Pictures of Perfection (27 page)

‘The truth is that the Secret has spread so far as to be scarcely the Shadow of a secret now.’

So at last the villagers of Enscombe gathered for their Reckoning.

The spring sun had not flattered to deceive but floated at its zenith in a cornflower-blue sky, shedding the warmth of a pleasant midsummer day. A gentle breeze flicked the hems of the white tablecloths but threatened no greater mischief, so heavily were they weighted down with the fruit of Dora Creed’s labours. Here were pies and pastries, turnovers and tarts, ham-bulging rolls and butter-oozing baps, sponges so light a real March wind might have carried them away, and fruit cakes so dense it required two hands to set them in their place.

All that stood between the villagers and this feast was the collection of the Squire’s rents, once a tedious business with the line of tenants winding away across the lawn and vanishing into the shrubbery, but now in these lean and efficient times, scarcely enough to form a queue. So they mingled, and exchanged greetings and gossip, and salivated contentedly in the expectation of plenty,
with never a thought for what other strange dishes their frolicsome Yorkshire god might have put on the menu. Only Elsie Toke might have had some forebodings, but she was too concerned in looking round anxiously for a glimpse of her son to turn her eyes inward.

For Wield, as he led the way out of Green Alley on to the drive, there came one of those I-have-been-here-before experiences, as a battered yellow Beetle nearly clipped his toes. It skidded to a halt in front of the Hall and Fran Harding jumped out. Lillingstone and Kee Scudamore were standing on the steps and she ran up to them, her voice usually so soft rendered loud by worry.

‘Larry, what’s happened? I’ve been to the vicarage, there’s nobody there.’

‘It was time to come into the open,’ said the Vicar. ‘I talked with Kee …’

‘Kee? But Caddy said …’

‘Not to tell me anything in case I disagreed?’ said Kee. ‘She was quite right. Of course I’d have disagreed with anything which was likely to put my sister in the dock! As it happens, I’ve found out for myself. As the police are clearly doing.’

‘The police? But Harry’s letters …’

‘Don’t seem to have arrived. Once Harry realized that, he knew it was time to put in an appearance.’

‘Then where is he?’

The two on the steps didn’t reply. They were looking over her head to where the quartet from
Green Alley, moving at Bendish’s slow pace, were coming towards the house.

Fran turned, saw, and came running towards them, calling, ‘Harry! What are you doing? Are you all right?’

Then she was in his arms, pressing herself to him as if she wanted to fuse their bodies together. It was sexier than any porn film Pascoe’s duties had obliged him to see, and he looked away in embarrassment.

Dalziel said, ‘All right, luv. Leave some for old Tom’s breakfast.’

Eyes blazing, she turned on him and cried, ‘Whose idea is this? He shouldn’t be walking, it could open up his wound.’

‘Nay, lass, it’s nowt to do wi’ me,’ said the Fat Man. ‘He were wandering loose when we found him. But talking of wounds, the BMA might be interested to see your licence to practise medicine.’

She gave him a glance of scorn that would have frizzled a lesser man, then slid down to her knees in front of Bendish. For a terrible moment Pascoe thought she was going to indulge in some even more intimate form of embrace, but all she did was roll up his trouser and examine the gash.

‘Come and sit down,’ she said. ‘Before you do yourself any more harm.’

She led him gently to the steps and urged him to sit on the bottom one. He looked up at her with proud adoration. It was a scene to touch a Tartar’s
heart. Dalziel said, ‘Pity your sister’s not here as well, Miss Scudamore.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Kee.

‘Then I’d not have to repeat myself after I’ve arrested these three.’

The blonde woman looked unimpressed and said, ‘If you’d care to hang on a minute I think she’s here now.’

Halavant’s cabriolet was coming sedately down the drive. In the centre of the rear seat, looking like a Head of State showing himself to the people, was the patrician figure of Edwin Digweed. But it was Caddy Scudamore in the passenger seat who drew most eyes. Her wind-tousled hair, the glimpse of brown thigh as she vaulted over the car door, the fullness of her lips, the glow of her skin, the untrammelled motion of her body beneath her paint-stained smock, and perhaps above all her total lack of self-consciousness about her beauty, acted on the other two women like sunlight on candle-flames.

Digweed got out too. He had a piece of paper in his hand and to Wield’s assessing eye he looked full of news. But as he took in the composition of the scene before him, he clearly decided it could wait.

Halavant had walked round the front of the car and held out his hand to Caddy. She put out her tongue, but took it, and swinging their hands between them like children, they advanced to the steps.

‘Good day to you all,’ said Justin brightly. ‘Harry, there you are. How nice to see you.’

And Caddy, looking straight at her sister, said, ‘We’re going to be married.’

Lillingstone turned pale and swayed. Kee seized his elbow and held it tight.

Dalziel said, ‘Congratulations. You’ll let us know it you’re honeymooning abroad?’

‘Will I?’ said Halavant. ‘Why so?’

‘Don’t want a trial with our star witness and one of the defendants out of the country, do we?’

‘What trial would that be?’ said Halavant courteously.

‘The trial of Mr Bendish and Miss Harding for stealing your painting. The trial of Mr Lillingstone for harbouring Mr Bendish, knowing him to have stolen your painting. And the trial of Miss Scudamore, for forging a copy of your painting knowing it was to be used in furtherance of a felony.’

He was having a bad day in his efforts to shock.

Halavant merely smiled and said, ‘I fear you may have been misinformed, Superintendent. It’s true my fiancée did make a copy of a painting that used to be in my possession. I have it here as a matter of fact.’

He opened the boot of his car and produced the picture in its oval frame that Pascoe had last seen on his wall.

‘A marvellous copy, you must agree, fit to fool any but the most expert eye. Fortunately, as you
can see, my talented fiancée has signed it, so no confusion is possible.’

Proudly he pointed to the flowing signature.

‘And the original, sir?’ asked Pascoe, seeing that Dalziel might be on the point of saying something Dan Trimble would regret.

‘Why, the original is, I believe, in the possession of its rightful owner. I was merely the fortunate borrower of it for a while.’

He smiled pleasantly at Fran Harding, inviting her to share in their mutual triumph over the forces of law and order. But the girl wasn’t smiling back.

‘You bastard,’ she said.

Now there was evidence on Halavant’s face, if not of shock, at least of mild surprise.

‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear, Fran,’ he said. ‘I renounce all claim to the painting. I acknowledge you have full title in it. I believe your purpose is to sell it and donate the proceeds to saving the school. If it is what I believe it may be, it should fetch enough not only for that admirable project but to provide you with a considerable dowry beside …’

‘If it’s what you believe …! Hypocritical bastard!’

The young woman’s face was mature with anger.

Kee said, ‘Fran, what’s the matter?’

‘This is the matter!’ cried Fran Harding, going to her Beetle and pulling her ’cello case out. She flicked its catches open, raised the lid and pulled
out an oval of canvas which she flourished in Halavant’s face.

‘I’ve been to town this morning to see an expert from Sotheby’s. He had come all the way up from London, and you know what, he wasn’t pleased. Not to come all that way to see a fake!’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Lillingstone, whose colour had slowly returned. ‘I thought this was the forgery?’

‘That’s right,’ said Caddy, clutching the framed portrait protectively.

‘The copy, she means,’ said Halavant. ‘No, Fran, your so-called expert’s got it wrong …’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Fran. ‘When did you sell it, Justin? What happened to the money?’

Everyone looked at Halavant. He was either innocent or a tremendous actor.

He said helplessly, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t explain …’

Digweed, like the three policemen, had been reduced to the role of neutral spectator. Now he coughed drily. He may not have practised for long but to Wield it sounded like a true solicitor’s cough, bringing the family at war over a will to order.

‘If I may …?’ he said. ‘Fran, what, precisely, did your disappointed expert say?’

‘He said that it was definitely not eighteenth-century but a very competent nineteenth-century portrait in the manner of Reynolds. It could possibly fetch between eight and fifteen hundred at auction …’

‘That puts me in the clear, I think,’ interrupted Halavant. ‘I may look antique to a child like Franny, but I was not around in the nineteenth century to commission forgeries!’

Fran looked ready to dispute this, but Digweed said, ‘It occurs to me that the original portrait was out of the hands of the owner, Edwina Guillemard, for a lengthy period in the eighteen-eighties. This was when my grandfather Ralph was painting her portrait to match the one of Frances Guillemard she already had.’

‘Edwin! You’re not saying that your grandfather …’

‘No, of course not,’ said Digweed indignantly. ‘Anyone who’s seen his picture of Edwina can see that while he was a reasonably competent oil painter, he was far from possessing the skills necessary to fool all the sharp-eyed people who’ve been fooled since.’

‘What, then?’ said Halavant.

‘There were two reasons Ralph needed the portrait. One, to help him in his task of painting Edwina. Two, in order to get both portraits put in matching frames. I know from his journal that he used a friend in the art business to do this, and he became rather concerned at the length of time it took to get the frames prepared.’

There was a moment of puzzled silence, broken by Wield who said, ‘This friend of your granddad’s wouldn’t have been Jeremy Halavant, would he?’

Digweed smiled warmly at him.

‘That’s right. Jeremy who had just recently had his half-built new house burned down, almost certainly at the instigation of the Guillemards, though no one could prove it. It cost him a considerable sum to put it right. How might he have felt if suddenly he found himself in temporary possession of what proved to be a very valuable painting belonging to the family who in his eyes owed him a considerable debt? He would have had the contacts to get a first-rate job done. And once back on Edwina’s wall, if anyone ever did detect a difference, they would probably put it down to the cleaning and reframing which had taken place.’

‘But that would mean Job Halavant got taken in by his own grandfather’s fake!’ exclaimed Lillingstone.

‘Not just Job,’ said Kee, looking significantly at Justin. ‘Justin too!’

‘And not just me,’ said Justin, smiling fondly at Caddy, who shrugged and said, ‘There’s no such thing as fakes, just good paintings and bad paintings.’

Halavant began to laugh, Kee and Larry Lillingstone exchanged smiles, Digweed winked at Wield who looked away, Dalziel was looking as if someone had snatched an apple pie out of his mouth and given him a turnip instead. Only Franny Harding looked unhappier than the Fat Man.

‘It’s not funny,’ she said, half sobbing and leaning against Bendish who patted her legs comfortingly. ‘It’s all been for nothing and we’re nowhere nearer saving the school.’

Digweed coughed again. The group were fast learners. This time he got even quicker attention.

He held up a sheet of fax paper and said, ‘Things are not quite so black as they seem, perhaps. There could indeed be peace in our time.’

‘You’ve heard from your lawyer friend,’ said Kee.

‘Indeed I have. Larry, that
For Sale
sign outside the vicarage. It may be that your masters are trying to sell what is not theirs.’

‘Not the old gift thing again, please, Edwin! A gift’s a gift. You don’t retain rights in it, especially not after two hundred years!’

‘If you’re a hard-headed Yorkshireman, you may do,’ said Digweed. ‘The gift was made in consideration of the annual remission of tithes. It was a quid pro quo. Since the Tithe Act of 1936 it seems the Church has had the quid without the village getting its quo. The deed is clear on this point, that possession is only vested in the vicar so long as the Church keeps its side of the bargain. It is learned counsel’s opinion that the vicarage may well belong to the village, not the Church.’

‘But that’s marvellous!’ cried Fran. ‘It must be worth … how much were they asking, Larry?’

Lillingstone was looking less than happy at the news. He said, ‘This will need some sorting out …’

‘It’s all right, Larry,’ said Digweed. ‘I’m sure the Parish Council will sell it back to the Church at a very reasonable rate. Then they can turn the new bungalow into the first of this low-cost
housing they’re always preaching about. But I’m not done yet. I dug the school records out of the Council archives and sent them to my friend at the same time.’

‘Don’t tell me we own the school too?’ said Kee.

‘If it ceases to be a school, we could do,’ said Digweed. ‘Stanley Harding saw to that. The land it was built on was part of the Green. The labour was the village’s, the materials were paid for by local subscription, not least your dad’s conscience money, Justin. And when the Local Authority took it over, Stanley Harding made damn sure, like the chap who drafted the deed of gift for the vicarage, that we didn’t lose all rights in it.’

‘So if they closed it, the County Council wouldn’t be able to sell the site and building off?’ said Kee.

‘Right. And that might just upset their calculations a little bit,’ said Digweed.

Fran Harding threw her arms round his neck and hugged him joyfully. Over her shoulder he caught Wield’s eye and grinned rather sheepishly.

‘Well, I’m glad that’s all sorted,’ said Halavant. ‘You know, it must be about a century and a half since a Halavant attended a Reckoning. I think I might just look in and see what all the fuss is about.’