His eyes were very sad, and suddenly he wasn’t angry any more. He said, in a quiet voice, ‘Anyway, they haven’t got anything on me. They can’t prove a thing, can they? They had to let me go. You’ll back me up, won’t you, if it comes to anything? You’ll give me a good reference.’
‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘Thanks for listening.’
I showed him to the door.
T he Painting in the Church
When I crossed the road to the church later that morning to get ready for our Wednesday service, I noticed a police car across the road. My step quickened, expecting some news, but no one was waiting by the door to my office. I checked in the playgroup hall, but the mothers told me that no one had been asking for me. I unlocked the door between my office and the main church and there, at the back of the hall, standing in front of the painting of the baptism, was Detective Chief Inspector Stone.
I crossed the gleaming polished floor and went to stand beside him.
Stone looked straight ahead, not acknowledging my presence at first. Then he asked, ‘Who did this painting?’
‘A man called Durfield.’
‘Did he do the frescoes?’ He waved his arm at the pictures on the wall.
‘They’re not frescoes. They were actually painted on canvas and fixed to the wall. Yes, he did them all.’
‘I have to say you were right. The resemblance is quite remarkable.’ He took from his pocket a photograph of the corpse. The face had that odd, disembodied look which even in a photograph tells you that the person is dead. This is the greatest argument in favour of the soul that I can think of. When people are alive, even if they are gravely ill and in a coma, there is still something in their faces, some tension, some spark. Probably a doctor could explain it to me, could give a reason, something to do with rigor mortis or the configuration of the muscles, I don’t know, but a dead person is undoubtedly and unmistakably dead, even in a photograph.
When they let me view my mother’s dead body, at the age of six, I said at once, ‘But where has she gone?’ As a child I could see immediately that she was no longer there. I have felt the same thing, again and again, when I have gone to look at a dead person. Now I stared at the photo of the man with fascination.
‘We are doing an artist’s impression for the papers,’ said Stone. ‘I thought I might ask the artist chappie to come up and have a look at this.’
I said I had no objection.
‘This man, Durfield,’ said Stone. ‘Did he use a live model?’
‘I believe he might have done.’
‘Could I speak to him? Just on the rare off-chance, you know, we have to follow up every angle, that he might have been related to the deceased.’
I had a sudden intuition, then, that this business had also got to Chief Inspector Stone. I could see that he didn’t know which way to turn, that his investigation was getting nowhere, and that he was seeking a rational explanation for all this as desperately as I was.
‘I can look for his number. I must have a record of it somewhere. I believe he was living in Suffolk. He must be quite an age by now; I do hope that he hasn’t died, but I’m sure I would know of that.’
He followed me into my office and I went through the drawers of my desk. I found the address and telephone number and gave it to Stone. Then I said, ‘Perhaps it would be better if I spoke to him. It might be difficult for him, talking to the police.’
Stone nodded. I dialled the number myself. I was lucky, he was in; a rich, frail voice answered me.
‘Is that James Durfield?’
He confirmed that it was.
‘This is Richard Page, the vicar at London Fields … you remember? I wanted to ask you … the model of the painting of the baptism of Christ. Was it a real model that you used?’
He said that it was painted from his head. It was, as he remembered, modelled on the head of Christ in Piero della Francesca’s ‘Resurrection’ which is in the National
‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘Thanks for listening.’
I showed him to the door.
T he Painting in the Church
When I crossed the road to the church later that morning to get ready for our Wednesday service, I noticed a police car across the road. My step quickened, expecting some news, but no one was waiting by the door to my office. I checked in the playgroup hall, but the mothers told me that no one had been asking for me. I unlocked the door between my office and the main church and there, at the back of the hall, standing in front of the painting of the baptism, was Detective Chief Inspector Stone.
I crossed the gleaming polished floor and went to stand beside him.
Stone looked straight ahead, not acknowledging my presence at first. Then he asked, ‘Who did this painting?’
‘A man called Durfield.’
‘Did he do the frescoes?’ He waved his arm at the pictures on the wall.
‘They’re not frescoes. They were actually painted on canvas and fixed to the wall. Yes, he did them all.’
‘I have to say you were right. The resemblance is quite remarkable.’ He took from his pocket a photograph of the corpse. The face had that odd, disembodied look which even in a photograph tells you that the person is dead. This is the greatest argument in favour of the soul that I can think of. When people are alive, even if they are gravely ill and in a coma, there is still something in their faces, some tension, some spark. Probably a doctor could explain it to me, could give a reason, something to do with rigor mortis or the configuration of the muscles, I don’t know, but a dead person is undoubtedly and unmistakably dead, even in a photograph.
When they let me view my mother’s dead body, at the age of six, I said at once, ‘But where has she gone?’ As a child I could see immediately that she was no longer there. I have felt the same thing, again and again, when I have gone to look at a dead person. Now I stared at the photo of the man with fascination.
‘We are doing an artist’s impression for the papers,’ said Stone. ‘I thought I might ask the artist chappie to come up and have a look at this.’
I said I had no objection.
‘This man, Durfield,’ said Stone. ‘Did he use a live model?’
‘I believe he might have done.’
‘Could I speak to him? Just on the rare off-chance, you know, we have to follow up every angle, that he might have been related to the deceased.’
I had a sudden intuition, then, that this business had also got to Chief Inspector Stone. I could see that he didn’t know which way to turn, that his investigation was getting nowhere, and that he was seeking a rational explanation for all this as desperately as I was.
‘I can look for his number. I must have a record of it somewhere. I believe he was living in Suffolk. He must be quite an age by now; I do hope that he hasn’t died, but I’m sure I would know of that.’
He followed me into my office and I went through the drawers of my desk. I found the address and telephone number and gave it to Stone. Then I said, ‘Perhaps it would be better if I spoke to him. It might be difficult for him, talking to the police.’
Stone nodded. I dialled the number myself. I was lucky, he was in; a rich, frail voice answered me.
‘Is that James Durfield?’
He confirmed that it was.
‘This is Richard Page, the vicar at London Fields … you remember? I wanted to ask you … the model of the painting of the baptism of Christ. Was it a real model that you used?’
He said that it was painted from his head. It was, as he remembered, modelled on the head of Christ in Piero della Francesca’s ‘Resurrection’ which is in the National
Similar Books
