The Case of the Missing Madonna Page 6

  Brother Thomas approached a low stone building with three doors leading on to a cloister that encircled the inner garden.

  ‘This will be your place of peace,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Brother Robert will see you when you’ve settled in.’

  Patrick thanked him and entered his designated abode.

  The room was small and square with a single narrow window. Above the wooden bed hung a simple crucifix. A door to the right gave on to a small toilet and shower room. Shadowy, with the scent of warm stone mixed with that of lemon, the room would do very well, he decided.

  He set his backpack by the bed, washed his hands with the soap that bore the stamp of St Honorat, and headed back to the main cloister. This time there was no Brother Thomas on duty in the office, so Patrick made his own way up the stairs.

  Pausing outside Brother Robert’s room, he heard the low murmur of male voices. It seemed Brother Robert already had a visitor. Unsure now whether he should knock or wait downstairs for the visitor’s departure, Patrick hesitated.

  As one of the voices rose a little, he realized the conversation was being conducted in English. The distinctive tone was one he’d hoped never to hear again.

  Patrick knocked and immediately entered.

  Brother Robert stood by the window. The figure addressing him had his back to Patrick. It didn’t matter that Patrick couldn’t see his face, because he knew exactly who the tall slim figure in the light-grey suit was.

  The figure turned, and it was clear from his expression that Patrick was the last person he’d expected to find at the abbey. There was a moment’s stunned silence as Giles Huntington assessed the situation. Then Brother Robert smiled in a welcoming fashion, suggesting he was unperturbed at the meeting of the two men.

  ‘Monsieur de Courvoisier, I see you’ve arrived safely. I take it Brother Thomas has shown you where you’ll be staying?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Let me introduce you both. Mr Coburn, this is Patrick de Courvoisier, who’s staying with us for a few days’ retreat. Mr Coburn is a buyer of our wines. An important buyer, in fact he supplies your royal household.’ Brother Robert beamed at this. ‘Apparently our 1979 Syrah is a firm favourite.’

  The two men eyed one another as if strangers and shook hands. Huntington, alias Coburn, having masked his initial surprise, now made a quip suggesting he had intimate knowledge of each of the Windsors’ taste in wine.

  ‘And you’re here on St Honorat to buy more of that vintage?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘And to taste some of the newer ones,’ Huntington answered smoothly.

  ‘Mr Coburn is also contemplating a trip to Cap d’Antibes on our new ferry,’ Brother Robert said.

  ‘No vineyards there,’ Patrick said, as if confused.

  ‘He’s interested in the current refurbishment of Château de la Croë,’ Brother Robert explained.

  Now that was interesting, and something Patrick could tell by Huntington’s expression that he hadn’t wished Patrick to know.

  ‘Château de la Croë and the Windsors …’ Patrick smiled. ‘Now there’s a story to be savoured, rather like a good wine,’ he said mischievously.

  At his words, Patrick caught a flash of hatred in those pale-blue eyes, before the smooth diplomacy returned.

  ‘It’s a long time since a Windsor lived in the château,’ Huntington said.

  ‘And he wasn’t exactly in favour at the time, having just abdicated and married an American divorcee,’ Patrick added for good measure.

  ‘A scandal of the past,’ Brother Robert intervened as the door opened and the young monk appeared. ‘Now, Mr Coburn, if you’d like to go with Brother Thomas, he will take you to the cellar.’

  Huntington wasn’t keen to leave, not until he knew why Patrick was resident on St Honorat, but he had little choice. However, he had one last try.

  ‘I’ll be having lunch at La Tonnelle, Monsieur de Courvoisier. Might I see you there?’

  Patrick gave a non-committal smile.

  Once the door closed, Patrick asked, ‘Has Mr Coburn visited the island before?’

  ‘No, although we’ve spoken on the phone. And of course we’re delighted about the Windsor connection, although we French are Republicans at heart,’ Brother Robert said. ‘Would you like to take a look at where the Madonna was being stored?’

  Patrick indicated that he would.

  The air in the vault was as dry as in a cave in the Esterel mountains. In fact ideal for storing paintings. There were a number of them there. Mostly overwrought images of tortured saints, ancient French nobility, long deceased, and of course Christ on the Cross. No images of a kindly Jesus with children featured among them.

  Brother Robert observed the array of canvases with a bemused eye. ‘The Cistercian approach to Christianity is somewhat different, as you know. Which is why none of these are on display.’

  ‘Was the image of the Madonna painted in a similar fashion?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Not exactly. There is a small photograph of the painting, rather the worse for wear but …’

  He produced the snapshot from the folds of his gown and handed it to Patrick.

  The colours were faded but the image was clear enough. As Brother Robert had suggested, it wasn’t a standard depiction of the Madonna. No lowered glance. No expression of love, servitude or suffering. This Madonna looked you in the eye, challenging your way of viewing her. The face was beautiful and distinctive and, Patrick assumed, resembled Fragonard’s mistress. No enveloping robes disguised the fact that she was a woman. The breasts were exposed, reminding Patrick of Edvard Munch’s half-length nude often called Madonna. Munch had reworked the painting of his mistress, Dagny Juel, a number of times, and a hand-coloured print of one version had been sold in 2010 for £1,250,000. Fragonard’s depiction of his mistress would no doubt fetch a handsome price, too, on the open market – and possibly even more among those buyers who preferred to bid in private and had no wish for an official stamp on their purchase.

  ‘May I keep this until we find her?’ Patrick said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Brother Robert indicated a register giving details of who had access to the vault and when. There were four names on the list besides his own.

  ‘All four have agreed to speak to you,’ he said.

  ‘They are aware the Madonna is missing?’

  ‘As I said, the existence of the Madonna is not common knowledge. However, a rumour of a painting having been misplaced is circulating, although it hasn’t been confirmed by myself or the Abbot. The brothers have simply been told you’re researching a history of the monastery.’

  It was clear from Brother Robert’s discomfort that he wasn’t happy about the lack of honesty surrounding the disappearance of the Madonna. Patrick wondered how much the Abbot had had to do with the enforced secrecy.

  ‘Will I be speaking to the Abbot?’ he said.

  Brother Robert looked even more uncomfortable. ‘He doesn’t normally meet with those on retreat,’ he said obliquely.

  Patrick chose not to argue the point, suspecting he would learn little from such a meeting. Ownership of the Madonna seemed to be something unwished for, and its disappearance had forced them to acknowledge the painting’s existence.

  Or maybe their ownership had been illegal in the first place?

  Oscar had accompanied him into the vault and had taken advantage of the coolness of the stone floor. Perhaps realizing patience was required while the two men talked, he’d spread himself out, just as he often did in the shade of the courtyard of Le Chanteclair.

  As the two men made for the exit, Oscar jumped up.

  ‘You may leave Oscar in the garden while you talk with the brothers. He’ll be well looked after.’

  ‘I prefer to have him with me. He seems to put people at ease,’ Patrick said.

  Brother Robert smiled. ‘He has that particular gift.’

  Patrick had chosen to speak to the brothers in the garden, rather than in
his room or in Brother Robert’s office. It had been a good decision. In full view of those who traversed the gardens en route to their daily duties, it looked informal and not in the least intimidating, particularly with a small dog snoring in the shade next to their bench. The glances that came their way suggested others wouldn’t mind being asked to sit and chat in a similar fashion, which was of course what Patrick intended.

  Brother Thomas had been the first to answer the summons. Having already made Patrick’s acquaintance, the conversation was entered into easily. It seemed Thomas had joined the Order only four years ago, prior to which he’d been a music teacher and hence now led the abbey choir. It was at this point Patrick realized he’d seen Thomas in the church yesterday.

  The monk also declared an interest in French history and, in particular, the story of the island he’d come to live on. He spoke enthusiastically about this until Patrick guided their conversation round to the subject of the works of art in the vault.

  ‘I believe you help look after them?’ Patrick asked, encouragingly.

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘And your favourite piece is?’

  Thomas looked Patrick in the eye and said. ‘The naked Madonna. It is magnificent and was, I believe, painted by Fragonard.’

  Having skirted round the subject for some time, Patrick was nonplussed by this blunt admission.

  The monk’s face assumed a look of distress. ‘That’s why you are here, is it not, Monsieur?’

  ‘I confess I would like to know more about the painting,’ Patrick replied, cautiously.

  ‘And you cannot, because it’s missing,’ the monk said quietly.

  ‘You are aware of that?’

  ‘Everyone is, Monsieur.’

  ‘Brother Robert wished the enquiry concerning the painting to be discreet.’

  Thomas gave a wry smile. ‘This is a small, close-knit community, Monsieur. Our secrets are our own, and it is true that we do not care to share them with those outside. In this case, that may be necessary, if we are to restore the Madonna to her rightful place. With us,’ he added firmly.

  In the aftermath of his chat with Thomas, Patrick wondered how realistic Brother Robert’s directions as to how to conduct the enquiry had been. He couldn’t believe that Brother Robert wasn’t aware that the secret was truly out, but perhaps it had been the Abbot who had laid down the ground rules.

  The other three brothers whose names appeared on the register in the vault all began their conversation with Patrick as if they already knew what had occurred with Thomas. Each told him exactly when they had last seen the Madonna. It seemed that, rather than being a hidden piece of art, she was an object of pilgrimage, among the younger brothers at least.

  It was even possible that for that reason she had to go.

  With this thought, Patrick woke Oscar from his slumbers and left the garden, his intention being to have lunch then do a reconnaissance of the shore. The only way for the painting to leave the island was by boat. Patrick wanted to be sure he knew all the locations it could have left from. The island had a rocky shore and there were not many places a boat, however small, might approach and pick up such a precious cargo. Once away it could have met up with one of the hundreds of yachts that plied these waters for pleasure, and the painting might be anywhere by now.

  Assuming, of course, it had left the island.

  His discussions with both Brother Robert and the four young monks had cast doubt on this. From Patrick’s experience, circumstances were rarely what they appeared to be. And with that in mind he allowed himself to recall the incident in Brother Robert’s office.

  The irony of his accepting this job to avoid Huntington and then meeting him on the island wasn’t lost on Patrick. One thing he did know. Huntington wasn’t here to buy wine – or at least not just to buy wine, however good the vintage and however important the client. According to Charles Carruthers, Huntington was in the area to search for a painting for the Windsors.

  A job I was offered and turned down.

  And with that thought, Patrick entered La Tonnelle.

  Obviously told to expect him, a waiter led him to a reserved table overlooking the water. Oscar, scenting the delicious smell of food, positively swaggered in, taking up his place below the table in anticipation of what might be forthcoming.

  Patrick made a point of not scanning the room to see if Huntington was there. If he was, he would no doubt seek Patrick out. He doubted his former colleague would have bought the story of a retreat as the reason for Patrick’s presence, so would be keen to know the real reason he was here.

  Patrick ordered the meat dish of the day and a half-bottle of the red wine that had so delighted the Windsors and ostensibly brought his old enemy to these shores. When the waiter arrived, he brought two plates, one of which was swiftly placed below the table. It seemed instructions had come from the abbey that Oscar should also partake of today’s special. Either that or Monique had spied them from the kitchen. As Patrick savoured the wine, he thanked whatever deity was present that at least he didn’t have to share that with Oscar.

  Huntington appeared as Patrick was beginning his dessert, which was a pity because his arrival spoiled Patrick’s appetite.

  ‘May I join you for coffee?’

  Patrick pushed the dessert plate away. From beneath the table came a low growl, as Huntington took the seat opposite and Oscar picked up the negative vibes radiating from his master.

  ‘I didn’t mark you down as a dog lover.’

  Not deigning to answer the sarcastic remark, Patrick waved the waiter over and asked for an espresso. Huntington immediately added an Americano to the order, which suggested that he was planning to hang around.

  When the waiter had gone, he said, ‘I am aware you failed to cooperate with London. Therefore I would ask you not to interfere with the job.’

  Patrick took his time answering, studying instead the spray on the rocks a few yards from where they sat while imagining holding the smug face below the water until the pale-blue eyes popped.

  ‘You were a fool to turn this down, Courvoisier. You could have wiped the slate clean …’ Huntington’s expression turned into a leer. ‘And also had the pleasure of Miss Lucca’s company.’

  Patrick saw again Grazia’s face across the table from him in the restaurant in London and the chocolate dress he’d used to poke fun at her, as he abandoned her to this excuse for a man who sat opposite.

  ‘Well done, Charles,’ Patrick muttered, under his breath.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, fuck off. And as soon as possible.’ Patrick gave a smile that his mother would have described as liable to curdle milk.

  ‘You always were coarse, despite the fancy name,’ Huntington offered.

  At this point in the proceedings, Oscar threatened to show his displeasure at their unwelcome guest by cocking his leg.

  Much as Patrick would have been delighted by this, he gave a sharp command that put an end to the possibility. He didn’t give a damn about Oscar wetting Huntington’s trouser leg, he just didn’t want the dog banned from the restaurant for the remainder of their stay.

  Huntington, unaware of his close call, carried on regardless.

  ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

  ‘I’m considering joining the order,’ Patrick said to annoy him. ‘Why are you visiting Château de la Croë?’

  ‘An invitation to view its refurbishment.’

  Patrick wasn’t sure who the current owner of the château was, but he’d heard it had cost the Russian billionaire and Chelsea football club owner Roman Abramovich £30,000,000 to refurbish what had been until recently a burnt-out shell occupied by squatters. He didn’t doubt London was on friendly terms with Abramovich, but Patrick refused to let the name-dropping rile him.

  ‘It’s rather far from the Esterel mountains,’ he said.

  ‘But much more comfortable than a monk’s cell.’

  They were going round in circles, scoring points. P
atrick decided he’d had enough. With a short whistle he extracted Oscar from below the table and, indicating to the waiter he was finished, walked out without a backward glance.

  I am here to do a job, Patrick reminded himself. I have another job to do back in Le Suquet. Both are more important than duelling with Huntington. Let him find his artwork, and I’ll concentrate on mine.

  With that, Patrick set off on a westward path around the island with Oscar at his heels.

  SEVEN

  St Honorat was 1.5 kilometres in length and only 400 metres wide. As well as the abbey and vineyards, there were a number of locations that drew tourists, such as a sprinkling of seven small chapels, most of them in ruins but at least one, the Chapel of the Trinity, still celebrating mass. The fours à boulets, at the east and west extremities, provided evidence of the defence of the island. Built by Bonaparte, they were furnaces designed to heat cannonballs until they were red-hot, in order to set enemy warships on fire.

  To the south of the modern monastery was its eleventh-century fortified predecessor, which was free to explore. Perched on an outcrop of jagged rock, with exposed rock in the sea around it, the four-storey tower with chapel and cloisters had protected the monks from the constant stream of invaders that the island had attracted in its rich past.

  Patrick’s circumnavigation of the south side of the island with its dangerous shoreline had reinforced his belief that the Madonna had to have left from the northern side, either on the ferry or via a small craft from the nearby harbour.

  If she had left at all.

  The long walk – long for Oscar, at least – was taking a toll on the dog’s short legs, which had a great deal of weight to carry about. Patrick took pity on a panting Oscar and headed back to the cloisters, where he handed the dog over to Brother Thomas, before heading to La Tonnelle in the hope of catching Monique during her afternoon break.

  Patrick found her seated at one of the garden tables with a cup of coffee.