Then it happened.
‘What the….’ Harriet looked up as John let out a strangled gasp. ‘But – but he was dead.’ John Forrester was losing it now. His eyes bulged in appalled surprise as he stared down into the stable yard. ‘He was dead, I know he was. I killed him.’
She had time – a few seconds only, of complete and utter anguish – to stare down at her cousin Sam who was innocently riding an ancient bicycle across the cobbles before John Forrester whirled round to scream at her and Rory.
‘You bastards!’ There was a cold fury in his face as he turned on them, all his precarious mental harmony destroyed in a moment. ‘You’ve been stringing me along.’
He reached for the gun and fired downwards, again and again, more and more wildly, his control lost, and his captives sagged in horror as Sam Hathaway crashed into the doorway of the stable. As Harriet, completely distraught, opened her mouth to scream and scream there was a loud beating sound immediately above them. A huge shape, silhouetted dark against the bright sunrise and with outspread wings flapping, flew out of nowhere straight towards the vicar of Locksley. Harriet, beside herself with grief, goggled in terror as Rory, who was shaking almost uncontrollably, managed to summon the last dregs of strength. He landed a lucky kick on the other man’s shin.
With a scream, first of rage and then increasing terror, John Forrester lost his balance and slipped, bouncing on the slates and then, to their impotent horror, plummeting to the cobbled surface of the stable yard while the great winged creature whirled away.
chapter fifteen
Sam and Harriet stood a little to one side, watching the Attlins – Walter, Edith and Rory – as they clustered round the short, plump, fair-haired man who was closely examining one of the portraits, that of the sixteenth-century Richard Attlin, reluctant father-in-law to the nun, Margery. Professor David Porter, Rory’s boss, was almost crooning with delight as he turned the portrait this way and that, tossing his coat onto a chair and even taking off his steel-rimmed glasses to peer at a detail.
‘I think you could be right, Rory,’ he said in a stunned voice. ‘I honestly think you could be right.’ His eyes were shining as he turned to them.
Penelope Attlin had stayed downstairs. ‘I’ll go up in my own good time,’ she said firmly, so Walter, Edith and Rory had escorted the expert up to the gallery, with Harriet and Sam in tow, determined not to miss a thing.
Harriet was heavy-eyed and drawn, haunted during the day and in her fitful sleep by the memory of those long, agonizing minutes when she believed Sam was dead. Even now, two days later, she had to clutch at him frequently, tears springing to her eyes with no warning.
He put an arm round her now, and hugged her. Undemonstrative as they were by nature, both cousins were shaken to the core and Harriet thought she would never hear a sound more welcome than Sam’s voice yelling up at her from the stable yard. She shivered and he tightened his embrace.
‘It’s only …’ she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment. ‘Oh, Sam….’
‘Shh.’ He too was speaking quietly, so as not to disturb the discussion on art history. ‘I’ve told you, several times, when the first bullet hit the bike I had no idea what it was, only that I had to shift myself pretty damn quick. Good job I’m still pretty fit and knew enough to roll out of harm’s way.’ He hestitated, then gave her a gentle shake. ‘The sight of you trapped up there with that madman … well, I can only thank God it ended the way it did.’
She pulled herself together. ‘Oh well, we’d better catch up with Walter and the kids.’ Her tone was matter of fact but the affection in her eyes was heartfelt.
‘Mr Attlin.’ The others were hanging on the expert’s words as David Porter addressed his host. ‘At this stage I can only offer conjecture, and there’ll have to be extensive tests, of course, but I can say that I think – only think, mind – that this portrait, of a sixteenth-century Richard Attlin, could be an early Holbein, probably painted before he became court painter to Henry VIII, and as such it should be in the National Portrait Gallery. It’s a very significant find, if I’m right, and I’m pretty certain I am.’
He smiled at his open-mouthed audience. ‘It’s not one of his best and looks as though it was dashed off in a hurry to make the rent money, possibly with several other people giving a hand, but even so, if I’m correct, we could be talking about some very serious money indeed. Here, take a look.’ He pulled out his BlackBerry and showed them some images.