Chapter Seven
The smell of magnolias lightened the heavy air as Aster walked towards the convent. It was Maundy Thursday and Aster had some alms to drop off.
She hadn’t been sleeping well for the past few nights and was certain that her mysterious rescuer was the source of her disquiet. She had heard nothing from Barrie but she had been monitoring the video feeds of several of his haunts and was gratified to see that he hadn’t shown up at any of them. As an added bonus, the venue in which she had been spiked had suddenly closed down. It appeared to be the result of a licensing issue, but they had ceased trading immediately. As far as Aster was concerned, it couldn’t happen to more deserving people. For a moment she wondered why she hadn’t engineered that herself and then shook her head. She had done all she could. She couldn’t risk dragging the family name into the fray. Nodding to herself that that was the reason, she yawned and then turned down the street towards the Sisters of the Divine Mercy Convent she rather embraced it. She had been fairly certain from a very young age that no such mythical character lived on high but she adored all of the rituals: the smoke of the incense, the silence of the cathedrals, the routines of the year, the occasions where family would come together and celebrate, in particular, Easter, which was just around the corner. She was particularly looking forward to rejoining all her sisters up in their ancestral home.
But before she headed off to Norfolk, she had a few tasks to do first. Pushing the door open into the chapel, she saw that it was, as usual, empty, or at least almost empty. At the far end of the chapel, she could see Sister Bernard cleaning the wax from the candle spills. Clearing her throat so as not to alarm the nun, Aster coughed loudly.
Sister Bernard was as small as she was wide and had been blessed with a quite prestigious beard, which Aster found almost revolutionary in her disregard for perceived feminine beauty. Coming forward, the nun threw her arms out wide, and then seemed to catch herself and stopped a metre or two back from Aster. Aster was not one for hugs and was grateful that she had remembered.
‘What a sight for sore eyes you are! But you look tired, my dear. Are you ailing?’
‘Not sleeping too well recently, but I’m sure it will pass.’
The nun peered at her critically and then decided to change tack.
‘And what brings you here on Maundy Thursday?’
‘I’ve come to bring a gift,’ Aster began, pleased to change the subject, and reached into her bag to pull out an envelope of cash. Her eyes drifted around the empty chapel as she spoke, lingering on the faded blue and gold accents left over from its more opulent past. Though humble now, this place still held meaning.
A flicker of memories surfaced in her mind of her own childhood, receiving charity. These nuns devoted their whole lives to serving others less fortunate, despite their own leaky roof and crumbling walls. Such selflessness deserved support.
Shifting her gaze back to Sister Bernard, Aster went on. ‘I would rather you have the money to continue helping your projects than give it to some large nameless charity.’ The personal touch mattered when distributing aid. Cold bureaucracy helped no one. The sisters supported several UK initiatives as well as a school in India.
‘You could, of course, use the money to patch your own roof. Is it still leaking?’ Aster gestured upwards with the envelope, a thin smile breaking through her composure at the long-running roof debate between them. Though they saw charity quite differently, she respected the sisters’ convictions, even if they allowed this beautiful old chapel to slowly deteriorate.
The leaky roof on the chapel had been a longstanding bone of contention for the nuns. They didn’t have the money to repair it themselves, or at least they did, but they sent nearly all of their money overseas. She felt that this attitude was noble, and that was a waste of time. Without taking care of yourselves first, how could you help others? And allowing the convent to deteriorate seemed a foolhardy step to Aster.
‘Tell me, how are your lovely sisters and their children?’ asked Sister Bernard, keen to distract Aster from her regular admonishment. ‘Are the little ones looking forward to Easter?’
Aster smiled and nodded. She had no desire, even with somebody as special as Sister Bernard, to discuss the family. A smile could do, and she looked to change the subject.
Her eyes were drawn to a large patch of bare wall, where an old oil painting used to hang.
‘Are you having the painting cleaned?’
The painting in question had been a very large oil painting, in a heavy gilt frame. It depicted a sorrowful Mary cradling Jesus after the crucifixion. Despite the decades of accumulated chapel grime, Mary’s robes had flowed around her, illuminated by a heavenly glow, whilst Jesus lay pale and limp in her arms. Even with the years of candle smoke and dust dulling the colours, the poignant grief and piety had shone through. Aster was convinced some old master had rendered it centuries prior.
‘Yes, our Easter blessing! A gentleman was in here a month ago. Saw our painting and was so taken with it, he asked if he could buy it.’
Aster’s face dropped in astonishment.
‘He made a very generous offer.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘He offered us five thousand pounds, and we were thrilled to accept.’
Aster was horrified. Five thousand pounds for an oil painting that size seemed a bargain in anyone’s money, but if it was an old master — and who could tell under the centuries of candles, smoke, dust, and wax — had somebody just walked out the convent with an absolute steal?
As Aster worried they had been scammed, Sister Bernard moved across to the other tray of candles and continued with her enthusiastic story.
‘Then on top of that blessing, with all the good weather the builders were able to fit us in as a favour, and now we are as dry as Sister Julia’s roast chicken on Sundays. For the first time in years we are looking forward to the rain.’ She laughed loudly and beamed at Aster. ‘Can you imagine it? No more buckets.’
Aster wanted to join in the nun’s enthusiasm but she felt a fury simmering within.
‘Tell me, do you know the man? Is he one of your parishioners?’
‘Not really, he’s much like yourself. He comes in here from time to time, but he doesn’t say much. But that’s okay. However one finds a way to God is enough for us.’
Aster knew that was a slightly pointed comment at herself, but she let it go. Today wasn’t the day for a theological discourse, no matter how much she enjoyed them. Now she was worried that the nuns had been ripped off and had lost out on the priceless treasure.
Aster left the chapel, deep in thought.
Pulling up the photos on her phone until she found an image of the painting in the chapel, she then rang Clemmie in an attempt to track down Otto. Her phone rang and rang, causing Aster to frown. She was either out of signal range or still up to her eyeballs in her collection. She had three days until Easter Sunday and the board meeting on Monday. If she missed either, Nick and Ari would both be furious. Ari because she missed a family gathering, Nick because she missed the annual board meeting. In fairness there were four meetings a year, but Clem’s business was a major driver in the company. Her design studio had established the Hiverton rebirth, although Nick was careful to make sure it wasn’t the sole income stream. Relying on Clemmie was not just unfair, it was also unwise.
Ari, however, would be less easy to mollify. Family was everything and she adored the few times a year everyone was together.
Christmas was increasingly difficult as partners’ families also wanted to see their sons and grandchildren. Aster had less concern for their needs, but Ari said everyone’s wants had to be taken into consideration.
Aster crossed at the zebra crossing and into the leafy Mayfair streets. She had wanted to speak to Clem first but now she called Otto direct. When Aster had been introduced to Otto, she had only known her as her Grandfather’s mistress but within one conversation she found a kindred spirit. Otto had a very secretive past which included being a master forger, escaping from Italian mobsters and evading the long arm of Interpol. She had a sharp mind and kept herself to herself. Pulling her into the family had been one of Ari’s best steps. Besides which, it was safer for the family’s reputation to have her within the fold.
‘Hello, it’s me.’
‘Evidently.’
Sometimes Otto could come across as prickly, but Aster grinned to herself. She liked someone who didn’t waste time on pleasantries or small talk.
‘I have a picture I want you to look at. I think it’s particularly fine. Can you suggest an artist? It’s roughly four by five foot. Sending now.’
Aster hit send and waited for a reply.
‘Received. Any other images?’
‘No.’
‘Will call later.’
‘Wait!’ shouted Aster into the phone.
Otto was about to hang up but now listened in silence.
‘I need to know about it as quickly as possible.’
There was a deep exhalation of breath at the other end and then Aster could hear Otto mumble to someone in the background. No doubt Louis was currently rolling his eyes. For decades Louis had pursued this international art thief and forger across Europe. It was only once he retired that the two of them were able to fall in love. Otto returned to the phone.
‘It would help if I had another image.’
‘I’ll see what I can find. Will I see you on Sunday?’
‘Of course. Who am I to refuse a royal command?’
‘Otto!’ said Aster sharply. The old woman wasn’t strictly family, but Ari viewed her as such. Aster was very fond of Otto, but no one got to dismiss Ari.
‘Keep your hair on, I’m not criticising her. My fingers are aching this morning and I’m feeling grouchy. Louis and I will be driving up tomorrow. Please ensure the weather remains fine.’
With that, Otto ended the call and Aster frowned. Normally conversations with Otto were fast and fun. Today Otto sounded properly fed up and Aster made a note to call Ari and make sure Otto and Louis had the stable cottage. It had a lovely patio amongst the gardens but more importantly, no stairs. If her fingers were hurting, her hip would be killing her. She’d also recommend that Ari whack the heating up. Otto was increasingly spending time in the south of France rather than Scotland and Aster suspected the heat was as much a factor as her gorgeous Frenchman.
Popping back into the house, she pulled a weekend bag together. With both Otto and Louis on the case, she was confident that she would soon have some answers about the painting. For the first time in days she was relieved that she had a new puzzle to focus on. Recently she had taken to driving up and down the lanes trying to jog her memory but nothing was working. At least now she felt she could move on.