After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) by Dolores Gordon-Smith
Authors: Dolores Gordon-Smith
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correctly guessed he was St Peter.
‘That’s absolutely right,’ said Cadwallader. ‘I painted that picture, but it was Mr Lythewell’s idea. I painted it under his direction. He thought an awful lot of that painting, did Mr Lythewell. It’s an exact portrait of him. It shows him being taken up to heaven.’
‘Gosh,’ said Jack. He felt sand-bagged by the scene. He was fairly lost for words, but he tried hard. ‘It’s a remarkable piece of work.’
Fortunately, Henry Cadwallader didn’t need much encouragement to take Jack’s comment as unbounded enthusiasm. ‘Exactly!’ he agreed, his eyes shining. ‘Now that’s what church art should be like.’
Thank God, thought Jack, that for the most part it wasn’t. ‘Was the chantry ever consecrated?’ he asked, falling back on neutral ground.
Cadwallader shook his head. ‘No, it never was. Mr Lythewell, he had a falling out with the vicar about it. The vicar had very narrow views and said he thought it was all too Papist, would you believe.’
‘Shocking,’ murmured Jack. ‘Papist, eh?’ Privately his sympathies were entirely with the vicar. The late Mr Lythewell seemed to have as much modest self-effacement as a Borgia Pope. He tried hard and came up with a question. ‘Is there any of Mr Lythewell’s own artwork in here?’
‘Oh, yes. He wanted to be interred here. He made his own tomb. He spent a lot of time on it, he did, but,’ Cadwallader added with a curl of his lip, ‘the family weren’t allowed to carry out Mr Lythewell’s wishes.’
‘The family being …?’
‘Mr Daniel Lythewell. No, Mr Lythewell had to be buried in the churchyard, like he might have been anyone, but this is the tomb he intended for himself.’
He led Jack across the chantry to where the light from the circular window in the ceiling shone directly on a stone coffin standing on a plinth in the middle of the floor, supported by four squat feet in the shape of lions’ paws.
The stone coffin – or should that be sarcophagus? wondered Jack – was fairly plain, but the surrounding floor was covered with ornate tiles, decorated, as was the oak panelling, with intertwined leaves, fruits and flowers. The tile on the floor at the end of the sarcophagus showed a picture of the chantry, inlaid in silver metal and encircled with enough vegetation to make it look in imminent danger of being overgrown.
A life-size copper-coloured metal figure of a man knelt beside the coffin, his face covered by his arms, which were flung out over the coffin lid in an expression of grief. The coffin, its lid to one side, gaped open.
‘Mr Lythewell made the tomb himself,’ said Henry Cadwallader reverently. ‘Wonderful work.’
The lid shielded part of the coffin. Jack felt his pulse quicken. Kneeling down beside the statue, he looked inside. Could this be the place the killer had put the body? It would be a bit obvious, but … No. The coffin was empty.
‘That was very respectful of you, young sir,’ said Cadwallader approvingly. ‘There’s not many who’d think to kneel in prayer like that. I was glad to see you do it.’
‘Just a gesture,’ said Jack, rather embarrassed, when his attention was caught by the dust on the floor by the base of the plinth. There was plenty of ordinary grey dust, but this dust was a different colour, yellow and bright. He reached out and, picking up a handful, ran it through his fingers.
‘What’s that?’ asked Henry Cadwallader.
‘Sawdust,’ said Jack, showing Cadwallader the dust in his hand.
Cadwallader sucked his teeth in disapproval. ‘That woman isn’t worth paying in washers.’
Jack looked a question.
‘The cleaner, Mrs whatever-it-is the woman’s called, from the village. I told her there was some sawdust got in and she said she’d swept it all up.’
‘It looks as if she swept most of it under Mr Lythewell’s tomb,’ said Jack, peering into the narrow gap under the plinth.
Henry Cadwallader was shocked. ‘That’s
‘That’s absolutely right,’ said Cadwallader. ‘I painted that picture, but it was Mr Lythewell’s idea. I painted it under his direction. He thought an awful lot of that painting, did Mr Lythewell. It’s an exact portrait of him. It shows him being taken up to heaven.’
‘Gosh,’ said Jack. He felt sand-bagged by the scene. He was fairly lost for words, but he tried hard. ‘It’s a remarkable piece of work.’
Fortunately, Henry Cadwallader didn’t need much encouragement to take Jack’s comment as unbounded enthusiasm. ‘Exactly!’ he agreed, his eyes shining. ‘Now that’s what church art should be like.’
Thank God, thought Jack, that for the most part it wasn’t. ‘Was the chantry ever consecrated?’ he asked, falling back on neutral ground.
Cadwallader shook his head. ‘No, it never was. Mr Lythewell, he had a falling out with the vicar about it. The vicar had very narrow views and said he thought it was all too Papist, would you believe.’
‘Shocking,’ murmured Jack. ‘Papist, eh?’ Privately his sympathies were entirely with the vicar. The late Mr Lythewell seemed to have as much modest self-effacement as a Borgia Pope. He tried hard and came up with a question. ‘Is there any of Mr Lythewell’s own artwork in here?’
‘Oh, yes. He wanted to be interred here. He made his own tomb. He spent a lot of time on it, he did, but,’ Cadwallader added with a curl of his lip, ‘the family weren’t allowed to carry out Mr Lythewell’s wishes.’
‘The family being …?’
‘Mr Daniel Lythewell. No, Mr Lythewell had to be buried in the churchyard, like he might have been anyone, but this is the tomb he intended for himself.’
He led Jack across the chantry to where the light from the circular window in the ceiling shone directly on a stone coffin standing on a plinth in the middle of the floor, supported by four squat feet in the shape of lions’ paws.
The stone coffin – or should that be sarcophagus? wondered Jack – was fairly plain, but the surrounding floor was covered with ornate tiles, decorated, as was the oak panelling, with intertwined leaves, fruits and flowers. The tile on the floor at the end of the sarcophagus showed a picture of the chantry, inlaid in silver metal and encircled with enough vegetation to make it look in imminent danger of being overgrown.
A life-size copper-coloured metal figure of a man knelt beside the coffin, his face covered by his arms, which were flung out over the coffin lid in an expression of grief. The coffin, its lid to one side, gaped open.
‘Mr Lythewell made the tomb himself,’ said Henry Cadwallader reverently. ‘Wonderful work.’
The lid shielded part of the coffin. Jack felt his pulse quicken. Kneeling down beside the statue, he looked inside. Could this be the place the killer had put the body? It would be a bit obvious, but … No. The coffin was empty.
‘That was very respectful of you, young sir,’ said Cadwallader approvingly. ‘There’s not many who’d think to kneel in prayer like that. I was glad to see you do it.’
‘Just a gesture,’ said Jack, rather embarrassed, when his attention was caught by the dust on the floor by the base of the plinth. There was plenty of ordinary grey dust, but this dust was a different colour, yellow and bright. He reached out and, picking up a handful, ran it through his fingers.
‘What’s that?’ asked Henry Cadwallader.
‘Sawdust,’ said Jack, showing Cadwallader the dust in his hand.
Cadwallader sucked his teeth in disapproval. ‘That woman isn’t worth paying in washers.’
Jack looked a question.
‘The cleaner, Mrs whatever-it-is the woman’s called, from the village. I told her there was some sawdust got in and she said she’d swept it all up.’
‘It looks as if she swept most of it under Mr Lythewell’s tomb,’ said Jack, peering into the narrow gap under the plinth.
Henry Cadwallader was shocked. ‘That’s