Amanda pressed further. ‘And do you know what happened to the work that was left here?’
‘The paintings? I put a sign on the door. All work had to be collected and paid for within three months. I gave the rest to the church fête.’
‘How many paintings did you give away?’
‘About ten, I suppose.’
‘Can you remember them?’
The owner tried to think. ‘There were some hunting scenes, some seascapes, a few dreary portraits; some of them were even of clergymen.’
‘Any ladies?’
‘One or two . . .’
Amanda produced a photograph. ‘Any that looked like this?’
‘She looks rather soulful doesn’t she? Is she a widow?’
Sidney tried to help. ‘Do you remember seeing it?’
‘I can’t be sure,’ the owner continued. ‘Most of the paintings that were collected in time were because a woman came on behalf of someone else to fetch them. She paid for six or seven restorations and framings. I remember because we rounded it all up to five guineas.’
‘Do you think this picture could have been amongst them?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You didn’t keep a record?’
‘No. I just sent the money on.’
‘You cannot remember what the lady was called?’
‘I’m afraid not. But she came on behalf of a Mr Phillips.’
‘Do you, by any chance, have his address?’
‘Alas, I do not. It was all very slapdash, and poor Freddie’s bookkeeping was atrocious. Are you sure I can’t interest you in a bear or two? We have a couple of very good Stieffs.’
‘I don’t think so . . .’
Amanda smiled. ‘Oh Sidney. Don’t be silly. Let me buy you a bear. Then you can take me to lunch.’
‘You don’t have to.’ Sidney wondered about Amanda’s gift giving: first a dog and then a teddy bear. He should really get her something himself.
‘I know I don’t have to. But I want to, Sidney. Let me choose one for you.’
‘What an excellent idea,’ the proprietor exclaimed. ‘I sometimes think that’s all you need to be happy: a fine bear and an efficient hot water bottle.’
‘If only it were that simple,’ said Amanda as she paid the bill.
They remained in Saffron Walden for lunch. Sidney had offered the possibility of a return to Grantchester but Amanda was having none of it. She wanted to have a look round and make a day of it, visiting the ruined castle and the medieval buildings and examining the pargetting on the houses in Bridge Street. ‘Also,’ she added, ‘I don’t think I could bear one of Mrs Maguire’s toads in the hole.’
Sidney felt that he should stick up for his housekeeper. Not everyone could live in Hampstead. ‘Mrs Maguire does her best on very limited means, Amanda.’
It was approaching two o’clock in the afternoon and Sidney was worried that the Swan Hotel might not be serving food. He promised the waitress that they would be happy with anything and, as it was a Friday, both soup and fish would be perfectly adequate. Amanda, however, had other ideas.
‘A gin and tonic with ice and lemon together with warm bread rolls while we look at the menu, if you would be so kind . . .’ she asked.
The waitress was unimpressed. ‘Chef’s off in a minute and the gentleman has ordered.’
Amanda looked at the leather-bound menu. ‘I don’t think he’s done so. He has expressed a desire not to be of inconvenience. They are not the same thing. Is everything listed here available?’
‘In a manner of speaking . . .’
Sidney tried to alleviate the tension. ‘Amanda, please don’t cause a scene . . .’
‘What would you recommend?’ she asked.
The waitress looked at Sidney. ‘I would have the soup and the fish, madam.’
‘And what kind of soup is it?’
‘I’ll have to check with Chef . . .’
‘Never mind,’ said Sidney. ‘Let him surprise us.’
‘I think it’s mushroom . . .’
‘I can’t abide mushrooms,’ said Amanda.
‘We do a very good tomato.’
‘Tomato will be fine; and then the fish, I suppose. Thank you very much.’ Amanda handed the waitress the menu. ‘Honestly, Sidney. What a fuss.’
Two bowls of lukewarm tinned tomato soup arrived on the table. A sprig of parsley had been added but a dash of cream only served to lower the temperature further.
‘I might as well warm up with another gin,’ Amanda said, ‘or I could add it to the soup and spice it up. I can’t believe we’re paying six shillings for this.’
‘Let’s not worry,’ said Sidney. ‘I am sure the fish will be tasty. Then we can concentrate on the complexities of the case.’
‘There are certainly no complexities about the meal,’ Amanda brooded.
There were three other diners left in the restaurant: a silent pair of tourists and a man with a prodigious beard whose response to the inadequacy of the meal resulted in him wearing his food rather than eating it.
‘Extraordinary,’ Amanda muttered. ‘To take so little care . . .’
Sidney took out the photographs of the portrait of Anne Boleyn and looked at them once more. ‘We must find this Phillips chap . . .’
‘You think he was working in association with the picture restorer?’
‘It’s a possibility. Or the restorer never knew. It has to be someone who recognised the painting.’
‘An inside job? The butler, perhaps. Or one of Lord Teversham’s friends?’
Sidney considered the situation. ‘I was thinking about the man who came to assess the collection for insurance purposes. The painting was restored shortly afterwards, and he was the person who suggested that it should be done. How much do you think it is worth?’
‘I did some research. A Holbein sold for just under £4,000 in 1946. The Anne Boleyn would be worth far more; certainly enough for a nice house in the country.’
Sidney looked at the photograph once more. ‘It’s a less flattering image than I would have imagined,’ he observed.
‘It was the beginning of the age of realist portrait painting,’ Amanda began. ‘Holbein was trying to paint psychologically as well as representationally.’
The fish arrived and looked more promising than the soup. Sidney thought for a moment and then continued. ‘Anne Boleyn is, of course, one of the main reasons I am in my present job. Without her there would be no Church of England; no Archbishop Parker at my college, and no Cranmer Prayer Book.’
‘But you would probably still be a priest.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. But it was probably the moment in history when England first defined itself, don’t you think? It’s interesting that the picture restorer was called Wyatt. Didn’t Thomas Wyatt love Anne Boleyn – his great poem “Whoso list to hunt” and all that?’
‘Probably, Sidney.’
‘So, in the end, Anne Boleyn may well have inspired both the Prayer Book and the introduction of the sonnet into the English language.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more. . .’
‘Sidney, don’t get carried away.’
‘The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that furthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore,
Fainting I follow. . .’
‘Stop it. People are giving us odd looks.’
‘I was enjoying myself.’
‘You mean you were enjoying my discomfort?’
‘A bit of teasing shouldn’t harm you, Amanda.’
‘I don’t like being teased. It’s embarrassing.’ Sidney’s companion finished her fish. ‘So you think we should find this Phillips man? Perhaps we could ask your friend the inspector to help us?’
‘I think you would have to ask him that, Amanda.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes . . . you . . . I can’t bear to think of the look on his face if I do it.’
‘Alternatively, of course, I could telephone Lord Teversham and find out the name of his insurance company. If the man who came was also called Phillips, and he works for a specialist company, then tracking him down should be fairly straightforward.’
‘You think you can do that?’
‘We have a list of art insurers at work. I am employed by the National Gallery. It’s almost my job.’
‘But it’s probably not the job that you are employed to do.’
‘Sidney, that is the clearest case of the pot calling the kettle black that I have ever heard. Let me take you home.’
Wilkie Phillips lived in one of series of ramshackle buildings on the edge of a farm outside Ely. The surrounding land was fenced with barbed wire, the garden had been neglected for years and the house appeared as unloved as it was remote. Yet, on approach, Amanda noticed that the fabric of the building was sound. This was a home where the owner spent most of his time indoors.
A telephone call to Lord Teversham, followed by a visit to the offices of London Assurance, where she had used her considerable charms to good effect, had yielded her the address. She had decided to pursue the investigation on her own, on behalf of the National Gallery, and without troubling either Sidney or his friend Inspector Keating. She would make her visit to Wilkie Phillips as informal as possible, in order to avoid suspicion, and then, if she discovered that the painting was in his possession, or she had any doubts about his trustworthiness, she would summon aid. Until then, Amanda was confident that she was perfectly capable of doing a simple bit of detective work on her own.
On entering the building, she found herself in the hallway of one of the strangest houses she had ever seen. She had been permitted to enter by a small, bearded man who looked like an elderly version of Van Gogh. He apparently worried about neither appearance nor hygiene. The Harris tweed jacket and Fair Isle jumper, which he wore over a Viyella shirt, had clearly never seen a dry cleaner, and his loose-fitting corduroy trousers, in light tan, were held up with string. Although he was in his early sixties he sounded as if his voice had only just broken.
‘I don’t know what I can do for you,’ Wilkie Phillips protested. ‘There’s nothing of any value here.’
‘People have told me that you have a wonderful collection.’
‘I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to. I don’t have any friends.’
‘I am sure you do.’
‘Believe me, Miss Kendall. I do not.’
The hallway was filled with paintings of blowzy nudes by Renoir and Degas. Although they were clearly fakes, and not all of them were to scale, the amount of female flesh on display did make Amanda wonder about the owner’s state of mind.
‘I don’t have visitors. When my mother was alive people came all the time but I’m not a great entertainer. Besides, I like to keep the paintings to myself.’
‘They’re very good.’
‘All copies, of course.’
‘I can see that. Who did them for you?’
‘A friend. Unfortunately he’s retired and moved away so the collection is closed. But I find I don’t need friends if I’ve got paintings . . .’
Amanda could see that great trouble had been taken in the hanging, even though the walls were in need of re-plastering. Each painting had its own picture light, and the portraits that hung in the hall were large enough to evoke the sense of a sprawling, but neglected, country house. This was a poor man’s Locket Hall; and, like many a stately home, it was too cold and damp for art. However, Amanda did notice an open fire in the distance.
‘What is it that you are doing again?’ Phillips asked.
‘As I explained in the doorway, we are compiling a census of the nation’s great paintings so that we know where everything is . . .’
‘Then I don’t know why you have come here.’
‘Yes, I am afraid I must have been misled.’
‘Some idle gossip, either in the village or in town perhaps?’
Amanda was not going to give up easily. ‘I think you work in insurance?’
‘I’ve been retired for two years. I have a modest pension and I live frugally. I certainly could not afford any original works. Even these copies have cost me a great deal of money.’
‘You should come to the National Gallery to see the originals.’
‘That is very kind, Miss Kendall, but I like to keep everything close to hand. I do not like to be troubled by the world these days.’
‘Then I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Not at all. I would offer you tea but I am afraid that I only drink milk. I like it condensed.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘It’s not an affectation . . .’
‘I didn’t think that it was . . .’
‘It’s only that life can be so difficult.’ Wilkie Phillips wiped his eye. ‘I wear the same clothes and I eat the same food every day. Then I don’t have to think about those kinds of things. I can just look at my paintings.’
‘Is that how you spend your retirement?’
‘I spend each day in a different room. There are seven rooms and I have seven days. It’s all organised.’