Sea Lord

Was it true, a woman reporter opened the proceedings, that the painting was being held to ransom?

“Yes,” I said.

Could I afford the price?

“You must be joking,” I said. “I’m skint.”

“So how will you save the painting?”

“By co-operating with Sir Leon Buzzacott.” Which was a cue for the questions to be directed to Jennifer who was present on behalf of the Buzzacott Museum Gallery. She coolly confirmed that her stepfather was taking full financial responsibility for the painting’s recovery.

“But if he pays the ransom,” the first woman asked, “will he then have to pay a purchase price to the Earl of Stowey?”

“That purchase price has already been agreed,” Jennifer said.

“How much?” That was about fifty voices.

I waited for quiet. “I’ve decided to donate the painting to Sir Leon’s gallery.”

That reply caused pandemonium. I patiently confirmed that they had not misheard me and that I had indeed given the painting to Sir Leon, and wanted nothing for myself.

“Why?” a dozen voices wanted to know.

“Because I want the painting to stay in Britain, and because Sir Leon’s gallery will provide the perfect home.”

But why had I given it away? Weren’t there galleries that would have paid me millions for the picture?

“I’m a philanthropist,” I said. “Ask the Contessa here. She can vouch for the benevolent side of my character.”

Jennifer’s lips tightened slightly. Not that any of the reporters noticed. How did I feel now, they asked instead, about my arrest four years before?

“I was never charged,” I said, “so I feel it was all a mistake.”

But I had been the chief suspect. How did I feel about that?

“Flattered.”

“Did you steal it?” one idiot asked.

“Of course I didn’t bloody steal it. Don’t be so bloody stupid.” Sir Leon’s publicity men had impressed on me that I must not be nasty to the press, but I didn’t really see why. They were nasty to me.

How had I heard about the damage done to the painting?

“The Contessa flew out to the Azores and told me.”

How did I think my presence in England would assist the police in finding the picture?

“I don’t know,” I said, “ask them.”

Had the police given me any indication of who they thought might have stolen the picture?

“Yes.”

That simple affirmative, as it was meant to, caused a flurry of further, eager questions and, just as Harry had instructed me, I qualified the answer. I hadn’t been given any names, I lied, but I had received the strong impression that the police weren’t entirely clueless. The reporters tried to suck more meat off that bone, but both Jennifer and I refused to elaborate.

Jennifer then confirmed that her stepfather was employing specialists in ransom psychology to back up the police effort. That was news to me, but I imagined it was all a part of panicking Elizabeth into rashness. Jennifer gave the impression that a vast organisation was about to descend on the thieves. She was very impressive.

After the press conference I went back to Sunflower and did four interviews for television reporters. They all asked the same questions and all got the same answers. I obliged the radio reporters afterwards, then posed like an idiot for some press photographers. By midday the fuss had died down, all but for one man who waited till the other reporters had gone, then told me his paper would pay me a six-figure sum if I’d dictate a candid account of how I’d nicked the painting from my mother. I told him to get lost.

“Think about it, my lord.”

“I told you to get lost.”

“Come up to London and chat to the editor. Why not? We’re not talking peanuts here.”

“Fuck you,” I said, and thumped him in the belly. His photographer took a picture of that, so I thumped the photographer as well. I didn’t hurt either man, which was a pity.

But at least my actions saw them off. Jennifer Pallavicini had watched the proceedings from the pontoon, and now she stepped down on to Sunflower’s foredeck. “You’re really trying to be popular, aren’t you?”

“I thought the object of the exercise was to announce my intention of retrieving the painting, not to win a beauty competition?”

She shrugged that answer off. “Do you always hit people who annoy you?” she asked.

“Only men.”

“Are you ever hit back?”

“Frequently. I once had the shit knocked out of me in Australia.”

She frowned. I thought she’d taken offence at my language, but it seemed there was something else on her mind. “What do you care about, Mr Rossendale?”

“Georgina.” Whom I had carefully not mentioned to any of the press.

“Why?” Jennifer asked.

I paused, wondering whether to answer. “Because,” I finally said, “she’s too loopy to worry about herself.”

“Does that concern apply to everyone who’s too weak to look after themselves?”

“Maybe.”

“Meaning it’s none of my business.” She looked at her watch. “I think that on the whole, and despite your hostility, that was a most successful exercise. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr Rossendale.” I knew she was spending the night with some relatives in Totnes, but I’d somehow hoped she might spend some small part of the day with me. Because, just as Sir Leon was obsessed with my Van Gogh, I was becoming obsessed with his stepdaughter. She was truly beautiful, but just too self-composed. She had become a challenge. Just like the bar at Salcombe.

“You wouldn’t like some lunch?” I asked as she walked away.

“No, thank you,” she called over her shoulder, “not today.”

And up yours, too, I thought, but didn’t say it.

The hook was well-baited now. Elizabeth knew where I was, and knew I was trying to retrieve the painting. Harry had warned me that from this moment on Garrard and Peel might pay me another visit.

They would be walking into an ambush. Two plain-clothes policemen were always on duty to watch me. Not quite always; Harry told me that he couldn’t find the manpower or the money to have me guarded throughout England, so my guardians would only be on duty when I was in Dartmouth itself. If I went away from the river, Harry reasoned, Garrard and Peel could not possibly know where I was going, so would have no chance of finding me. “Suppose they follow me?” I had asked him.

“You’d be dead, Johnny, but don’t worry. The force will send a nice wreath to your funeral.” After which grim jest he told me his men would work in shifts; by day idling with the tourists on the quay above the pontoon, while the night shift would keep watch from a cabin cruiser moored astern of Sunflower.

I didn’t entirely trust the watchfulness of Harry’s men so, once the pressmen had finally abandoned me, I took my dinghy upstream and found a boatyard that could sell me a couple of pounds of lead and a scrap piece of sheet aluminium.

I went back to Sunflower, took the head off my new boathook, and drilled a hollow into the top of the wooden shaft. I didn’t have a crucible or furnace so I used an oxyacetylene lamp to melt the lead. I dripped it piece by piece into the hollow space. I worked on Sunflower’s foredeck which I shielded with a sheet of scrap iron. When I’d finished melting the lead I wrapped the aluminium about the hollowed section of shaft to give it strength, then drilled a hole so that the metal hook could be bolted back into place. I used a file to sharpen the back edge of the hook and, when it was done, congratulated myself on a proper job.