The Cromwell Deception Read online

  “If Cooper is intent on recovery of the lost jewels, he has three logical ports of call,” Gillian said. “The three major battles of the war are well documented. I suggest we pay each of them a visit. Maybe if we can get there quickly enough, our paths might even cross.”

  “And what about the exhibition?” Cliff asked. “One of us surely needs to stay behind and deal with the flak.”

  Gillian looked at Cliff, rueful but accepting he had a point. “Okay, I guess that still leaves three of us.” She looked at Nat and Edmund, hoping for support. “Nat and I can go to Edgehill, and from there it’s not far to Naseby; Edmund, you head to Marston Moor. If Cooper has a brain, he’ll leave it till last. If you leave now, we’ve still got a fighting chance.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Edmund saluted.

  Gillian checked her watch. “If we leave now, two of the places could be covered within three hours,” she said, trying to work out the logistics. “If Cooper needed to travel to all three places in a day, it would be impossible for him to complete it within eight hours.”

  “At least without help,” Cliff said.

  “Very well,” Nat said. “Let’s give it a try and keep in regular contact. If we’re successful, recovery of the portraits and whatever secrets they hold could be of national importance. If the Van Dyck is not recovered by 7am, I fear it will be necessary to inform the authorities.”

  Moments later, they descended the main staircase and emerged through the main doors into the mild London morning. It was bright, but cloudy. Calm, but close. The roads between Trafalgar Square and Westminster had ground to the inevitable halt. Cyclists weaved in and out of stationary cars and buses, their bright shades moving like rainbows. On the nearby streets, citizens and tourists poured in and out of the various eateries, some heading toward the Portrait Gallery or the National in preparation of an hour or two’s sightseeing.

  They headed southeast to the Tube. The nearby station at Embankment was deserted around the entrance, but crammed within the main concourse.

  Gillian led the way, swiping her Oyster card at the turnstile. She and Nat needed the District and Circle line westbound. Edmund, the east.

  “There should be a train coming within a couple of minutes,” she said to Edmund, jogging. As expected, the crowds gathered in droves, blocking the escalators that connected the concourse to the nearby platforms. “Call me when you get there. And good luck.”

  Edmund went his separate way, the platform for the District and Circle line eastbound.

  Gillian and Nat took the escalator, hurrying past stationary passengers on the left side. The warm smell of recycled air pushed forcefully against her face as she reached the platform.

  A train was approaching. She could tell looking through the windows it was less than half full. She entered as she heard the ‘please mind the gap’ message and took a seat by the door, Nat following.

  “I do hope you have a plan, Gill,” Nat said, keeping his voice to a whisper. “I told you before about our previous attempts.”

  Gillian smiled. It wasn’t until she had reached the escalator she realised what the diagram that accompanied the text had meant. The clue was so obvious she was amazed no one had worked it out.

  “All this time you’ve simply been looking in the wrong place.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You remember in the painting, Hesilrige was leaning against a stone column?”

  “Yes.”

  Her smile widened. “Something identical stands near each site, as a memorial. Find that, hopefully we might even find what it is that we’re looking for.”

  13

  The edge of the battlefield was less than a mile from the main road. The approach was mainly downhill and accessible via a public footpath.

  The site was quiet, ethereal, timeless. Even close to the road there was rarely a disturbance to the silence. Cooper remembered reading a story when he was young about the site being famed for its ghost sightings. A year after the battle, a royal commission had even been sent to investigate rumours of spectral shapes being seen, and apparently witnessed two phantom armies engaged in combat in the heavens. He’d always loved the paranormal; it was partly the reason history fascinated him. The existence of ghosts was a connection with history. Live art. Three-dimensional. Searching for treasure was searching the past.

  Following in the footsteps of the dead.

  Cooper walked alongside François, carrying a water bottle in his left hand and a shovel in his right. His shirt was tight and sweaty, causing an awkward itchy sensation that had come on the moment he left the car. Throughout the journey, his thoughts had centred on his daughter, whether she was safe and sound or even aware of what was happening. On the rare moments he did manage to take his mind off her, the only thing he could think about was the portraits. He didn’t like the idea of the younger brother being left alone with something so precious, but he knew he had no choice in the matter. He prayed Gillian had worked out where they were going, and had concocted some sort of plan.

  Either way, she was probably wetting herself by now.

  Unsurprisingly, the brothers had found the message on the portrait easy to read. François had spent the majority of the journey surfing the Internet on his smartphone or reading a series of photocopies that he kept in a clear plastic folder. Sitting alongside him in the back seat, Cooper had been able to see the content. The photocopies were clearly of a manuscript, 17th-century English if not earlier. Accompanying the text was a series of diagrams, apparently of relevance to the battle sites. The Frenchmen had come prepared, the revelations of the portrait clearly not completely unexpected to them.

  But six years of researching the portrait himself and searching the battle sites had taught him the clues were anything but helpful. The message had been written with a clear assumption the intended reader – Cromwell’s wife – knew exactly what to expect. That never surprised him.

  A man of Cromwell’s stature wouldn’t leave anything to chance.

  Silently Cooper remained sceptical of their chances. The secret had eluded not only himself, but also Nat and Cliff, two of the finest minds he knew.

  The Frenchman has no chance.

  François had chosen a different route to the one Cooper had anticipated. The path took them through woodland, the southeast side of the battlefield. He could tell from the Frenchman’s expression a feeling of anticipation was building. The woodland continued for more than a mile, shielding the site from the road and the nearby hamlet. In the distance, Cooper could see a group of ramblers heading through one of the fields; he reasoned they were too far away to cause any problems. Nor did they linger. Ever since his first visit to the site, the story had always been the same. Tourists negotiating a series of footpaths, elderly residents out for a casual stroll, singletons walking the dog.

  A calm summer’s day in the Midlands.

  The woodland was intersected by a series of pathways, including one that encircled the original battle site. According to the map, it followed an almost perfect rectangle shape that began within a hundred metres of the hamlet and touched the borders of Radway and Kineton. François checked the map as he followed the pathway, now approximately half a mile from where they had parked.

  “Stop,” he said, looking around. His facial expression had changed, as if somebody or something had spooked him.

  Alone in the quiet woodland in the heart of the vale, Andrew Cooper felt a sudden pang of urgency.

  Maybe this wasn’t about finding treasure.

  For several seconds he stood rooted to the spot, a feeling of horror escalating in his chest. The woodland would be a perfect place to kill him.

  François moved on a few metres, seeing something beyond the woodland, located in the nearby field.

  He turned and looked at Cooper, gesturing with his shovel.

  “This way.”

  14

  Hesilrige didn’t care for Cromwell’s assumption of the title of Lord Protector. That was Nat’s opinion
on the subject. Cromwell’s life story had been one of the few things they had talked about on the drive north.

  They had taken the Tube to Gloucester Road and continued in Gillian’s BMW from her Kensington townhouse to the Midlands. She entered the address for Edgehill into the satnav and followed the directions. The traffic had been quiet since leaving London, allowing her to concentrate on other things.

  One thing in particular.

  “Surely Hesilrige approved of the change in government?” Gillian said. She could see from the satnav they were only five minutes away. “He’d always been anti-monarchy.”

  Nat was sitting in the passenger’s seat, minus his jacket and tie. “Originally he did. And when the Rump Parliament ruled over the newly established Commonwealth of England, Hesilrige played a key role. However, four years later Cromwell himself dismissed the parliament and became Lord Protector. It’s like I mentioned to you before. Cromwell had the chance to become king. He was offered the crown, but he turned it down. His supporters had already appointed him Lord Protector. Appointed. Not elected.”

  Gillian nodded, knowing the story was technically correct. She had graduated from Durham with a BA in History and a MA in Art, and even after thirty years she still vividly remembered covering the English Civil War.

  “So what exactly is Hesilrige’s connection to all this? Bearing in mind the note on the portrait was dated 1658.”

  For Nat the date seemed absolutely right. “Hesilrige was a republican through and through. Indeed, he approved of the king’s removal. However, when Cromwell expelled the Rump Parliament by force in 1653, Hesilrige viewed the actions as tyrannical. When Cromwell became Lord Protector, he considered it unrepublican. When Oliver died, Hesilrige played a decisive role in the downfall of his son.”

  “So Hesilrige felt no one man should rule over the masses?”

  “Exactly. Cromwell’s entire policy depended on the removal of the main figurehead. By accepting a position himself that even remotely resembled one of autocracy, he was in danger of alienating anyone who had supported him.”

  “Why would Hesilrige’s portrait have been painted over Cromwell’s?”

  “That really depends. We can assume from the date of the message, the portrait of Cromwell touching the crown still existed as late as 1658. Most likely either Elizabeth Cromwell ordered it to be changed or Hesilrige himself commissioned it because he disapproved of seeing his former friend holding the crown.”

  Gillian nodded. “The message speaks of others being in the know, the burial of the jewels being a decision made by committee rather than just Cromwell himself. Could Hesilrige have known?”

  Nat shrugged. “All we have is speculation. However, if you want my opinion, the continued existence of the crown is something Hesilrige would have opposed. According to the history books, when Oliver was offered the crown in 1657, it was a decision that Hesilrige vehemently opposed. As far as the wider world was concerned, the original jewels had been melted down and made into gold coins around 1650. If the Crown jewels were assumed to have been destroyed, any move to make Cromwell king would have required a new crown.”

  “Surely that happened anyway for the coronation of Charles II?”

  “Yes, but that was still over three years away. In 1657, England was supposedly in line for a future of republican prosperity. The crown was no longer necessary.”

  Gillian’s thoughts were moving a mile a minute. “Something keeps eating away at me. Call me crazy…”

  “You’re crazy.”

  A wry smile. “Thanks. Call me crazy if you will, but what if the Crown jewels were never destroyed, not because Cromwell wanted the crown itself, but because he wanted the power to decide. If the Royalists attempted a resurgence, or his own men turned on him, the jewels would have been pivotal to Charles II taking the throne.”

  “Either way, a lot of history books would have to be rewritten.”

  Gillian nodded. “Not to mention paintings repainted.”

  They arrived at 12:20pm, one hour and forty-five minutes after leaving London.

  The hamlet of Edgehill is located in the south of Warwickshire. Like many small dwellings that dot the landscape between Stratford-upon-Avon and the Cotswolds, it was the type of place easily missed if you didn’t know it was there. Gillian followed the satnav directions into the hamlet itself and saw a sign on the left side of the road that read ‘You Are Now Entering Edgehill’.

  The first thing she noticed was how small it was. A cluster of stone cottages flanked the road on both sides, their yellow façades a chocolate box picture against the wooded backdrop. There was a car park on the left, and a historic building directly opposite it on the right. It reminded Gillian of one of the towers from Warwick Castle.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Gillian asked.

  “It’s called The Castle Inn,” Nat replied, admiring the architecture from the passenger seat. “It’s actually a folly from 1742, built in honour of the hundred-year anniversary of the battle. These days it does bed and breakfast. Not to mention a lovely steak and ale pie.”

  Gillian smiled, highly surprised she was looking at something that resembled a medieval castle. A second smaller tower was attached to the largest via an archway, creating the illusion of a 13th-century gatehouse. Both towers possessed small turrets at the summit, and several windows, a mix of long and narrow or arched and mullioned. There was a sign on the right side of the road attached to a wooden pole, confirming its name, The Castle Inn. The car park belonged to the inn, designated ‘patrons only’.

  They made the short journey across the road and through the staff car park to the main entrance. There was a menu on display in a glass case on the wall inside the door, accompanied by a selection of pamphlets that provided information on the local area.

  Including directions for a walk.

  Gillian picked up a pamphlet and entered the inn through a second doorway. The interior was in excellent condition, a typically quaint countryside setting with lots of wooden tables. The bar was located immediately to the right, whereas an archway to the left led to one of four character dining areas furnished by leather armchairs and settees, an original log fire, pine-coloured walls and large wooden-framed windows that offered views across the beer garden.

  The inn was quiet, deserted except for the staff. A brown-haired man in his early twenties was working at the bar while a smiling blonde operated a deli section from behind a well-presented table.

  “Are you hungry?” Nat asked, eyeing up the deli selection. “Might be a while before we get another chance.”

  Food was the last thing on Gillian’s mind. Ignoring him, she ordered a Coke at the bar, and asked the barman, “I don’t suppose you could direct us to the battlefield?”

  “It’s around here…somewhere,” the barman replied, realising the ice bucket on the counter was empty. He disappeared through a nearby door.

  The woman on the deli laughed at him. “You can’t access the site itself; the land belongs to the MoD. There’s a public footpath that leads round it.”

  No sooner had she mentioned the MoD, a bell began to ring in Gillian’s mind. She had seen signs for Kineton a few miles before they arrived; she remembered reading once that the site was, ironically, the country’s largest ammunitions depot. She never realised there was a connection.

  Gillian smiled at the deli lady. “Is it far?”

  “There should be a map on that.” She gestured to the pamphlet in Gillian’s hand. Gillian handed it over, and the woman showed her the directions. The map covered a ten-mile area, which confirmed the location of the battle site. Alongside it, three paragraphs of accompanying text offered precise directions from start to finish.

  Gillian studied the map. The walk appeared almost diamond shaped, with a total distance of 1.75 miles. A dotted green line highlighted the route, practically four sections of straight lines along fields, road and through woodland.

  “Where do we begin?” Gillian asked.

&nb
sp; “You start at the end of the car park. Head left when you get to the woodland, and down the slope until you come to a kissing gate. Follow the route and it brings you back here.”

  Gillian nodded, returning to the pamphlet. The more she read, the more things started to make sense. According to the text, the hamlet and the inn were located on the edge of an escarpment, with the beer garden of the inn overlooking the heart of the battlefield.

  “What’s the nearest we can get to the battlefield itself?”

  The woman’s expression turned colder. “People don’t really go to the site itself. It’s better to stay away.”

  Gillian was intrigued. “Why is that?” she asked. Experience told her that local knowledge could often be an invaluable resource.

  Nat interrupted from Gillian’s left, “Can I order a cheese and chutney on white crusty bread, please. Preferably to take away.”

  The woman smiled and began on Nat’s sandwich. “The site is off-limits,” she replied to Gillian. “In the past people used to come, but they were warned to stay away. It’s a criminal offence to trespass on the land.”

  “Because it’s owned by the MoD?”

  The woman nodded and added cheese to Nat’s sandwich. “Besides, some are scared away for other reasons. Many believe the site to be haunted.”

  Gillian folded her arms and smiled. She remembered hearing a story, from Cooper ironically: the battle had been stormy, passionate, no quarter given or asked. In the days that followed, stories began to circulate of things being seen: figures on horseback, strange mists forming without reason, ghostly silhouettes appearing on the horizon, freak winds moving between the trees. The legacy of the battle haunted the area for years to come, even centuries.

  She even saw a sign on the wall opposite advertising a ghost hunt in November.