by P A Latter
Julia debated whether to tell Penny about Dunstan’s comment on Cassie’s partying university days. Cassie appeared to have moved on from her student persona, but the suspicion persisted that she hadn’t left the party-drugs behind.
Penny continued. ‘I saw Cassie’s report for the board when I sent the papers out. She’s taking credit for the improved income from sales of merchandise and she doesn’t acknowledge your contribution to volunteer recruitment either.
Julia remained silent. She had been proud of the contributions she had made. They might not be material to the survival of the museum, but they were her personal achievements. She was hurt that Cassie could be so ungenerous as to deny her that recognition, to the board.
She tried to put herself in the place of the young curator - ambitious, yes, but anxious too. As conscious of her inexperience in the role as Julia had been herself.
She tried not to blame Cassie for finding a different way to hide anxieties and deliver the results that the board were pushing her for.
‘I don’t need the credit.’
‘Don’t be such a bleeding martyr. You know it’s not fair.’
Julia didn’t want to dwell on it. ‘I am keen to know what the board committed to regarding raising cash - if anything.’
‘You could ask Hugh.’
‘If I was sure he’d give me a straight story, I might ask, even if I shouldn’t. But Cassie has made me doubt his word.’
‘And you trust hers? She’s just worked out how to play you. She knows you’d empathise if she appeared beset by anxieties in a role for which she had little experience.’
‘I don’t trust myself to judge the honesty of either of them.’
‘Hugh’s always been a philandering git, but he’s always done his best for the House.’
‘In the past, yes.’ Julia fidgeted with her coffee spoon. ‘Do you think he might have changed?’
‘No, he’s still a philandering git.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know what you meant and I don’t know either.’ Penny’s expression became serious. ‘Since John’s death, nothing has been quite the same around here.’ She checked her watch and collected her things, her lunch hour over. ‘John’s death. The blasted board meeting put it out of my head. We had a report from the pathologist analysing the frame. I made a copy for you.’
Julia quickly read the half page, before she had to return to her own work at MJL. Hedged with caveats about limited capabilities for detection of trace or unusual toxins, was a list of components found.
It meant very little to Julia and as soon as she was back in the office, she scanned the sheet and emailed it to Tristan.
He phoned back in the evening. ‘This is an interesting list you’ve sent me.’
‘I hope you can make something of it. I know linseed oil is used in varnish, so that’s not unexpected. Unless it had said arsenic or strychnine, I wouldn’t know what was poisonous.’
‘Ricinis communis didn’t mean anything to you?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘The source of ricin?’ Tristan sounded incredulous.
‘And that is a poison?’
‘My young innocent, before they had Novichok, they had ricin, the umbrella poison.’
‘Why umbrella?’
‘In 1978, a Bulgarian dissident was stabbed in the leg with an umbrella tipped with ricin. It was thought the Bulgarian Secret Service enlisted the help of the KGB to pull it off.’
‘So ricin could be responsible for the deaths.’ Julia felt a wave of relief that a rational explanation - for the deaths, if nothing else - had been identified.
‘It sounds so plausible, doesn’t it?’
‘But you don’t think it is.’ Julia saw the explanation snatched away.
‘Ricinis communis is also known eponymously as the castor oil plant. Castor oil is used in any number of waxes and polishes.’
‘So it depends on which bit of the plant is used, or how it’s treated? Which the report doesn’t tell us.’
‘After so many years, I’m sure many poisons would have degraded beyond recognition.’
‘But wouldn’t that mean they would then be inactive.’ Julia wanted a simple solution, but Tristan had tried to warn her before, not to hope for perfect answers.
He distracted her with a question. ‘Will you tell John Carmichael’s sister?’
‘Yes, I think so. She deserves to know everything that we do. I am so hoping the Viscount Exeter picture will be the Assassin. It would be something positive to tell Felicity. And I don’t think I can bear another dead end.’ Every new piece of the puzzle was intriguing in itself, but failed to connect with any others.
Tristan had more news for her. ‘Dunstan turned up something else from the 1785 journals. Another sort of dead end, but I think you’ll like this one: George III declared the Somerset title extinct after the 5th earl’s death.’
‘Morton didn’t have a legitimate child to inherit.’
‘No, but there were cousins. Listen to this: “Lady Serena Montagu, still in mourning for the recent untimely death of her husband, in a duel with the Earl of Somerset, has given birth to a boy. The child is to be named Henry George Charles. Besides inheriting his father’s titles, he is heir presumptive to Lord Morton, through his mother, the earl’s nearest relative.”
‘The son of the man he killed was his heir?’
‘The journal suggested the king wouldn’t recognise the claim because he disapproved of our Henry Morton and of Lady Serena too.’
Julia almost gasped as she made the connection. ‘He thought the child was Morton’s. Do you think Lady Serena was “Lady Ursula”?’ Here was a story to accompany a painting that would satisfy Cassie’s desire for a narrative, Julia thought.
‘It looks likely. Dunstan wants to use this for the start of his family portraiture project. He’s now hunting for portraits of young Henry Montagu.’
~
It had been a convention for the curator to email the volunteer team after a board meeting to provide a summary of matters discussed and any future plans.
In a week full of drama and revelations, the email Cassie sent out on Thursday night included more: It opened with conventional platitudes of the trustees’ satisfaction with overall performance and appreciation for the work of the team.
The figures for visitor numbers and sales income followed. After a brief mention of the café proposal, the message read: “the board has postponed a discussion on raising the investment that would be required for such a scheme”.
Cassie moved on to mention a development which she said had materialised since the meeting: she was confident that she had secured the interest of a high-net-worth individual.
As Julia read the message, she could hear Penny’s commentary in her head: Why can’t she just say Rich Bastard.
Cassie was confident that the new Friend of the museum was poised to make a substantial donation. She proposed to use the money to fund a new post which would help Fathon House become more relevant and attractive to a new generation of visitors.
The email copied in all the trustees - Julia could see it was propaganda to target them as much as the volunteers. The bright tone didn’t chime with the raised voices and discontent that had been evident two days’ earlier.
Julia went to the museum on Friday morning, a little apprehensive, but curious to discover the prevailing mood of the team. Everyone appeared subdued. Julia was covering the reception desk when Hugh walked in. His usually good-humoured expression was drawn into a scowl.
‘Is she in there?’ He indicated the office.
‘Yes.’ There was no-one else nearby and Julia’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘Hugh, what really happened on Tuesday?’
‘You know that rich donors don’t just fall into your hands. I’ll believe it when the money’s in the bank. And it’s stupid to talk about it until then.’
‘Why would she say anything if she wasn’t certain?’
‘I shouldn’t be telling you, but the board extended her probation and set targets. They decided that confirmation of her position will be subject to a further review. The trustees are worried and I think she’s desperate.’
Chapter 38
‘It has to be champagne,’ Tristan said.
‘Prosecco might be more appropriate.’
‘OK, but only if they have a really expensive one. Success should be marked by extravagance.’
Julia and Tristan were dining at the Italian restaurant he had suggested a fortnight earlier. The watercolour was, with little doubt, the “Venetian” nobleman. In 1778 Henry Morton looked noticeably younger, but equally villainous.
In the youthful features, Julia thought the resemblance to the Venetian urchin was even more marked. It was very possible the child was a by-blow sired by the earl in his exile.
They had toasted the completion of Julia’s quest and shared each other’s antipasto, enthusing about the delights of Venice, before returning to the subject of the portrait.
Tristan inspected the level of wine remaining in the bottle and poured more for Julia. ‘I have an idea that might do Fathon House a bit of good.’
‘Beyond confirmation of the Assassin’s identity? That’s enough for me right now. And it should make a nice local news story.’
‘Better than that. Don’t raise your hopes, because it’s not my decision, but I think I could persuade my masters to loan the watercolour to you for a bit.’
‘That would be brilliant. We’d need to tighten up our security, though. I couldn’t bear another disaster like the theft of Emma Seckfield.’
‘I haven’t heard all the details of that episode, yet.’
‘Too embarrassing. I would need to have drunk rather more before I could bring myself to talk about it.’ She redirected the conversation. ‘I can’t believe we have finally unmasked the Assassin.’
‘It’s a bit of a misnomer, isn’t it? From what you and Dunstan discovered, Henry Morton was a ruthless politician. He probably saw murder as just another tool for power.’
‘The Politician doesn’t sound so exciting.’ Julia sought a more appropriate sobriquet. ‘How about The Psychopath? He looks devoid of human feelings.’
‘I’ve never thought he has quite the demonic quality that you see.’
‘It changes - something to do with the light, probably,’ Julia said.
‘Or maybe whether the evil spirit is in residence at the time?’
‘I still don’t know if I believe in evil spirits. For a long time I thought I could feel - what can I call it - a malign presence. But Cassie and Hugh between them managed to create much the same atmosphere.’
‘I do feel Morton was trying to achieve something through the portrait. I wish I knew what it could have been.’
‘You mean with the hidden symbols - if they are there?’ Julia asked.
‘Yes, and the possibly poisoned frame. If the frame was responsible for Dr Carmichael’s death, and your security guard, it is just the most terrible misfortune. Whatever Morton’s intention was, so many years later, it would be meaningless. If his spirit survived in some form, I think it would have been driven mad - powerless to do anything that would have made sense to him.’
Julia didn’t answer immediately. From a few sentences in Edmond’s diary, she had gained the impression Henry was almost mad from his sense of powerlessness, while he was still alive.
Henry’s frustration was at being unable to sit in parliament and be active in opposing the government. Was it all about power? Thoughts of power and intrigue returned her to the present day manoeuvring between Cassie and Hugh.
Tristan must have noticed her abstraction. ‘Julia? Are you OK?’
‘Sorry. I’m really worried about the situation at the museum.’ She hesitated before continuing. She was disturbed by a gnawing sensation - like having forgotten or missed something important - without being able to pin it down. ‘Something was up with Cassie when I left and I have the weirdest feeling that something is really wrong.’
‘Why don’t you give her a call and check she’s OK?’
‘Would you mind? She said she’d be working late, so she’s probably still in her office.’
Julia called the museum landline and it rang unanswered, not switching to the automatic voicemail that was set at night. She tried Cassie’s mobile number. It rang briefly and cut off. Julia wasn’t sure if the call declined button had been pressed.
‘Tristan, do you think I’m fussing? I’m not usually like this. Have you ever had that sort of foreboding?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘Is there anyone close by who could look in?’
‘Not if the front door’s locked. The security company has a set of keys, but Cassie and Hugh are the only ones with the security code to get them to do an extra check.’
‘Go on - call Hugh and get him to speak to them. You won’t stop worrying unless you do.’
She smiled, grateful for his understanding. ‘I assure you I don’t make a practice of eerie premonitions. Or calling ex-boyfriends.’
Julia was reluctant to disturb Hugh. He had been so odd lately - brusque and confiding by turns. But it ought to be easy enough to check that nothing was wrong.
When she got hold of Hugh, he was at a smart event in Westminster and wasn’t pleased to be interrupted. However, he agreed to call the security firm and let Julia know the outcome.
Since the theft and recovery of Emma Seckfield, the board had sanctioned remote monitoring of the museum, with the cameras upgraded accordingly.
When Hugh called back, it was to say that the out-of-hours monitoring hadn’t been activated. Cassie must still be at the museum, as it was impossible to lock up completely without setting the switch. Julia called Cassie again, and again the phones rang unanswered.
‘Would you like to go to the museum and check she’s OK?’ Tristan asked.
‘I don’t usually worry so unreasonably - I promise - but she’s generally glued to her phone. I just have this weird feeling that she’s had an accident or something.’
‘Would you like me to come back with you?’
‘Oh, Tristan, I’d be so grateful. And I’ve ruined our celebration.’
‘Not a bit of it.’
She attempted a joke. ‘You might miss the last train back and be obliged to stay over with me.’
His lips twitched. ‘I’m sure you’ll let me sleep on your sofa.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. The sofa’s not very comfortable.’
They called for the bill and made their way swiftly to the station. They were in luck. There was a fast train pulling out in three minutes. Julia skittered across the platform in her heels but they made it with a minute to spare. It was still early - before the theatres turned out - so they found seats easily.
Julia spent the journey anxious that she was over-reacting, but equally anxious that her instinct was true and that there was some kind of trouble at the museum.
When they reached Sevenoaks, it would be a long walk up to the museum or a short taxi ride, but there was a lengthy queue: commuters who had worked late and were planning to treat themselves to a cab home.
Tristan glanced at the queue, took Julia’s hand and walked up to the man at the front, who was picking up his briefcase, in readiness for the cab pulling up. He thrust a £20 note into the hand of the startled commuter, who automatically stepped back. Tristan leapt into the car, pulling Julia in behind him.
‘That was outrageous.’ She said after he had given the driver the address.
‘You didn’t want to hang about, did you?’
‘No, but you know I’m almost certainly fussing needlessly,’ Julia said.
‘I don’t know why I should trust your feelings more than you do yourself. But we’ll know soon enough.’
“Soon enough.” That was what the police inspector kept saying. My feelings aren’t at all reliable. Cassie has me half convinced that Hugh is turning into a monster.’
‘But you don’t believe it, do you?’
‘I’ve come so close to believing that damn portrait possesses people. And after Hugh touched it, I convinced myself he was behaving strangely.’
‘Did you say Hugh was in London tonight?’ Tristan asked.
‘That’s what he said.’
‘I just wondered if your sense of something being amiss is your subconscious mind tuning into the situation between the two of them.’
‘I don’t imagine they’re both at the House trying to murder each other.’
Tristan pulled her into a hug. ‘Well, we’ll find that out “soon enough” too.’
The taxi pulled up outside the front door. Julia jumped out and was already tugging at the door while Tristan paid the fare. Inside, everything was silent and in darkness. Julia hit the panel of light switches which illuminated the hallway and stairs.
‘Cassie? Cassie are you there?’ Julia called and ran to check if she was in her office. She flipped the light switches for the main and inner offices.
Cassie’s laptop was shut up on her desk, with paperwork stacked alongside. It looked like she had packed up for the day, but her jacket was still on a hanger hooked over the picture rail.
Julia walked back into the corridor and called again, from the base of the stairs.
Cassie’s voice drifted down. ‘Don’t come up. There’s a small fire, but I’ll have it under control in a moment.’
Tristan didn’t hesitate, but grabbed a fire extinguisher and loped up the stairs with Julia following. He paused briefly at the first floor. All the doors were closed and he looked questioningly at Julia.
‘I think she was calling from the top.’ Julia indicated the next flight. ‘Cassie, where are you?’
There was no answer but they continued up to the second floor, calling repeatedly.
Again, the doors were closed. There was no sign of Cassie or of a fire.
‘I can’t smell smoke. She’s probably got the extractor fan running and just having a cigarette.’ Julia stepped forward to open the door, but Tristan pulled her back.
‘If there is a fire in there, opening the door will fan the flames. He put a hand to each door in turn. ‘None of the doors feel hot, but they are pretty thick.’
