Chapter Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
Even though my parents brought me here all the time when I was younger, I never really appreciated how gorgeous Blackwood Library is.
Dad always used to tell me that it’s one of the oldest in the world, but as a kid I preferred the bright primary colors of the public library near my school, because they had seemingly unlimited copies of Isadora Moon and Beast Quest. Blackwood just had boring grown-up books that smelled funny.
I take my time walking through the stacks, marveling at all the intricate details, like the end panels of each shelf.
The thick wood is old and blackened, ancient even, and the top of each panel extends up past even the tallest books.
They are carved into ornate points and decorated with reliefs of small animals and bearded human faces surrounded by leaves, every shelf a small work of art.
The letters of the alphabet are stenciled directly onto the wood in gold leaf, too—there are no laminated signs here.
I’m immediately swallowed by shadows as the shelves tower above me, and I try to ignore visions of coming across another dead body.
It’s so secluded, it would be an ideal place for the killer to claim another victim.
A barrage of thoughts runs through my head.
Would anyone hear a scuffle back here? If someone was waiting at the other end of the stack, would I even know?
Would I feel a presence before they attacked, or would it be a total surprise?
I pick up my pace, trying to ignore the cloud of fear threatening to envelop me.
I scan shelves rapidly until I find the right one.
I finally spot the book, a slim white volume with a yellowing spine, and pluck it from the shelf before scurrying back into the main part of the library.
I head back to my computer desk and sit down, opening the cover so I can scan the contents page.
There’s nothing obvious related to The Four, but there are several chapters split into time periods, so I take a chance and flip to the one that covers 1911.
Nothing.
I rack my brain for any information Dad might have told me and remember he mentioned that the paintings resurfaced in the eighties, but no one was sure where they’d been between then and the initial sale.
That seems worthy enough to make it into a book titled Tracing Provenance, so I thumb through the pages, getting worryingly close to the end before I reach one that makes me stop.
There they are.
I look at the now-familiar portraits and recognize the photo as the same one used in the newspaper article on my murder board.
This book was published in 1985, so it must be from when they were loaned to the National Portrait Gallery a few years before that.
I scan the page, which is only a few paragraphs long, but it’s strange enough to make me want to photocopy it.
Artist unknown, ?–1911
Some of the most prominent works of the Expressionist movement are the portraits known as The Four.
They have been shrouded in mystery since they were discovered alongside the body of the artist in an abandoned property on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, New York, in July 1911.
The artist had been dead for several days and had also painted a macabre self-portrait that was found with the four unframed canvases.
All five paintings were sold into a private collection two years after their discovery, and very little was known about them until they resurfaced in different hands, and without the self-portrait, in 1982.
It has long been speculated that the existence of the self-portrait was a story fabricated by attending journalists and there were only actually four paintings; however, two copies of the original auction house catalogue are still in existence.
Though they do not contain sketches or photographs of the lot, it is clear that five separate paintings were listed for sale, one an assumed self-portrait of a male and four portraits of different women.
Further records show that all five were purchased by the same collector.
Documents such as these are invaluable when it comes to tracing the provenance of a piece, and in this instance, it shows that the self-portrait undoubtedly existed, even if it vanished from the public eye soon after.
The trouble here is the lack of records between the purchase in 1913 and the sale to the next owner, when only four paintings changed hands.
We may never know what happened to the self-portrait. If it does resurface, it will be important to forensically test the paint, as human blood and hair were found mixed with the pigments when The Four were loaned to the National Portrait Gallery for conservation in 1985.
I wrinkle my nose in disgust as I head over to the photocopier and place the book face down.
How was there any doubt that this artist was a serial killer after they found bits of people in the paint?
The machine hums and a flash of light passes beneath the lid.
I collect the book and the photocopied page and go back to the desk to sit down.
I wonder if you could test the hair to see who it belonged to?
That could be one way to trace the women, if the hair came from them.
I just wouldn’t know where to start. My stomach rolls at the thought.
No wonder there are rumors it’s a curse.
I close the book and wake up my computer.
Aside from psychopathy, which is a huge possibility here, why would someone kill women and use parts of them to paint with?
My fingers hover over the keys; I’m unsure of what to type.
My earlier searches I can write off as pretend book research, but this?
This could get me put on a watch list somewhere.
I take a deep breath and type “reasons for collecting human blood and hair,” hoping the computer’s search history has seen worse.
If all else fails, I’ll say I watched too many horror movies.
The first results are disappointing in their mundanity. I ignore anything that has to do with drug testing or forensics, because they’re unhelpful here. I’m about to click through to the next page when one of the generated search terms catches my eye. “Rituals involving human blood and hair.”
I glance around the room, the neck of my T-shirt suddenly tighter. The library is a little busier than when I arrived, but I’m still the only one in this row of computers, and no one is browsing the stacks close enough to be able to read anything on my screen.
I click on the link, and it takes me through to a new search page, this one filled with terms like “ritual” and “ceremony.” I click again, my fingers working independently from my brain as I read the information on the page as fast as I can.
I write the web address in my notebook in case I need it in the future and close the whole thing down.
I draw a shaky breath as the computer screen fades to black and I’m faced with my own pale reflection, but I’m not alone.
Someone is standing behind me.