry, Astrid – but I think that sounds like the best way to proceed.’ The call connected. ‘Ah, Emily,’ she said brightly. ‘Could you pop into the office and give Astrid a hand with her things. She’s leaving us.’
*
In the storeroom Astrid and Emily collected her belongings in silence. Emily folded up the tripod while Astrid tidied the art materials into her work case. They were halfway down the corridor when Emily spoke first.
‘So will you stay in Dorset now – on your boat?’
‘No idea. I need to get some time on my own to get a plan together.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll work it out.’
‘Thanks…’ They passed a Chinese vase on the table. ‘Look, I just need to say goodbye to Harold.’
‘Of course, I’ll take your things to your car.’
‘Thanks, Emily.’
*
Harold was at his usual station in the gallery room. He was sitting with his hands on his knees, deep in thought. She had to say his name a couple of times before he looked up. ‘Ah, Astrid. A bad business at the weekend, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. How is your friend?’
‘He’s well on the mend. They reckon he’ll be out of hospital this afternoon – thank goodness. But I feel awful about the whole thing.’
‘You shouldn’t, Harold.’ She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Your chain mail saved him.’
‘I guess.’ He smiled slightly. ‘There’s not going to be any more historical re-enactments for a while though. Cressida has banned them.’
‘She’s not a huge fan of mine at the moment, either. In fact, I won’t go into it, but I’m afraid this is my last day here.’
He got up from his seat. ‘No, no. That can’t be right.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, that’s such a shame. It’s been so nice to meet you.’
‘And you too. Will you say goodbye to Margaret and Denise for me?’
He stood to attention, as if he’d been given an order. ‘I will.’ Then he pushed out his elbow, as if she should put her arm through it. ‘Now may I escort you to the door, Astrid?’
‘How very gentlemanly of you, Harold.’ She linked arms and they headed towards the door.
They made their way down the corridor, Astrid slowing her pace to make sure he could keep up. They walked in silence, until they reached the corner. There was a door leading to their right, and as they passed it Astrid felt the slightest breeze against her neck. No more than a kiss of cool air. She stopped and unlinked her arm.
‘This door. Where does it lead to?’
‘I imagine it’s up to the third floor.’
‘Yes, I think you said.’ She remembered the time she’d crossed the lawn and thought she’d seen someone watching her from a window on the third floor. Astrid reached for the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open. ‘Oh, didn’t you say these doors were always locked?’
‘Yes, they’re supposed to be.’
Astrid stepped through the door. ‘Shall we have a quick look?’
‘No, no… I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘What are they going to do? Sack me?’
Astrid took the narrow flight of stairs, Harold not far behind. The steps rose steeply then curved round into a corridor that was filled with furniture. It was pushed up against the walls leaving only a small gap to squeeze through. A faint smell of cooking and tea led her on.
On the other side was a large room with a big square carpet in the middle. Some of the furniture had been arranged around it. A wardrobe, a wing-back chair, a fold-out bed with a stack of books next to it. By the wall was a small camping stove and a kettle on a short flex plugged into a socket by the wall.
She worked it out straight away. Someone had secretly set up camp here. And when she saw Harold’s expression, a mix of shame and nervousness, she knew exactly who it was.
‘Harold?’
He walked past her, head down, and sat on the end of the small bed. There was a sleeping bag and pillow neatly laid out.
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Tell them what, Harold?’
He glanced round the room. ‘This is where I live, Astrid. In the evening when everyone goes home, I just slip round the corner and stay up here.’ He brought out a heavy key from his pocket. ‘I must have forgotten to lock the door this morning.’
‘I see… and how long has this been going on?’
‘It started about a year ago. Just the odd night. But then I just sort of made things cosy and stayed.’
‘Have you nowhere else to go, Harold?’
‘I had a bungalow, but then my sister wasn’t well and I sold it to pay for her care. And my pension from the army isn’t much.’
Astrid put her bag down. ‘Don’t worry, I understand.’
‘No… I have to explain.’ His pride was dented. ‘I know I shouldn’t have, but then is it really fair? A big house like this with so many empty rooms and all this beautiful furniture gathering dust.’
‘You’re right. It’s not.’ Astrid went over to the window and looked out. There was a perfect view of the gardens. ‘So that day I saw someone at the window. It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth.’
‘That’s alright, I understand. And don’t worry, Harold, I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Thank you, Astrid. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
Harold glanced at the kettle. Next to it was an ornate silver tray on which were a couple of bone china mugs. She chuckled – he really had made himself at home. ‘No, that’s kind. But I really should be going.’
‘Before you do. I should tell you something else.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m not the only one who stays on in the house. A few evenings I’ve heard footsteps on the floor below. Someone sitting in the furniture. Even lying on the beds. I’d never do that, of course.’
‘That’s interesting. And did you ever hear their voice?’
‘No, never. I lock myself in and keep very quiet until they go. I know how to be very quiet, you see.’
Astrid remembered when she first met him and he stepped to one side to avoid a loose floorboard. He knew every plank and nail, every creak in this old house. ‘Right, well thank you for telling me.’
