The Cromwell Deception Page 5

  “The Hesilrige portrait actually turned out to be really rather fascinating. Of course, prior to that time he hadn’t received much attention at all. Man of modest fame, artist unknown, yet with many characteristics in keeping with his contemporaries. Nothing really off the record.”

  Nat brought up the first of the previously encrypted files and entered the password. Unlike Gillian’s earlier attempts, access was granted, revealing what appeared a typical computer folder filled with files. Once loaded, he clicked on a relevant icon, bringing up a selection of jpegs. Each file was named and numbered. Gillian understood the type, but the work predated her time.

  He clicked on three in particular. “Along with the others, the Hesilrige portrait was put under the microscope. It didn’t receive very much attention at the time. Much of the focus had been on that rather fine portrait of the Brontë sisters. As I’m sure you’re already familiar, the large gap in the middle portion was discovered to represent the area where the sisters’ brother, Branwell, also the artist, removed his own face. Rather easy to prove by comparison.”

  Gillian heard him speak without listening as she studied what came up on the screen. The first jpeg was of the Hesilrige portrait. Two more appeared alongside it in various shades of black and white, the same portrait being x-rayed and subjected to infrared analysis. Nat clicked the mouse, bringing up a fourth jpeg. Another portrait, instantly recognisable.

  “Oh my God,” Gillian said, covering her mouth. The x-ray and infrared results had both revealed that the portrait of Hesilrige had not been painted on a blank canvas, but over another piece.

  A famous piece.

  “Cromwell.”

  Nat smiled as he looked at the image of Cromwell. “For over three hundred years the identity of Hesilrige’s artist has remained unknown. I’m sure you’ll agree our findings go a long way toward answering that question.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Walker?”

  Nat nodded. “Robert Walker, 1599–1658, famed artist in his day, most notably for his paintings of Oliver Cromwell. It may interest you to know that the Walker painting of Cromwell that presently hangs on the wall in room five was not always located alongside Hesilrige. During my own early tenure, Hesilrige only occasionally saw the light of day. Not easy trying to choose 1,400 portraits out of a collection of 11,000, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Gillian continued to focus on the jpegs, completely transfixed. The first of the four, the image of Hesilrige, was exactly as she remembered. On the far right, the image of Cromwell was similar to the one on display, but on closer viewing she saw there were differences.

  “This has changed.”

  “Not exactly. The portrait of Cromwell you see here is not the one currently on display but a very good reproduction by Mr Cliff of what originally appeared beneath Hesilrige. It has many similarities to its famous cousin out in the hallway, but also some rather striking differences.”

  Gillian looked at her former mentor, totally aghast. The revelation seemed incredible. “I don’t understand. The original was of Cromwell. Why paint over it?”

  “The more reasonable question might really be, why not? Being an artist was an excellent profession in those days, but only if you were well paid. The pitfalls, on the other hand, were often quite severe. Mr Walker may have chosen to paint Sir Arthur on a piece that he had previously discarded. Of course, it’s possible he simply changed his mind. Even with the x-ray and infrared, we can’t confirm beyond all reasonable doubt that the original had been completed; however, Daniel decided when creating the reproduction here there was good evidence it probably was.”

  Gillian folded her arms, struggling to take everything in. Whilst at first sight Cromwell and Hesilrige were men of clear differences, the similarities now looked obvious.

  “You think Walker painted over a canvas he’d previously discarded?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Seeing that the file was encrypted and given what I saw on the CCTV, I’d have to say no.” Gillian’s attention remained fixed on the jpegs. The x-ray and infrared both confirmed there had once been writing on the left side of the Hesilrige portrait. “This was invisible on the painting itself. Some of it showed up on the CCTV, but it was almost impossible to read,” she said, gesturing to the text. She zoomed in on the jpeg of the x-ray before doing the same with the infrared.

  She couldn’t make out the words.

  “What exactly was the accomplice doing with the torch?” Nat asked.

  8

  Gillian decided the easiest thing would be to show him. She escorted Nat into the surveillance room and offered him a seat on a nearby desk.

  She started the video playback, repeating the footage Cliff had shown her less than two hours earlier. Even though she had seen it once already, she still struggled to come to terms with the audacity of the theft. The intruder with the torch walked slowly, a necessity in the poor light, but so noticeable compared to the man alongside him it further heightened the realisation he was working with someone who knew the gallery well. While the man with the torch took his time examining the paintings, Cooper kept his distance.

  Strange, it was the expert who took a back seat.

  Initially the intruder with the torch had seemed equally interested in both Hesilrige and Cromwell before returning to Hesilrige for a second, longer look. The UV torch had done its job. Even on the CCTV the effect of the light on the canvas was visible.

  “Pause that,” Nat said, leaning in closer. “Right there.”

  Gillian followed his direction and hit the pause button, freezing the screen. Cooper’s accomplice was studying the bottom left section of the portrait where Cromwell’s squire had once been, the area that appeared in the Hesilrige portrait as a stone column. Under the purple light, the original colours of the portrait looked distorted: green, red, yellow, blue, its context more in keeping with a computer screensaver than a masterpiece.

  “What is it?” Gillian asked. “What’s he looking for?”

  “Our man clearly had some particular fascination with the text. Not to mention prior knowledge,” he said. “Can you read it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Can you zoom in?”

  Navigating the controls, she found the necessary command and zoomed in on the area under the purple light.

  “I can’t read it,” she said.

  Nat took over the controls and let the footage move on for over a minute. “There,” he said, pressing pause again. “Just as I thought.”

  Gillian looked at the screen. Cooper’s accomplice was standing at the right side of the portrait, busily examining it in the purple light. He had focused on the area where Hesilrige had been holding a helmet.

  Where once upon a time Cromwell had been holding something else.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Nat turned away from the screen. “Follow me.”

  Gillian found herself back outside the storeroom. Five years out of the top job had left Nat ignorant of the room’s current access code, requiring her to open the door. They headed quickly through the room, passing large cabinets on both sides, before reaching the main vault.

  Gillian opened the door and Nat entered first. There was a large cabinet lining the near wall, its doors closed but not locked. Nat opened the door and began looking through the contents.

  “The results of the tests on the Hesilrige portrait proved far too important to be kept with the others,” he said, removing what appeared to be a series of printouts, all of which were jpegs. “When the results were fully ascertained, it was agreed the findings must remain secret from the remainder of the staff.”

  She looked at him, confused. “Why?”

  “Have a look and you’ll understand.”

  Gillian took the printouts and examined their content for the first time. The jpegs were the same as the ones she’d seen on the computer, four different images denoting the history of the canvas. The size of the text on the left side had been enla
rged, making it legible. The writing was in English, quill written and slightly obscure. The previously invisible writing had come up in green, whereas the title of the piece was in yellow, confirming the clear difference.

  She searched the jpegs one at a time. Nat gestured to the print of the Cromwell jpeg in her hand. “Take a look at this. Ring any bells?”

  Gillian compared the jpegs. There was a shape in the x-ray, roughly in the same position as the helmet. On the Cromwell jpeg its appearance was clear as day.

  “Oh my God.”

  9

  Nat waited for the shock to settle before finally breaking the silence.

  “The intention of our research into the portrait of Arthur Hesilrige, of course, was by no means to expose what we now know is hidden beneath the top coat. The history of the portrait was well documented; ownership can be traced all the way back to the 1660s. It has always been assumed, of course, that the painting was commissioned by someone close to Hesilrige, a family member, perhaps the man himself, most likely at the height of his fame. We know that the portrait remained in the same family for over three centuries. I only bought it in 1998 when the estate conducted a fire sale.”

  “So what was the purpose of the tests?”

  Nat laughed but without humour. “Really, Gill, you’ve worked in art long enough to know the value of these sort of things. An art historian’s job is never easy. Portraits are taken in, repaired, restored. I daresay there were simply thousands of works here whose authorship before being x-rayed had been uncertain. During the last twenty years we’ve been able to answer countless previously unanswerable questions. A painting can be x-rayed, I suppose, for many reasons. In our case, we made the decision to carry out research on our entire stock. It was never a thing done in isolation.”

  “And beneath Hesilrige you found a painting of Cromwell and this message. I still don’t understand,” she said, once again comparing the jpegs of Hesilrige and Cromwell. Whilst Hesilrige stood, leaning against a stone column, his left hand holding a helmet, Cromwell, in the underlying piece, was being prepared for battle by a squire.

  Only instead of a helmet, he was touching a crown.

  “I don’t understand. Why was Cromwell painted holding a crown? Cromwell abolished the Crown.”

  Nat laughed, a stark ironic tone. “Perhaps you might like to read the message.”

  Gillian focused on the area of the printout where the text was written:

  My Dearest,

  I could not satisfy myself to omit this opportunity of writing to you; especially there being so late and great an occasion of acquainting you with important news.

  The taking of the King at Carisbrooke hath been one of our greatest works; which indeed I believe hath been a great discomposing of the enemy. We have taken many considerable places since, without much loss. What can we say to these things! If God be for us, who can be against us?

  After the taking of these great places, so too we took upon us the possessions of the Royalist household, including the very jewels so long locked away in the Tower. It was agreed amongst the Parliament that we would part with every ounce of jewellery, which we had intended on Wednesday 21st March: and coming with our body within a hundred miles of the city, we advanced with some horse near unto it to complete our sale. That evening I knew a costly mistake had been avoided. Instead, I sent a letter to thy son and other gentlemen in the Corporation. We took the best view we could where to deposit our jewels; and upon Saturday the 24th, the jewels, including the crown worn by our enemy, were safely deposited. Its location is known to no other living man; any other who once did has since fallen. Its secret, I fear to say, should unfriendly eyes know it. Know only that I have left instruction at the fields of the three great battles of our time.

  The Lord hath provided well for us; and we look at it as a great mercy that we have the place for you upon these terms. This is an astonishing mercy; so great and seasonable that indeed we are like them that dreamed. I have committed these things unto you; pray ensure their safe custody. I envy not the contents; but I fear any that should be swallowed up in them. Pardon this trouble. I am thus bold because I know you love me; as indeed I do you. I desire you to make it above all things your business to seek what the lord desires. I desire you to provoke your son and daughter likewise thereunto. I am glad to hear thy son and daughter are with thee. I hope thou wilt have some good opportunity of good advice to him. Present my love to all the family.

  Still pray for thine

  OLIVER CROMWELL, 10 August 1658

  Gillian lowered the printout and passed it to Nat. “I don’t understand,” she said, rubbing her tired eyes. “Cromwell was the one who abolished the Crown.”

  “Oh yes, huzzah for honest Oliver. The founder of democracy. The hero of the brave new world.” He laughed. “You know, history is often quick to generalise when it comes to heroes and villains. Have you ever stopped to look around Westminster, Gill? There are two statues outside the old palace: one of Richard the Lionheart, and the other of old Oliver. I’ve often wondered with amusement how a committee decides who’s deemed worthy of recognition. After all, what really makes a patriot? Is it their worth to a country, or simply the extent of their fame?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a convenient tale when you think about it. An established king – selfish, Scottish, insecure, prone to bouts of silliness – being overthrown for the good of the people. A revolutionary is rarely a villain in the eyes of his own supporters, particularly when he wins. Less than six months after the execution of King Charles, Cromwell himself abolished the monarchy, not by proxy or vote, but decree. The institution was dead. Yet seven years later he was offered the crown himself. For six weeks he struggled with the dilemma. Eventually he refused, choosing instead to continue with the ‘lesser’ role of Lord Protector. Yet he was invested with more pomp than a Plantagenet monarch. When he died, his son replaced him. Blood succession.”

  Gillian took a deep breath. The first thing she noticed was how serious Nat was being, as if he knew the story by heart and took a personal interest in it.

  “Okay. So, you think he actually wanted the throne?”

  “Whether he did or didn’t, he certainly had the chance to take it. When the time came, he chose a role that effectively made him king without the need to be officially crowned. You know, if you ever do pay a visit to that statue outside the Palace of Westminster, you may find it amusing to take a look to see what overlooks it. The lovely exterior of St Margaret’s Church opposite has a bust of Charles I above its doorway. How amused providence must have been that good old Charlie got to look down at the man who killed him.”

  “I don’t understand. What has any of this to do with the portrait?”

  “You can see it yourself. The original portrait shows Cromwell holding the crown of England. The message to his wife confirms the jewels were still in his possession and later buried in March 1649, with the message itself dated August 1658. Less than three weeks before his death.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The words, surely, are obvious. Cromwell and his key cronies decided against honouring the agreement to sell the crown, and the very jewels he later claimed to be destroyed still existed, with their whereabouts described only in this message.”

  10

  Cooper had not been home since Friday morning. In the twenty-four hours that had passed, he felt like he’d been through hell and back.

  The brothers arrived at the gallery on Wednesday afternoon, a professional visit arranged through official channels. He had recognised their surname from his contacts with the French galleries and was only too pleased to offer them a tour.

  His first mistake.

  The second meeting took place on Thursday morning, just after he had dropped Megan off at school. Megan was eight and preparing to undergo her third day in Year 4. The second meeting had gone better than well. Thanks to his charm and competence, the gallery was looking forward to a new £1m
donation.

  Could the day possibly get any better?

  The workday ended early on Thursday. Megan’s mum was in Scotland on a hen weekend and wouldn’t be back till Sunday evening. He left the gallery at just before 3pm and was at the school gates at three twenty-five, a little later than expected. By three thirty-five Megan was still to show.

  He got the call at 4:00pm.

  His daughter had been kidnapped.

  The last two nights without Megan had been the longest of his life. He had prayed that by cooperating in the theft, they would let him go and return his daughter.

  His prayers were still to be answered.

  They left the Regent’s Park apartment at 7:30am. Thirty minutes later he got to speak to Megan on the phone; she sounded happy, apparently oblivious to the entire ordeal. As they headed northwest out of London, he thought about the gallery, Gillian in particular. He anticipated that evidence of his intrusion would almost certainly have alerted them by now. He knew leaving a trail was dangerous, but more so if his kidnappers caught on. Removing the mask on reaching the car seemed a casual gesture.

  He knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed by the security cameras.

  According to François, the message on the portrait was located exactly where he thought it would be. Better yet, he was convinced it offered precise directions to the three markers. Cooper vividly remembered when he first researched the painting six years ago, the discovery of the message culminating with his own six-year attempt to recover the lost jewels. Nothing had been found.

  The Frenchmen would have their work cut out.

  The car was an immaculate green, three-litre, 2010 Jaguar XF that belonged to the brothers’ uncle. He collected them as a hobby, but he rarely drove them as far as they intended to go today. Leaving the secure complex near Regent’s Park, Alain took the wheel with François and Cooper both in the back, a gun pointed at Cooper’s midriff.