The Moon Tunnel

‘Who was the collector?’ asked Dryden, his mouth full of potato and gristle.

Tobias jumped down, landing with surprising agility on the wooden floor, and began to wipe the scalpel clean of oil paint.

‘The Hilgay family – mainly Sir Robyn – collected between about 1880 and 1949. The war stopped the spending, I guess, and he died sometime soon after – but there were no further acquisitions.’

‘Philip Dryden,’ said Dryden, offering his hand.

‘John Tobias – National Gallery.’ The accent was neutral, without a trace of the art world twang Dryden had expected.

‘The gallery owns the pictures, I understand,’ said Dryden. ‘How much are they worth?’

Tobias began to pack the scalpel away in an expensive black leather bag, and took his time annotating a moleskin notebook. ‘Today? Difficult to say. The collection was bought by an anonymous benefactor and presented to the gallery. The price was something in the region of ?30,000 at that time – 1950.’

‘That doesn’t seem very much.’

‘The Pethers aren’t very sought after, I’m afraid.’

‘These?’ said Dryden, pointing to the moonlit European tourist spots.

‘Yes. I think they’re what started Sir Robyn off on the theme. The Moonlight Pethers. A whole family of artists – they knew they were on to a good thing and kept painting. There’s hundreds around – a good one by Samuel is worth ?10,000 today – perhaps. They’re local – to Norfolk, anyway.’

‘There was a burglary during the war. Was it these paintings they took?’ asked Dryden.

‘Er, yes. Yes, I believe it was. You can see the damage here.’ Tobias slipped out a metal pointer from the black leather bag and tapped it on some blemishes on two of the Pethers. ‘Water damage. They stuffed them in a potato store, would you believe? They were recovered very quickly, within weeks, I think. They were kept above water level but you can see what the damp has done even in that short time.’

‘But no real harm done?’

‘Not to these. But one of the paintings was never returned. It’s still missing.’

Tobias stopped, reluctant to go on. Dryden nodded and took a closer look at one of the Pethers. ‘And what do we know about the missing painting?’ he said finally.

‘Richard Dadd. A Moonlight Vision. There’s a sketch for the work in the Ashmolean at Oxford.’

‘And that would have been worth…?’

Tobias shrugged: ‘The sketch is worth ?600,000 today. We could be talking twice that – perhaps a lot more. The work was unsigned – but then so was the sketch, and most of Dadd’s output in his later life. There would be no doubt about the authenticity. His style and technique are unique – in the true sense of the word.’

‘Insurance?’

‘I don’t think so. Many private collectors took the view that their pictures were irreplaceable and to the confident Victorians insurance was often seen as expensive. I suspect it was a decision they regretted. Anyway, when Sir Robyn picked up the Dadd it was practically worthless – Dadd was in many ways a futuristic painter. Closer to our tastes today, in my view.’

‘Did the burglars get away with anything else?’

Tobias shrugged: ‘Frankly, I’m not an expert. You could try one of the guides.’

‘And the Dadd was part of the collection because of the moonlight subject?’

‘Yes, perhaps. There’s another theory – my theory, actually – that Sir Robyn’s purchase was double-edged. The Victorians loved moonlight for the romantic effect, of course, but also there was its association with madness, another obsession of the time. Richard Dadd died in Broadmoor Hospital in 1886. He’d spent most of his life in asylums. He killed his father with a kitchen knife. He was a lunatic.’

Dryden glanced out of one of the tall, elegant Long Gallery windows and saw the moon rising over the box hedge. He wandered aimlessly through the rest of the house. Celia Johnson was by the exit, a bouncer in tweed.

‘I do hope you enjoyed your visit,’ she said.

‘The wartime burglary here – does anyone remember the details? What else was taken besides the pictures – that kind of thing?’

She clutched at the silk scarf at her throat: ‘No. No, not at all. I think everyone has gone – Miss Hilgay, perhaps?’

Outside the sun had set, but the waxing moon had risen now, and floated in the moat like a drowned face.

12

Humph’s cab flew back towards Ely and at precisely 6.00pm they saw the Octagon Tower on the distant cathedral light up, the silver-white halogen floodlights picking it out clearly on the horizon. The smog had seeped away from the town streets along with the warmth of the day and now the darkness of the Fens crowded in, pushing the light back into shop doorways or into amber pools at the base of lampposts. It was one of the things that Dryden loved about the place: the way that, unlike the big cities, the night brought a relief from the intrusion of light as shadows filled the alleyways of the old town.

Humph dropped Dryden outside The Crow and set off for one of his regular weekly runs – ferrying a nightclub bouncer from Prickwillow out to his job in Newmarket. The Crow was closed but Dryden used his key to enter by the back door. The newsroom brought its