“I think she and I were both shocked by all that had happened. Particularly regarding Ian Dunne. And your son. Placing young boys in jeopardy was inexcusable.”
“Yet you still get what you wanted,” Malone said. “The Libyan goes home and Great Britain derives whatever concessions it is Libya promised.”
“As is the way of the world. The United States makes deals like those every day. So there is no need to become sanctimonious. We do what we have to.” She paused. “Within limits.”
Apparently the out-of-bounds marker on those limits stretched far, but the time for debate was over.
She motioned toward the hall’s far end and led him there. “I chose Hatfield House for our meeting because of this portrait.”
Malone had already noticed the canvas, hanging in the center of a paneled wall, open archways on either side, flanked by two smaller oil images, one of Richard III, the other Henry VI. A carved oak chest stood beneath, veins of silver and gold streaking the ancient wood.
“The Rainbow Portrait,” McGuire said.
He recalled its mention in Farrow Curry’s notes and in Robert Cecil’s journal. The face was that of a young woman, though the painting, as McGuire explained, was created when Elizabeth was seventy years old.
“Lots of symbolism here,” she said.
And he listened as she explained.
The bodice was embroidered with spring flowers—pansies, cowslips, and honeysuckles—to allude to springtime. Her orange mantle, powdered with eyes and ears, showed that Elizabeth saw and heard all. A serpent adorned her left sleeve, from whose mouth hung a heart, representing passion and wisdom.
“It’s the rainbow, held in her right hand, that gives the portrait its name.”
He noticed its distinct lack of color.
“Elizabeth was always careful in choosing her portraits. This one, though, was finished after her death, so the artist had free rein.”
Impressive, he had to admit.
“The last spectacle of Elizabeth I’s reign happened in this room,” McGuire said. “The queen visited Robert Cecil in December 1602. There was great ceremony and entertainment. A glorious finale to a long reign. Three months later she was dead.”
He caught the definitive use of the pronoun she.
He’d also already noticed the phrase that appeared prominently on the left side of the portrait.
NON SINE SOLE IRIS.
Latin he understood, along with several other languages, a side effect of his eidetic memory.
NO RAINBOW WITHOUT THE SUN.
He pointed to the words.
“Historians have philosophized about the meaning of that motto,” McGuire said. “Supposedly, Elizabeth was the sun, whose presence alone brings peace to her realm and color to the rainbow.”
“Yet the rainbow has no color.”
“Precisely. Others have said that the painting is a subversive undercutting. No rainbow shines because there is no sun. Her magnificence is supposedly false.” The older woman paused. “Not too far off the mark, would you not say?”
“Then there’s another meaning,” he said. “Taking the phrase for what it says and changing it. No rainbow without the son. S-o-n. Meaning there would have been nothing without him.”
“Quite right. I’ve read the translation of Cecil’s journal. He had great respect for the imposter. I imagine he gazed upon this image often.”
“What now?” he asked.
“A good question. One I’ve been thinking about since last night. Unfortunately, Thomas Mathews did not survive to aid in my analysis. Can you tell me what happened to him?”
He wasn’t about to fall into that trick bag. “He worked in a risky business, and stuff happens.”
“Of course, if we were allowed to debrief all of you we might actually learn something relevant.”
Part of the brokered deal was that no one talked to anyone about anything.
He shrugged. “It will simply remain a mystery. As will the deaths of two American agents.”
“And three more from our side.”
Touché. But this woman was no idiot. She knew that either he, or Richards, killed Mathews. Nothing she could do about it either way. So he made clear, “My son was placed in grave danger. And, as you said, so was Ian Dunne. They’re not players. Never were. Never will be. Go too far in this game and there’s a price to be paid.”
“I conceded to Stephanie that both sides went too far. Seven deaths is more than enough for us all to learn a lesson.”
He agreed.
She motioned to what he carried. Robert Cecil’s journal. Stephanie had told him to bring it. The deal included its return.
She accepted the old volume, thumbed through its coded pages, then looked at him. “You asked me, what now?”
She stepped to the hearth and tossed the book into the fire. Flames leaped over the cover. Smoke wreathed the stones, before being sucked up the chimney. In a few seconds the journal was gone.
He said, “I guess history doesn’t matter around here.”
“On the contrary, it matters a great deal. In fact, it is history that would have caused all of the damage. Elizabeth I was a fraud, so anything and everything done during that reign would be void. At a minimum it would all be suspect. True, four hundred years have passed. But you’re a lawyer, Mr. Malone. You know the principles of real property. Chain of title is critical. Elizabeth seized Irish land and passed title on to a lot of British Protestants. Every one of those chains of title would now be in question, if not void from the start.”
“And you British pride yourselves on the rule of law.”
“Actually, we do. Which makes this scenario that much more frightening.”
“So if Antrim had not been a traitor and deciphered the journal, it just might have stopped that prisoner transfer?”
She threw him a calculating gaze. “We’ll never know the answer to that.”