The Curious Case of the Bookshop in Brighton
by Francis-Marie de Châtillon
Harry Fielding was a happy man. His messy divorce being now finalised,
he could get on with the rest of his life, which, he reasoned, at 45
left him quite a few years ahead. He’d got out of London and away from
the secondary school where he taught and move to Brighton at the
beginning of the month. Harry was still discovering the details of
Brighton and Hove and the various watering-holes for which it is famous
(hated the Royal Pavilion, loved the Great Eastern pub). Harry had
managed to come out of his divorce with enough money in the bank to buy
a small, Victorian terraced house in Cuthbert Road, in the Queen’s Park
area, up near the hospital. He loved it. There was a corner shop almost
across the road and a pub at the end, which happily for him wasn’t
noisy at chuck-out time on Fridays and Saturdays. He planned to do a
bit of redecorating just to put his mark on it, so to speak. With this
in mind, Harry was out-and-about this Saturday morning looking to buy a
few inexpensive things to dot about.
The sun shone brightly this late April morning as Harry strolled into
the Lanes, that narrow, winding system of passages that used to be the
centre of the old fishing town of Brighthelmstone, to explore some of
the quaint there. He stopped at a pawnbroker's to examine some
second-hand signet rings; something he wanted to get for his right hand
now he'd taken off his wedding ring of near twenty years. He browsed in
two or three bookshops; he had taken a keen interest in reading now,
rather than spend the evening sprawled in front of the television. He
had a coffee in a small café before moving on to the antique shops and
‘curiosity’ shops that abound.
Turning into one lane he found what looked to be a strange shop. The
front windows were a yellow colour, as if they had that old cellophane
over them from years ago to stop things from fading in the window. They
were also well below eye level, which indicated to Harry that it was a
basement, yet it had no upper parts. It looked queerly old, with an odd
entrance that made him go up four or five steps only to descend again
when inside.
The interior of the shop was no less curious than the outside: it was a
veritable Aladdin’s cave of old leather-bound volumes, antique mirrors,
paintings and what-not else. Everything was dusty. The light was
noticeably dim and the recesses of the room quite dark. Chaos seemed to
be the order of the day. To his surprise there appeared to be nobody
attending the shop: he called out to announce himself but no one
answered or came to attend him. Harry felt a little uncomfortable
looking around seemingly alone, but he shifted about in the gloom
finding old silver teapots piled up in one corner, along with some
goblets of all sorts of shapes and sizes. Then, he moved on to some
very old Venetian mirrors. At these he contemplated whether one of the
larger ones would suit in the living room; but then dismissed it, as
seeing himself too often would make him feel a glutton for punishment.
Looking farther around he saw vast piles of what looked like mixed
art-work: canvases of all sizes with and without frames, prints, and
drawings likewise stacked against a wall. Now, these interested Harry
as he was looking for some things to hang on the walls, and so he set
to amongst them. He went through dozens but, strangely, nothing caught
his eye. Harry was just about to turn away and give up, when the corner
of a small panel painting, about 10x8ins, caught his eye. He pulled it
out from under a couple of prints and studied it closely.
It was a small portrait of a stately-looking elderly man in what seemed
Renaissance clothing. He was obviously wealthy and although almost
square to the picture-plane, appeared to be eyeing someone over to his
left, engaging their attention. Harry liked it and he put it aside. He
then noticed there was another small picture again mostly hidden in
amongst other material, and so he tugged that out also. He smiled
broadly. It was another fine-looking panel portrait, about the same
size as the other; only this was of a younger man in his mid-fifties.
He too looked authoritative and commanding in his aspect and attire;
Harry put the portrait down with the other.
Suddenly, a man appeared from out of nowhere from behind something.
Startled, Harry jumped; the man had, seemingly, materialised instantly
in the manner of Jeeves in one of Wodehouse’s books. Seeing Harry jump
he sort of bounced backwards.
“Oh! I’m so sorry to have come on you so suddenly, please forgive me!”
the man apologised.
Harry smiled back weakly. He was looking into the visage of a small,
almost wizened man, whose face was crazed with lines. In contrast to
his frame, his face was plump, possessed of two very prominent buccal
fat pads, which accentuated his deep nasolabial creases. Harry thought
this chap seemed to be eyeing him pretty much as a man might a juicy
steak after a fast.
"Are you the owner?" Harry asked at last, pushing aside his thoughts.
“Oh yes. Indeed, dear sir!” he fired back with pronounced enthusiasm.
He held his hand out in greeting. Harry took it and to his surprise
received a firm and vigorous handshake.
“Well, can I ask you about these two portraits here?” Harry said,
holding them up. “Do you know who the artist might be, by any chance?”
“Ahhhhh now” the elderly gentleman let out. “These are two very fine
pieces, of course. Who the artist is or the sitters, however, I'm
afraid I don't know. I bought them at auction and the auction house was
also at a loss to identify them." At this, he beamed in a wistful sort
of way. Harry thought him a very strange old bird.
“What price is on them Mr………” His voice trailed off, yet the old man
did not supply a name, but just eyed him with his head tilted to one
side. “Because I’m interested in buying them for my house. I’ve just
moved here you see.” Why Harry supplied the last intelligence, he had
no idea.
“Oh, my dear man, congratulations! Con-grat-u-lations! He expostulated
grandly. Harry found this almost comic and wondered if the man's bow
tie would suddenly start spinning like an air screw on a Spitfire;
then, as if pulled by one, the old man shot forward and slapped Harry
smartly on the back a couple of times.
"Er, thanks." Harry said, surprised. He looked and felt like a recently
confounded Pharisee.
"Now, price! Yeeees, price." The old man looked thoughtful for a moment
and then cried out theatrically, “Let’s say £5 each! Yes, I say, £5 the
two!” Harry thought, “This guy’s nuts”.
Despite the bargain being well in his favour, Harry began to explain he
couldn’t possibly pay so little, but the eccentric old gentleman
wouldn’t hear of it; he was practically pressing Harry to take them.
“Think of it as a small welcoming gift to our town, young man!” Again,
Harry thought, “Yep, this guy’s seriously nuts!”
Harry paid the £5, again protesting the smallness of the sum, and in
return, as if prepared beforehand, the strange old man produced a
receipt of almost A4 size written in what looked like copperplate. The
man thanked Harry profusely, pumped his hand vigorously and all but
danced for joy about the shop. Harry didn’t pretend to understand this
queer old man and his eccentric manner—he was just glad he’d got the
pictures. Harry left the shop a contented man. On the way home, he made
a small detour to Trafalgar Street to sink a pint in the Eastern, and
then another near his house at the Cuthbert. As he downed the second he
thought, “That old man seemed pretty pleased to be rid of those
paintings—hope they’re not stolen goods!”
At home, he thought about in which room the paintings would look their
best, and decided on his bedroomwall at the foot of his bed. There, he
reasoned, he could sit up and look at them as he read his books before
sleeping.
Harry measured out the height and distance apart for the two paintings
and knocked a couple of masonry nails into the wall. He placed the
portraits so it appeared the elderly man looking to his left was
engaging the other slightly younger man. Harry felt most pleased with
this small creative touch. That night he again popped out to the pub
and then ordered an Indian takeaway. He watched about 30 minutes of
some banal television programme before he felt like shooting himself,
then decided that his bed called.
He wearily climbed the stairs and, after a quick trip to the bathroom,
slipped on his PJs and got under the quilt. He sat pondering the two
pictures before him. Who were they? What lives had they had? Were they
even real people, or did they only exist in the imagination of the
artist? The last, he hoped was not the case; he much preferred a real
backstory to his new purchases. Harry was reading The Thirty-Nine Steps
at the moment—he was about halfway through—and he loved it! Reading was
far better than the TV. Soon, his eyes began to close, the Steps slid
from his hand and Harry slept.
Part 2
There was a noise: a loud one. It had come from somewhere in the
street. Sitting up smartly, he listened then checked his watch. It was
nearly 3am, so it couldn’t have been some pisshead from the pub. He
wondered about an intruder somewhere; then dismissed the
thought—intruders tend to be very quiet. After a few minutes listening,
the street being again silent, he turned over and tried to sleep,
cursing whatever it was that had woken him.
As he lay, he thought he could hear very faint whisperings; straining
his ears hard he wondered what it could be. He could swear there was
something, but it was just out of reach. What on earth was it? Maybe it
was just a figment of his imagination brought on by the startling
noise. He tried to sleep but quite in vain, as the ever-so-slight
whisperings continued. “This is quite maddening!” he said aloud, and
throwing his legs out the bed he jumped up.
In the kitchen he made some tea, hoping it would relax him and aid his
return to sleep. Harry noticed immediately that down here the strange
whispering had stopped. He went into the living room, which was at the
front of the house, like his bedroom, and listened. There was nothing.
He opened the front door and peered out; only an empty street greeted
him.
He drank his tea and went upstairs and tried to settle. He turned off
the bed-side light but not even a minute passed before the whispering
started again. This time they were more audible; but he couldn’t make
out what was being said--but said something was--he was certain.
“Sod this nonsense!” Harry cried. He sprang up again, and grabbing the
golf club he wisely or unwisely kept by the bed (his ex-wife had
serious mixed feeling about this habit as a security measure), he flew
down the stairs determined to confront whoever the bastards were that
interfered with his rest.
He flung the front door open and strode out into the garden and looked
around. Checking the street and around the house he found nothing.
Harry decided they were hiding. Whacking the club on the path Harry
shouted, “OK you fuckers. Come out. Now!” But no one materialised from
anywhere. He waited then shouted again whacking the club a second time.
Yet still nothing.
“Well whoever you are you’d better piss off quick, or I’ll call the
police to you. See if I fucking don’t, you arseholes!” Frustrated, he
went inside. He wondered if he’d woken the neighbours.
For the second time Harry climbed the stairs to try and sleep. He was
frustrated. “It’s enough to make a monk wank” he said to himself. As he
entered the bedroom again he thought he heard something; but this time
he just thought “Fuck it.” and jumped under the quilt. This time Harry
was soon asleep.
He was in the throes of a terrible dream. Harry was revolving about in
the bed like a top, his pyjamas damp with perspiration. Rain was
pouring down somewhere and a frightful wind was howling around the
house; just above the noise Harry could hear arguing and shouting. He
woke with a terrible start, gasping for breath. To his amazement the
weather had changed dramatically from earlier and the storm of his
dream was real. He must have somehow imported it into his sleep he
realised, and he shivered despite being hot. Harry padded to the
bathroom opposite his bedroom, and shaking off his PJs he turned on the
water to freshen himself. Harry was just soaping himself over in the
shower when, through the hiss of water, he heard it: a low anguished
moan, slow as pouring treacle, came from somewhere very near to him.
Then:
“You killed him. Murderers! Oh, murderers all, you accursed family.”
This was followed by another long stomach-wrenching moan of grief.
Harry stood statue-still fearing some lunatic intruder. Staring though
the steam and involuntarily holding his breath, he watched to see if
the door handle would turn: he hadn’t locked the door and felt like
bolting over to secure it to improvise a sort of safe room.
“All your grasping family deserve to die, Piero de’ Medici. It’s a
shame and a pity only Giuliano met his fate that day.” The voice was
rasping and harsh. “Bernardo and my nephew, Francesco, could only do
half the task with the knife, for they couldn’t kill your Lorenzo also.
Those inept priests are to blame for that, curse them!”
“You are a pig Jacopo de’ Pazzi! He snapped. “Ahhh, but look what
honeyed vengeance we took on your family. He cried with relish. “You:
hanged from the Palazzo Vecchio along with the decomposing Archbishop
Salviati--the bastard who plotted with you all. Your precious Francesco
de’ Pazzi: hanged! And that cur Bernado Baroncelli.” The voice let out
a bitter laugh.
The voices wore on at each other in similar vein, one accusing the
other hideously. The one Jacopo was given grisly treatment: buried in
some church, he was later dug up and dragged through the streets.
Buried again, he was apparently disinterred a second time and propped
up by children against the door of his own house. His rotting skull
being used as a macabre door-knocker. Harry listened and wondered if he
was having some psychiatric interlude. He felt like his legs might give
way.
Then, as if a radio had been suddenly switched off, the voices went
silent; in fact, Harry thought it must be a radio programme now the
gruesome dialogue had abruptly stopped. Vivifying himself, so to speak,
he jumped out the shower, wrapped a towel round him and went to the
bedroom. He stopped dead. Harry looked at the pictures disbelievingly:
where they had been square to the wall minutes before they were now
tilted at crazy angles. “How the………?” he muttered.
Quite alarmed now, Harry went round the house checking for disturbances
and turning on all the lights; his house shone out like a small
football stadium. He even checked to see if the radio in the kitchen
was switched off. Under an impulse, he turned it on to be greeted by
some cacophonous crap that masqueraded as music. He twitched the dial
and reached a night time phone-in programme. “I’d just like to know if
anyone else out there has seen aliens slinking about in their garden at
night?” the caller was asking. His doom-laden voice was deep and
croaky, betraying a forty-a-day smoker. He rambled on about some
seriously abstruse theory that was, predictably, all his own work.
“Ye gods! The nutters of the night. That’s all I need.” Harry said.
“He’s enough to make me want to piss of to Pluto.” He wondered if the
caller might get kidnapped by the skulking aliens in his shrubbery and
thereby give humanity a chance; then whispered, “Probably no such
fucking luck.”
Satisfied that windows and doors were still secure he went back to the
bedroom. Harry slowly approached the paintings and then, hesitantly,
straightened them. Suspending his disbelief, he put it down to a sudden
baffling draught—perhaps wind gusting down the chimney. Still, even
with this explanation, he had a creepy ‘not alone’ feeling crawling up
his spine and making its way, steady as a march of ants, to his neck.
He spun round suddenly frightened. “Get a grip man!” he chided himself.
Harry got back into bed after climbing into a clean set of pyjamas and
propped himself up. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. The wind and rain
was still engulfing the house. Nameless things banged in the street and
he heard a roof tile crash nearby. Harry remembered the newspaper story
of the famous ‘hurricane’ in the eighties. A huge piece of thick
plastic had taken flight from a flat roof and hit a chimney at colossal
speed, bringing it down into a bloke’s bedroom where he was getting
over the flu. Had it hit him his recovery would have been pointless.
After, what seemed like hours, Harry dozed off despite the
meteorological turmoil outside.
His slumber was short. A furious exchanged started up again and in
astonishment he fell from his bed. He got up and stared across the room
to where the voices emanated. “The fucking things are talking to each
other!” he cried aloud in shock and fear. Every nerve ending on his
head started to tingle. With a scream he fled the room smashing into
the door jamb in his panic, giving himself a huge blow to the chin
which dislodged two teeth. He careered madly to the top of the stairs,
and in his wild haste to get out the house, tripped. Harry fell
headlong tumbling over and over, finally hitting the bottom with an
ominous crash.
Harry was eventually discovered some days later, as a neighbour
reported all the lights on day and night and thought it warranted
investigation. Harry was found at the bottom of the stairs in a heap,
his neck clearly broken as his head was almost looking behind him.
Ignominiously, his pyjamas were round his ankles revealing his
nakedness. He looked rather ridiculous.
Part 3
David, Harry’s son, came to make the necessary arrangements for the
funeral and see that his late father’s affairs were up to date. It was
while looking through his dad’s various papers that he came across the
receipt for the two panel paintings in his father’s bedroom. Now, David
took a particular interest in this because he had been to art school.
He was intrigued that such paintings cost so little. Therefore, after a
few days he went in search of the shop taking the elaborate receipt
with him. David had no clear idea of why he wanted to do this. He had a
vague notion the paintings were quite valuable; but if so, their price
was ludicrous. He felt, also, a strange presence around them and it
made him jittery. David found the lane and turned into it. At first he
thought it was the wrong lane, as there was no shop at the number on
the receipt: well, there was, but not a bookshop. David found himself
looking into a small 7/11 supermarket. He walked about searching, but
nothing. David thought this really odd and asked about, but no one
remembered a shop anything like the one he described: seemingly, it had
vanished.
That night, as David slept in the spare room, he thought he could hear
people arguing somewhere—probably just outside in the street. It seemed
a bitter argument, he thought, through his sleepy haze.
Part 4
Now that the funeral was over, David contacted a classy firm of art
auctioneers to get some idea of the worth of the two paintings. Two
days later he was in the office of a London firm laying the two
portraits out on a large mahogany table. Two experts were in attendance
and both admired the quality of the work: its colour, details, and the
expert rendering. David left them with the auctioneers so they could do
some research, and went back to Brighton to conclude his father’s
affairs. Some days later he received a call from the company asking him
to come back up to London. David went again in the afternoon of the
next day, but no wiser than before, as the auctioneer said he wanted to
talk to David in person.
David reached the office about 4pm and was, to his amazement, shown
straight into a plush room. It was quite a step up from his first visit
and encouraged he sat in a large Chesterfield. Coffee was brought for
him and a selection of biscuits.
The door opened after a few minutes and two rather posh figures strode
confidently into the room. These were not the men he saw previously.
They introduced themselves as senior partners. David’s heart was
beating quickly now as he smelt money.
“Well, Mr Fielding, we have a very interesting story for you and also
an offer we hope you will consider most seriously.” It was the taller
of the two who spoke first. His voice was mellow and well-practiced;
something between a solicitor and a lounge-lizard. He was also quite
swarthy. David thought he would be the one who would conduct whatever
negotiations they were starting.
“Very interesting, indeed. We’ve tracked down who these two people
are—and in quite some detail too.” The other added. In looks, he was
clearly the more pleasure seeking of the two: fully-girthed with
sensual red lips that could do justice to Botox. A premiere league
two-fisted drinker, David thought.
“Firstly, be assured we’re very happy to tell you Mr Fielding that they
are late fifteenth-century Italian.” The taller confirmed with a wide
smile and gleaming teeth.
“Florentine actually, unsurprisingly.” The shorter now. David wondered
if they were some kind of regular double act at these gigs.
This thought was confirmed when his partner went on to explain, “What
you have here, Mr Fielding, are portraits of Jacopo de’ Pazzi,” and he
held up one of the small pictures in a white-gloved hand, “and here,
Piero di Cosimo de’ Medici called ‘The Gouty’. Both were noble
Florentines in the quattrocento and both were head of their respective
family; however, Piero had died earlier in 1469 and the succession went
to his eldest son, Lorenzo. Lorenzo sported the appellation ‘The
Magnificent’.”
“Eh? The quat-what?” David queried.
“Fourteen hundreds, Mr Fielding. The fourteen hundreds.” Again, it was
an interjection by the florid, venal one.
What you have here, Mr Fielding, are two rival members of the most
powerful families in Florence; a piece of history relating to the
Congiura dai Pazzi or Pazzi Conspiracy. And a gory one it was Mr
Fielding, with much high drama and bloodshed!” David’s eyes widened,
more because he could see pound signs and hear the ring of a till.
“Now imagine the scene Mr Fielding: it is Easter Sunday and High Mass
is being chanted in Florence’s Santa Maria delle Fiore cathedral. A
crowd of around ten thousand has gathered outside and all the nobles of
Florence are inside. Sacred music and swirling incense. But in this
sacrosanct space an assignation plot to kill Lorenzo and his brother is
about to unfold.
“At the elevation of the host, Lorenzo’s brother, Giuliano de’ Medici,
is suddenly set upon by Francesco de’ Pazzi and his friend Bernardo
Bandini dei Baroncelli and savagely murdered. A skull splitting blow
from a sword strikes him and he is stabbed some nineteen times in the
chest. Worshipers fall back in horror as blood spurts from Giuliano’s
brain and heart. Francesco’s blood-lust is so fierce he even stabs
himself in the leg.
“As Giuliano bleads to death on the cathedral’s marble floor, Lorenzo
is attacked also; two priests who were coerced into the plot grab him
from behind. Lorenzo is standing up by the high alter and the priests
being unschooled in the art of assassination fail to make a lethal
strike. Despite receiving a stab wound in the neck he escapes to the
sacristy with the aid of his friend Angelo Ambrogini—better known by
his nickname Poliziano.”
The other partner took over the narrative: “High drama indeed Mr
Fielding. There were many famous co-plotters who lent help, but
principally it was Pope Sixtus IV, Francisco Salviati the Archbishop of
Pisa, and the famous condottiere Federico da Montefeltro with his six
hundred men who were to secure the city when the brothers had been
killed.
“A coordinated attempt to capture the Gonfaloniere and the
Signoria—rather like our Mayor and Council--was thwarted when the
archbishop and head of the Salviati clan were trapped in a room where
the doors were held by a hidden latch. Jacopo de’ Pazzi went to the
Pizza Vecchio to persuade the crowds to support the coup, but with
mixed success; worse, the Papal-supported troops didn’t arrive and
without the capture of the Signoria and lock down of the city, the plot
then ultimately failed.” His voice trailing to a soft dramatic whisper.
David sat transfixed at the story and super-transfixed at the thought
of what this might do to up his financial rewards.
“Now, imagine the fear of the Pazzi and their co-conspirators.” The
other continued. “Bloodshed and revenge follow: the Piazza Vecchio
becomes a theatre of grim reckoning. With popular outrage and family
retribution, corpses of the guilty soon lay about the city. Over the
next few days the Pazzi family are executed or exiled. Others, are
beaten and mutilated. Francesco de' Pazzi is hanged from the third
window of the Loggia dei Lanzi along with Archbishop Salviati. Old
Jacopo de’ Pazzi and the priest conspirators suffer the same fate.
Bernardo Baroncelli flees to Constantinople but later is captured and
returned in fetters for execution. In all, over eighty conspirators are
dead.
“The Pazzi name was then expunged from Florence Mr Fielding—the dolphin
arms of the family chiselled off stone and street names changed. Anyone
bearing the Pazzi name were made to change it; anyone married into the
Pazzi were barred from public office.”
The relator looked at David and could see he was fully engaged in the
narrative. David thought this was the time to cut to the chase.
“That’s quite a back story! So, this must make them quite valuable
works of art then? If, and I say if, I wanted to sell them, that is.”
David intended to play this close to his chest.
“Oh, indeed Mr Fielding! The two partners said almost in unison. David
had an image of Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
“At auction they could raise many thousands each. But there again,
maybe not. It can be quite uncertain. You may not even get your
reserve. Can be difficult.” Said the corpulent partner. “Which is why
we want you to consider selling the pictures in a private sale. Mr
Westerman here is prepared to offer you a very large sum to have them
in his collection at home.” He indicated his tall business partner.
“Large sum, you say?” David found it hard to enunciate as he had a very
dry mouth now.
“A million pounds. In cash.” David realised that it was actually the
corpulent guy conducting the details of this negotiation. He’d got it
all wrong.
“You see Mr Fielding I would really love to have them. Really I would!”
Mr Westerman cried. I have a particular interest in Florentine history,
which explains the large sum I am prepared to pay. My offer is a very
good one, sir.”
David was thinking if he could talk the price up, but he was young and
inexperienced in these things. The thought of a million pounds was too
tempting to mess up by being greedy. David accepted the deal. Mr
Westerman had a private bill-of-sale ready prepared and took David’s
bank details. Within fifteen minutes David was able to confirm the
transfer and ‘as happy as Larry’ he left the offices.
Novis Finis
Mr Westerman had fallen asleep on the sofa in his living room. It was
well after 12 O'clock and the lighting was dim; he could just make out
the two newly acquired portraits he was so pleased to have. He let out
a sigh of happiness. Then his blood began to run cold: the screams and
accusations of murder rang around the room.
THE END
© 2020 Francis-Marie de Châtillon
Bio: British. Lives in London and Florence. Professional art
historian and lecturer. In a long-term domestic partnership with an NHS
midwife. Lived in Brazil and Spain. New to fiction writing. Facebook
pages.
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