Buried in Clay by Priscilla Masters Read Free Book Online Page A

portrait of a Tudor woman, painted in muted colours on an oak panel and the dealer had wrapped it up for me in newspaper tied with twine. I had no sympathy for him. If he had no eye for art he should, at least, have recognised the antiquity of the oak panel the portrait was painted on. There was no signature on the bottom. Possibly there never had been one and that was another reason why he had undervalued it and missed its worth. I was wary of signatures anyway. They are easy to fake. But the lack of one did not detract from my instinct for the portrait. Besides – behind the lady was a dark linen fold panel draped with a curtain and from my experience it was possible that the artist had concealed his mark amongst the drapes of the material.
    She was wearing a fine dress bordered with Brussels lace. Around her neck was a ruff. Her hands were white and slim and sported one large ruby ring set in gold. Her hair was a lighter shade of brown than mine and her eyes seemed to me to hold a certain compassion. She was not, in my opinion, a beautiful woman but she had a fine face, pale porcelain skin (probably aided by lead), an obstinate, strong chin and intelligent eyes. I did notknow her name but between myself and this nameless woman in her fine clothes and hard stare had sprung up an odd acquaintance. She had become both friend and confidante. At times I almost felt a physical bond between myself and this unknown woman from four hundred years ago. The picture felt part of my heritage now, as I believed the jug might soon become. Other women may have a cat or a dog or a budgerigar to welcome them home from a day’s work but my welcome was this proud friend who never even looked at me other than coldly, with her own brand of supercilious hostility, as though my very presence offended her.
    And yet we were friends. I stared up at her. Oh, she was a haughty one, this Tudor woman, studying me proudly from the wall, in her feathered cap, richly embroidered gown and pearls in her ears. Eyebrows and hairline plucked, lips full and reddened yet without seduction.
    All I had done to the painting was to have it professionally cleaned. And that was what had thrown up the details of the work, the richness of the colour and the intricacies of her costume. It was even better than I had anticipated when I had handed over my fourteen pounds.
    It is these lucky buys which keep antiques dealers chasing so hard. I had gambled and won.
    I unwrapped the jug from its layers of newspaper and cradled it in my hands, feeling again the warm, waxy feel of the creamware body and the thrill which its sinisterdecoration gave me. With my finger I traced over the name, Rychard Oliver, and wondered whether I would ever meet the current owner of Hall o’th’Wood again or ever go there. The crooked walls of the house held a great magnetism for me, its casement windows staring blindly out with an obscure invitation. I wondered which one was his bedroom window. Using a magnifying glass I made out the detail of the panels of the great, oak front door and the face on the knocker. I turned the jug around and ran my fingertips again over the picture of the man hanging. As often happens I could see so much more now. The agonised expression, the rough shirt open-necked, the hands flailing against his fate, the bulging staring eyes. It was, in fact, horrible. Mesmerising, fascinating and ultimately horrible.
    Why did he want it so much? Was it his obvious love for the house or was this jug the only witness to some family secret? Was it important? Did Richard Oliver want to keep it hidden? Was it so shameful?
    Perhaps I should have paid better attention to the simple statement. Rychard Oliver, hys jug.
    Tomorrow, I decided, I would take it into the museum and let David take a look at it. Together we would unearth the story.
    And then I would decide whether to sell it or not.
    I believed that it would be my decision.
    I turned the jug upside down to study again the two