I pushed the finished picture into the rack and turned my concentration to finish the much-needed pictures for the exhibition. Once completed, my hunt could begin for my next angel. In mother’s studio, I worked swiftly on the land and seascapes needed for the exhibition though my mind kept churning over my disturbing nightmare. I mixed Cadmium red, yellow Ochre, and Titanium white together ready to add to a sunset I had been working on. It occurred to me then that the dream explained the anxieties mother had suffered, too.
Did I have the same fears?
I added small dabs of colour to my painting and became so absorbed in what I was doing that it took a while for me to realise the phone was ringing.
“Hello. Yes?”
“James, my dear boy. I’ve some great news.”
“Really?” I wedged the receiver in the crook of my neck, as I continued mixing the colours.
“Yes. It’s something to get your creative juices flowing.”
“That’s good.” My neck began to ache as I tried to add more paint to the canvas.
“I’ve just finished chatting with a new client. They’ve commissioned a painting of Dunwich, Suffolk.”
“What? Not another fucking commission for that damn place!” I threw my palette down and placed the receiver to my ear properly while stretching my neck. “Good God, Basil. How many sodding paintings can an artist paint of a place that does not exist anymore? I’ve even done it in every type of weather too.”
“Now don’t disappoint me.”
Pleased he could take my anger so light-heartedly, I knew it was a sign that he was making progress with getting the arrangements sorted for the exhibition. I was confident that soon my career would be on the up, while his would soon crash and burn.
“Basil, I’m really busy. I’m working on the pictures you specified for the exhibition.”
“Listen. The client doesn’t want Dunwich as it looks now, but your interpretation of its past. You have free rein over that. Their only request is that it’s in your own unique style.”
“At last. Can I have that in writing, Basil, just in case they’re not satisfied?” My temper was abating.
“If you must. I’ll draw up a contract if it makes you happy.”
“Thanks. Though I’m excited about having free rein on the painting I create.”
“I thought you might. The client has given us permission to use it in your up and coming exhibition. It’ll be the star piece.”
“Then I better get started on it right away.” I replaced the receiver, picked up my palette and stepped back from the easel. “Hmm. I was happy that I could even make a sunset look as sombre as the rest of my work.”
***
I drove to Basil’s office to sign the contract he had drawn up. Before returning for home, I took the opportunity to visit the library near the gallery hoping to find some history books on Dunwich.
I had visited the location of the medieval port many times, but nothing of it remained. What I needed was a historical account of how life was in Dunwich in hope that it would inspire me to create a new interpretation of the well-worn subject. Not finding anything suitable, the librarian recommended I tried a second-hand bookshop a few streets away. The shop bell rang as I stepped into Starlight’s bookshop. Lighter and brighter than the library, the rows of books stood on lined pine shelves around the shop. Crisp white labels marked each section of the shop, allowing customers to find what they wanted easily. I breathed in the musty air, glad it still contained the all too familiar odour of old books. A mix of countless lives lived in the pungent scent of curiosity, wood shavings and mothballs. As I pondered whether what I needed came under travel or history, a door behind the counter opened. A young woman wearing a turban in shades of gold and russet emerged carrying a pile of novels. As she set the books down on the counter, she caught sight of me.
“Oh, hello. Can I help you?”
She had high pale cheekbones. The fullness of her pink lips held the hint of a smile that I could imagine some men would adore, but for me, what held my attention was the sadness in her dark green eyes. I closed the book I was holding and placed it back on the shelf.
“I hope so. I tried the library first with no luck. The librarian suggested I tried here. I’m on a quest.”
“How exciting.” She moved the books to one side and opened the counter. She was dressed in a full-length skirt that matched her turban, and a soft brown fitted blouse. “What are you looking for?”
“The history of a place called Dunwich. It’s in—”
“Suffolk,” she interrupted. “A very interesting medieval town on the East Anglian coast.”
“So you’ve heard of it?”
“I know it well. Follow me.” She led me to the back of the shop. “My father originally came from there.”
“From Dunwich?”
“Not the part that’s under the water. I meant what’s left of it on the shore. Here we are.” She gestured to a larger bookcase. The top half had a glass front. “The door’s unlocked. Please help yourself to any book that takes your interest.”
“Thank you.” I ran my finger along the spines of the books.
“My father was a terrible hoarder. It’s why I have a wide selection about that area of the country. What’s your interest in the place?”
“I’ve been commissioned to paint a scene showing the last moments of the town’s life as the storm hit.”
“You’re an artist then.”
“Yes.” As I hunted along the rows of old books, her sickly-sweet perfume overwhelmed me with the stench of lilies reminding me of decay and death. I focused on the books. In among the larger books, I found a small blue nondescript book, The Story of Lost England, by Beckles Willson. I opened it to the index. After running my finger down the list, I turned to the page I needed.
A verse leapt out at me. ‘Nor will they coldly turn away, because my verse shall tell a story of the fearful day when mighty Dunwich fell.’
From my pocket I pulled out my sketchpad and began to draw a thumbnail sketch, an impression. Black storm clouds rose high in the night sky blocking out the stars. The sea broke through the defences, while forked lighting seemed to announce the end of the world.
I closed my sketchpad, ready to pull out another book when I became aware of the girl peering over my shoulder. I wanted to focus completely on the Dunwich painting, but the smell of her perfume distracted me.
I moved my finger onto the next book. My mind told me that she could be my number nine as I selected the next book.
‘She’s not the one!’ I told myself while fighting to concentrate on my Dunwich painting. Time was getting short ‘Yes but her eyes… they are enticing.’
I glanced at her discreetly. Everything was so wrong about her. Nothing about her could spark my imagination. Too short in stature, her breasts too heavy, too much weight on her arms and, no doubt, her ankles too. What I could see of her hair from the tufts poking out from under her turban was bleached blonde something that I didn’t find attractive.
The shop bell tinkled.
“Oh, another customer. If you need any more help, just call—hmm.” The girl twisted a tuft of hair near her left ear, where a large hoop earring hung.
“Tommy,” I said, straightening up.
“Tommy,” she repeated my name, enunciating it carefully. The lines around her eyes crinkled as a broad smile lit up her face. It was then that I saw something special. The strength of her jawline and her high cheeks were very attractive. Something I could work with. As she hurried away, hips swinging, I focused on the Dunwich project and hastily selected another book.
I sat on a stool with a pile of the most interesting books resting on an empty shelf. After deciding which one gave me the best insight into what the medieval town looked like, I took them to the counter.
The young woman was busy pricing a pile of paperbacks. She tossed one or two that were either tatty or torn into a large wooden crate that stood to one side of the counter.
<
br /> “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, laying her pen down.
“These look helpful.” I placed them before her.
As she wrote the prices down on a piece of paper, she said, “Your accent sounds as though you come from that part of the world. Why didn’t you just pop into the museum there and ask?”
“It isn’t really a museum as such. Nothing as grand as the British Museum. It’s more a shed in someone’s garden. Anyway, I was staying in town over the weekend, so I popped into the library, thinking I might find want I needed there, but with luck, your shop has it all.” I gestured to the books. “Now, I can get started on my next commission as soon as I get home.”
She smiled and her face lit up in a way I had not expected. “I’m so glad I could help.” She blushed as she pushed the books towards me.
“Thank you.” I reached for them, allowing my fingers to brush the side of her hands.
She didn’t pull her hands away but held my gaze and I recognised her neediness.
“I—was wondering.” I reached into my jacket pocket for my wallet. “Are you free for a drink tonight?”
Her smile broadened and excitement filled her eyes. “Oh gosh. Are you asking me for a date?”
“If you’re free.” I pulled out the cash and paid for the books.
“Oh yes, I am. Wow, it’s been a long time since someone asked me out.”
“Has it?” I frowned.
“That makes me sound like such a loser, doesn’t it?” She pulled a bag out from under the counter.
“Not at all. Obviously, no-one has noticed the real beauty within you.”
She blushed again, adding even more colour to her cheeks. “Do you need a bag,” she stammered.
“Yes, that would be helpful.”
“What… what time would you like to meet up?” she stumbled over her words as she dropped the books into the bags.
“Well.’ I didn’t want her to have time to tell anyone else. “What time do you finish here?”
***
I couldn’t believe my luck with number nine, especially with the recent discovery of Phoebe Browning’s body. Jenny told me that the papers had reprinted details of the other seven missing girls, along with speculation over their disappearance. Stella from Starlight bookshop, however, seemed more than happy to climb into a car with a total stranger.
She chatted easily about herself as we drove towards Epping while glancing out of the window every now and again. She seemed to be unconcerned about where I was taking her. I turned into a busy Theydon Oak pub leafy car park at Coopersale.
Stella looked around excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to come here. I’ve heard it has quite a reputation. Some famous singers have been here,” she said, as I drove to the quietest spot in among the trees.
“Have they?” I reached into my pocket.
“Haven’t you ever been here before?” She grasped the door handle.
“Hang on a minute.”
She turned towards me, her lips parted as though she was about to ask a question. I smiled and leaned towards her, placing my arm around her neck. She leant in to receive my kiss and closed her eyes. I rammed the syringe into her leg. Her eyes sprung open in surprise, as she tried to struggle and pushed hard against my chest. I pressed my lips firmly against hers as I held her tight to me.
When at last her body relaxed, I propped her upright and checked that she was completely subdued. I reached behind her seat and pulled out a set of harnesses to strap her in, before laying a blanket across her shoulders. Satisfied she looked natural and her breathing was steady, I slipped the car into gear and pulled out of the car park and headed home to begin work on my next angel.
***
On the evening of my launch, the Dunwich painting, ‘The Final Hours’ covered the far end wall of the gallery. It caught the eye of everyone who entered. I was thrilled to discover it received the most comments and requests for purchase.
“Spectacular, James!” Basil raised his glass to it. “If only I had a hundred such paintings, I would be a wealthy, happy man.”
“Has the evening exceeded your expectations?” I sounded, even to myself, like a needy child again trying to please the adult in the room.
“Far more, James. I’m ecstatic. The evening has brought more wealthy clients to our list. A few more exhibits like this and the art world won’t know what’s hit it. I for one will raise a glass to that and sleep well tonight.”
***
I admired the completed ninth painting in my Stone Angels series and was happy with the result, although Stella Cavendish hadn’t been an ideal model. My desperation had got the better of me. By encapsulating elements of her, the sadness in her eyes, the shape of her jawline, and the unsaid question on her lips in the central figure of the painting had worked well I thought. I had made my angel taller than in real life and she stared down on the rushing citizens and traffic far below.
It seemed unbelievable that seven years had passed since Basil suggested I painted something urban and I was curious to see what his thoughts were about my interpretation of the word urban. I decided the time was right to risk showing him my true capability, believing it might even spur him in to finding a bigger venue for my solo show.
The opportunity came three weeks later when I received a phone call from Basil. I had been busy sorting out a canvas ready for my tenth angel. It was to be the largest one possible, as she was to be my statement piece—the ultimate angel, my morning star. I had just finished stretching the canvas, ready to prime it when the phone rang.
“Ah James. So glad you’re home. Not busy are you?”
“As always, old boy. But I’ve time for you.”
“So glad. I’ve been meaning to call you about your next project. I’m in the area and was wondering if I could pop in.”
“By all means. Feel free.”
“I’m just finishing a wonderful pub lunch. Half an hour, if that’s okay?”
“That’s fine. See you soon.” The receiver buzzed in my hand. Just had a wonderful pub lunch. So Nancy lived locally to me and was possibly one of his wealthy clients. “You old dog, Basil.” I put the receiver down.
I decided not to show him all the paintings at once and set the first angel on an easel facing the drawing-room door. I wanted to catch Basil’s initial reaction on entering the room.
While I waited for his arrival, I experimented by sitting in a different place around the room. Once I had found the best angle to view his expression, I readjusted the furniture slightly so I could sit comfortably. I poured a drink, too anxious to think about food and sat back in father’s chair. As the drink settled my nerves and warmed my gut the weight of the glass in my hand became the brush that made the first stroke on the naked canvas seven years ago. I relieved every emotion and was satisfied that the first angel still conveyed all I wanted it to say.
I sipped my drink and surveyed the room and then got up to close the curtains to soften the light in the room. It made the corner where the painting stood seem too dark. Next I switched on the lights, but they caused a glare on the painting. I reopened the curtains and switched the lights off before settling once more into father’s chair and tried to imagine what Basil’s thoughts might be on seeing the painting.
Would he take in the fine brushstrokes that held the light and darkness together? The way one foreshadowed the other to give life to the picture. Would he appreciate the strength in the form of the figure? The way it towered over the cityscape, reflecting its sense of isolation?
The figure’s appearance seemed to be statuesque as though carved in stone. Its pallid skin looked stretched, adding to the hollowness of her eyes and cheeks that gave depth to her jawline and the lines around her mouth. The gown wrapped around her legs gave her a classical Grecian look, as it held her up, trapping her into position on the edge of the roof.
I had finally finished the ninth painting six months ago and in that time, Basil’s interest in me had grown. Oddly eno
ugh, his pilfering had stopped, too, but that might have been because he no longer made unscheduled trips to the States. Maybe Basil didn’t want to risk losing the new woman in his life.
One thing was for sure—his business had suffered because of the police’ harassment as he called it. Not that any of this mattered to me I was just glad to have him focusing on my work after all these years.
The doorbell rung twice before I got up to answer the door.
“James, I hope you don’t mind, but I—”
“Basil, come through, and have a drink, old boy,” I said over my shoulder, as I took my place beside the drinks cabinet, with a glass in each hand, waiting for him to enter.
“That’s good of you. I could do with— Oh my God!” He crossed to the alcove. “When… How… Dear God, James, why haven’t you shown me this before!”
He drank in the first angel and satisfaction washed over me. All my efforts to wear him down began to reap the rewards I had hoped for, but there was no pleasure in the loss of mother’s paintings.
Two days later I received a phone call from Jenny requesting that I join Basil at his office to discuss plans for a major exhibition.
***
Leaving Halghetree Rectory early, I raced along the A12 to avoid the build-up of traffic trying to get into London. Bored with my own company, I switched on the radio. After humming along with the latest number one, the music faded as the DJ handed over to the news station.
“We’ve received the latest update on the disappearance of the owner of Starlight bookshops last seen six months ago.”
I leant over to retune the radio onto another station as I didn’t want to hear an update when a flash of blue appeared in my wing mirror. I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and slammed on my brakes fighting to keep the car under control, while cursing the driver’s parentage as he shot across in front of me.
On the radio the newscaster announced that the police had confirmed the body found encased in concrete was that of Phoebe Browning, one of the missing eight. He continued.
‘Our reporter has briefly spoken to her family. Understandably they are deeply shocked over the circumstances of their daughter’s death. The Brownings stated that just knowing they are able to lay their daughter to rest in their local church gives them comfort. They hope that some good will come out of their loss, believing her discovery will help track down the killer and reunite the other seven missing women with their loved ones too.’
Stone Angels Page 28
