Death Of A Spy?

CHAPTER ONE

The director, leaned forward in his glass fronted box; he opened his fingers and counted down. Five – four – three – two – one. The red ‘On Air’ bulb glowed in the corner and on the studio floor the sleekly urbane Oliver Blickerman began the introduction using his carefully cultivated accent that was just shy of posh.

‘Hello and welcome to this extended and unusual edition of Arts Tonight. Our subject this evening is the internationally renowned painter Sir Angwyn Hywel Thomas who died last month. On the occasion of his ninetieth birthday, I had the pleasure to visit his home on the Lizard Peninsula in Cornwall. During the recording I had planned to discuss his work from the early days in Nineteen Sixty up to the present day and to see if he would open up about the mystery woman who played such a prominent role in his paintings. I hoped to glean some insight into who she was, why her influence dominated so many canvases and what happened to her. Sir Angwyn has always been reticent to talk about his private life, but during the programme he recounted a tale, that was frankly more shocking and more intriguing than I could have  imagined. Is it true or is the expert illusionist teasing us one last time? Come with me, if you will and hear this account of his art, forged within the trinity of espionage, love and betrayal. Then you can decide for yourselves.’

The studio shot was replaced by a long view of the Lizard peninsula taken from a helicopter that swept along the rugged shoreline before zooming into a short circular drive in front of a square granite house. Neatly parked in one corner was a very old but also impressively shiny Austin tourer with its canvas hood neatly stowed. The house with slate roof and a decrepit timber and glazed entrance porch sat in the centre of the plot with a small vegetable garden laid to either side. Moving inside the camera seamlessly entered the porch along a corridor to a large farm kitchen with an old range in one corner, and a rectangular scrubbed wooden table.

Facing the camera and sitting in a highly polished carver chair was the doyen of post-modern semi abstract portraiture, Sir Angwyn Hywel Thomas RA. He was a short wiry man with unruly white hair, a strong nose and thick eyebrows above eyes of a bright and penetrating blue that laughed secretively into the lens.

The initial discussion was standard introduction stuff however after a few minutes, Sir Angwyn waved a hand to stop  the questions. His eyes twinkled and he said, slowly with obvious relish.

‘Oliver, you will the same question that you and all other interviewers have previously, without  any success.’ He smiled, pleased with himself, so that the mischief in his eyes glinted into the lens. ‘When you asked for this interview I realised that I am getting old now, everyone who mattered at the time has died and can no longer be hurt, so perhaps it is right that I put the record straight.

It’s a strange story and it happened a long time ago but I can remember it as if it were yesterday. My friend Henry Barncott and I were living in this house,’ he tapped the chair arm as he spoke. ‘It belonged to his father. We were pretty well penniless at the time and could not afford London so Henry’s brother arranged for us to have this at a next to nothing rent. Henry was writing his poetry, and a novel, I think, while I was trying to be a painter. It suited us both very well. Anyway, it was the early spring of Nineteen Sixty when I first met her. I had packed my stuff in the Austin; by the way, don’t let me forget, Oliver. I must take you for a spin in my Austin later. You will love it.’

Blickermam did not look as though the experience was one he or his immaculately tailored suit would relish but smiled and waited for the old man to continue.

‘Anyway where was I? Ah yes, I remember. That morning, I drove out to Kynance over there,’ He pointed his arm in the direction of the door. ’ I set up and started to paint. It was going fine to start with, but the light kept changing. Each time I laid a colour down it was wrong before I had lifted my brush. My frustration was getting the better of me and I was about to pack it in and come home. Then, out of nowhere she appeared from round the cliff edge. I tell you, boy, from that moment my life and those of others was changed for ever.’

CHAPTER TWO

Angwyn scratched his dark curly hair with paint besmeared fingers. He rubbed vigorously, as if trying to rid his head of crawling insects. He wanted to swear, but his chapel upbringing even now made him feel guilt every time he used a forbidden word. He hated painting in the open air. Every time he ventured out, laden with his kit, he was hit with a disaster of some sort and he asked himself why the hell he bothered. The early morning South Westerly blowing in from the Atlantic was invigorating, and it sharpened his appetite for breakfast, but  he still detested the whole process. Despite his question he knew the answer. Why he was here, suffering. An accurate coastal background was necessary for a figure work he already had in his mind. He knew what he wanted to achieve.  He had sketched out the idea, back home in his studio, but the problem with imagining a scene is that, except on the rarest of occasions it doesn’t work in practice. He could have made a quick sketch and finished it later but in order to produce the dislocated marriage between reality and semi abstract that he strove for, he had  lugged his easel, stool, paints, palette, oils, turps, brushes and rags, the whole shooting match, up the cliff path to find exactly the right position. He thought he had found it this morning when he had set up.

This time, it might just work. It felt right. He worked with loose fluid strokes of the brush and for half an hour or so was lost in his work, with a section of the cove  taking shape under his hand. But the mood didn’t last. Too soon his concentration was interrupted by the metal frame of his stool as it cut into his backside and left thigh. When he had set up the easel the ground was reasonably even giving him a steady base to work on. Now, either the ground or the easel itself had shifted so it wobbled as he worked. The sea wouldn’t stay still but the surface buckled and swerved with the currents and the glorious almost turquoise blue that he had started to paint, now turned a dull grey, shadowed by the wind-swept clouds. His hair, always wilful, fell across his eyes and blocked his view.

Oh, bugger it! Guilt forgotten, he flung down his brush on the cropped couch grass. He shifted back the stool  and stared glumly at his surroundings. Kynance Cove  was a famous beauty spot, popular with coastal walkers and beach loungers alike. Acres of chrome yellow gorse fringed moorland interlaced with footpaths that led to the cliff edge and wound  down to the triangular beach and the seemingly endless expanse of  sea beyond. Here, if you were lucky, you could see a small pod of dolphins as they hunted for pilchards, occasionally a basking shark in summer, while on the horizon, freighters plied their trade,  heading up the coast to Liverpool or Ireland, and others on the opposing bearing, to Holland, Germany or the deep water harbour at Falmouth.

He sighed and stretched forward to pick up his discarded brush;  he was beaten to it  by a slim brown hand that, in a rapid single movement, scooped it up and swung it triumphantly  to his face.

Yours, I believe.

His eyes followed the brush to her hand, slim arm and shoulder, beyond the white collar of her shirt to a tanned, laughing face surrounded by an unruly mass of auburn red hair. The shirt was open to the third button and the swell of her breast jolted him with a surge of desire. Expensive cameras on leather straps hung from her smooth neck and she carried a large canvas hold all bag on her free shoulder. He forced his eyes away from her breasts.

‘Thank you, er…’ His voice tailed off.

Iona MacHine at your service, sir. She held out the brush and he took it awkwardly.

Thank you again, Miss er MacHine.

‘Please . This is no place to be formal. My name is Iona. And may I know yours, sir?’

Oh, it is Hywel Thomas. Er, Angwyn. I’m Welsh, he added.

How do you do. They  shook hands. Her grip was firm, boyish. Angwyn pulled his own away, quickly. I’m sorry, he flustered. Oil paint, you will be covered in it. He showed his hands and  proffered an oily rag. She smiled, took the rag and wiped her own whilst appraising him.  He was a bit on the short side. Wiry, an angular face with sharp jaw line, a straight nose, very dark curly hair and, deeply set incongruously blue eyes.  She laughed and handed back the rag. He stood, clumsily and as he did so, caught one foot on the  leg of the stool, and, as he tried to steady himself,  tripped over the easel. He stumbled into her and she held his shoulders to stop him falling. When he regained his balance he was dismayed to find that his eyes were level with her lips. She stood at least an inch taller than he did. She released his shoulders and stepped back. She was smiling but thankfully did not laugh at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I surprised you. Is your foot okay?’ The canvas, detached from the easel lay face down in the scree at her feet. He followed her gaze, gave the canvas a half-hearted kick and grinned sheepishly. ‘Aw it’s nothing. I just feel a bit silly really.’ The easel lay on its side , leaning rakishly against the stool, mocking him. They stood looking at the carnage below and then  spontaneously, they began to laugh.

She pointed to the canvas. ‘Your painting, is it ruined?’

He shrugged. ‘Probably. I’ve made a hash of it already and now the light’s all wrong.’  He stared at her paint smeared hands. ‘ I’m sorry about the paint. I could offer you some hot water back at the house, if it helps. The paint is really hard to get off and the oil will stay with you for ages. We live only a little way back there.’ He waved an arm  inland from the coast.

She surveyed  her hand, thought for a second and nodded. ‘That would be kind,’ she said. ‘Do we walk?’

‘No, I’ve got a car just over the hill. All this stuff is awkward to carry, especially if it rains. I hate painting outside.’

‘So why are you doing it? Don’t you paint landscapes?’

‘No, not usually. I mostly paint figures and portraits, but I needed a scene to put a figure into, so that’s why I’m here. What about you, I didn’t see you coming down the path. How did you get here?’

She pointed towards the cliff beyond the little beach. ‘Up there.’

  He followed her arm to the jagged cliff face. The clouds had blown off and the sun shone brightly, highlighting the razor sharp outlines and overhangs where the wind and sea had, over thousands of years, shaped the faces and angles. A guillemot circled lazily over the sea and, nearer the shore, a pair of Gannets circled high,  before diving vertically into the water below for their mackerel  breakfast.

‘That’s some climb,’ he said simply.

‘If you want to take pictures of birds, you have to go where they live,’ she pointed out. ‘Anyway, I’m quite a good climber and these rope soled shoes have built in suction pads.’

She laughed again. A friendly, understanding laugh. No under-current of mockery.  Angwyn was convinced that he had never met anyone so easy to talk to or indeed who he wanted so much to paint.

‘Would you let me paint you?’ He blurted and immediately regretted it. They had only just met and she was bound to be insulted or think that he was trying it on.

‘I think you already have.’ She held out her hand for inspection. ‘Come on, I’ll help you carry your things.’ They gathered together his equipment; he lifted the canvas and before he could turn she  swung the heavy easel onto her spare shoulder, picked up the canvas stool with her other hand and marched up the little path to the brow of the hillock. He stared at her long, slim and muscular legs, with tight buttocks moving rhythmically beneath thin trousers before he collected the rest of his baggage and followed her up the narrow stony path. His car, with hood folded down was parked next to a low stone hedge. A herring gull stood on the bonnet, taunting him  to come closer, if he dared. He yelled and waved his bag in its face. It flew away into the breeze while angrily complaining. It left a messy calling card on the bonnet so he rubbed it off with his sleeve before piling his kit onto the back seat and taking her hold-all, placed it  on top of the pile. He opened the passenger door. ‘Be careful as you get in, he warned, ‘the floor’s a bit rusted in places.’ He pointed to the ensemble hanging from her neck. ‘That’s a lot of camera.’

She told him that she was a  wild life photographer and busy preparing a collection for a glossy magazine. She had been searching for the rarest of Cornish birds, the chough. She had heard the legend  that King Arthur’s soul departed to heaven within a chough and its red beak and talons signified his bloody end! Up until the Nineteenth century cattle and sheep grazed  the cliff edges. The short cropped grass provided a perfect habitat for the insects and bugs upon which the birds feasted. When farmers moved the livestock inland, the grass no longer grazed,  grew so long that the birds could not  feed and thus disappeared from the landscape. She had heard a rumour that there had been a sighting on the Lizard and had come in search.

‘Any luck?’ He asked.

‘No. I think the rumour is just that.’

He grinned. ‘There’s an old boy lives up the coast; he organises all sorts of trips for tourists, dolphin hunters and, especially twitchers. I expect the rumour started with him.’

‘What’s a twitcher?’ She asked.

‘Oh, it’s a slang word for bird watchers. I guess, in a way, that’s what you are.’

She rubbed her chin, thoughtfully. ‘Is that a derogatory term?’

‘No. It’s just a word. Not rude or anything. Anyway, you’re a bit off the beaten track. How did you get here?’

‘I’m staying at a little pub in Mullion. I walked along the cliffs.’

‘Phew, that’s a hike.’

‘Well, you should know. We all have to suffer for our art!’ She grinned at him and he grinned back ruefully, at his own morning’s disaster.

At the third push of the starter button the engine fired into life. Angwyn engaged first gear and steered the little car along the rough track to the metalled road beyond. Iona  asked him what type of car it was.

‘Austin seven. Pearl Cabriolet. Nineteen Thirty Five. Quite rare now,’ He couldn’t keep the pride from his voice.

‘You certainly know your automobiles.’

He picked up the word automobile. ‘Are you American?’

‘Yes and no. How did you guess?’

‘Automobile. We say car.’

‘It’s nothing to do with my accent then?’ She asked.

‘You don’t sound very American to me.’

‘Ah Ha! Well I’m not really. My folks are Scottish. So am I of course, but we have lived in the States since before the war so I guess I’ve picked up some of the inflexions. Anyway, how do you know so much about these auto-‘, she quickly corrected herself, ‘cars?’

‘I used to work in in my father’s garage at home, before I went to art college.’ He replied.

  ‘Where’s home for you?’

  He took his eyes off the road to look into her eyes: ‘Wales,’ he said: ‘It’s a bit like Cornwall but better!’

  She nodded until she called out: ‘what’s that, in front of us?’

  Angwyn turned his eyes  to the road in front of him, in time to see the milk cart  behind a huge shire horse: they were heading straight towards it and the figure on the cart was waving  in their direction and yelling in alarm. Angwyn swerved hard left to return to his own side of the road and brought the Austin to a slithering halt. He looked up to the figure perched on the cart bench:  ‘Sorry Jake, I didn’t see you there for a moment.’ He apologised.

‘I could see that for myself, boy. Only got eyes for the lady!’ He leaned over the side of his cart to study her more closely, before chuckling. ‘Mind you, in your place, I would be doing just the same.’

He flicked the reins and the massive horse lumbered on its way. They heard him chuckling to himself as he went. ‘You wait ‘till I tell the lads in the pub. Young Angwyn with a beautiful woman in his car, nearly ran straight into me and Bernard. Oh dear, oh dear!’

  ‘Who is Bernard?’ Iona asked.

  ‘He’s the horse.’ Angwyn replied while blushing to his ear tips.

They drove for a while without speaking. It was late April  and the countryside was beginning to awaken after a long winter. A sprawling crowd of primroses filled the verges with a stretch of joyful yellow and a hint of wild garlic permeated the salty air. Angwyn’s previous bad temper had been superseded  by a mood of elation. He was unexpectedly, completely, blissfully happy. His little car purred along the otherwise empty road. The sun, rising higher in the sky, warmed his face and this beautiful woman he was about to paint, sat at his side. True, she hadn’t actually agreed to sit for him, but she had accepted his offer of soap and hot water. It was a favourable start and she hadn’t dismissed the matter out of hand. He smiled to himself and glanced across at his passenger. She was leaning back in her seat, one elbow resting on the cutaway side of the car door, while her right arm lay relaxed across her thigh. The sunlight danced in her auburn hair and she too, appeared to be at peace with the world.

Just before the village he swung the Austin off the road and through a pair of lichen covered, granite gate pillars and into a circular farmyard. He parked outside a ramshackle timber and glazed porch. The main part of the house itself was uncompromising. Brooding, square granite walls, a pitched roof covered with moss  laden slates and weather beaten window frames with only occasional traces of paint. A cold house built to withstand the South Westerly winds that prevailed along this Atlantic facing coast. Iona shivered. Even though the sun was shining it felt that the temperature had sharply dropped and she had goose bumps on her arms.

Angwyn climbed out from his side and walked around and behind the car to open the passenger door for his guest. His father had taught him to do it this way. Together with his garage business he had run the village taxi service and had learned from a local chauffeur that passengers expected their drivers to walk behind rather than in front of the car. Both father and son thought this to be outmoded and funny yet for some reason they continued the habit. Iona’s slim forearm still rested on the door frame so he waited for her to move it before opening the door.

‘This is it. Here we are.’

‘Well, thank you, kind sir.’ A flashing smile brought a new grin to his face. She climbed out of the car, her long legs unfurling from the confined space and stood by his side, staring up at the house.

‘Is it yours?’

‘Well I sort of have a bit of it. A friend of mine owns it and I pay him rent.’

‘What rent is that, exactly?’ A cheerful voice boomed out from an open first floor window

Iona jumped back. ‘Who’s that?’

‘I’m the wicked landlord,’ replied the voice. ‘Hang on, I’m coming down. I can’t leave a damsel alone with this debased Welshman!’

Angwyn held out his  hands in surrender. ‘He is only teasing you. He doesn’t mean it,’ he said helplessly. Iona called out that he was being very cruel to the man who was going to wash her hands, and anyway she was big enough to look after herself. A clattering of feet on the uncarpeted stairs and out bounded Henry Barncott. Iona almost gasped. Probably, no never,, had she seen such an achingly beautiful human being. Where Angwyn was short and dark, Henry was tall and fair. Probably in his late twenties, he was slim, lithe and elegant, even in his old cords and woolly jumper. A perfectly shaped head sat on a strong neck leading into powerful shoulders. A lightly tanned skin, with clear complexion, straight nose, long-ish upper lip and startlingly white teeth. He had blue eyes, lighter than Angwyn’s, and a mop of unkempt blond hair. She wondered how he managed to combine such an air of innocent boyishness with an aura of urbane sophistication.

‘How d’ye do, I’m Henry Barncott, wicked landlord at your service.’ His eyes danced merrily as he shook her hand whilst simultaneously clapping Angwyn on the back with his other.

‘Where did you get to, Angwy? But now I see. Abducting fair ladies before dawn. I’ve warned you about this. You’re not in the valleys now, you know!’ He released them both and bent over the back of the car to carry Iona’s holdall. ’Come on in, you can tell me all about it over a cup of tea. We’re right out of coffee at the moment.’ He ushered her towards the house leaving Angwyn  to follow with his kit.

‘Should we not help him?’ Iona asked.

‘Heavens, no! He’s touchy about things like that. It comes from being Welsh, you know. They always need to prove that they’re stronger than the rest of us.’

Angwyn scowled at him and muttered sub voce something that might have been a Celtic curse.

He dropped his lumber in the porch and pushing past his friend, led Iona to the kitchen. He pointed to the old brown sink and turned on the tap. ‘It will take a while for the hot water to come through; we’ll use turps first and there’s some soap here to get rid of the smell and I’ll fetch you a clean towel.’

Not to be outdone, Henry hurried to the old range and busied himself with the kettle before spooning black tea leaves into an evil looking earthenware pot.

‘There’s some milk in the pantry; Jake called this morning and I managed to extend our credit. I got some butter too.’

  ‘Is that Jake who we met on the road just now?’ Iona asked.

  Angwyn answered hurriedly: ‘Yes, he’s the milkman.’

The water turned hot from the tap and Iona scrubbed her hands with a brush and the soap. There had been very little paint and oil on her hands and she had little need of it, but her curiosity had caused her to accept the offer. Now, she thought, not only a Welsh artist but a willowy and very beautiful young Englishman living in the same house. How curious!

Henry carried the old pot and three mugs to the table before disappearing into the pantry to return with a bottle of milk and a much battered biscuit tin. ‘I’ll be mother, how do you like it?’

‘Oh, black for me please. No sugar.’ Iona replied.

Henry poured the tea and passed around the old biscuit tin. They sipped their drinks from chipped mugs although Henry had been careful to offer the best one to their guest.  Both men nibbled at ginger biscuits from the tin while Iona surveyed her surroundings. The table was of old heavy oak, scarred and pitted by many years of use , but the seats  were highly polished and shaped by legions of men who lived a life of struggle, that reminded her of home.

Henry added a style to the ceremony that would have fitted perfectly in The Ritz. She had only been to The Ritz once and that was for afternoon tea. Artur had taken her there for a treat one day. He said that everyone should go for tea even if just once. She was both impressed and deeply appalled at the displays of opulent luxury and the stark social divisions between customers and staff. It flew in the face of everything she believed in, yet Artur seemed quite at ease, nodding familiarly with other customers. Obviously a regular visitor, he called the waiter by his first name and asked after his family. She brought herself back to the present moment. The kitchen was large and, she guessed, used as a living room by generations of farmers. Strong rays of sunlight slanted in through the window making a glare towards the sink area but the walls, in shadow, were variously dark green and an ugly brownish cream as wall paper and paint had been added, and discarded. The tiled floor rose and fell with the contours of the ground beneath, yet the whole, unlike the chill exterior was warm and comforting.

‘Hope you don’t think I’m being rude and too American, but how come you two know each other?’

Henry was first to speak; explaining that he was  a poet and novelist. He had  been demobbed after serving his two years as a conscripted soldier and with a few other  would-be writers and general layabouts had rented a flat in London’s Earls Court.  One day, with nothing better to do, he had wandered into an exhibition of modern paintings where he met the artist Angwyn Hywel Thomas. Soon the second son of a famous industrialist and member of parliament, and the only son of a Welsh garage man and local taxi driver had become firm friends.

‘My Da owned his garage and two taxis,’ Angwyn interrupted the flow, exaggerating his Welsh accent. ‘It was good of me to take this English ne’er do well into my life. He was going down the drain fast until I put him straight.’

‘Anyhow,’ Henry ignored the interruption and continued, ‘Angwy was looking for a place to rest his curly Welsh head and one of my flat mates was leaving so I took him in and, oddly, we found that we got on really well.’ He looked to Angwyn for support.

‘Yes, that’s sort of how it went. Anyway, Barny-.’

‘Who’s Barny?’ Iona interrupted.

‘Me,’ said Henry. ‘They call me that. It’s a shortened version of my name. I call him Angwy!’

Iona nodded without understanding. They both waited for Angwyn to continue.

‘As I was saying, we  spent a couple of years in this flat. Things started to go downhill after a while. Barny couldn’t get a publisher and no-one was buying my work. Money was tight and we needed to find somewhere cheaper to live where we could carry on working.’

He paused for Henry to take over the story. He explained that this house belonged to his family. The land here had been farmed by the Trebah family for generations, but Walter Trebah and his wife were childless and after his wife died old Walter struggled on for a few more years before he finally succumbed. After he died, and with no close relatives to take over the farm the tenancy lapsed. The land was let to a nearby farmer who had been eying it for years but he did not want the house, so it remained vacant and continued its journey towards dereliction. When his family offered it to Henry rent free, providing he looked after it, he jumped at the opportunity to be able to live cheaply with plenty of time to work. He told Angwyn of his good fortune and they took a trip in the old car to inspect their new home. It was perfect. A little outside  the village with  pub, baker and general stores within walking distance, yet quiet and big enough for them to live and work without disturbing each other. The villagers gossiped amongst themselves but found the new tenants friendly and personable and not a bit ‘up country’. Henry even managed to get the occasional tick account at the local shops.

The large double bedroom at the front of the house was Henry’s domain. Here he planted a table and typewriter so villagers walking to and fro would hear the clatter of his machine and marvel at his industry. ‘He must be writing a bleddy long book,’ they would tell each other in the snug bar of the pub.

The upper rear wing was Angwyn’s domain. A huge room with South facing