Chapter 7
The sun came up over the lake at seven-thirty and I watched it from my bedroom window. The sky went from a dark shade of indigo to a warm magenta and then just before the sun itself came into view it turned to a rose-gold and then pink. The magnificent oaks were bathed in a glorious golden light and the dragonflies began to dance across the shimmering surface of the water. The stone mullion was cool under my elbows as I leaned towards the glass. It was criss-crossed with lead-work that fractured the view, making it appear as individual vignettes.
I had not slept well, which was hardly surprising after Dorothy’s bombshell. I sincerely wished my position had been all about hair and make-up now. How easy that would be in comparison. I’d made no promise to Dorothy, only that I’d use the day to decide whether I could possibly take on the task. In truth my mind was already assessing what I’d seen so far in Leonard’s eclectic taste in art, but what Dorothy was asking was impossible, wasn’t it? To creep around Leonard’s house and go through his things? I couldn’t do that. If he was responsible for stealing the painting then he showed no sort of remorse or any concern about Dorothy being in his house. Perhaps she was mistaken and if I was caught snooping I wasn’t keen to think about the repercussions of that.
I decided to go down and see if I could get some coffee from the kitchen and as I left my room I became very aware of every painting, ornament, clock and piece of art. The house was stuffed full and that was just in the few rooms I had been in so far. Nothing came to me; there was no obvious sign that pointed to a hidden painting. It was just an odd mix of things Leonard liked, it seemed.
The kitchen was on the west side of the house and down a flight of stone steps. The rich burgundy carpet had stopped at the bottom of the last flight and now the sound of my footsteps echoed. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. The air became cooler and was a relief from the warmth that penetrated the rest of the house.
The property was at least three hundred years old and not really conducive with modern living. There was no open-plan kitchen-diner where guests could chat to the person preparing the meals. The kitchen was in the bowels of the house and all the food would have to be brought up via the servants’ staircase, into the serving room and then the dining room. The one exception to the lack of modernity was the patio and the French doors from the music room. That looked to be a new appendage, but sympathetically done.
I was surprised to see a very sleek and contemporary set-up once I had navigated the last of the steps. There were black granite worktops and glossy white doors to all the cupboards and drawers. Where I had been expecting an antique Welsh dresser there were glass shelves with chrome edges. Instead of a family heirloom dinner service there was a modern set in crisp white and when I picked up a side plate and turned it over I read John Lewis. I smiled, thinking about Lavinia’s comment the previous afternoon.
‘Morning, can I make you some coffee?’
I jumped at the unexpected sound of another person and turned to see a young man of less than thirty in chef whites with a sharp knife clutched in his fist. My eyes went straight to the weapon, then his followed a second later and he smirked before placing it back on the counter next to the mushrooms he was slicing, seemingly in silence. It looked less threatening there in the setting it was to be used for.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That probably looked a bit menacing.’ He wiped his hand on the tea towel tucked into his pocket and held it out to me. ‘I’m Harry. Are you with the bride or groom?’
‘I’m companion to Dorothy, the groom’s grandmother, and a coffee would be lovely, thank you,’ I said, shaking his hand.
I could see him assessing me with a cool stare, no doubt wondering why Dorothy would employ a woman as old as me for a companion. I could see that same thought flickering in Leonard’s eyes at dinner the night before. The truth was that I was perfectly fit for my age and other than an occasional grumble in my lower back, I was just as capable as I had been when I was sixty; well, almost. I stepped back and took another look around the room.
‘This is a great space to cook in. Have you been here long?’ I asked, suddenly feeling that small talk was needed and perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few innocuous questions.
‘Just a year,’ he said, and began to make me a coffee from the large chrome device on the counter by the window.
I glanced out, up the bank of grass to a wooden fence and on to the roofs of greenhouses in the distance. The view was nothing like the other side of the house with its beautiful parterre garden, but that was how these grand houses were designed in the 1700s. Stunning views from the upper floors for the residents and their many guests, and functional downstairs for the staff. I could see stone steps leading up from the kitchen door and, to the side at the bottom of a bank of grass, a small plastic table and chairs tucked away near some bins, a plant pot on top overflowing with cigarette ends.
Harry handed me the coffee and I took it gratefully, declining his offer of sugar.
‘Mr Price has quite the collection upstairs, doesn’t he,’ I prompted, as Harry returned to preparing breakfast. ‘Nice to see an old house chock-full of artwork. Are you interested in art?’
‘Not particularly. I mean, I like what I like and I really like those paintings in the entrance hall. Great colours and not all dingy like some of the other stuff he’s got.’
‘I suppose such an avid collector would be bringing things into the house all the time. I guess you see a lot of comings and goings?’ I asked and then began furiously sipping at my drink as Harry gave me a sidelong glance.
‘What?’ he said, clearly surprised.
‘Oh, I just wondered about Mr Price’s art collection, that was all.’
‘Right,’ he said, halfway between looking uncomfortable and bemused. ‘Did you say you were a companion?’
‘Yes,’ I said quickly, wishing I hadn’t asked such a ridiculous question and that I’d just made some harmless comment about the weather instead.
‘Well, it’s not my thing really,’ he said, and dismissed me with his back as he continued with his task.
‘Thanks so much for the coffee. Shall I take some up for Mrs Reed?’ I asked, my fingers trembling around my cup.
‘No need – tea’s already gone up,’ he said.
He must have done that in near silence too, because I hadn’t heard anything since I’d been awake.
‘I’ll let you get on, then,’ I said and, spying a large bowl of fruit, I asked him if I could take a banana. He told me to help myself in a quiet, dismissive voice and I quickly left the room. At the doorway, I glanced back to see his head turned and that cool stare on me. I offered a smile, which wasn’t returned.
So much for slipping around unnoticed. The first person I’d talked to and I’d rendered myself as a bit of a noticeable idiot. I wasn’t going to be able to do this. I was completely out of any sort of comfort zone. I probably wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be solving a mystery. My marriage was over, my house was being sold from under me and I was about to embark on a solitary life, no doubt until I died. As if on cue, that grumble began in my lower back.
I made my way back up the stone steps and onto the carpeted stairs to find Dorothy. I had helped her back to her room last night and was pleased to see she’d been given a wonderful bedroom with some of the best views. You could just see the folly where we’d had our conversation, and then beyond a wall covered in a vibrant Virginia creeper there was a sort of temple at the end of a long expanse of lawn, flanked by huge rhododendron bushes in a riot of purple. Her room was on the corner of the house, like mine and through her second window you could see all the way to the end of the driveway and onto the fields of cattle beyond. It seemed odd to think that the man responsible for the death of her husband could have offered her such lovely accommodation. Maybe Dorothy was entirely wrong about the whole thing, or perhaps Leonard had a large guilt complex.
I knocked on the door and left my coffee cup and fruit on the windowsill at the end of the long landing, catching sight of a gardener on a ride-on mower, cutting the grass on the stretch of lawn down by the lake. Dorothy called out for me to go in. The words were lined up on my tongue; I wouldn’t be able to help her and I had to be as honest as possible. I might be well versed in identifying a particular piece of art for a collection and know where it would have been found originally in that home, how best to look after it for generations to come and which major collectors would give their right arm to own it, or certainly I would have done many years ago, but this here was a possible crime and I surely couldn’t and shouldn’t get involved. Besides that, Dorothy hadn’t been at all honest with me and I felt a little annoyed at the deception. The promise of a permanent position was slipping away.
‘Gina, good morning,’ Dorothy said from an armchair by her window. She was just sipping from a cup and looked animated. When she put the cup down on the table, next to her newspaper, her smile was broad. ‘I have to say that for the first time in a year I feel hopeful. You being here is like balm on a wound, a real tonic and I’m very grateful. I know you said you needed the day to think about it and I respect that, but I would urge you to take a good look at Leonard and you’ll see what sort of man he is, what he’s capable of.’
I leaned against the door frame and folded my arms, the words I had practised in my head now dying on my lips.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ I asked, thinking that regardless of a missing painting, I’d quite like to be paid for the week.
‘If you wouldn’t mind solving this damn crossword for me, I’d be delighted,’ she said.
By eleven-thirty the whole group were collected on that same stretch of lawn and I could see why it was necessary for it to have had a fresh cut. Leonard was rummaging through a huge wooden box and pulling out mallets and balls. He was organising a game of croquet.
Dorothy was sitting on a chair under a small gazebo and I walked over to join her. Assuming it was unlikely that Dorothy would be playing I would have the perfect excuse to sit it out also.
‘Let me tell you who’s who,’ Dorothy said as I sat down on the chair next to her. ‘You didn’t really get much of an introduction last night, did you?’
‘No, not really, but I sort of gathered who was who from the conversation around the table. I don’t really need an introduction, though. I am here to do a job,’ I said and Dorothy gave me a sharp look.
‘Yes, and your job will be made easier by knowing the family. They might have information they don’t realise is relevant. They might say something about Leonard to you that they wouldn’t think to say to me.’
I thought this was unlikely, but I nodded anyway. I had a strong feeling that I wanted to please Dorothy.
‘My job,’ I repeated.
‘Should you choose to accept it,’ Dorothy said, her eyes sparkling.
‘Mission impossible. I was thinking more of my job as your companion.’
‘Ah, well, I’m afraid that position is now obsolete.’
I could feel myself being talked into this task I didn’t want to attempt. I really couldn’t see how I could get out of it and the expectation in Dorothy’s expression was vast.
She sat back and gave me a brief round-up of her family and extended family in bullet points.
She adored her daughter-in-law because she was an excellent wife and kept Miles on track.
Miles wasn’t good with money, but was micromanaged under his wife’s beady eye.
Toby was an excellent musician, but a bit pompous.
Caroline was simply a sweetheart.
Sandra had nothing to say for herself and seemed incredibly boring.
Paul was a decent sort and couldn’t help being related to a monster.
Rufus was a closed book, but seemed likeable when he bothered to converse.
Sophie was bossy, but great fun and loyal.
Luke did as he was told, which in Dorothy’s opinion was the best course of action.
Juliet had great potential once she had moved on from being a tiresome teenager.
‘So, Miles and Sophie are your children, and Toby and Juliet are your grandchildren. Sandra and Paul are Caroline and Rufus’s parents, and Paul and Leonard are siblings,’ I clarified.
‘Absolutely spot on.’
‘Why does Leonard have this house and not his brother? Is it because he’s older than Paul?’
‘Well that, my dear, is a very good question and one I don’t have the answer for.’
I pondered this while I watched the players thwacking their balls across the lawn under the watchful eye of the master of the house, most missing the hoops and becoming increasingly annoyed. My phone began ringing in my pocket and I pulled it out to see Douglas’s name on the screen, so I put it back, unanswered.
‘Please take the call if you need to,’ Dorothy said, but I shook my head.
‘My husband,’ I said. ‘Really no need.’
‘Oh, when you said you were on your own, I thought you meant he’d died.’
‘No, not dead, just buggered off.’
‘I’m sorry, Gina. That’s hard, at your time of life.’
I turned to look at her, to tell her I was only seventy-one, but then I thought about that number and realised that it was actually quite old. Not as old as Dorothy herself, but old enough to be considered old.
‘Why did he leave you?’
‘Because I’m beige and unexciting,’ I said, without thinking. ‘And now, I have to move and our finances don’t stretch to make that easy. I might be able to afford a very small, damp flat a million miles away from everything I know.’
I could feel my throat thicken and then Dorothy reached her hand out and took mine.
‘Gina, you are not beige and unexciting. Look what you’re about to do for me. Imagine telling your husband that you found a lost painting and put a criminal behind bars. That is very exciting.’
I turned to look at her again and thought she should really have ten out of ten for powers of persuasion. I imagined her in her house in Hampton with her rich and full life, her boat, her boathouse and up until that fateful day when her husband died, leading a very exciting life. One to aspire to, one like my mother used to have.
‘I grew up in Bushy Park, in front of your house,’ I said, suddenly. It was an odd thought that swooped into my head, seemingly from nowhere.
‘In the park itself?’
‘Yes, my front garden was full of deer.’
Dorothy was eyeing me as if I’d lost the plot.
‘It’s a long story, but a true one,’ I said.
‘Perhaps you can tell me later,’ she said and then leaned in closer to me. ‘You know, this would be a good time for you to get inside and start to have a look around,’ she said.
‘Dorothy, I understand how important this is to you and I’m terribly sorry about Philip, but I don’t think I can poke around someone’s house. What if he were to come in and find me?’
‘He won’t. He’s going to be very busy out here showboating around. I have your mobile phone number and can message you if he makes a move towards the house. Just have a rummage and see what you think might be off or out of place. Just a start and then if it doesn’t feel right, we can forget it.’
‘Do you even know how to message?’ I asked her dubiously and Dorothy looked aghast.
‘Of course I can! I like to play the decrepit old lady when it suits me, but I’m more than capable of most things.’
I looked over to see that Leonard had moved closer to us and was also setting up a game of boule. I made a quick decision.
‘Dorothy,’ I said with a raised voice. ‘I’m a bit worried about you not having your hat. If you’re going to play, you’ll need it in this sun.’
Dorothy fixed me with a sharp look at my rather pathetic attempt to sound natural, but quickly rearranged her features.
‘Oh, you’re right,’ she said as Leonard looked in our direction. ‘Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me please. I think it’s on the top shelf in my wardrobe.’
I didn’t dare look at Leonard, but got up out of my chair and before I could change my mind I made for the house.
‘Won’t be long,’ I said.
Only when I had reached the safety of the patio doors did I dare look back, but everyone seemed fully absorbed in their games – Leonard included.
I rushed through the music room and into the entrance hall with my phone out, snapping photos of anything and everything as I went. Then I paused in front of the twelve-panelled stained-glass window to catch my breath and take stock. It wouldn’t do to run around like a headless chicken; I needed to be methodical. I suddenly thought of the principles of art history operations: description, analysis, interpretation and judgement.
I took another breath and turned slowly on my heel, my discerning eye taking in the contents of the hallway. It kept coming back to that oddly placed mirror, so I held my phone down low and took a photo. It seemed relevant somehow, but I didn’t know why at that moment, so I tucked the info away and set off up the stairs. If I was to be discovered snooping I’d need to be in possession of Dorothy’s hat.
With a guilty conscience I told three people that I was just there to get Dorothy’s hat. One was Harry, who had gravitated upstairs for some reason, but he looked just as bemused by me as he had before and scurried away, probably worried he was going to get into some sort of conversation he didn’t want to have. The second was a young woman I came across as I returned to the ground floor to navigate the rooms leading from the entrance hall. Her job, apparently, was to decorate the orangery for the wedding reception and she was looking for Leonard. She clearly wasn’t interested in Dorothy’s hat, and the third person was vacuuming the carpet with an industrial-looking cleaner. I waved the hat in his direction and began to explain what I was doing in the house, but the man had earbuds in and he wouldn’t have heard me anyway over the noise of the machine. I felt ridiculous as he turned away from me to carry on with his work.
I found my way into Leonard’s library, which was accessed from the hall by a small dark corridor with some dusty-looking curtains covering the window which, if I had my bearings right, would look out onto the inner courtyard.
The library took my breath away. The showroom of the house, elaborately decorated with beautiful wallpaper of trailing honeysuckle in pinks and greens. Five huge bay windows, all with cushioned seats, lined one side of the room, while a bank of dark mahogany bookcases ran along the other. The fireplace in the centre was surrounded in marble with a tapestry hanging above it. The leather settees looked worn but comfortable. I could smell the old leather and imagined how many people had sat there over the years, a small glass of port or sherry on the side table and a large leather-bound tome in their hands.
The most remarkable thing about this room was the ceiling, though. It was in bright-white intricately carved plaster. My first thought was that it was old and perhaps restored, and I tucked Dorothy’s hat under my arm so I could take my phone out of my pocket again. When I took a photo and enlarged the image I could see the emblems were actually modern portraits of authors. I recognised Arthur Conan Doyle, C. S. Lewis, Roald Dahl, then Ian Rankin and that made me laugh at the unexpectedness of a contemporary writer. I walked across to the other side of the room and took more pictures: Agatha Christie, Mary Shelley, Charlotte Bront?, Kate Mosse. It was a wonderful idea and something I had never seen before. I walked further down the room completely lost in the faces above my head.
As I crooked my neck for a better look to see who else I recognised, I failed to hear the light footsteps coming across the Persian rugs that ran down the centre of the room, and it was only when he spoke that I realised I wasn’t alone.