I never realized the amount of work in restoring paintings. This is a wonderful painting to see, even if it should prove a false lead.’ He stared at the face. ‘Very beautiful, and yes, so very like our figurehead.’
‘What did you find in Devon?’ Gabby asked.
‘Well, I told you about the Welland graves, didn’t I? Well, by chance I was talking to the curator of a gallery in Manchester at a university dinner they had arranged in Exeter for me. He was interested in my research and when I showed him some photos of Lady Isabella he mentioned how Italian she looked. I told him she had been carved in Cornwall by Tom Welland and he suddenly said, before I could tell him any more, “Maybe she is a Vyvyan. They are an old Cornish family who go back to Doomsday.”’
Gabby nodded. ‘It’s a very Cornish name. There are a few in the telephone book, all spelt differently. Some are still landowners.’
‘He told me what we already knew, that one of the Vyvyans married an Italian, but he also mentioned her portrait had been painted by Bernardo Venichy before her marriage. She was quite a beauty. It came to the Manchester Gallery in the late sixties when the exhibition moved there from London. But he has no idea where it is now.’
‘Perhaps we will discover this afternoon.’
‘Hopefully.’
‘But the gallery might only know about the painting, not about the family it belonged to.’
‘That’s very possible. But I have learnt, over the years, that one thing tends to lead to another. You can sometimes gather little scraps of information which don’t connect, then suddenly it all begins to make a whole and you are able to piece a life together. With lots of little gaps, of course.’
‘You must be very patient.’ Gabby smiled at him.
He held her eyes. ‘I am very patient when I want something.’
Mark’s contact at the gallery was a young woman called Lucinda Cage. Gabby liked her immediately. At first she seemed more interested in Nell’s restoration technique than in the painting they were there to discuss.
‘I used Nell Appleby as part of my thesis on medieval colours. She was a brilliant detective, you know. I reckon she knew nearly as much as an analyst. I went to a lecture she gave once. She was brilliant; utterly passionate about her work. My tutor used some of her restoration techniques as an example of how to conserve.’
Gabby glowed with pride. Dear, self-effacing Nell, who never blew her own trumpet.
‘I’ll tell her, she’ll be so surprised.’
Lucinda turned to Mark. ‘I’ve been looking up some files and asking colleagues about this painting of Helena Viscaria. As you know, it was found in the early sixties in a bad state. A great deal of the damage had occurred by storing or hanging on a damp outside wall. It was brought to us by a David Tredinnick in 1961 with a view to selling after renovation.
‘Nell Appleby undertook the restoration and when it was finished I gather there was some family problem with selling to us. Various members wanted to keep it in the family. After the Venichy retrospective it was loaned to us on a permanent basis. It travelled round the regional galleries for about eighteen months then returned here.’
She looked at Mark and Gabby. ‘I’m really sorry to tell you that it was bought by a private Italian art collector and taken back to Italy in 1989. We do not know whether he had any connection with her family or just wanted to acquire the painting.’
‘What was his name?’ Mark asked.
Lucinda glanced down at her file. ‘A Signor Alfredo Manesco.’
‘The opera singer?’ Mark seemed surprised.
Lucinda shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.’
Mark laughed. ‘Of course you haven’t. You would have still been in nappies.’
Lucinda blushed. ‘Not quite. If you come this way, I’ll make a cup of tea.’
Gabby suddenly saw that Lucinda found Mark attractive. Then immediately thought, Well he is, so most women will.
For some reason this dampened her spirits.
As they had tea, Lucinda asked Gabby if Nell still worked. ‘We could do with her up here. One of our restorers has just gone on maternity leave early because of health problems.’
‘Nell still restores, but in her own time. She’s sort of semi-retired …’ Gabby smiled. ‘I’m not sure you could lure her out of retirement.’
‘I was only joking, really.’
‘Gabby is restoring the figurehead of Lady Isabella,’ Mark said.
Lucinda stared at her. ‘Oh, sorry, I am thick. I never listen to names. I didn’t realize you were the same person.’
‘No reason why you should,’ Gabby said easily.
As they left, Lucinda asked, ‘Are you going all the way back to Cornwall tonight?’
‘No,’ Gabby said. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Have you got ten minutes?’
Puzzled, Gabby glanced at Mark. ‘Yes, of course.’
Lucinda led the way into the gallery and along some long corridors to a small back room. She pointed to a portrait of a young boy sitting with riding whip and a spaniel, with a river and trees behind him.
‘Tell me what you think?’
Gabby went closer. She was appalled. The painting had been brutally cleaned with little concession to its age or original paint. The boy’s face had been over-cleaned, so that it seemed to lack expression. The trees behind him, which should have been cleared of yellow varnish, had been left. This really should never have happened. It was a complete mess.
Lucinda was watching her face. ‘Thank you, Gabrielle. You do not need to say a thing. Is it irredeemable?’
‘Did it come to you like this?’ Gabby asked. ‘I can’t believe anyone here could be responsible. Lucinda, its value has possibly been reduced by this restoration. Surely no one untrained had a go, did they?’
‘It came to us from a private collector. He had it cleaned by a restorer who came to him recommended. The collector brought it to us in tears.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Gabby said. ‘He should not be allowed anywhere near a painting. No, it isn’t irredeemable. A good restorer could undo some of the damage, but not all, I’m afraid.’
‘Thank you for confirming what we’ve already been told. Would you mind not mentioning this to anybody? And Gabrielle, may I have your phone number?’
‘It’s all very cloak and dagger. Perhaps your little councillor’s brother struck again!’ Mark was trying not to laugh as Gabby scribbled down her number.
The afternoon was dark as they left the gallery and people were pouring to the tube station. Mark managed to hail a taxi. He turned to Gabby inside the cab.
‘Would you like to go to your club to shower and freshen up? Or could you bear to come and see this house of my aunt’s that I’m going to be renting all next year for my sabbatical. I’m dying to show someone, it’s bang on the river and I’m very much in love with it.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘Then, if you don’t feel I’m monopolizing you, I could bring you back to the club and wait around in the bar for you? You needn’t hurry, I’ll be quite happy. I have hundreds of daughters, I’m used to waiting. Then I can take you to supper.’
‘There is a great little French place within walking distance of the club,’ Gabby said. ‘Nell and I go there sometimes.’
‘Perfect. We’ve got the day sewn up then.’
‘I