Twenties Girl (34 page)

The 1980s. Sadie had her stroke in 1981. She went into care. No one told her anything. She had no idea what was going on in the outside world.

I look up from my reverie to see the woman giving me another odd look. I bet she’s wishing she could give me my five quid back and get rid of me.

“Er … Sorry. I’m just thinking. Did he work in a shed in the garden?”

“Yes.” The woman’s face lights up. “If you’re interested, we do sell a number of books on Malory. …” She hurries out and returns holding a slim hardback. “Details about his early life are a little sketchy, as many village records were lost during the war, and by the time the research was being done, many of his contemporaries had passed away. However, there are some lovely accounts of his time in France, when his landscape drawing really took off.” She hands me the book, which has a painting of the sea on the front.

“Thanks.” I take it from her and start flipping through. Almost
at once I come across a black-and-white photograph of a man painting on a cliff, captioned
A rare image of Cecil Malory at work
. I can instantly see why he and Sadie would have been lovers. He’s tall and dark and powerful-looking, with dark eyes and an ancient tattered shirt.

Bastard
.

He probably thought he was a genius. He probably thought he was too good for a normal relationship. Even though he’s long dead, I’m fighting an urge to yell at him. How could he treat Sadie so badly? How could he go off to France and forget about her?

“He was a towering talent.” The woman is following my gaze. “His early death was one of the tragedies of the twentieth century.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he deserved it.” I give her a baleful look. “Maybe he should have been nicer to his girlfriend. Did you think of
that?”

The woman looks totally confused. She opens her mouth and closes it again.

I flip on, past pictures of the sea and more cliffs and a line drawing of a hen … and then I suddenly freeze. An eye is looking out of the book at me. It’s a blown-up detail from a painting. Just one eye, with long, long lashes and a teasing glint.

I know that eye.

“Excuse me.” I can barely get the words out. “What’s this?” I’m jabbing at the book. “Who’s this? Where does this come from?”

“Dear …” I can see the woman trying to keep her patience. “You
must
know that, surely. That’s a detail from one of his most famous paintings. We have a version in the library if you’d like to have a look—”

“Yes.” I’m already moving. “I would. Please. Show me.”

She leads me down a creaking corridor, through to a dim, carpeted room. There are bookshelves on every wall, old leather chairs, and a large painting hanging over the fireplace.

“There we are,” she says fondly. “Our pride and joy.”

I can’t reply. My throat’s too tight. I stand motionless, clutching the book, just staring.

There she is. Gazing out of the ornate gilt frame, looking as though she owns the world, is Sadie.

I’ve never seen her as radiant as she looks in this picture. I’ve never seen her so relaxed. So happy. So beautiful. Her eyes are massive, dark, luminous with love.

She’s reclining on a chaise, naked except for a gauze fabric draped over her shoulder and hips, which only partially obscures the view. Her shingled hair exposes the length of her elegant neck. She’s wearing glittering earrings. And around her neck, falling down between her pale, gauzy breasts, twined around her fingers, tumbling in a shimmering pool of beads, is the dragonfly necklace.

I can suddenly hear her voice again in my ears.
I was happy when I wore it… I felt beautiful. Like a goddess
.

It all makes sense. This is why she wanted the necklace. This is what it means to her. At that time in her life, she was happy. Never mind what happened before or after. Never mind that her heart got broken. At that precise moment, everything was perfect.

“It’s … amazing.” I wipe a tear from my eye.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” The woman gives me a pleased look. Obviously I’m finally behaving as proper art-lovers are supposed to. “The detail and brushwork are just exquisite. Every bead in the necklace is a tiny masterpiece. It’s painted with such love.” She regards the portrait affectionately. “And all the more special, of course, because it’s the only one.”

“What do you mean?” I say, confused. “Cecil Malory painted lots of pictures, didn’t he?”

“Indeed. But he never painted any other portraits. He refused to, his whole life. He was asked plenty of times in France as his reputation grew locally, but he would always reply,
‘J’ai peint
celui que j’ai voulu peindre.’
” The woman leaves a poetic pause.
“I have painted the one I wanted to paint.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded, my head sparking as I take this all in. He only ever painted Sadie? His whole life? He’d painted the one he wanted to paint?

“And in this bead …” The woman moves toward the painting with a knowing smile. “Right in this bead here there’s a little surprise. A little secret, if you like.” She beckons me forward. “Can you see it?”

I try to focus obediently on the bead. It just looks like a bead.

“It’s almost impossible, except under a magnifying glass … here.” She produces a piece of matte paper. Printed on it is the bead from the painting, enlarged massively. As I peer at it, to my astonishment I find I’m looking at a face. A man’s face.

“Is that …” I look up.

“Malory.” She nods in delight. “His own reflection in the necklace. He put himself into the painting. The most miniature hidden portrait. It was discovered only ten years ago. Like a little secret message.”

“May I see?”

With shaking hands, I take the paper from her and stare at him. There he is. In the painting. In the necklace. Part of her. He never painted another portrait. He’d painted the one he wanted to paint.

He did love Sadie. He did. I know it.

I look up at the painting, tears blurring my eyes again. The woman’s right. He painted her with love. You can see it in every brushstroke.

“It’s … amazing.” I swallow. “Are there … um … any more books about him?” I’m desperate to get this woman out of the room. I wait until her footsteps have disappeared down the passage, then tilt my head up.

“Sadie!” I call desperately. “Sadie, can you hear me? I’ve found the painting! It’s beautiful.
You’re
beautiful. You’re in a
museum! And you know what? Stephen didn’t paint anyone but you. Never, his whole life. You were the only one. He put himself in your necklace. He loved you. Sadie, I know he loved you. I
so
wish you could see this—”

I break off breathlessly, but the room is silent and dead. She’s not hearing me, wherever she is. As I hear footsteps, I quickly turn and plaster on a smile. The woman hands me a pile of books.

“This is all our available stock. Are you an art-history student or simply interested in Malory?”

“I’m just interested in this one painting,” I say frankly. “And I was wondering. Do you … or the experts … have any idea who this is? What’s the painting called?”

“It’s called
Girl with a Necklace
. And, of course, many people are interested in the identity of the sitter.” The woman launches into what’s clearly a well-rehearsed speech. “Some research has been done, but unfortunately, to date, no one has been able to identify her beyond what is believed to be her first name.” She pauses, then adds fondly, “Mabel.”

“Mabel?”
I stare at her in horror. “She wasn’t called Mabel!”

“Dear!” The woman gives me a reproving smile. “I know to modern ears it may seem a little quaint, but, believe me, Mabel was a common name of the time. And on the back of the painting there’s an inscription. Malory himself wrote,
My Mabel.”

For God’s sake.

“It was a nickname! It was their private
joke!
Her name was Sadie, OK? Sadie Lancaster. I’ll write it down. And I know it was her because …” I hesitate momentously. “This is my great-aunt.”

I’m expecting a gasp or something, but the woman just gives me a dubious look.

“Goodness, dear. That’s quite a claim. What makes you think she’s your great-aunt?”

“I don’t think she is, I
know
she is. She lived here in Archbury.
She knew Steph—I mean Cecil Malory. They were lovers. It’s definitely her.”

“Do you have any evidence? Do you have a photograph of her in her youth? Any archives?”

“Well… no,” I say, a little frustrated. “But I know it’s her, beyond a doubt. And I’ll prove it somehow. And you should put a sign up saying her name and
stop
calling her Mabel—” I pause mid-track as something new and startling occurs to me. “Hang on a minute. This is Sadie’s painting! He gave it to her! She lost it for years, but it’s still hers. Or, I suppose, Dad’s and Uncle Bill’s now. How did you get it? What’s it doing here?”

“I’m sorry?” The woman sounds bewildered, and I give an impatient sigh.

“This painting belonged to my great-aunt. But it was lost, years and years ago. The family house burned down and she thought the painting was destroyed. So how did it end up hanging on this wall?” I can’t help sounding accusing, and she recoils.

“I’m afraid I have no idea. I’ve worked here for ten years and it’s certainly been here all that time.”

“Right.” I assume a businesslike air. “Well, can I please talk to the director of this museum or whoever’s in charge of this painting? At once?”

The woman gives me a wary, puzzled look. “Dear … you do realize this is only a reproduction, don’t you?”

“What?” I feel wrong-footed. “What do you mean?”

“The original is four times the size and, dare I say it, even more splendid.”

“But …” I look at the painting in confusion. It looks pretty real to me. “So, where’s the original? Locked up in a safe or something?”

“No, dear,” she says patiently. “It’s hanging in the London Portrait Gallery.”

TWENTY-FOUR

t’s massive. It’s radiant. It’s a million times better than the one in the house.

I’ve been sitting in front of Sadie’s portrait in the London Portrait Gallery for about two hours. I can’t drag myself away. She’s gazing out at the gallery, her brow clear, her eyes a velvety dark green, like the most beautiful goddess you’ve ever seen. Cecil Malory’s use of light on her skin is unmatched in its artistry. I know, because I heard an art teacher telling her class half an hour ago. Then they all went up to see if they could spot the little miniature portrait in the necklace.

I must have seen a hundred people coming and looking at her. Sighing with pleasure. Smiling at one another. Or just sitting down and gazing.

“Isn’t she lovely?” A dark-haired woman in a mac smiles at me and sits down beside me on the bench. “This is my favorite portrait in the whole gallery.”

“Me too.” I nod.

“I wonder what she’s thinking?” the woman muses.

“I think she’s in love.” I look yet again at Sadie’s glowing eyes, the flush in her cheek. “And I think she’s really, really happy.”

“You’re probably right.”

For a moment we’re both quiet, just drinking her in.

“She does you good, doesn’t she?” says the woman. “I often come and look at her in my lunchtimes. Just to cheer myself up. I’ve got a poster of her at home too. My daughter bought it for me. But you can’t beat the real thing, can you?”

There’s a sudden lump in my throat, but I manage to smile back. “No. You can’t beat the real thing.”

As I’m speaking, a Japanese family approaches the painting. I can see the mother pointing out the necklace to her daughter. They both sigh happily, then adopt identical poses, arms folded, heads tilted, and just gaze at her.

Sadie’s adored by all these people. Tens, hundreds, thousands. And she has no idea.

I’ve called for her until I’m hoarse, over and over, out the window, up and down the street. But she doesn’t hear. Or she doesn’t want to hear. Abruptly, I stand up and consult my watch; I have to go, anyway. It’s five o’clock. Time for my appointment with Malcolm Gledhill, the collections manager.

I make my way back to the foyer, give my name to the receptionist, and wait among a swarming crowd of French schoolchildren until a voice from behind says, “Miss Lington?” I turn to see a man in a purple shirt, with a chestnut beard and tufts of hair growing out of his ears, beaming at me with twinkly eyes. He looks like Father Christmas before he grew old, and I can’t help warming to him instantly.

“Hi. Yes, I’m Lara Lington.”

“Malcolm Gledhill. Come this way.” He leads me through a hidden door behind the reception desk, up some stairs, and into
a corner office overlooking the Thames. Postcards and reproductions of paintings are everywhere, stuck up on the walls and propped against books and adorning his massive computer.

“So.” He hands me a cup of tea and sits down. “You’re here to see me about
Girl with a Necklace?”
He eyes me warily. “I wasn’t sure from your message quite what the issue was. But it’s clearly … pressing?”

OK, perhaps my message was a bit extreme. I didn’t want to have to tell the whole story to some nameless receptionist, so I simply said it was to do with
Girl with a Necklace and
a matter of life and death, state urgency, and national security.

Well. In the art world, it probably is all those things.

“It is quite pressing.” I nod. “And the first thing I want to say is, she wasn’t just ‘a girl.’ She was my great-aunt. Look.”

I reach into my bag and produce my photograph of Sadie at the nursing home, wearing the necklace.

“Look at the necklace,” I add, as I hand it over.

I knew I liked this Malcolm Gledhill guy. He reacts in a totally satisfactory manner. His eyes bulge. His cheeks turn pink with excitement. He looks up sharply at me, then back at the photo. He peers at the necklace around Sadie’s neck. Then he gives a harrumphing cough as though he’s concerned he’s given too much away.

“Are you saying,” he says at last, “that this lady here is the ‘Mabel’ in the painting?”

I really have to knock this Mabel thing on the head.

“She wasn’t called Mabel. She hated the name Mabel. She was called Sadie. Sadie Lancaster. She lived in Archbury and she was Stephen Nettleton’s lover. She was the reason he was sent to France.”

There’s silence, apart from Malcolm Gledhill breathing out, his cheeks two deflating balloons of air.

“Do you have any evidence that this is the case?” he says at last. “Any documents? Any old photographs?”

“She’s wearing the necklace, isn’t she?” I feel a flicker of frustration.
“She kept it all her life. How much more evidence do you need?”

“Does the necklace still exist?” His eyes bulge again. “Do you have it? Is she still alive?” As this new thought occurs to him, his eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Because that would really be—”

“She’s just died, I’m afraid.” I cut him off before he can get too excited. “And I don’t have the necklace. But I’m trying to track it down.”

“Well.” Malcolm Gledhill takes out a paisley handkerchief and wipes his perspiring brow. “Clearly, in a case like this, much careful inquiry and research is required before we can come to any definitive conclusion—”

“It’s her,” I say firmly.

“So I’ll refer you, if I may, to our research team. They will look at your claim very carefully, study all the evidence available.”

He needs to play the official game properly. I can understand that.

“I’d love to talk to them,” I say politely. “And I know they’ll agree with me. It’s her.”

I suddenly spot a postcard of
Girl with a Necklace
stuck on his computer with Blu-Tack. I take it down and lay it beside the photo of Sadie from the nursing home. For a moment we both look silently at the two images. Two radiant, proud eyes in one picture; two hooded, ancient eyes in the other. And the necklace glimmering, a constant talisman, linking the two.

“When did your great-aunt die?” says Malcolm Gledhill at last, his voice soft.

“A few weeks ago. But she lived in a nursing home since the 1980s, and she didn’t know much about the outside world. She never knew Stephen Nettleton became famous. She never knew that
she
was famous. She thought she was a nobody. And that’s why I want the world to know her name.”

Malcolm Gledhill nods. “Well, if the research team comes to the conclusion that she was the sitter in the portrait … then, believe
me, the world
will
know her name. Our marketing team did some research recently, and it turns out
Girl with a Necklace
is the most popular portrait in the gallery. They want to expand her profile. We consider her an exceedingly valuable asset.”

“Really?” I flush with pride. “She’d have loved to know that.”

“May I call in a colleague to see this photograph?” His eyes brighten. “He has a special interest in Malory, and I know he will be extremely interested in your claim—”

“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Before you call in anyone else, there’s another issue I need to talk to you about. In private. I want to know how you got the painting in the first place. It belonged to Sadie. It was hers. How did you get it?”

Malcolm Gledhill stiffens very slightly.

“I thought this matter might arise at some stage,” he says. “Following your phone call, I went and retrieved the file, and I’ve looked up the details of the acquisition.” He opens a file, which has been sitting on the desk all this while, and unfolds an old piece of paper. “The painting was sold to us in the 1980s.”

Sold? How could it have been sold?

“But it was lost after a fire. No one knew where it was. Who on earth sold it to you?”

“I’m afraid…” Malcolm Gledhill pauses. “I’m afraid the vendor asked at the time that all details of the acquisition should be kept confidential.”

“Confidential?” I stare at him in outrage. “But the painting was Sadie’s. Stephen gave it to her. Whoever got hold of it didn’t have the right to sell it. You should check these things!”

“We do check these things,” says Malcolm Gledhill, a little defensively. “All the provenance was deemed to be correct at the time. The gallery went to all reasonable lengths to determine that the painting was the vendor’s to sell. Indeed, a letter was signed in which the vendor made all the correct assurances. I have it here.”

His eyes keep dropping down to the paper in his hand. He must be looking at the name of whoever sold it. This is totally maddening.

“Well, whatever that person said to you, they were
lying.”
I glare at him. “And you know what? I’m a taxpayer, and I fund you lot. In fact, in a way, I
own
you lot. And I hereby demand to know who sold it to you. At once.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” says Malcolm Gledhill mildly. “We are not a publicly owned gallery, and you don’t own us. Believe me, I would like to clear this matter up as much as you would. But I am bound by our confidentiality agreement. I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

“What if I come back with police and lawyers?” I plant my hands on my hips. “What if I report the painting as stolen goods and force you to reveal the name?”

Malcolm Gledhill raises his tufty eyebrows high. “Obviously, if there was a police inquiry, we would comply fully.”

“Well, fine. There will be. I have friends in the police, you know,” I add darkly. “DI James. He’ll be very interested to hear about all this. That painting belonged to Sadie, and now it belongs to my dad and his brother. And we’re not just going to sit around and do nothing.”

I feel all fired up. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Paintings don’t just turn up out of the blue.

“I can understand your concerns.” Malcolm Gledhill hesitates. “Believe me, the gallery takes the issue of rightful ownership extremely seriously.”

He won’t meet my eye. His gaze keeps flicking to the paper in his hand. The name’s on there. I know it. I could hurl myself across the desk, wrestle him to the ground, and—

No.

“Well, thank you for your time,” I say formally. “I’ll be in touch again.”

“Of course.” Malcolm Gledhill is closing up the file again.
“Before you go, if I might just call in my colleague Jeremy Mustoe? I’m sure he’d be very interested to meet you and to see the photograph of your great-aunt. …”

A few moments later, a skinny man with fraying cuffs and a prominent Adam’s apple is in the room, poring over the photograph of Sadie and saying, “Remarkable,” over and over under his breath.

“It’s been extremely hard to discover anything about this painting,” Jeremy Mustoe says, looking up at last. “There are so few contemporary records or photographs, and by the time researchers returned to the village, it was generations later and no one could remember anything. And, of course, it had been assumed that the sitter was indeed named Mabel.” He wrinkles his brow. “I think one thesis was published in the early 1990s suggesting that a servant of the Nettleton house was Malory’s sitter, and that his parents disapproved of their liaison for class reasons, which led to him being sent to France. …”

I want to laugh. Someone basically made up a completely wrong story and called it “research”?

“There was a Mabel,” I explain patiently. “But she wasn’t the sitter. Stephen called Sadie ‘Mabel’ to wind her up. They were lovers,” I add. “That’s why he was sent to France.”

“Indeed.” Jeremy Mustoe looks up and focuses on me with renewed interest. “So … would your great-aunt also be the ‘Mabel’ in the letters?”

“The letters!” exclaims Malcolm Gledhill. “Of course! I’d forgotten about those. It’s such a long time since I’ve looked at them—”

“Letters?” I look from face to face. “What letters?”

“We have in our archive a bundle of old letters written by Malory,” explains Jeremy Mustoe. “One of the very few sets of documents salvaged after his death. It’s not clear if all of them were sent, but one has clearly been posted and returned. Unfortunately the address was scribbled out in blue-black ink, and despite the very best modern technology, we’ve been unable to—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” I cut him off, trying to hide my agitation. “But … could I see them?”

An hour later I walk out of the gallery, my mind whirling. When I close my eyes all I can see is that faded, loopy script on tiny sheets of writing paper.

I didn’t read all his letters. They felt too private, and I only had a few minutes to look at them, anyway. But I read enough to know. He loved her. Even after he’d gone to France. Even after he heard that she’d got married to someone else.

Sadie spent all her life waiting for the answer to a question. And now I know he did too. And even though the affair happened more than eighty years ago, even though Stephen is dead and Sadie is dead and there’s nothing anyone can do about it, I’m still seething with misery as I stride along the pavement. It was all so unfair. It was all so wrong. They should have been together. Someone obviously intercepted his letters before they got to Sadie. Probably those evil Victorian parents of hers.

So she sat there with no idea of the truth. Thinking she’d been used. Too proud to go after him and find out for herself. She accepted the proposal of Waistcoat Guy as some stupid gesture of revenge. Maybe she was hoping Stephen would appear at the church. Even as she was getting ready for the wedding, she must have hoped, surely. And he let her down.