Peter Watson - Landscape of Lies: An Art World Mystery

Landscape of Lies

An Art-World Mystery

Peter Watson

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

Prologue

The moment Isobel awoke she knew there was someone else in the house. She didnt know why she was so certain of itonly that she instinctively held her breath. She couldnt see her watch but from the way the May moon sliced its shadows across the bedroom carpet she guessed it must be after three. As she started to get out of bed she heard the study door, downstairs, click in its lock. Isobel had been brought up in this house, lived in it for most of her twenty-nine years, and that noise told her how the intruder had got in: a window was open in the dining-room. The study door always rattled when the dining-room windows were opened. She had known, ever since she began to live alone in the big house, that the low bay windows of the dining-room were a security risk, but she had never really believed a burglar would take advantage of them. Now it was too late.

She slipped out of bed and silently put on her dressing-gown. At first she had no fearrather, she was intrigued to know what the burglar had come for. There was nothing of any real value in the house, not even a decent set of silver. Since her father had died and left the farm to Isobel, she had been fighting a losing battle. Gradually she had sold off the Chinese porcelain, the Japanese lacquer, the jade carvings that her father, a diplomat in the Far East before he retired, had collected. There was nothing left to steal.

It was only then that Isobel began to be afraid. Perhaps the intruder had come not to steal but to assault her? There were so many stories these days about rape. Maybe she would know him. Maybe he would kill her afterwards. Afterwards she shivered.

She shivered but didnt hesitate. She knew the house and its character inside out. As a very young girl, before her father was sent abroad, she had often crept on to the landing in the evenings to watch when he was entertaining downstairs and no one had ever guessed she was there. So she knew that if she pushed the bedroom door before she turned the handle it would open without complaint. In the corridor she knew just where not to tread to avoid making any sound.

As she moved down the corridor no one came towards her and she breathed more easily. It was a burglar she had to deal with, it seemed, not a rapist.

She turned a corner and stopped. Here the corridor became a gallery overlooking the hall. There was an oak balustrade. She inched towards it and peered down. There he was. A tall, shadowy figure stood in front of a painting in the hall. He was reaching up to lift it off the hook.

Isobel was suddenly filled with an immense anger. It was as if the fear she had felt a moment ago had redirected itself to another part of her: she was awash in fury. It was widely known in the area that she lived alone. Now it seemed she was fair game, that anyone could come into this great house and help himself to whatever he wanted.

Immediately she had a plan. She wanted to stop the theft, but she also wanted the man to know that she wasnt afraidthat although she lived alone she wasnt helpless.

She half turned to where she knew there was a large pewter vase on a table. It had been in the family for ever, so she had been told, and had an ivory collar, a carving of some sort, around its base. Once it might have been valuable but the pewter was knocked about a lot and the ivory was chipped: it was ideal for what she had in mind. Noiselessly she lifted it off the table: it was cumbersome but not too heavy.

Raising it with her right hand, she reached across with her left and held the light switch. She paused, telling herself that she would have the advantage of surprise but that, for a moment after the light went on, both she and the intruder would be blinded. She tried to memorise where he was standing.

She took a breathand threw the switch.

As the hall was flooded with light, the figure grunted, a sound of muffled surprise. The manhe was much too tall to be a womanwas wearing a motor-cycle helmet. It turned her way. Behind the darkened glass of the visor she thought she could see two startled eyes. The helmet with its shiny, anonymous skin was menacing; it unbalanced the proportions of the figure and transformed it into a kind of distended growth, bulbous and threatening. Isobel didnt wait any longer.

She pitched the vase as hard as she could into the hall. She didnt aim at the mans head. That struck her as too dangerous even in the circumstances and she knew that the law had some weird ideas about the rights of criminals. In any case he was wearing the helmet. She aimed at his feet.

The vase was top-heavy and slid out of her hand with less control than she would have wished. Still, she had the advantage of height, and the helmeted figure was not far away. Before he could move, the vase had skidded on to the stone slabs of the hall floor about a foot in front of his feet. Dropping the picture, he instinctively jerked to one sidebut that was his undoing. As the vase hit the floor, the ivory collar snapped off and shattered into several pieces. The vase itself, however, being metal, bounced up again and struck the intruder below the knee on his left leg.

Isobel winced as she heard the crack of bone, and the mans scream drowned the rattle of the vase as it clattered back on to the stone slabs. Despite the pain he must have been in, however, the figure immediately stooped again to pick up the painting. Seeing this, Isobel nearly exploded in fury and turned to look for other weapons that were within reach. All she could see was a dish of alabaster eggs in the middle of the table near where the vase had stood. Her fingers closed over one of the eggsbut then she checked herself. This little nest would do far more damage as a job lot. A ladylike form of shrapnel, she thought grimly.

She gripped the dish with both hands and carried it to the balustrade. The figure downstairs was now clutching the painting and straightening up. One leg was curled under him in a way that showed he was still in great pain, but even so he wasnt giving up.

Neither was Isobel. Without faltering she leaned over the balcony and tipped the eggs on to the intruder. There must have been fifteen of them in the dish and three scored direct hits. One cannoned on to the mans shoulder. Anothersurely the most painfulcaught him on an elbow. The voice within the helmet screamed again and he dropped the picture a second time. The third egg cracked against the helmet. The figure would have felt little pain from this but the helmet visor was fractured and a splinter fell to the floor. Now Isobel stood a chance of seeing who the burglar was.

She quickly ran round the gallery to where there was another of the mementoes her father had picked up in the Far East, a Japanese scimitar. Still swamped in anger, she grabbed the blade, tearing it from its mount on the wall, and launched herself down the stairs.

But now the figure in the helmet had turned away and, half running, half hopping, was making for the dining-room and the open window by which he had entered.

Reaching the cold stone slabs of the hall floor, Isobel turned to give chase, but her bare right foot stepped on to one of the ivory fragments that had broken off the vase. This cut painfully into the ball of her foot but, worse, caused her to skid on the stones. As she put out her hand to break her fall she fell against the edge of the scimitar. Luckily the blade missed her eye but it bit deep into her cheek and immediately drew blood. The force of her fall caused the scimitar to slip from her fingers and when she got to her feet and ran to the dining-room the figure had gone. The net curtain hung limp in the open window. In the silver moonlight outside the house there were no moving shadows. Isobel waited a moment, listening, then closed the window. In her bare feet she could not give chase.