Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
JADEON
We were ready to travel to the city.
Alex’s clothes were not exactly going to fit in but I reassured him that we would purchase a suit first thing.
“If anyone asks,” I said, “you’re going to a costume party.”
I wore my usual attire, a stylish Savile Row suit.
“Going to a funeral?” Alex jested.
I threw him a wry smile. Crazy, I know, but I still cared about my appearance.
We made our way from the castle walls into the center of Penzance, flying through the air and landing in a dark alley just behind a spiritualist church.
I carried the painting wrapped in an old sheet to protect it.
We headed down through the old, cobbled street toward my parked car.
Alex stared in astonishment at the people who passed us by, amazed at the fashions that people wore, particularly the women’s clothing.
Where they had once worn long full skirts, they were now dressed in short revealing garments. The colors seemed even more vibrant lit up by the street lighting. The majority of men wore loose-fitting clothing. The younger the youth, the looser the article worn.
To Alex, the noise of the outside world was deafening.
Whereas there had once been horse-drawn carriages racing along the busy dirt roads, there were now huge speeding metal vehicles.
Where marketplaces had once stood there were now glass-fronted stores selling their wares in the shiniest of packages.
Alex jumped backward startled by two men who ran past us, their outfits identical.
He pushed me out of the way, fearing for my safety.
I smiled at Alex’s response to the two joggers who passed by and attempted to explain, exploding into laughter at his expression.
I wondered how long it would take before he felt comfortable.
Alex’s gaze fell upon the silver Jaguar and he hopped in. With a turn of the ignition the engine started and we headed out.
As we drove along, Alex often turned in his seat, catching glimpses at this thing or that. Wide open fields had been replaced by houses and other buildings, the vast Cornish landscape transformed into a flurry of human activity.
“Can I drive your car?” Alex asked.
I pulled the car over and Alex slid into the driver’s seat. After the first few seconds of jerking forward, Alex quickly got the hang of the vehicle. We sped off. Alex drove the Jag hard.
A blue light flashed directly behind us, and though Alex found it distracting, he drove faster in order to avoid the irritating glare. Eventually, after screaming in his ear, I persuaded him to pull over. Alex slowed the vehicle and parked it alongside the paved road.
The police officer, who now stood at the Jaguar’s driver’s side, directed Alex to wind down his window, which I did for him.
“Good evening,” the young officer greeted us. “Sir, do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
“Extremely fast, I imagine.” Alex smiled.
I cringed.
Alex smiled at the officer, studying his uniform.
“Sir, the speed limit is thirty-five. You were traveling at seventy. You just got yourself a ticket.”
Alex turned to me. “He’s obviously impressed.”
The officer pointed his flashlight into the Jaguar. “Sir, may I see your driver’s license please?”
“Driver’s license?” Alex asked.
“Sir, have you been drinking?”
“I am beginning to feel—”
“Officer, I left my license at home,” I interrupted. “I was giving my brother a driving lesson. Please just give us the ticket.”
“Is this your vehicle, sir?”
My slow response caused the officer’s suspicions to rise.
“Please step out of the vehicle,” the police officer said.
I whispered to Alex. “Follow my lead.” I grabbed hold of the painting and got out of the car.
The police officer froze, looking around for the two men who had but moments before stood directly in front of him. He could only stare at the abandoned vehicle.
I loved that car.
We abandoned it and instead flew to London.
And I found us a decent hotel.
The Savoy, a hotel that I chose for its thick curtains and discreet staff, was perfect for our trip.
We could safely sleep there with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign posted on the door.
The hotel’s luxurious furnishings were perfect and very homey.
This was also a great place to purchase Alex’s outfits from the hotel stores.
The following evening, comfortably ensconced within our hotel room, Alex chose from the clothing selection brought to our room. He favored the blue denim jeans and white shirts despite my recommendation of smarter attire.
Carrying the Joseph Turner, now wrapped in a fresh towel from the room, we made our way down the Strand toward Trafalgar Square for our appointment at the National Gallery.
We both admired the main facade of the magnificent architecture.
Over the years successive extensions had been made, complementing the original grand design.
The vast museum ensured that the gallery’s entire collection of about two thousand paintings, mostly by the old masters, were on display.
You would never find a forgotten Monet or Degas concealed in an underground temperature-controlled vault.
In 1897 those paintings deemed contemporary had been transferred to the Tate Gallery, but by the early 1990s many of the paintings were relocated to the Tate Modern.
I was in my element, stopping for a moment to admire Michelangelo Merisi Da Caravaggio’s painting of the Supper at Emmaus, dated 1571-1610. The painting seemed more like a photograph with its realistic images and vibrant colors.
Alex pulled on my arm when I froze in front of another of the paintings.
We had an appointment to keep, and I was making us late.
Mr. Teddington, a tall and respectable man, warmly greeted us.
We were escorted to his office within the large building.
Mr. Teddington surveyed us suspiciously, and on viewing the towel wrapped painting, looked even more concerned.
“As I told you on the phone,” he began, “I believe all Turners are accounted for.”
“The painting has been in our family for years,” I informed him, unwrapping the work of art carefully and placing it upon the table as instructed.
Mr. Teddington studied the antique portrait with an eyeglass. He peered at us in complete astonishment. Picking up the phone he requested a second opinion. Soon the room was filled with his colleagues, each taking a turn in viewing the painting with the eyeglass.
“Its worth, Mr. Teddington?” I asked.
“Difficult to say, though I do have a dear friend who works at Sotheby’s. He should be able to arrange a quote and a buyer for you. Perhaps we would even be able to place the painting here for a while at the National, before selling it? This is quite a find. Are you sure you want to part with it?”
“Quite sure,” Alex said.
“I also have in my possession St. Catherine of Alexandria by Raphael,” I said. “Would you be interested in placing her among your collection? Only a loan, you understand. I do not wish to sell her, just present her within the gallery.”
“Sir, we would be delighted,” Mr. Teddington said. “Any other priceless pieces of art you have hidden away?”
I chose not to reveal that our collection would amaze the art community.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said to Alex as we withdrew from the gallery.
“You love that painting. I just can’t understand—”
“St. Catherine reminds me—”
“Of course,” he said, and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“Once we have Catherine back, I will be happy to have Raphael’s portrait hanging in the castle again,” I said.
On my initial return to St. Michael’s I had stared at the painting, wallowing in the past and wanting to stay there. It was too much having this reminder of Catherine under our roof. My need for her never wavered. I was reassured Alex understood.
With the final transaction complete, the Joseph Turner painting sold, we returned to Cornwall.
For the time being, St. Catherine would remain on display at the National Gallery; however, the Turner fetched a sum far exceeding our expectations—and just like that, we found ourselves newly made millionaires.
Alex and I busied ourselves with our plans to refurnish the castle interior, ensuring that its character was maintained complementing its unique style.
Work began under the supervision of an interior designer.
Alex stayed out of the way of the workers and I hovered over them, verifying our designs.
Within nine months St. Michael’s Mount was restored to its original unique beauty, though modernized.
We now enjoyed electricity, running water, and luxurious furnishings throughout the castle.
Sometimes, on the bleakest of nights, I would reach out psychically into the void for Orpheus, seeking answers in silence, casting my thoughts like arrows through the dark, vowing with each unspoken message that I would not rest until he brought Catherine back to us.
If it was possible to haunt another with mere threats, I did it with such volition, it was sure to reach him.
I vowed never to give up.
For distraction, I even took to painting again, making my way to the tallest tower and whiling away the hours until my brother dragged me down before sunrise.
Alex was even able to persuade me to fence again and we rummaged around for our old dueling swords, pleased that time had not worn away either the epee’s metal or our talent.
Our castle was fast becoming the ultimate bachelor pad. Knowing Alex as I did I was reluctant to introduce him to too much modern technology for fear he would become a man possessed. He needed to get out more, not stay in.
Alex caught my wandering thoughts. “What’s an Xbox?” he asked.
Burying my head in an old favorite book, I turned a page of St. Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica hoping Alex would become distracted and not ask me again.