Once pleased with the overall shape of the rat, I placed it in a seated position, resting on its tail and with its front legs up as though it was sniffing the air for danger. I tweaked the wire cage that held the rat with pliers, bending the wire until I was happy with the finished sculpture and then, nailed it into place on a board. After mixing some concrete, I began to mould it over the wire frame with a small spatula. Starting from the rat’s tail, I built up the layers and soon discovered that I could give texture to its surface.
In one of the toolboxes I found a small wire brush once used for cleaning spark plugs. Brushing the surface of the wet concrete brought the rat to life by giving it the texture of fur. I shaped its features by extending its nose. Then I pushed the tip of a pencil into the wet concrete to mark the eyes. Once he was complete, I left it to dry.
A noise outside the door caught my attention. A figure moved across the doorway. I shielded my eyes and asked. “Hello. Can I help?”
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr Ravencroft. It’s just me dad saw you working over here. He’d like to speak to you about something.”
“Tell your father I’ll be with him in a moment, Carl.”
“Righty-ho.” The gardener’s lad disappeared from view.
I pulled the doors shut, turned the key and slipped it onto my key ring before following Carl into the garden via the side gate.
Old Bill was busy digging a flower bed. His broad back rippled with strength as he turned the soil. He was a tall man in his late forties, with a weather-beaten face and a head of thick blond hair. His son, a shorter, thinner version, tapped his father’s arm. Old Bill stabbed his fork hard into the lawn and rested his arm on its handle as I strolled towards him.
“Ah-ha, Mr Ravencroft…” He doffed his cap and I recalled his father, Bill doing the same. “There’s something not quite right about the old grave.” He pointed to the far side of the garden.
The muscles in my face tightened. “Bill, I thought I told you that the stone angel was unsafe. Neither you nor your son should be working anywhere near it. At least not until I get someone to undertake the repairs.
“Aye, ah know what you said, Mr Ravencroft. But it’s not the angel.”
“I’m more than happy to tidy that area myself, Bill. I know how hard you work to keep the grounds looking pristine.”
“Ah know. It’s them graves in the bushes over there.” He nodded in the direction of the rhododendrons.
I swallowed. My temper started to rise. Why couldn’t Old Bill follow such a simple instruction? His father had worked for my family and now he worked for me. He knew his job inside out. To keep the front gardens tidy. Its gravel drive free from weeds, the lawn cut, shrubbery pruned, and spring bulbs planted. The boy just had to rake the gravel. Order ruled my life. Mrs P understood, Everything in its place and a place for everything.
“Aye ah know you told us, Mr Ravencroft. And as ah said to me boy, they aren’t our problem. What it is sir, is them flies.”
“What flies?”
“Them that swarm around the old grave. Those that are buried there, are no more than dust now. Ah reckon that an old fox or brock crawled in and died, but ah can’t rightly see how it got in there meself.”
“Please, Bill. I’m too busy to worry about it now. If you’re right and it’s an old badger, then God bless it. It’s died in the right place. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Mr Ravencroft, it ain’t any of my business, but something ain’t right. Ah’m telling you. There ain’t any way they can get in.”
“I couldn’t care less, Bill. If you don’t mind, I’ve work to do. And so have you! Please stay away from the angel and graves.” I turned on my heels and headed back to the house.
From the attic landing I watched Old Bill and his son. Unable to move Phoebe Browning out to the stable, I took her body through to the windowless room, undressed her and then wrapped her body in a sheet.
Once the gardener and his son were busy at the front of the house, Carl raking the gravel, while Old Bill was busy cutting back the overgrown shrubs around the gateway. I left the house via the kitchen garden and nipped round to the potting shed. Three wheelbarrows stood beside the compost heap.
I took the closest one and hurried back to the house. As I approached the kitchen garden, I heard Carl coming towards me. Not knowing how I was going to explain my need for a wheelbarrow, I headed towards the French windows.
As I approached a baby bird flapped at the base of the door. It didn’t surprise me; the wisteria covering the wall above the door and beneath the stone balcony was full of nests. I went to investigate, hoping to be able to return it to its nest. To my surprise, it was not a flapping bird at all, but the drawing room curtain wedged under the door. I pushed the handle down, expecting to find it locked, but it opened easily. I drew the curtains aside, pushed the wheelbarrow in, moving some furniture away from the door.
On locking the door properly this time, I pocketed the key, and realised it was Basil’s point of entry.
It had been nearly nine months since I had last seen the police, but still they hadn’t arrested Basil. Just before last Christmas, Basil had turned up unexpectedly with his normal excuse about being in the area. He had even mentioned something about having made a personal delivery of a painting to an important client. I had invited him in for a seasonal drink and, in the drawing room, he had handed me a card and a cheque for my percentage of the sales made in the previous year. He had left soon after bringing me up to date on Easter’s continuing success in America.
If Wicklow was right, Basil would soon be tempted to steal more paintings. I decided to see just how much of an expert Basil was by adding an extra line of code to mother’s original.
In the back of her notebook was a series of letters, words and numbers. I added a few extra letters and numbers to some of the easy to reach smaller pieces of mother’s framed works. I was certain that if Basil’s buyer was a true art connoisseur, they would have no problem in deciphering my message, and would know that Basil had illegally obtained the works. I hoped there might be a chance to find out who had them, and a way of getting them back.
By the end of the month, Basil had taken the bait.
Before heading upstairs to bring the body down, I made sure the wheelbarrow was out of sight of the French windows. On the landing I paused to look out the window. Old Bill and his son were busy working on the far side of the garden. It was a risk moving Phoebe in the daytime, but the sooner I could get rid of her body, the sooner I could start planning my next painting. I placed Phoebe in the wheelbarrow and covered her with some old blankets,
After the problem with flies I could not afford to add Phoebe to the tomb with the others, so I spent the remainder of the day repeating what I had done with the rat on her body.
I shaped the wet concrete, adding texture and features. I delicately carved in a long flowing shroud that covered the statue’s head and flowed like water over her body, emphasizing the shape of her breasts. Around her head a garland of concrete ivy held a veil beneath the shroud in place. Her features, closed eyes and slightly parted lips, were visible, beneath her veil.
A week later I was ready to tackle the problem of getting her into the van. It was slow progress but, with the help of a sack barrow, I was able to move her by myself. I drove into London, to a bomb-damaged church not far from Basil’s office.
On many occasions I had walked through its overgrown graveyard as I followed one of the many footpaths around the area. At the rear of the church there was an ideal parking place for the van. Overgrown shrubs hid it from view.
Three hours later, after working up a sweat and nearly crushing my thumb, I managed to get her in to a crypt. Once settled into her final resting place, among the dusty remains of church’s nobility, I placed a row of candles at her feet. Pleased with the results, I left the way I had entered through the boarded-up church widow after bolting the main door.
As I headed home, I began to focus on my next hun
t.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Stone Angels
The Ninth Painting
1971
As the car swung around on the drive sending up a spray of gravel, I covered my painting with a damp cloth. By the time I reached the second landing, the doorbell had rung twice. I opened the door and Detective Sergeant Heythorp stepped inside before I had the chance to invite him in.
“So you’re in, Mr Ravencroft. So glad we didn’t have a wasted journey.” The difference in Heythorp’s appearance in just over a year shocked me. His hair was almost pure white now, but he hadn’t lost the fire in his cold blue eyes.
“So good to see you, too, I think.”
He moved towards the drawing room while I kept my hand firmly on the door handle.
“Well that all depends on you, sir.” a second voice said. “If you want to turn a simple situation into a difficult one, Mr Ravencroft, by all means feel free.”
I swung around to find Wicklow standing in the doorway.
“We just want a little chat, but if you would rather take a ride to our place.” He winked as he passed me. I closed the door before joining them in the drawing room.
Time had changed Wicklow too. Shades of grey hair touched his temples, while deep lines etched his eyes and lips. The new job kept him at his desk too long, or maybe he spent too much time after work down the local with his mates, as he now carried extra weight.
“It must be a full twelve months since you last darkened my door.” I unlocked the French windows and threw the doors open allowing the smell of the freshly cut grass in before crossing to the drinks cabinet.
“I do hope it’s a social call. Gentlemen please, you’ll join me.” I proffered a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue.
They shook their heads. “Sorry,” Heythorp said. “I’m afraid we can’t join you. Once again, we’re here on official business. Please take a seat.” He gestured towards my father’s easy chair.
“Shouldn’t it be me saying that to you?” I filled a glass to the brim.
He nodded. “We just need to ask you a few questions.”
I dropped onto the nearest sofa and leant back. The room filled with an air of awkwardness, Heythorp stood looking down at me. I sipped my drink, happy to keep them waiting until I finally gestured for them to sit, with a quick flick of my wrist.
Wicklow remained standing, like a returning lover his attention moved to mother’s portrait above the fireplace.
Heythorp coughed, “James…”
I gave a curt nod.
“Right.” He relaxed into father’s chair, seeming almost to take on father’s stance, the way he did when he was about to lecture me on my bad behaviour. “I’m curious to know about an incident that happened at your school in 1951.”
“What? 1951?” I nearly spilt my drink as I sat upright. “I can barely remember what I was doing two years ago let alone back then.”
“It’s important.” He flicked through his notebook.
“For who?” I leaned forward.
“Our investigation,” Wicklow added.
“What investigation?” I looked over my shoulder.
“Please just answer the question, James,” Heythorp said.
I leant back in my seat and took a deep swallow of my drink.
“Mr Ravencroft?” Heythorp’s tone was gravelly. From years of smoking and drinking, I guessed.
“What do you want to know?”
“An incident at your school in 1951 and why your name popped up.”
“My name popped up because I was a boarder at the school, along with hundreds of other names, too.”
“The incident we’re interested in happened during the school holidays when only a small number of people were present.”
I sipped my drink and waited.
“It’s interesting that your name came up.”
I leaned forward. “My mother had died. My father was a very ill man, being cared for by our housekeeper. I was staying at the school during the holiday in 1951.”
Wicklow checked his notebook, flicking a few pages. “It’s odd that a teacher disappears, and lo and behold your name appears in connection with hers.”
“Oh, Miss Dearborn. A strange case.”
“You remember the incident?” Wicklow asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“It would’ve been obtuse of me not to, don’t you think? She was my art teacher. It happened not long after I lost my mother. I’m sure it made an impact on all my classmates and the teachers, too. Have you asked any of them?”
“We spoke to Phillip Jones. He recalls that you were one of her favourites. Is it true that she held you back after class?” Wicklow asked.
“Phillip Jones—That’s a name from the past. A classroom bully and a fool. At last, he has his claim to fame. Nasty boy. Very fond of telling me that mother killed herself because of me.”
“What happened in these after class activities?” Heythorp emphasised the last few words with an air of smuttiness.
“He shared that information with you? It’s only taken nineteen years for someone to ask the question no-one wanted to ask at the time. Maybe you should be asking Jonesy why he didn’t speak out about Miss Dearborn’s after class activities back then.”
“We’re asking you” Wicklow said.
I ignored his remark. “It’s odd Detective Heythorp that it’s only now Jonesy has spoken out. If he had done so back then, Miss Dearborn’s behaviour might’ve become known sooner. Maybe the school didn’t want to acknowledge that Miss Dearborn was a child molester.”
“Was she?’ Wicklow’s eyes remained on me. As he addressed his next comment to Heythorp. “Just can’t believe it, Sarge. Rich kids have all the privileges; private education, money and a gorgeous young woman with the hots for them. She was willing to help them into manhood, and they complained about it. The real tragedy is that you didn’t get your jollies away, while you could.”
Heythorp said nothing.
“I wasn’t there for her sort of education. My father expected high grades from me. You might’ve enjoyed the attention of an older woman, as many of the boys did. Oh, and you do know she wasn’t just interested in grubby little schoolboys. Have you questioned some of the teachers, D.C. Wicklow?”
“We plan to but for now we’re interested in what you can tell us.’
“And what would that be?”
“For a start, what happened to Miss Dearborn?”
“I’ve no idea. I tried to keep out of her way as much as possible. You know the sort of thing, sitting at the back of the class, not being on my own when she was about.”
“Was there a reason you didn’t take up her offer?”
“What do you mean by — offer?”
“You didn’t like her unwanted attention?”
“Of course not. It was unseemly…” I let my words trail off.
“Most boys in your class saw it as a rite of passage.”
“Is that what Jonesy said? Ha, just the sort of thing he would say.”
“Did she have sex with other boys in your class?”
I crossed to the drinks cabinet, giving myself time to think as I poured another glass. “If you’re asking me if I saw her having sex with any of the boys in my class. No, I did not. If you’re asking me if there were rumours, then yes, plenty.” I sat on the edge of the sofa and took a sip. “Of course, your star witness, Jonesy, mostly started the rumours. He liked to exaggerate his involvement with Miss Dearborn. The first-year students loved his lusty stories during their long first lonely nights away from home. Peeping Tom Jonesy had plenty of tall tales about how he had watched her undressing, taking a shower, swimming naked in the lake with married male teachers etc… I could go on. Oh, I don’t suppose he mentioned how he supplied filthy magazines to the boys to drool over. Quite an entrepreneur Jonesy was back then. To be honest, I’m more than happy to forget about the sound of schoolboys masturbating late into the night after lights out.”
Wicklow laughed. “Oh, and
you’re saying, what? You didn’t masturbate?”
“Are you suggesting I’m abnormal for not wanting to have sex with a woman old enough to be my mother?” I glared in his direction. Wicklow stood in a small alcove in the far corner of the room and had his back to me. His shoulders hunched forward as he examined first one group of mother’s sketches before moving onto the second group. The small framed drawings and sketches were a detailed study mother had made for one of her larger pieces. I wondered whether he had not heard or was just ignoring me.
He straightened, pulled a slim black notebook from his pocket and flicked over a few pages.
“Is there something wrong?” I set my glass down.
Heythorp turned in his seat, a concerned look on his face.
“Last time we came you had four other pictures hanging here.” Wicklow pointed at the wall.
“What!”
“Here.” Wicklow tapped the wall, not touching the frames.
“I haven’t changed them.” I moved to his side. “I don’t believe it.” I snatched an empty frame from the wall. “The bastard.”
“You’re talking about your agent?” Wicklow asked.
“Yes. Clever of Basil bloody Hallward to leave the frames. I don’t use this room much. I spend most of my time painting. I pour myself a drink and then go upstairs to paint.”
“When did he last pay you a visit?’
“About Christmas time. He made an unexpected visit. He brought me a card and a cheque, my earnings for the year.” I lifted my head, pointed to the four faded rectangular patches on the opposite wall. “He had those four too. I hadn’t realised he’d been back for more. I should’ve checked the frames more closely. Tucked away in the corner they aren’t so noticeable.
“You didn’t think to report it.”
“Yes. But I wanted to catch him red-handed.”
“You’re making a serious claim, yet you failed to report a theft of four valuable sketches.”
“I’m aware of how it may seem to you. The last thing I want is to draw attention to the rest of my mother’s collection.”
Stone Angels Page 25
