Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  The morning arrived with a bright burst of sunlight. It passed over Emily making her crease her brow. I dismissed it as I worked on; knowing the clips fastened to keep her eyelids open allowed no movement for blinking.

  As the day wore on and sunlight drained from the room, I added in some finer details. But as I reached for a pallet knife, something disagreeable pricked my senses. I looked up. So engrossed in my work, I hadn’t checked the time to see whether the chloroform had worn off or not. Emily’s fingers clawed at the air as her chest heaved. I had no idea how long she had been watching me. That’s when I decided I needed to experiment further with timing.

  ***

  In the drawing room, the finished painting stood on an easel where it had been drying out for the last couple of months. I had been studying it until hunger had driven me to the kitchen in search for something to satisfy it. For days after Emily’s passing, I divided my time between catching up on sleep, cleaning the house and pottering around the gardens. Through the kitchen window I saw the early signs of spring. Among the last year’s decay, bright green spears of daffodils leaves showed a promise of things to come, while the yellows of primroses and celandine shone like golden stars in the untidy flowerbeds.

  In the bread bin I found a stale loaf and cut a slice to lie on the top of the Aga to toast. On my way back from the pantry to grab the butter dish and a jar of marmalade I remembered that I had a stretched canvas ready for a landscape Basil needed for an important client.

  I buttered the toast and tried to focus on where I could find my next muse. I hastily munched while my mind chewed over the problem of the landscape. Not wishing to waste any more of my valuable time stuck for hours on a wind-swept hillock freezing my nuts off, I decided the best thing to do was fake an abstract landscape just to get the thing done. Taking a tea tray with me, I went through to the hall when the phone rang. I ignored it knowing it could only be Basil. On reaching my studio it rang again, and I picked up. “Hello Basil.”

  Without even acknowledging my greeting, Basil waffled on about some new commission he had taken on. “My client is a beautiful middle-aged woman with a big personality—and an even bigger bank balance. She’s desperate to meet you, James. Do you think you could make it to my office by three on Wednesday, dear boy?”

  “Of course, old boy,” I answered, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Now less of your cheek, James. I’ve just this minute finished talking to her. She loves your work and has three paintings already. Her husband was big in banking.”

  “Was big?” I feigned interest.

  “Didn’t I say? She’s a widow and a merry one, too. Looks after herself well and believes in having the best of everything. Not just for herself, but her twenty-one-year-old daughter, too. She’s quite a looker, though a lot quieter than her mother. Surprising really. Normally they’re just as much of a man-eater as their mothers.”

  “Of course you would know.”

  “I do indeed. In my line of work. I’ve come across a fair number of them. Money makes them believe they can buy whatever they want. Nothing is unavailable to them. Anyway, Tamsin wants—”

  “Tamsin?” I interrupted. “So you’re on first name terms with her.”

  “Yes. Her husband Jeremy Loring and I were old university friends. Tamsin Loring and I only became friends fourteen years after her husband’s death. We met by chance in the restaurant at my local golf club. I’ll be meeting her and the daughter next Wednesday in my office. I want you to come along too.”

  “Oh—” My annoyance grew. I hated Basil arranging my life. “What does she want me to paint?” I had no desire to meet the merry widow, even if she was a wealthy one.

  “I’ve no idea. She wants to discuss that with you in person over a meal. Unfortunately, on that day I’ve scheduled a call from America, so I won’t be dining with you.” Basil inhaled sharply.

  “Is something bothering you? You’re sounding a bit uptight. Not like you at all.”

  “I’m having trouble with Easter. The guy’s a bloody genius, but a fucking prima-donna. Making demands left, right, and centre. I wish they were all like you, James. So easy to work with, and a born genius. It must be your bloodline.”

  “Thanks.” I wondered if he moaned about me to the other artists. Then I became aware he’d changed the subject.

  “James, do you remember coming with me to see some of Easter’s work early on, in the gallery in Old Bond Street?”

  “Yes, of course. Grafton Gallery? The receptionist was a pretty little thing with bobbed brown hair.” I didn’t mention that I thought the paintings were pretty crass.

  “Oh, so you noticed her then?”

  “Yeah, and…?”

  “Well, James it’s just that…”

  “Just what?”

  “There’s a problem. It’s funny she made such an impression on you, James.”

  “Why? Is there a problem with me noticing the receptionist on that day?”

  “No.”

  “But there’s a But? Anyway, I wasn’t cramping your style. Just window shopping.”

  “Cramping my style. Oh just, never mind about that. The owner Charles phoned me the other day to say she’s still missing.”

  “Still missing? As in, the receptionist?” The shocked tone in my voice was just right, I thought, as I poured myself a cup of tea and sat down.

  “Yes. Apparently she went missing on the night of the exhibition. The girl’s parents had been in contact with Charles. They wanted to know if he knew of her whereabouts before they called the police. He hadn’t remembered us being there on that day until he phoned me about a problem he was having with Easter.”

  “Easter?”

  “Yes. He was whingeing about the money he says I owed him. He wanted Charles to have a quiet little word in my ear before he takes the matter into his own hands. Says he’ll speak to some people I wouldn’t want to know.”

  “He’s threatened you? Ha. Normally we arty types are gentle, loving people.” I took a sip of my tea and wished the telephone cable was longer so I could look out of the window too.

  “It isn’t funny, James. Anyway, while Charles was explaining about Easter, he remembered us being there. The police have questioned him twice already. He thought I should have a word with them. The last thing I want, James, is to have the police question me again.

  “What did he say when you told him you’re already helping the police in connection with two other missing girls?”

  “What! Do you think I’m that stupid? I told him I couldn’t help. He got upset saying someone must have seen something that night. He’s very concerned about her. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it’s getting too uncomfortable. I didn’t even speak to her.”

  “An overactive imagination, Basil.” I hoped my voice sounded sympathetic enough. The landscape standing on an easel caught my attention, and I wondered whether the varnish had become dry enough to touch.

  “Could be, I suppose. Though I get the feeling that somehow there’s an invisible thread linking me to the girls. What do you think?”

  “What do I think? Well, she might’ve had a better offer and dumped old Charlie boy.”

  “If only. According to Charles, she only worked part-time for him, wanting some experience of gallery work as she was a full-time art student. I’m just hoping the police don’t come asking me where I was on the night she went missing.”

  “No alibi again?”

  “You wouldn’t be so flippant if it was you. Anyway, how’s that latest painting of mine coming along? My client has been asking after it.”

  “Very well, thank you.” The blank canvas leaned against the wall waiting for a primer. Did Basil hope I hadn’t heard his use of the word, mine, as if he owned both me and the paintings?

  As he was so quick to point out, those with plenty of money liked to think they owned the world, and that the rest of us wanted to be like them. If that’s what he wants to believe, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.


  “Good. So I shall see you soon with it then,’ he said. “Don’t forget, next Wednesday, my office, three o’clock.”

  He hung up before I had the chance to protest.

  Tired of Basil’s attitude, I crossed to the raw canvas, snatched it up, and took it down to mother’s studio. My plan was to use the view from her studio window of the broken trees as a starting point. I selected the largest brush and set to work priming the surface. While waiting for the primer to dry, I started to sketch out my own interpretation of the landscape, but the second my pencil touched the paper, my mind created the image for my next angel.

  I found myself high up on a recess above a busy street. The ever-watching and waiting angel opened her wings, calling me into her arms. Her icy limbs wrapped themselves around me in an eternal embrace while her empty eyes showed no emotion as they stared deep into mine. My pencil reignited, danced across the page as the image in my head transferred itself onto the paper. When it came to the fine details of the angel’s features inspiration left my pencil hovering over where her face should be. I threw the pencil down knowing I needed another muse.

  The phone rang, shattering the peace. I reached for it, noting that I had lost three hours. “Hello!”

  “James there’s been a change of plan,” Basil said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Death of a Scarlet Tiger Moth

  1966

  Basil explained that he had rescheduled his meeting with Tamsin Loring. “I’ve changed the location too,” he said without taking a breath. “Can you meet us at the Potter’s Bar Golf Club restaurant, instead of the office?”

  “Happy to,” I said. The thought of getting a decent meal out of Basil’s client helped to soften my annoyance.

  I set about starting work on the landscape, with no desire to waste my time painting outdoors, I created it from my imagination instead. The following day after Basil’s call I left his commissioned painting to dry on an easel in the corner of the studio. Even with a couple of days’ grace, I knew the painting would be too tacky to take with me, but at least it was finished.

  I began to relax. A break from the studio would help to clear my mind and with some good food lift my spirits too. After burying Emily, something in me changed. Sleep no longer came easily. I knew she was at peace, truly an angel. I tried to keep busy all day hoping exhaustion would allow me to fall asleep easier, but it didn’t help. On closing my eyes Emily’s pallid face would rise up from under the compost. Her lips so pale they stood out like scars while empty eye sockets scrutinised me. No matter how much I shovelled the compost to cover her, she would rise to the surface again. Her clawing fingers beckoned me to join her and the other angels in their cold grave. I tried to escape only to be caught around the ankles. I fell backward onto the compost the bloodless faces of the watching angels hung over me.

  One morning I woke refreshed from an undisturbed sleep, full of inspirations for further paintings. An inner surge of growing pleasure helped to ignite my desire to hunt for my next muse.

  On the morning of the meeting, I planned to leave as soon as possible to beat the traffic heading into London. I took a leisurely drive along the country lanes before hitting the busy main roads.

  I switched on the radio as the traffic began to slow. The steady, pounding beat of the Spencer Davis Group’s ‘Keep on Running,’ filled my car and I sang along. The flow of traffic picked up again and the scenery flashed past in a haze of colours. I wanted to prepare myself mentally for my next big piece, though I was unable to start planning the specific details yet. First, there was the excitement of the hunt.

  The drive was uncomplicated, and the location had been far easier to find than I had imagined as I pulled into the club’s car park. I drove past the more expensive cars, deciding to park my Vauxhall Cresta saloon out of sight from the main building.

  After turning off the engine, I rolled my shoulders and climbed out. The car park was empty of people, though I could see golfers playing a round in the distance. I stretched my back and legs before pulling on a jacket and straightening my Slim-Jim tie. On my way to the main buildings, I spotted Basil’s Bentley parked next to a neat, little red sports car, which I guessed had to be Mrs Loring’s, going by my agent’s description of her.

  I couldn’t see an entrance for the restaurant, so I entered through the clubhouse. In the lobby, I looked around for a sign pointing to the restaurant, but couldn’t find one. I was just about to find someone to ask when I felt a hand on my arm.

  “Excuse me, Sir. Are you a member?” The nervous little man quickly withdrew his hand from my arm before I had time to answer. He continued, “It’s a members club only, Sir. I must insist on seeing your membership card before I can allow you to go any further.”

  “Please forgive me, but I’m supposed to be meeting Basil Hallward here today.” I smiled broadly.

  The man’s face reddened. “Oh dearie me. You must forgive me, sir, for not recognising you sooner, Mr Ravencroft.” He glanced at his list before crossing off my name. “This way please, sir.” He gestured towards a corridor I hadn’t noticed. As I followed behind, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’m a great admirer of your work, sir, which I might add I would recognise anywhere.”

  “Thank you.”

  On entering the restaurant, the concierge took me over to a corner table where Basil sat, with his back towards us as we approached. Basil was talking animatedly to an older woman, dressed in a classic navy-blue jacket with a white blouse, I guessed to be Mrs Loring. She learnt forward, one slender hand playing with the end of her dyed jet-black hair. Beside her sat two younger women. One had a band of roses woven into her long hair and wore a flowery waistcoat over a white blouse. The other woman had the same air of importance about her as Mrs Loring and was formally dressed in a blazer the same as her mother. I couldn’t see if they wore trousers or skirts as the table was covered with a white cloth.

  The concierge gave a little cough. “Mr Hallward, your guest has arrived.”

  Mrs Loring, a strikingly good-looking woman, in her late forties, with pencilled eyebrows, and high rouged cheekbones, looked up. She gave a broad red-lipped smile, which caused Basil to turn in his seat.

  “Aha, there you are, James.” Basil stood and greeted me with a vigorous handshake. “Glad you found the place all right.”

  The concierge gave a nod in my direction before addressing Basil. “Sir, I shall get a waiter to remove your empty plates too, if you have finished.”

  “Yes, thank you, Toby,” Basil replied.

  I realised sadly that they had already eaten without me. Basil gave a sweeping gesture towards the older woman. “James, this is Mrs Loring.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Loring.” I took the chair opposite her and noticed she wore too much eye make-up robbing her of her natural beauty. She offered me her slender suntanned hand. It felt heavy in mine, weighed down by her collection of antique rings.

  “Oh no, Basil, you’re making me sound so very old.” She turned her full attention on me. “Please James; you simply must call me, Tamsin. And this is my daughter, Jeannie.”

  “Tamsin, it is.” I leaned forward and kissed the back of her hand, knowing she would enjoy a touch of the old-fashioned charm. Either from slight embarrassment or a well-rehearsed modesty, Mrs Loring pulled her hand from mine, touching her thin neck in a girlish gesture.

  “My dear boy,” she threw a glance in the direction of Basil, while still speaking to me, “you are truly beguiling as well as very talented.”

  I grinned at her in appreciation, but my attention was on the other girl seated slightly away from Mrs Loring’s daughter. My hands began to tingle as I studied her. She sat in profile her strong jawline and thick full lips captivated me in the same way as the waiter had her attention. Woven into her thick, dark brown hair a row of delicate, artificial red rosebuds created a garland around the top of her head. Cascading ringlets fell onto her slim shoulders. I wanted someone or at least Mrs Loring to
introduce her to me.

  “So what would you like to drink, James?” Basil interrupted my thoughts.

  Without taking my eyes off the unknown beauty, I answered, “The usual please.”

  Basil chatted to Mrs Loring while waiting impatiently to get the attention of one of the busy waiters. This allowed me more time to study the girl. I longed for the waiter to finish serving at the next table and come to ours. I hoped by doing so the girl would turn in my direction, and if the symmetry of her face was right…

  A sudden burst of raucous laughter from Mrs Loring at one of Basil’s humorous anecdotes caused the girl to turn slightly. She shifted in her seat and caused her tiny pearl drop earring to sway. It seemed to reflect the lustre of the skin on her neck.

  I visualised a fresh canvas resting on an easel waiting for me to paint the profile of her face. The weight of the paintbrush was already in my hand as I held a palette of colours ready to match the glow of her skin.

  Jeannie leant in towards the girl who then tilted her head as Mrs Loring explained Basil’s joke. The girl gave a light chuckle and took a sip of her drink while watching me over its rim. On lowering her glass, she asked, “Are you like Mister Bond, James? Martini, shaken but not stirred?”

  “Not at all.” I laughed. “My life is much duller than his.” I caught a hint of sadness reflected in her eyes.

  Basil clicked his fingers again and finally the waiter came over to take his drinks order and to clear the table. The girl showed no sign of her former interest in the waiter as her eyes remained focused on mine.

  “Right ladies, would you like me to refresh your glasses?” Basil asked.

  “No, thank you, Mr Hallward,” Jeannie said, standing. “It’s been nice meeting you, but Annie and I have to go shopping. Mother’s taking us to New York soon.”

  Basil stood. “It’s been so delightful meeting you both, too,” He squeezed Jeannie’s hand. “You simply must come along to one of my exhibitions. I will let your mother know about the forthcoming events.”