After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (27 page)

Jack looked up as the chantry door opened. He groaned inwardly. Henry Cadwallader, complete with sketch book, paint box and easel came in.

Cadwallader frowned as he saw them, then brightened as he recognised Jack. ‘I wondered who was in here. I’m glad to see it’s you, young sir. It’s a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates the chantry as it deserves. You’ll be glad to hear I’ve been working hard. My painting will be a masterpiece, sir, an absolute masterpiece, and a fitting tribute to Mr Lythewell. Let me show you the work I’ve done.’

‘I think I’d better go,’ said Mrs Askern.

‘Now,’ said Cadwallader, with an air of maddening leisure and completely ignoring Mrs Askern, ‘I know you’re a man of method, young sir, so I’m going to take you back to my original idea. You remember how you were a witness to my inspiration?’ He opened the sketch pad, laid it out on the adjoining pew, then put a firm hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be interested in this.’

Mrs Askern stood up, walked out of the pew at the other end and went quickly to the door.

‘Mrs Askern!’ called Jack. ‘Wait a moment!’ He shook off Cadwallader’s restraining hand. The man looked thunderstruck but he could blinking well get over it. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cadwallader, but I have to go.’

‘But …’

‘I’ll be back soon.’

Jack ducked under Cadwallader’s arm and caught up with Mrs Askern on the chantry path. ‘Mrs Askern, would you let me have those letters?’

‘Let you have them? Why? Why do you want them?’

‘I’ll hand them over to Scotland Yard. Those letters are so important, Scotland Yard really is the best place to look after them.’

‘Scotland Yard?’ She looked worried. ‘I don’t know. John’s dead and gone but Colin’s still alive and he cared deeply for his father.’

‘I can promise you this, Mrs Askern,’ said Jack earnestly. ‘Unless it’s absolutely vital – and I do mean vital – the contents of those letters will never be publicly revealed. As it is, they could be the missing link in a chain of evidence. They could even, perhaps, help save an innocent man from being hanged.’

She winced and drew back. ‘I don’t see how.’

‘Don’t you? I’d guessed that old Mr Lythewell didn’t die of natural causes. A murder case is never closed. What if the police, at some stage, suspect someone else? With those letters his innocence can be proved, but without them it’s all guesswork.’

She thought for a few moments. ‘All right. Heaven knows, I don’t want them in the house.’

Jack smiled in relief. ‘Thank you. I’ll come and get them now if that’s all right?’

Half an hour later, with the precious letters safely in his pocket, Jack returned to the chantry.

‘So you’ve decided to come back,’ said Cadwallader grumpily. ‘I’d have thought that art was more important than running off after females. You need to be careful of females,’ he added. ‘I’m glad to say that Mr Lythewell had no truck with females, not even his wife after she upped and left for America. If everyone followed his example, the world would be a better place.’

If, thought Jack, underpopulated. The idea that he was ‘running after’ Daphne Askern would usually strike him as funny, but he was suddenly annoyed with this ridiculous man and his ridiculous obsession. ‘That
lady
,’ he said, emphasising the word, ‘is Mrs Askern. Didn’t you hear the news? She lost her husband yesterday.’

Mr Cadwallader’s eyes widened and he stepped back in horror. ‘Lost him? Mr Askern’s dead, you mean?’ Jack nodded. ‘But that’s shocking news. I didn’t always hold with his views, but he was a real artist. He understood art. What’s the firm going to do?’ He reached for the nearest pew and sat down, trembling. ‘Who’s going to carry on? Young Mr Lythewell isn’t an artist. This is dreadful, just dreadful! I can’t believe Mr Askern’s been taken so sudden.’

He sat for a good few minutes, staring sightlessly in front of him. ‘The ways of the Almighty are hard to fathom,’ he said eventually. ‘It isn’t given to us to understand the workings of Providence, but this is a sad day for the firm. Do you know what young Mr Lythewell intends to do? Has he got anyone to replace Mr Askern?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Mr Askern only died yesterday. It’s a bit soon to look for a replacement, don’t you think?’

‘At one time I’d have taken the burden upon my shoulders, but those days are past, I’m afraid,’ said Cadwallader, oblivious to what Jack had said. ‘Besides, I’ve got my own work to think of. I must complete my work. It’s a tribute to Mr Lythewell. A monumental tribute that will show the world what sort of man he was.’

Or perhaps not, commented Jack to himself.

Mr Cadwallader sat in silence for a few more minutes, then rose shakily to his feet. ‘I must carry on. I know you want to see the work I’ve been doing.’

As a matter of fact, Jack didn’t want anything of the kind, but Henry Cadwallader’s complete certainty was hard to argue with. There was a sort of hypnotic inevitability in the way Cadwallader took Jack’s enthusiastic interest for granted.

‘To do the chantry justice,’ said Cadwallader, deep within his sketch book, ‘needs a real grasp of perspective to get the whole picture, but the detail is vital. Now, as I told you before, I was honoured to have Mr Lythewell himself sit for the work depicting him being received on the steps of Glory …’

He made it sound like a civic function, with God standing in for the Lord Mayor, thought Jack, his sense of humour fully restored.

‘… And, of course, I have the original sketches.’ He opened his portfolio and took out an old sketch book. ‘Now, you just look at these. They show the modelling of the head.’

Jack nodded. The sketches were, as a matter of fact, very good. Henry Cadwallader might approach a conversation with the unstoppable force of a lava flow, but there was no doubt he could draw.

‘Looking at these sketches, I have to admit I’ve been in error,’ said Cadwallader gravely.

‘Error?’ repeated Jack. That was unexpected.

‘Error,’ echoed Cadwallader. ‘For many a year, I’ve dismissed Mr Daniel Lythewell’s skills. I cannot bring myself to feel overly guilty, because Mr Lythewell abandoned his proper calling early on, but, you mark my words, he could have been as great a metal worker as his father.’

Jack blinked. This was really unexpected. ‘Er … How d’you know?’

Cadwallader gazed at him. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Not to me, no.’

‘Look at his metalwork, man. On the tomb,’ he added with ponderous impatience. ‘The detail of the head.’

Jack got up from the pew and went to crouch beside the statue of the grieving man. With the man’s face hidden by his crooked arm as he sprawled across the lid of the open tomb, there was really only part of his forehead and his ear to admire. It looked perfectly fine, but Jack couldn’t see why, after having looked at it for years, Cadwallader should suddenly consider it a masterpiece.

‘It’s such a graceful tribute,’ said Cadwallader reverently. ‘When I saw what Mr Daniel had done, when I really understood it, I was awe-struck. You might consider me slow, young sir, but after all these years, the chantry can still surprise me with the depth and the quality of its art.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack, ‘I just don’t get what I’m supposed to be looking at.’

‘This,’ said Cadwallader in astonishment at Jack’s slowness. He tapped the statue. ‘This isn’t just any figure. This is a depiction of Mr Lythewell
himself.
I’ve never understood it before. I wish Mr Daniel had told me what was in his mind, because I could’ve helped him in his work.’ He thumbed through his sketch book. ‘You’ll see from these drawings that he got the proportions of the body wrong, which is a crying shame.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Jack, looking from the sketch book to the statue. ‘Mr Lythewell wasn’t so tall and he’s a good deal portlier than the statue.’

‘Yes, well it’s a tribute, not a replica.’ Cadwallader allowed himself a slow smile. ‘That’s the privilege of the artist, sir, to make a few graceful improvements on nature, but the modelling of the head is perfect. Compare it with my drawings and you’ll see.’

Jack took the sketch book Cadwallader was holding. ‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed. ‘It really is remarkable.’

He stood in silence before the empty tomb. An idea, a tentative idea, was beginning to grow. Besides that, he really needed to distract Cadwallader for a little while, to get some time by the tomb unobserved. Mr Cadwallader might have his virtues but the man was positively adhesive.

‘Mr Cadwallader,’ said Jack eventually, ‘can I ask a favour? I’d very much like to have a drawing of Mr Lythewell.’

Cadwallader clutched his sketch book to his chest defensively, as if Jack was about to wrench it from him. ‘These drawings are precious to me, young sir!’

Jack smiled. ‘Of course they are, but would it be too much to ask you to copy one for me? Could you do it now? I’d be very grateful.’

Mr Cadwallader relaxed. ‘A drawing of Mr Lythewell? It’d be a pleasure.’ He looked at Jack with warm approval. ‘It’s gratifying to come across someone with a true appreciation of who Mr Lythewell was and what he did.’

And that, thought Jack cynically, was a good deal more accurate than Mr Cadwallader could ever guess.

‘Which picture would you like?’ asked Cadwallader, holding out the sketch book. ‘I’ll draw it for you right away.’

Jack thumbed through the book and selected a drawing – a profile of Josiah Lythewell – and waited until Cadwallader had set to work.

Then, as if he had nothing in particular on his mind, he set off for a stroll round the chantry. Glancing round, he saw Cadwallader, pencils and charcoal on the pew beside him, his head bent over his sketch, completely engrossed in his drawing.

Jack strolled back to the tomb and, with his back to Cadwallader, knelt down by the flagstone that held the silver inlaid picture of the chantry. Taking an envelope and a metal file from his pocket he scraped a few shavings from the silver inlay, coughing to cover the sound of the file.

He glanced round. Cadwallader, wrapped up in his work, was completely oblivious. Although it really didn’t seem necessary, Jack coughed once more, taking a few more shavings.

The metal came up brilliantly silver. Jack carefully put the shavings into the envelope and safely into his pocket.

Job done.

At half past eight that evening, Jack was enjoying a well-earned whisky and soda in Bill’s sitting-room. Bill had two rooms on the upper floor of an inconvenient but beautifully proportioned Georgian building in Melbourne Road off Russell Square. The sash windows stood open, gilding the well-worn carpet and comfortable chairs with the last of the evening sun.

John Askern’s letters had been duly handed over and were safely in Bill’s possession, to be delivered into the safekeeping of Scotland Yard tomorrow.

‘Those letters are stunning,’ said Bill, topping up Jack’s glass. ‘Askern must’ve been mad to have written them.’

Jack swirled the whisky round in his glass. ‘If you’re defining mad as the courts do when someone’s topped themselves, that the balance of his mind was disturbed, I think you’re probably right.’

He reached for a cigarette from the box Bill had companionably placed on the table by his elbow. ‘John Askern was in the grip of an obsession, and that’s an unbalanced mind, all right.’ He half-smiled. ‘Mrs Askern called the situation ironic. What really is ironic is that if those letters had reached Signora Bianchi, I bet poor old Askern would’ve spent the rest of his life being blackmailed, instead of the Bianchi suckering up for money in fits and starts.’

‘I bet you’re right.’ Bill raised his glass. ‘You were right about John Askern seeing off old Lythewell. Well done. It didn’t,’ he added, after a liquid pause, ‘do him any good though. I mean, he didn’t find this treasure of old Lythewell’s, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t. I think things would’ve worked out very differently if he had. Which is, of course, where those metal shavings I acquired—’

‘Pinched.’

‘Acquired,’ corrected Jack, ‘come into it. I dropped them into Johnson and Cooke, the analytical chemist on the Strand. They stay open till all hours. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave them your telephone number as I knew I’d be coming here.’

‘As long as they don’t ring at four in the morning.’

‘Don’t worry. They might stay open late but they aren’t nocturnal.’

‘What are you hoping the metal will be, Jack?’

‘I think – this is only a guess, mind – but I think the metal might be platinum.’

Bill swallowed a mouthful of whisky the wrong way. ‘
Platinum!
’ he exclaimed, once he had finished choking. ‘But I remember looking at that picture of the chantry. You do mean the one inlaid into the flagstone, don’t you?’ Jack, his eyes bright, nodded in agreement. ‘But by crikey, Jack, there’s a whole plate of metal in that flagstone! It must be worth an absolute fortune.’

‘Exactly. That’s treasure in anyone’s book, isn’t it?’

‘You didn’t give all of the metal shavings to Johnson and Cooke, did you?’ asked Bill anxiously. ‘If it is platinum, I want the Yard to be able to analyse a sample too.’

‘Relax,’ said Jack. ‘Johnson and Cooke only needed a small amount. Besides that, the inlaid stone in the chantry isn’t going anywhere.’

‘It will, if any of the Whimbrell Heath lot get the slightest hint of what you’ve been up to,’ said Bill in an agitated way. ‘Colin Askern would have it crowbarred out before you could say knife. You’re sure no one guessed why you were there?’

‘Strewth, Bill, calm down! Poor Mrs Askern was far too caught up in her own affairs to ask me any questions, and Henry Cadwallader is convinced that I’m as enthralled by Josiah Lythewell as he is.’

‘But how come no one’s ever realised what the plate’s made of?’ Bill shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it! A fortune – a whole ruddy fortune – literally underfoot. How did you get onto it?’

‘I looked at what we’ve been referring to as the mottoes,’ said Jack, taking his notebook from his pocket. He gave a self-conscious grin. ‘Now, I thought I was blinking clever about this. If you want to say so, you’re at perfect liberty to do so. I won’t disagree.’

‘You’re absolutely brilliant. Is that enough praise? Now tell me how you came to guess the truth about the treasure, damn you.’