named Edward Montgomery, and apparently paid quite a lot of money for them.’
‘Maybe he didn’t know how bad his financial situation was,’ Angela said.
‘Oh, he knew, all right, but that wasn’t what was odd – it was the subjects he chose. According to the guidebook we found in one of the boxes in the salon, two of the pictures were like this one, conventional portraits. But in the other two, Bartholomew was depicted as a young man, in one dressed like a Sioux chief, feathered headdress and all, and in the other like a member of Indian royalty. The artist had to work from photographs Bartholomew supplied of himself when he was about twenty-five. That’s what I mean by nutty – what was the point of having a portrait painted showing him when he was young when he was already well over seventy? And why was he wearing such extraordinary outfits?’
‘You know, that kind of thing was quite the fashion in the early part of the twentieth century,’ Angela said. ‘A lot of society figures had their portraits done in exotic outfits. So where are the paintings now? Somewhere here?’
‘The conventional portraits are in the house, but not the other two. Bartholomew managed to sell them soon after they were painted.’
‘Well, maybe it was just a money-making exercise after all. So why was he so short on funds?’
Mayhew stepped over beside Angela and they both looked out over the acres of peaceful parkland, so much in contrast, Angela thought, to the chaos of the house.
‘According to the guidebook – which is quite a good read, by the way – Bartholomew’s parents were very comfortably off. They owned huge tranches of land in East Anglia and had a couple of hundred tenant farmers, plus stock market investments, all that kind of thing. After that, the family fortune shrunk considerably, for all the usual reasons – the First World War and the Depression, plus Bartholomew’s Folly. And that’s another reason for the damage you saw. There are bits of panelling torn off in various areas of the house, and even a few holes dug through some of the walls.’
Mayhew paused, clearly waiting for Angela to ask the obvious question. She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. He sighed.
‘Anyway, just after the end of the Great War, Bartholomew went off on a Grand Tour of Europe and the Middle East. At the time, that was still a very fashionable way for a wealthy young man to finish off his education, and lucky for us that he did, because a lot of the relics Oliver has now bequeathed to the museum were bought by Bartholomew on that Grand Tour. I gather he went as far east as Syria, and into what was then Persia, and acted as a bit of a shopaholic everywhere. He must have spent thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of pounds, and at that time a thousand pounds was serious money.’
‘And Bartholomew’s Folly?’
‘One of the things Bartholomew brought back from his grand shopping tour of Europe was a wooden crate of mixed antiquities from Cairo. Apparently it was a kind of job lot. He only actually wanted a couple of ornamented vases – which we haven’t found so far, by the way, so they were probably sold some time later – but ended up having to take the whole crate, at an inflated price, naturally. Anyway, when he got the stuff back here, he opened the crate, took out the vases he wanted and stuck the box with all the rest of the bits in one of the attics.
‘A few years later, he dragged it down again and for the first time actually took a good look at what he’d bought. Most of it was rubbish, as he’d expected, but down at the bottom of the crate he found an earthenware jar. Bartholomew believed it was probably first century AD, but the guidebook doesn’t say what type of jar it was, or how he came to that conclusion. What attracted his attention wasn’t the age of the jar, but the fact that the stopper was pinned and wired through the neck of the vessel and the whole thing sealed with wax.’
Mayhew turned and led the way back down the corridor. Angela followed him, stepping over the occasional missing floorboard.
‘So, as you might have guessed, Bartholomew grabbed a screwdriver and attacked the jar. He broke the seal and ripped out the stopper, expecting to find something valuable inside.’
‘And did he?’
‘According to the guidebook, at first he thought the vase was empty, but then he saw a piece of parchment, or maybe papyrus, inside it – the account I read uses both words to describe it. He broke the jar and got it out, convinced it had to be some kind of priceless ancient text.’
‘But presumably it wasn’t?’
‘No. It was written in a language he didn’t recognize – not that that meant much, because the only language Bartholomew spoke or read was English. So he decided to get it translated, but was terrified of anyone else finding out what the text meant, so he copied out each line as best he could, then sent off the individual lines to half a dozen different linguists.’
Angela stopped, interested now in spite of herself. She touched Mayhew on the shoulder to make him turn round. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense, Richard. What was it – Aramaic? Hebrew? And what did it say?’
Mayhew shook his head. ‘The text was an early type of Persian script.’
‘Persian? Oh, the Silk Road, I suppose. There was already a lot of interchange between the Middle East and the other eastern nations by the first century AD. But why was it in a sealed jar?’
‘No one knows. As for what it said, when Bartholomew received the various bits of translated text and tried to assemble them into a whole, he discovered that it was part of a much larger text that described a journey in an unnamed part of the world called the “Valley of the Flowers”, which was presumably somewhere in Persia or modern-day Iran.’
‘Because of the language the writer used?’
‘Yes. But what also caught Bartholomew’s attention was a phrase. Something the writer referred to as “the treasure of the world”.’
‘Of course,’ Angela said. ‘Roger Halliwell told me there was a kind of lost treasure story attached to this family, I presume this is it?’
Mayhew laughed. ‘Yes. And because Bartholomew was such a nutter, it was enough to send him off on a whole series of expeditions to the Middle East that—’
‘Whereabouts in the Middle East?’
‘Iran, obviously, because of the Persian text, but quite possibly Iraq and God knows where else in the region. All his expeditions were completely fruitless, of course. Anyway, that’s what became known as “Bartholomew’s Folly”, because he ran through most of the family’s fortune searching for this so-called treasure. When he finally popped his clogs, he left his son with massive debts, and Oliver had to sell off a whole lot of antiques and most of the land he’d inherited just to stave off bankruptcy. The couple of hundred acres around the house is all that’s left of the estate now.’
‘But how does that relate to the damage here in the house?’
‘Bartholomew told his son that he’d fashioned a secure hiding place for the parchment he’d found. According to what Oliver wrote – he supplied the text for the guidebook, of course – his father had promised to tell him where the hiding place was, and also to give him a complete translation of the text, but he never did because he died suddenly of a massive heart attack, here in the house.’
‘So I presume Oliver made the holes in the wall and ripped off the panelling?’ Angela asked. ‘Looking for this piece of parchment or papyrus?’
‘Exactly. Oliver spent the last few years trying to discover where his old man had hidden it. And as far as I know, he never did find it.’
By now, they were downstairs again in the hall. Angela looked around her, at the bloodstained flagstones and the missing banister, and shivered. The house felt sad and lonely, there was no doubt about that. But there was something else – an air of lurking evil – that she didn’t like at all.
