The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  That week, Hugh said he needed to be on the road by 9AM, so they met at 8, at a coffee shop in the High Street. Julia had been pleasantly surprised at how easy these meetings were. She had anticipated awkwardness in reporting any problems she had encountered and admitting to aspects of the job she had been unaware of, but she had forgotten how good a listener Hugh was. It was probably the secret of his success.

  The weekly sessions had developed into a bit of a confessional, leaving her similarly absolved of her shortcomings. She found herself speaking more openly about how stressful the job had become, since the deaths.

  She had been revolted by the flurry of renewed interest in the media about the deaths, since the story of the Assassin’s Curse had surfaced, but Hugh was relaxed.

  ‘You can ignore the journalists. It’s just another page-filler or click-bait opportunity for them, now. All things considered, you’re doing fine.’

  ‘But I don’t feel like I’m coping.’ Julia realised she was whining, but she couldn’t stop herself. ‘Last week we had a visitor trip on the upper stairs. She shouldn’t even have been walking up to the second floor.’

  ‘It was her own fault, then.’

  ‘She was from Florida and claimed some nonsense about the first floor being the second in American English. And she seemed fine after a sit down.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘You know how litigious Americans are. I thought she might sue. And we use those stairs all the time, even if the visitors aren’t supposed to. I thought I should report it as a Health and Safety incident.’

  ‘Possibly overzealous, but I know you like to be thorough.’

  ‘Exactly. But it seems to have wound up one or two of the volunteers. They resent what they see as me bossing them around, but I’m sure I’m behaving no differently from John.’

  ‘I expect you are doing exactly what he was doing and would do, but you do need to appreciate that a few of them will still see you as just another volunteer.’

  ‘But some of them are so hopeless. They are incapable of the smallest decision, but they positively bristle when I say anything.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that John had … has quite an autocratic style. It will have conditioned many of the ladies to ask, rather than act. They are not all as strong-minded as you.’

  Julia smiled at him. ‘Thank you and sorry, I’m being pathetic. These meetings are getting to be a weekly therapy session. You bolster me up to face the next crisis.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. But I do know it’s too much for you to look after the MJL boys as well as the House. I’ve had a word with the trustees and with Jimmy, who’s squared it with the other partners: Fathon House will contribute to the cost of a temp for them, until John is fit. So you can devote your energies exclusively to the museum.’ He sat back in his chair and smiled broadly.

  Julia thought he looked like a department store Santa Claus who had just given a small child a particularly good toy. She hoped her face didn’t betray her thoughts - it was unlikely, since they were jumbled and contradictory. Dividing her time between the two roles was keeping her in a perpetual state of guilt, for neglecting whichever job she was not currently attending to.

  It would be a massive relief not to have to worry about MJL for a while. But no-one had any idea of how long John might be off sick. And Hugh had arranged this without even consulting her. Perhaps it was done with the best intentions, but he was treating her like a commodity, or a helpless female unable to make her own decisions.

  Before she could assemble a reply, he stood to leave. ‘I have to dash. We’ll get the temp sorted asap.’ He hesitated. ‘You need to take care of yourself. You’re looking a bit washed out.’

  ~

  When she walked into Fathon House, Penny was just emerging from the office.

  ‘Wotcha. Fancy a coffee? I was on the point of making one.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve just had one, with Hugh.’ Nevertheless, Julia followed Penny through to the kitchen.

  ‘What did The Git have to say for himself?’

  Julia had walked the length of the High Street cursing Hugh’s paternalistic high-handedness and her own meek acquiescence, but she knew he had meant well. ‘The trustees are going to help pay for a temp for the partnership, so I can do full time here.’

  ‘You’ve been doing more than full time already. But that is good news. He does occasionally come up trumps, I suppose.’

  ‘Actually, he’s been very supportive, all along. I didn’t expect to find myself saying that.’

  ‘Hey, he’s not hitting on you, is he? Again?’

  ‘Oh, nothing like that.’ She was almost certain it was nothing like that. ‘ In fact he said I looked tired.’

  ‘Nice of him to notice. You are exhausted.’

  ‘Thank you, too. Now that I know I look completely haggard, I shall go and hide myself in the curator’s office, so I don’t scare the visitors. I need to start preparing my report for the trustees’ board meeting next week.’

  ‘You’re working yourself into the ground, you know.’

  ‘I know: “I’ll be no use to anyone if I’m exhausted.” But what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Relax. Take some time for yourself. I don’t suppose you feel like finding a bit of companionship again?’

  ‘Absolutely not. The internet is populated by weirdos.’

  ‘Not just the internet, unfortunately.’ Penny winced as soon as she said it.

  ‘What do you mean? Penny - there hasn’t been anyone looking for me here, has there?’

  ‘No-one… nothing like that. You know that all ended two years ago.’

  The man who had stalked Julia had died in a traffic accident.

  ‘What then? You wouldn’t have said that, if there wasn’t something.’

  ‘It was just a random nutter when you were at MJL. He left quietly enough when I told him he had to pay. You know they come in occasionally. Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  Julia tried to concentrate on drafting her board paper. A slightly unbalanced individual, already long gone, shouldn’t distract her. She had John Carmichael’s last half dozen reports in front of her, to judge what was appropriate to cover, but she couldn’t put a single sentence together. She had too many different lines of thought clamouring for exclusive attention.

  Hugh had said to ignore the press, but it was impossible to do. A polite response always had to be given, however awkward, provocative or downright daft the question was. And the most recent questions had not been directly about the murder and Aaron’s death, but the “Curse”. The only curse she believed in at that moment was her lack of sleep, but she felt aware of the presence of the Assassin’s portrait every moment she was inside Fathon House.

  Hugh and now Penny could see she was mentally drained. Hugh had been so unexpectedly understanding and helpful since she had stepped up to the curator’s role, even if he had erred into over-protectiveness. If he was trying to revive their relationship, how did she feel? Flattered? Insulted? ...Interested?

  She stood and worked her shoulders. She was completely unable to start drafting the report. Perhaps it would be easier to concentrate on it at home, that evening. She decided to go upstairs and have a chat with Sam. Even if some of the volunteers begrudged her elevation, she was now responsible for managing the team and Sam had become uncharacteristically subdued - tucking herself away in the workshop without emerging for breaks. Penny was having to drag her down to the kitchen for coffee and to force her to be sociable.

  Julia paused at the door of the conservation workshop. She’d have to play it by ear. She took a breath and went in. ‘Hi Sam.’

  ‘Oh, Hi. Did you need something?’

  ‘No, I thought I’d see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘Fine. This one will be done tomorrow. It’s cleaned up good.’ Sam kept her head down over her work on the painting.

  ‘I didn’t mean with the still-life. I me
ant you.’

  ‘I’m fine too.’

  Julia knew she wasn’t good at this sort of thing, but she couldn’t keep relying on Penny for the touchy-feely stuff. ‘I know it was a shock to find Aaron like that. And then to find out what he had done.’

  The intern made no reply and Julia tried again. ‘Penny says you haven’t even been into the Specials room since. Would it help if one of us was with you? Maybe this evening, after we close? Surely it won’t help to avoid it forever?’

  ‘OK, I’ll go back in the room. All right? But not yet.’

  ‘Sam, don’t you think it will just prey on your mind, until you do?’ Julia had no idea if she was doing the right thing, or making it worse, but she pressed on clumsily. ‘When do you face up to it? Aaron …’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Aaron.’ The girl’s words came out in a rush. ‘Or not directly anyway. It’s that fucking - sorry - portrait.’

  Julia didn’t need to ask which one. ‘Our Venetian nobleman has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘I know the curse is just a made-up story, but that painting is evil, like it’s possessed or something.’

  ‘Do you think we need to have it exorcised?’ Julia was immensely relieved when Sam smiled, albeit shakily.

  ‘No. But thanks for not laughing at me. You must think I’m behaving like a kid: scared of imaginary monsters.’

  ‘I don’t, but I don’t think it’s possessed. He’s certainly creepy - it made me shiver, the first time I saw it. But it’s just a painting. And I think it’s important to face your fears - real or imaginary.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. I shouldn’t let myself be bullied by a three hundred year old poncy jerk.’

  ‘That sounds more like you.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Maybe I lost it a bit. I can get my shit together - sorry - I mean, I can pull myself together.’

  ~

  Julia’s next conversation was less positive. She found Sheila was sitting down in the library, as the only visitors on that floor trooped back to the ground floor.

  ‘Don’t have a go at me for sitting, Julia. There’s no-one up here and I’ve been on my feet since six o’clock this morning.’

  ‘I was actually going to say how nice the dining room looks. The crystal is really sparkling.’

  ‘And it was a complete nightmare taking it all downstairs to wash.’

  ‘But you’ve done it before, haven’t you?’ Julia was non-plussed by the volunteer’s aggression. ‘I thought you had suggested doing it.’

  ‘Only because you’re constantly running a finger along every surface and making us feel like a bunch of sub-standard char-women.’

  ‘Sheila - no. Surely not. Everyone likes the place to look nice. I just have to keep more of an eye out, now.’

  ‘We did know what we needed to do, before you became Acting Curator. We don’t need you hovering over our shoulders all the time.’

  ‘That’s not fair. John always checked each room at least twice a week.’

  ‘John didn’t interfere. But you - you like queening it over the rest of us. It would suit you if John didn’t come back.’

  ‘If John doesn’t get well soon, the trustees will have to appoint a professional replacement.’

  ‘Well, they’ll have to appoint an amateur replacement too - for me. Because I’ve had enough.’

  Julia watched wordlessly, as the volunteer stalked out of the room, catching hold of the door as if to slam it, but changing her mind and closing it quietly behind her.

  Simply too tired to go after her, Julia slumped onto the chair and gripped the bridge of her nose. She sniffed and blinked a few times. Did she really deserve that? The curse may have been invented by a reporter, but it was starting to feel real.

  Chapter 6

  The upcoming meeting of the trustees was preying on Julia’s mind. Once she had settled down with the paperwork at home, she had been able to draft a report that she was moderately happy with. However, it was facing the trustees that daunted her.

  The board members had all been in post for years, a number of them for far longer than Julia had been volunteering. There were five, including Hugh.

  Maybe more than ideal for providing a clear direction for the management of the museum, although they were content to leave Trust issues to their chairman between meetings.

  When the Fathon House Charitable Trust was first established, it was thought valuable to involve a variety of stakeholders. Over the years, a degree of cronyism had narrowed that range of interests but, curiously, had done little to increase the frequency of consensus amongst the group.

  Penny generally took minutes at the board meetings and said the trustees were opinionated reactionaries who were more concerned with scoring points off each other than looking after the museum’s best interests.

  Despite her assurances that they would pay more attention to the chocolate digestives than to her, Julia was sure they would question her ability to manage the curatorship in John Carmichael’s absence and would challenge her lack of qualifications to fulfil the role - even on a care-taking basis.

  She spent the last three evenings before the meeting pacing around the museum, revising everything she had learned about the collection. But she was all too aware that her knowledge was superficial, unsupported by the depth of understanding of the artists, the genres and the time periods, that someone like John brought to the role.

  When she - reluctantly - walked into the Specials room, she was drawn, as always, to confront the Assassin. The figure was a dominating presence, but whenever Julia was able to pull her gaze from his eyes, she would notice more of the background.

  There were conventional elements indicating the interests and pursuits of an Enlightenment nobleman: a scientific instrument; a cane - possibly a riding crop. As John Carmichael had said, it really would be interesting to have the canvas cleaned, to see what further detail might be revealed.

  She returned to preparation for the board meeting. On top of everything else, Sheila’s departure had knocked Julia’s confidence. She felt isolated from the team and she fretted that if more volunteers resigned they might have insufficient manpower to stay open. If the trustees raised questions about staffing, they would definitely think she was unfit to manage the job.

  The intermittent sensation of being watched was becoming more frequent. She felt it outside the museum as well as while she was inside the building and tried to shrug it off as a consequence of her chronic tiredness. Talking with Penny about the stalker had conjured another one into being.

  Whenever she walked into the Specials gallery - which she now realised she was both drawn to and tried to avoid, the Assassin’s gaze was disconcerting: sometimes mocking, sometimes colder and more insidious - the dispassionate rapist she he seen on the first night that the picture hung in the room. When she left the museum at the end of the day, it was those eyes she felt on her, as she strode down the hill.

  ~

  On the morning of the board meeting, Hugh arrived early, ostensibly to check everything was prepared, but in reality to brief Julia on the vagaries of several of the board members and deliver a pep talk.

  ‘All they will want to talk about is balancing the books. They are terrified we’ll go into the red, but they’ve each got their own pet project that they know will save the House from financial ruin, if only the others would agree to it.’ Hugh helped himself to a biscuit and gripped it in his teeth, grinning around it, as he used both hands to pour coffee and milk. ‘Relax.’

  ‘I know this is routine for you, but I never could deal with office intrigue and manoeuvring,’ Julia said.

  ‘Mostly they just want the chance to have their say. Every one of them likes the sound of their own voice. Pontificating makes them feel important.’

  ‘But I don’t know the sub-text. I know they all have their own agendas, but I don’t know what they all are.’

  ‘Just reply to direct questions and I’ll handle any awkward stuff.’ Hugh began counting the
board members off on his fingers. ‘Philip Smythe you don’t need to worry about. He’s pompous, but harmless. Jennifer Johnson thinks she’s the Seckfield family representative. Her grandmother was a cousin, or something. She wants the House preserved in aspic. And Colin Harper - he’s the one from Sevenoaks Council. He hates the lot of them, but as long as the House brings footfall to the High Street, he’s happy.’

  Julia worked through the names to check who he had missed. ‘What about Mary Bedford?’

  ‘You’ll recognise her particular hobby horses as soon as she opens her mouth.’

  The meeting began much as Hugh predicted. A couple of the trustees made conventional enquiries about John Carmichael’s health and expressed conventional sympathy, while enquiring about sick pay commitments. The murder and Aaron’s demise initially prompted a discussion only of the costs of security. Julia suspected they were arguing merely to take contrary positions from one another.

  She tentatively put forward a suggestion of upgrading the security cameras, so the site could be monitored remotely out of hours, rather than incurring the costs of manned patrols. Julia also worried privately that a guard might forget to lock up properly or reset the alarm, but she thought it would sound over-anxious to mention that as well.

  ‘It is a perfectly lovely suggestion, my dear.’ This came from Mary Bedford (MBE-and-don’t-you-forget-it, as Penny had whispered to her, when the grand old lady had arrived). Her tone was patronisingly sugary. ‘But there is no possibility of capital investment. We simply have no capital.’ She smiled triumphantly, as if it was her personal achievement and something to be proud of.

  ‘The cost saving could repay the outlay within six months. Surely the charity could take out a small loan?’ Julia said.

  Each of the trustees had something to say following that.

  Jennifer Johnson, usually hesitant, got in first. ‘We will never think of securing a loan against the collection. The risk of losing pictures which have been in the family for centuries….’