The Trust, page 22
‘Where the ladders start?’
‘That’s all it said.’
‘Interesting.’ He folded his arms. ‘Maybe he wants you to try and be a better person.’
‘A better person?’
‘Yeah – I knew Henry well. He was always saying what a good kid you were – greatest thing since sliced bread. Then you show up.’
‘Don’t hold back then, Cobb.’
‘You were rude. Snobbish. Butt tight like a barnacle. And I can’t believe it’s the same Astrid he went on about. First time I met you, you were…’
She held up her hand. ‘I get the idea.’
‘Okay. Sorry. But hey, now I’ve got to know you. You’re pretty cool.’
‘Thanks, Cobb. You too.’ She stepped out into the sunshine and turned to him. ‘Listen, I’m going to take the boat tomorrow, to prove something. And I don’t want you rushing out to rescue me.’
‘You sure? You made a right hash of things last time.’
‘I did – and I can’t promise I won’t make a mess of things again. But it will be my mess, Cobb. Okay?’
‘Got it.’ He stared for a moment. As if he’d seen something else new in her. ‘Then the best of luck to you, Astrid.’
26
Monday, Day 13
Astrid woke at just after ten, and spent another hour in bed. She would need to get as much rest as possible for what lay ahead today. She’d checked the tide tables the night before and worked out that the best time to set sail was five o’clock. Before then she’d have to learn about every reef and marker buoy she might meet along the way.
Thankfully Uncle Henry owned every guide and chart you might need to navigate a boat anywhere along the south coast. She took down a handful from the bookshelf and laid them on the table.
She applied herself as if it was an exam, only taking a break for lunch and an hour in the late afternoon for a bike ride. So, when she stepped behind the controls and pushed the throttle forwards, she knew she was as prepared as she could ever be. The rest was luck.
*
The chain ferry was docked up on the Sandbanks side – plenty of time to get out to sea. Spinning the wheel smoothly between her fingers she set a course to the west. It was quiet. Only a couple of speedboats zipped between her and the big channel marker.
Soon she was in open water, where the waves were knee-high. The boat shouldered each one, rolling slightly but staying true. Back in the harbour the water smelled of mud. Here the sea air was briny. Invigorating. She inhaled deeply. The engine thrummed steadily at the back of the boat. A cormorant flew low over the water in front of the prow, its wing tips almost touching the tops of the waves.
It took about an hour. First past a line of chalk pillars that stepped out into the sea – ‘Old Harry Rocks’, according to the chart clipped in front of her. Then on past sheer cliffs dotted with white birds. Coves and scalloped bays. Fields of wheat and meadows like a patchwork quilt thrown down to the water’s edge.
She slowed the boat and studied the headland – trying to recognise the scene Constable had painted. The boat was too far out. She checked the chart – there were shallows ahead. She edged the boat forwards. A band of kelp, great belts of mustard-coloured weed, slapped against the hull. There was no turning back now.
Closer in towards the cliffs, about two hundred yards off, it began to feel more familiar. She lined up the view ahead of her in an imaginary frame. There was a winding path up the hill, slabs of rocks the size of houses at the base of the cliffs. She cut the engine and dropped the anchor. Yes – this was it. Constable must have taken a boat out to exactly this spot. But now what?
‘Come on, Uncle Henry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m climbing the ladder for you here.’ She closed her eyes and thought back to the last summer she’d seen him. They were painting in the garden. She could clearly see the canvas in front of them. Every detail. ‘Detail’ – that was it… add a final detail that will reveal the truth. So where is it then?
She opened her eyes again and stared ahead of her, studying every rock and fold on the headland. Where was it? Up the path to the ridge of the hill. The light was softening. There was a pinkish tint to the lowest clouds. Still nothing. Then right on the edge of the cliff… there it was – a white building. It was just a speck in the distance but she could make out what it was – a lighthouse.
Down in the cabin she went over to the far wall. Right in the middle was a framed chart of lighthouses of the south coast. So far she hadn’t even looked at it. She traced her finger along the black and white coastline until she found the entrance to the harbour – then on another five miles or so west. On the edge of the cliff was a tiny drawing of a lighthouse – the ‘Weymouth beacon’. Under it was the date it was built.
She gasped… 1956. The lighthouse was built a hundred and twenty years after Constable’s death.
So there was only one explanation. The forger had been out here on a boat, seen the lighthouse and added the detail to both the fake and the original.
She took down the framed chart and placed it face down on the table. On the back was Uncle Henry’s writing again. The same black pen. The note this time said:
Well done, Astrid. If you want to know EVERYTHING – ask Sheepdip.
*
The journey back seemed to take half as long. Her mind was racing so fast she barely noticed the landmarks in the failing light. Uncle Henry had to have been the forger. Didn’t he? But there had been no sign of his own paintings on the boat. Nobody she’d spoken to had seen him painting either. And why would anyone add a modern lighthouse to both paintings, the copy and the masterpiece – they would be bound to be found out, whichever one an expert looked at.
If it was Uncle Henry, then all those months ago, years maybe, he’d put all his faith in her being that expert. One big gamble that she’d solve the riddle. And now she had to ask a dog for the answer. A dog.
By the time she got into the harbour it was dark. She picked her way between the blinking red and green lights of the harbour. The tide was receding fast. But she was sure she could make it back safely. And sure that tomorrow would be a very good day. Simon was about to be proven wrong this time.
27
Tuesday, Day 14
It felt strange to be lining up to buy a ticket at the English Trust visitors’ entrance.
‘Would you like to become a member today?’ said a woman with a fawn bucket hat, thrusting a leaflet towards her.
‘Maybe later.’ She took a couple of steps, then stopped and turned back to the woman. ‘You know, I might just do that.’
In the foyer was a sign on a stand that said: ‘Press Event – 11.30 a.m.’. A red arrow pointed down the corridor. She followed it and joined a short queue filing into the library. Inside the room had been almost filled with fold-out seats. Most were taken. At the front, just off to the side, were a handful of TV cameras on tripods. Smartly dressed reporters stood waiting behind them. Right at the front was a wooden lectern and an easel covered with a white cloth.
Astrid spotted a spare seat on the far end of the front row. She headed towards it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cressida get up from further down the row. Before she could sit down Cressida had blocked her way.
‘Sorry, Astrid… it’s invites only.’
‘But I have this.’ She took out a flimsy card. ‘Apparently it’s my “temporary membership” card. Surely you can’t turn away a member?’
A frown cracked across Cressida’s forehead. ‘Please, this is not the time for a scene, Astrid.’
Astrid took one step forward. ‘No, I think it’s the perfect time for a scene.’ She thumbed towards the reporters. ‘The cameras can record it… That’s not going to be good for footfall though, is it?’
Cressida glanced at the reporters. ‘Okay, come on in then,’ she said, shuffling back down the row.
Astrid found a seat and looked around. The audience seemed to be mostly visitors. There were a few other journalists on the front row clutching notepads and phones. Lady Sherborne was at the back, brushing dog hairs off her tweed skirt and impatiently checking her watch.
At eleven-thirty on the dot, Simon strode into the room and stood behind the lectern. He gave the audience an oily smile and arranged his notes. The reporters by the wall got behind their cameras and started adjusting buttons.
He waited for them to get ready then addressed the audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Sherborne Hall.’ He paused. Obviously, he’d been expecting some applause. ‘Anyway…’ Another smile, a slow panorama from right to left this time, which quickly faded when he saw Astrid sitting on the end of the row. ‘Right so…’ He rustled his notes. ‘My name is Simon Kisner. I’m head of conservation at the National Gallery in London. And this morning…’ he turned to the painting under the cloth ‘…I’m going to reveal for the first time what I consider one of the greatest art discoveries in recent times.’
Lady Sherborne huffed loudly at the back. She’d clearly worked out that the painting under the sheet wasn’t large enough to be her portrait.
Simon carried on with his presentation, explaining that the mystery painting would be the centrepiece of a later exhibition entitled ‘the Treasures of Sherborne Hall’. Cressida gave him a little thumbs up, clearly loving the plug. He carried on, scattering in a few details about the restoration process and how he’d helped ‘this marvellous painting see the light of day’. There was no mention of Astrid’s involvement.
After a while the members began to shift in their seats. Simon noticed he was losing his audience. ‘Right,’ he said, sweeping his hand towards the easel, ‘let me introduce the world to what I believe is one of John Constable’s finest works.’
He stepped forward, gripped the corner of the cloth and slid it away from the painting. Lady Sherborne groaned at the back of the room.
‘Painted in 1816, this is an exquisite landscape of nearby cliffs at Weymouth. The artist was on honeymoon at the time, as we can see from this figure climbing the path. I believe this is his new wife, Maria.’
Astrid squirmed – he’d got hold of her notes about Constable’s honeymoon. Still, he was about to be publicly humiliated. Swings and roundabouts.
‘We’ll be providing a hand-out at the end,’ Simon continued, ‘but does anyone have any questions at this stage?’
Astrid raised her hand in the air. Simon scanned the room, stopping well short of her corner of the front row.
A handful of reporters sitting down also had their hands up. He answered their questions quickly, which were all about Constable’s early life and the possible value of the painting. Simon said it was impossible to say, but again stressed it was a ‘major discovery’. Then he started to tidy his notes.
Astrid waved at him. He saw her out of the corner of his eye. ‘So that’s probably a good time to round things up,’ he said, hurriedly packing away his notes into his briefcase.
Astrid got to her feet. ‘Excuse me. I have a question.’
‘Yes, I think we really should wrap it up there,’ he said without making eye contact. ‘We need to let the photographers take some pictures of the painting.’
‘No, I had my hand up from the start.’ She was a notch under shouting.
He checked the room. Everyone was staring at her. ‘Of course, please… ask away.’
‘Alright. This Constable. Are you sure it’s not a fake?’
‘What?’ he snorted. There were a few other laughs, from the audience. ‘No, of course it’s not a fake.’
‘And you’d stake your reputation on that?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve spent time with the piece and all the tests confirm this is an original Constable.’
‘So then…’ She stood up and stepped forwards. The cameras in the corner swung round to follow her. ‘Can you explain what the building on the cliffs is doing there?’
‘Mmm?’ He went over to the painting.
‘On the headland. It’s a lighthouse, isn’t it?’
He slipped his reading glasses on and bent forward. ‘It appears to be, yes.’
Astrid crossed her arms. ‘In fact – I can tell you exactly what it is. It’s the Weymouth beacon… and it was built in 1956.’
Simon had his back to her. But she knew there was no smile, because she’d just wiped it from his face. Right now he was wondering what would be the most dignified expression to make when he turned round. Then thinking about the nearest exit.
The audience began to chatter, the pitch building steeply.
‘In 1956… but that’s not possible.’ Astrid pretended to be shocked. ‘Because you said the original Constable was painted in 1816. He would have been dead for about a hundred and twenty years. Wouldn’t he?’
He slowly spun round to face the audience, his lower lip slightly trembling. If she could frame that – it would be priceless.
‘I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ he said.
‘Go on then… let’s hear it.’ Astrid held her ground.
Simon picked up his briefcase and glanced towards the exit. A reporter to Astrid’s right was on his feet. ‘So, is it a fake or not?’
The truth was, it didn’t matter. The painting on the easel could be the original or the fake – there was a lighthouse on both of them. That was the beauty of it.
The photographers pressed in to get a photo of Simon. Someone at the back shouted, ‘Come on! Answer the question!’
Astrid sauntered down the aisle and left the room with a low roar of laughter ringing in her ears.
*
At the car park she leant with her back against the warm metalwork of the Mini, letting her triumph sink in. She’d dreamt that her revenge on Simon would be sweet. But this was so sweet it made her tongue fuzzy. Could it get any better? Well, maybe.
From around a tall hedge at the end of the car park, she saw Simon stumbling out into the sunshine. He checked behind him to see if he was being followed, then marched over towards her. He stopped in front of her, his face creased with anger. ‘Are you happy now?’
‘Yes… ecstatic.’
‘But you know what you did back there, Astrid? You ruined my reputation.’
Astrid took out her key fob and opened the car. ‘No, Simon, this one’s on you.’ She walked round the bonnet of the car to the driver’s side.
‘Bye, Simon. My solicitors will be in touch about the divorce.’
‘Solicitors?’
‘Dutton and Parker. They’re expensive, but worth it.’
‘Come on, Astrid. We need to talk about this.’
There was a shout from the corner of the car park. A couple of photographers were making a beeline for Simon, cameras in hand. Astrid got into the car, locked the doors and started the engine. Simon rattled the door handle of the passenger side. ‘Astrid!’ he pleaded, his face up against the window. She accelerated out of the car park, without even checking her rear-view mirror.
*
‘Explain it again.’ Kath was at the bar of The Angler’s Arms, an elbow on the counter. ‘There’s two paintings out there, right?’
‘Yes – the original and the fake.’ Astrid took a mouthful of red wine. ‘Whoever painted the forgery must have had access to the original. They painstakingly copied it, then added the detail of the lighthouse at the end to both paintings.’
Grub was playing darts. He was standing just behind a line of masking tape on the carpet. ‘But the thing is…’ he held up a dart ‘…they must have known that they were going to get caught?’
‘Yeah,’ Kath chuckled. ‘Any idiot would see straight away that the lighthouse wasn’t hundreds of years old.’
‘Thanks, Kath.’ Astrid laughed.
‘Sorry, but you know what I mean. Why would they risk it when the rest of the painting was so convincing?’
‘Because they wanted whoever bought the forgery to get caught?’
‘That has to be it.’ Kath nodded.
Grub threw a dart at the board. It hit the outer wire and bounced out. Sheepdip scuttled under the table.
‘Hey, Grub.’ Astrid waited for him to retrieve the dart. ‘You were good friends with my uncle. Do you know if he was involved in all this?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, he’s left me a trail of notes.’
‘Notes?’ said Grub.
‘Yes – cards with messages on. Like he was guiding me to the truth.’
Grub rubbed his beard. ‘You know, honestly… Henry was one of my best mates. He would have told me if he was forging art.’ He threw another dart. It arced low, thunking into a double three. ‘Getting there,’ he sighed. He gathered himself for his final throw.
‘So do most people fake art for the money?’ said Kath.
‘Not really. Most of them just want to try and show they’re as good as the great masters. Or they want to embarrass the art establishment.’
‘Yusss!’ Grub shouted. The final dart was sticking out of the bullseye on the board. It hung there for a moment, drooped, and fell to the floor. ‘Oh, come on!’ Grub clapped his hands on both sides of his head.
‘Never go for the bullseye,’ said Kath ‘it never stays in.’
Astrid waved over to Dolly, who was scouring away at something in the sink behind the bar. She trudged over. ‘Same again for everybody?’
‘Yes thanks, Dolly,’ said Astrid, reaching for her wallet.
Grub gathered up the darts and turned to Dolly. ‘What’s the chances of getting a new dartboard, Dolly?’
She stared at him. ‘What about a jacuzzi in the beer garden? Just for you, Grub.’
Grub shrugged and put the darts on a shelf below the chalkboard. Sheepdip watched him from under the table then hopped up onto the bench next to Astrid.
‘I dunno, Sheepdip.’ She rubbed gently behind his ears. He sat upright and looked at her. A lopsided smile tipped across his muzzle. ‘So what do you think?’ Sheepdip stared at her, then started to lick her hand.
Grub came over. ‘You two are thick as thieves.’
‘He’s a lovely dog.’
