Chapter Twelve
With a jaunty click-tap-click, the email shoots off, and I sit back in my chair, a sense of accomplishment ruminating through my veins.
That’s it, the first draft of illustrations for Jimmy’s Red Balloon sent to the publisher. I’m quite happy with what I’ve come up with in the last couple of days, considering just a week ago, I could barely pick up a pencil. We’ll see if I’ve done enough to please the author and their publisher, after all, I was on the brink of losing the contract, I wouldn’t be surprised if they went in a different direction. Still, I’ve done my best, and all I can do now is wait for the verdict.
On the coffee table, my mobile rings and vibrates with such intensity, I swear the sound rattles through my bones. Oh God, maybe it’s Hank from Starlight Publishing, bypassing the email and going straight to firing me via phone call. Sucking a cold breath through my teeth, I lift the phone and dare to peek at the screen.
Shaun Henley calling.
Bemused, I gawp at the pixelated words. Why would Shaun be calling me? Unless … something’s gone wrong in the garden, maybe the wall has collapsed again? Anxious, I answer the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, it’s Shaun.’
‘I know, I have caller ID.’
Sounding somewhat embarrassed, he clears his throat. ‘Yeah, of course. I - I was just wondering if you needed any help at the garden today?’
The question takes me aback. I hadn’t thought about what I was going to do with my day, other than send out some cold-call emails and a spot of general market research, but the notion of spending it in the sunshine with Shaun sounds a lot more inviting.
‘I guess so. Why, are you free?’
Another awkward cough. ‘Er, yeah. I had some jobs this morning, but I’m all done. If you like, I’d be happy to meet you there. No charge.’
I pause. ‘Are you sure? I don’t mind paying you for your time.’
‘Nah, it’s okay. I’m enjoying the project.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ I glance at the glass-domed clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’ll meet you there at twelve?’
‘See you then.’
By the time I turn up, Shaun is already in the middle of eradicating the leafy ropes of creeping charlie snaking along the pillars of the arbour. He barely acknowledges my arrival, apart from a brisk nod vaguely in my direction.
‘I didn’t expect to hear from you.’ I tread carefully over the uneven ground, striving to sound casual and nonchalant.
Head ducked, he shrugs his shoulders. ‘Yeah well, I didn’t have anything else to do, I thought I might as well make some headway here.’
My chest caves, though I shouldn’t be disappointed, or surprised. It was daft of me to assume that the reason he suggested meeting today was because he wanted to see me . I blush furiously at my foolishness, feeling like an utter idiot.
‘Shall we crack on, then?’ I say curtly as I head for the shed to grab the tools.
A fluttering black cloud lands on the ground before me and stops me in my tracks. It’s Colin, and he’s carrying something in his beak, something silver and red. With a fluff of his feathers, he drops it in front of me, and Shaun pauses his work to come closer.
‘What did he bring?’ he asks, voice peppered with that uncharacteristic, boyish curiosity that hides below his stoic surface.
I stoop down to pick it up, my nose wrinkled in confusion. ‘It’s a bottle cap.’
‘Makes sense. Crows will often bring little gifts to people they trust. You’re lucky to get that grubby old thing.’
With a wide grin, I ceremoniously slide the cap into my pocket. ‘Thank you, Colin. I will treasure this gift forever.’
Colin bows his little ebony head and flies away, disappearing behind the ivy-laden wall.
I continue the trek through the garden to the shed, mud sucking at my shoes. It’s still a bit damp inside, there are a couple of puddles remaining from the storm, but luckily, it stayed upright. I know I should get a fork out and start on the gardening, but the pull of Rosemary’s cabinet of mysteries is too hard to resist.
The cupboards are an awful mess, stuffed full of dried and crusty oil paints, gummed-up brushes, and copious amounts of drawing pads. I blindly stick my arm in, searching for something that feels interesting. My fingers stroke something smooth, and when I feel out a corner, I tug hard. It comes loose, along with a load of other junk that scatters onto the floor.
It’s a canvas - slightly ripped, but beautifully painted in oil. This is a portrait, an early draft of what was obviously meant to be a grand piece. It’s hard to tell how old the subject is meant to be but I’d guess late thirties to early forties, judging by the delicate lines around his narrow eyes and the highlights of silver in his otherwise dark, slicked-back hair. He looks very noble, with a tawny complexion and shiny waves of hair so black, it’s almost blue. His eyes are soft sapphire, gleaming with a mischief that counteracts his regal visage. The only clue of his identity is the gold-embossed scarlet crest embroidered on his blazer bearing the letters R.C.
Perhaps it’s the softness of the brush strokes, the curve of the man’s lip, the considered contours of his form, but something about it feels incredibly intimate. Bizarrely, my cheeks flame and I feel as though I’ve stumbled upon a couple in the throes of passion.
‘I thought you said you were just grabbing a fork,’ Shaun’s gruff voice calls out from the entrance of the shed. ‘Did you get lost in here or something?’
Silently, I beckon him nearer and hold out the painting. ‘What do you think of this?’
Shaun studies the canvas, his palm rubbing at his stubbled chin. ‘I don’t know. Someone Rosemary knew?’
‘I think it must be, there’s drawings of a man who looks pretty similar to this guy in one of her sketchbooks.’ Brow furrowed, I peer at the damaged portrait. ‘R.C., who could that be?’
His shoulders raise. ‘Beats me. But I bet someone in this village knows, it’s only been thirty-five years since she disappeared, right? There’s got to be folk around here who remember Rosemary, and this guy.’
Someone does know, I’m sure of it.
‘A woman spoke to me the other day, she heard me talking to Lucy about the garden,’ I confide. ‘She said I should leave the past in the past.’
‘Whoa.’ He lifts his eyebrows. ‘That’s ominous.’
‘It was more of a gentle warning than a threat, to be fair.’ Carefully, I prop the canvas up against the cabinet, hoping the mice won’t feast upon it. ‘But still - it’s weird, isn’t it?’
‘Very weird. What did she look like?’
‘She was in her mid to late fifties, I think. Pale and slim, sort of silvery blonde hair tied into a tousled low bun. She wore a long, brown skirt and a lavender blouse.’
Shaun chews at his bottom lip, casting his eyes skyward as he trawls his memories. With a shadow of doubt crossing his face, he brings his focus to me.
‘That sounds like it could have been Maude Hanson. She’s one of my regular clients, I do her garden every two weeks.’
‘Aha, dear Watson - a lead!’ I put on my best Sherlock Holmes voice, hamming it up. ‘Perhaps I ought to pay this Ms Hanson a visit.’
‘Hm, as long as you don’t grill her too hard,’ Shaun nudges me teasingly. ‘I don’t want to lose a paying customer.’
With a silly, cajoling grin, I lean up against him. ‘ You could always have a chat with her when you’re next in her garden.’
‘You’re relentless, you know that?’ Shaun sighs, but there’s a minuscule smile on his lips that he fails to conceal. ‘Next time I see her, I’ll mention this place to her, alright?’
‘Perfect.’ Punching him lightly on the shoulder, I begin to roll up my sleeves. ‘Come on, let’s get back out there. There’s work to be done!’