by Rhys Bowen
It smelled different inside the shed. I suppose it was because the sheds were kept warm, but the paintings somehow made it smell old and musty in there—almost as if someone had lived in there for a long while. My heart was hammering so violently that I found it hard to breathe. All around me there were stacks of packages. Some of them were really huge. It didn’t make sense to take anything but the smallest painting. For one thing, it would take too long to copy. For another, I’d never be able to hide it under my shirt without being noticed. I knew I only had a few more precious minutes. I grabbed the smallest package from the pile in the corner and ran out. Then I pushed the panel gently back into place. It wasn’t on very securely, but you’d never notice unless you shone a torch at it. It was pretty dark back there at the far side of the cavern.
No sense in trying to do too much and getting caught. I took the package with the painting in it and stood it behind a pile of slate in the first tunnel. Now I could come and pick it up when a good moment arose.
It seemed as if it was destined to be my lucky day. That afternoon the mine manager, Mr. Arthur Jenkins, sent down a message to say we were all invited up for sherry and mince pies in the office. Just as I got up to the guard’s chair, one of the blokes clapped him on the back. “Come on up with us, Alun. You’re invited to the celebration too, you know.”
“Oh, I better not, thanks all the same,” the guard muttered.
“It’s Christmas, man. You’ve got to enjoy yourself. Come on—the office is right there at the entrance, isn’t it? Who’s going to walk out with a bloody great painting right past us, eh?”
The guard laughed and started up the staircase with him. I took my chance. I dodged into the darkness and waited. When they’d all gone, I crept over to the painting and unwrapped it. It was really well wrapped up, let me tell you. In a wooden case and all wrapped in soft cloth inside, too. The gold frame glinted in the dim light. I took out my torch and shone it on the painting. “Bloody hell,” I muttered. I’d picked a Rembrandt!
I might not have been an expert, but let me tell you, he certainly knew his stuff, that old Rembrandt. I had given myself an impossible task. There was no way I could ever copy that painting. Still, it came out of the frame without too much effort and I rolled it up in soft cloth and carried it home under my shirt without anyone even giving me a second look.
That night, when Ginger and I went for a walk, I showed it to her by the light of a street lamp.
“It’s a bit dark and gloomy, isn’t it?” she said. “Couldn’t you have found something more cheerful, like?”
“Ginger! This is a painting by one of the best painters ever. Mr. Hughes said that Rembrandt was the master. He lent me a book once with all his paintings in it. He said if I could ever learn to paint like that, I’d do just fine.”
“So I suppose it’s worth a lot?” she asked dubiously.
“A lot? Thousands and thousands.”
“So we’re rich?”
“First I have to copy it, then the war has to end, and then we have to sell it. Apart from those small details, we’re rich.”
She laughed and flung her arms around my neck. “My clever Trefor,” she said. “I’m very proud of you. How soon do you think you’ll get it copied?”
“I don’t know if I can,” I said. “I’m not good enough.”
“Give it a try. You can copy anything you set your mind to,” she said, giving me a gentle peck on the cheek. Then she pressed herself closer against me. “Pity it’s too cold up on the moors right now, isn’t it? It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Tref? I bet you’ve been missing it as much as I have.”
If she knew how much I’d been missing it! I tried to think of a place we could go, but everywhere was bustling with people doing their last-minute shopping before the shops closed.
“There’s always the chapel,” she whispered and laughed at her own wickedness.
“You’re a wicked woman, you know that?” I nuzzled against her cheek.
“Then it will just have to be up at the mine,” she said. “It’s not too windy below the cliff, among those rocks, and you’ve got a nice big jacket we can lie on.”
So we went up to the mine and she was right. We didn’t notice the cold at all.
Chapter 20
It wasn’t the sort of weather to go mucking about with trains on Tuesday morning, but Evan knew he might not get another chance. Eventually, even Watkins and Hughes would put two and two together and start wondering if an accident two days before Grantley Smith died might be more than coincidence. Especially if they wanted to find yet more reasons to book Edward Ferrers.
The driving rain took his breath away as Evan crossed the parking lot to the deserted Porthmadog station. One good thing about today, the railway personnel wouldn’t be too busy to talk to him. He found the elderly engine driver sitting with the rest of the employees in the cafeteria having a cup of tea.
“Yes, I can show you which carriage it was, if you like,” he said.
“You can just point it out to me,” Evan said. “No sense in two of us getting wet.”
“Oh, I’m used to it, boy.” The old man grinned. “I’ve had my head rained on for seventy years until it’s washed away all my hair.” He rubbed a bald pate and cackled with laughter. “Besides, rain’s good for the complexion, so they say. I might want to impress the ladies.”
He put on his cap and cape and went out with Evan into the storm. “This is a good ‘un, isn’t it?” he shouted over the wind. “A few weeks ago, the farmers were bleating about a drought. I knew they’d be eatin’ their words soon enough.”
They walked to the end of the platform and then down onto the narrow-gauge tracks where several carriages waited. “If I remember correctly, it was this lot here,” the driver said, pointing at some brown and cream rolling stock. “And the gentleman fell out of the second from the end.” He looked up hopefully at Evan. “I remember you—you came here asking about him the other day. Nothing’s wrong, is it? I mean, it was just an accident?”
“Just a routine check,” Evan said.
He walked along the track to the compartment, closely followed by the old man. He jiggled the latch and then pressed it open. It was the type of old-fashioned latch that had to be drawn back sideways. It did indeed seem loose. He opened it a few times and slammed it shut. On the last occasion, it didn’t snap shut properly.
“You see,” the old man said. “Nothing to do with foul play. These carriages are older than me, and that’s saying something. I’m just surprised an accident like this hasn’t happened before now. You should see what the young hooligans get up to. Anyone would think this was a train going to a football match, the way they bash everything about.”
“But this wasn’t a lager lout, this was a respectable man,” Evan said.
“But he was leanin’ out, isn’t it? These are old doors. Not meant to be leant out of. See what the notice says? It says, ‘Keep your head inside the car.’ He could read well enough, couldn’t he?”
“He was leaning out to take pictures,” Evan said.
“Leanin’ bloody far out. I saw him, right before he fell,” the old man said. “I think he got what was comin’ to him.”
Evan climbed into the tiny compartment. It was built like a real train, but to a smaller scale, so that he had to duck his head. He searched the compartment but found nothing. He didn’t actually know what he might be looking for and he was sure that the floor would have been swept by now anyway, but at least he felt that he was doing something. He lowered the sash and leaned out, as Grantley would have done. His large frame filled the window. It would have been very difficult for Edward to have pressed open the catch with Grantley’s body in the way. And surely Grantley would have felt Edward doing it.
So this was one line of inquiry that looked as if it was coming to nothing.
“Nothing in here.” He jumped down beside the old man.
“What did you expect to find? A few terrorists under the seats?” t
he old man cackled again. “Tell you what. If you’re so keen on your investigation, you can ride up with me in half an hour. I’m going to take a train up, whether there’s any passengers or not. That old engine gets restless, cooped up in a shed, and there might be someone along the way waiting for us—though I doubt it. Everyone has cars these days, isn’t it?”
Evan smiled. “Or gore. All right, I’ll ride with you, and you can show me exactly where he fell.”
“I will indeed,” the old man said. Clearly, this was spicing up an otherwise dismal day. He’d be able to brag in his local pub about helping the police for weeks to come.
They went back into the cafeteria for another cup of tea, then the old man fired up a diminutive steam locomotive, shunted it to pick up the carriages, and invited Evan to hop up beside him. Evan had never been one of those small boys who dream about trains, but he had to admit it was an experience standing behind the old engine driver, watching him coax life into a piece of metal until it became a living, fire-breathing monster.
“Some of the other chaps, they wouldn’t show up on a day like this,” he said. “But I’m here all the time. Rain or shine. You can’t keep me away. These engines are my life, see.” He turned knobs and a satisfying hiss of steam escaped.
“The others don’t show up if it’s raining?”
“Don’t have to, do they? We’re all volunteers.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Oh yes. All volunteers—put in our time to keep this old equipment running. Labor of love, I suppose you could say.”
Evan looked at him, impressed. It must be wonderful to have a passion that drove you still when you were over seventy. They pulled out of the station and started on the narrow bar across the estuary. Wind was whipping up waves on the normally placid stretch of water and the spray came into the engine cab. On the other side, they plunged into gloomy oak woods. Then they started to climb. The old man coaxed the engine as the gradient became steeper. Soon they were hugging the edge of the mountain while the land to their right fell away steeply. Through tunnels, over bridges, across level crossings where the driver let Evan sound the warning whistle. They passed through several tiny stations without seeing a soul. Now they were really high. Cloud swirled around them, parting from time to time to reveal the gray waters of the estuary and miniature cottages, far below.
Then the train began to slow. “We’re coming to the place now,” the old man shouted. “I’ll slow and maybe you can jump down. I don’t want to stop completely unless I have to. It’s not the best place to get going again.”
Evan nodded and moved to the steps of the cab.
“You want me to pick you up on the way down?” the driver asked.
“Yes, please.”
“About an hour, I’ll be. I’ll toot so you know I’m coming.”
The train slowed with much hissing and grinding of brakes. Evan stood on the lowest step.
“Right here, it was,” the old man called. “That tree stopped his fall.”
The train was barely moving. Evan stepped down and heard the engine give a series of puffs before it picked up speed again and disappeared into a tunnel. Evan stood alone on the windswept hillside, wondering what on earth he was doing there. Just what did he expect to see? He looked around him. One thing struck him right away: If you were going to push somebody from a train, this was the spot to do it. The drop-off was the steepest so far—a long, steep slope all the way down to an angry torrent leaping over rocks at the bottom. And the track was at the very edge of the slope, so there was no possibility of someone falling out and lying beside the rails. Whoever fell would roll and keep on rolling, if there hadn’t been one sturdy oak tree to prevent it.
Say it was done deliberately, Evan thought: How could you ever prove it? You couldn’t attach string to the latch to control it remotely. That meant Edward would have had to reach past Grantley’s body and somehow grab the latch. Almost impossible.
Moving carefully over the rain-slicked grass, Evan slithered down the slope to the big oak tree, looked around, then climbed back up again. “You’ve done it this time, boyo,” he said aloud. “Of all the daft things. Now you’ve got to sit and wait an hour before he comes back. You’ll get soaked through and probably catch a cold into the bargain.”
He reached out his hands to steady himself as he climbed back onto the track and noticed a spot of yellow between the clinkers. A little late for a flower this time of year. He moved the clinkers apart and picked up a scrap of paper. It was folded into a neat square, about an inch across. It was completely sodden, of course. He opened it carefully, wondering if anything might have been written on it. Nothing was. It was an ordinary scrap of lined yellow paper. Evan held it in his hand, staring at it. If it had just been tossed from a window, why fold it so very exactly?
Then a clear picture came into his head—Howard Bauer standing at the film site, scribbling notes to himself on his yellow pad. That yellow pad went everywhere with him. Probably just coincidental that it fell here. Howard couldn’t have had anything to do with Grantley’s fall. He hadn’t been in the same compartment. He’d been next door—too far to reach across and grab Grantley’s door handle. So there was probably a very mundane reason for the yellow paper lying folded up by the track. Most likely Howard had been sitting with his yellow pad on his knee. Maybe he’d torn out a sheet, started to write, changed his mind, and folded up the sheet to put it in the rubbish container. It was the kind of thing a neat sort of person would do. Was Howard meticulously neat? Evan couldn’t say. He also couldn’t think why Howard would want to push Grantley Smith out of a train.
The wind started blowing with renewed force, driving Evan away from the edge. He went to sit under a rocky overhang, wrapped his raincoat around his knees, and thought. And during the long hour it took the train to come down again, he had a very good idea just what that yellow paper had been used for.
On Christmas morning, I woke to find a stocking beside my bed. It had a new pair of gloves in it and an orange and a sugar mouse. I had bought my mum Lilies-of-the-Valley scent in Woolworths and my dad a diary for 1941. He liked to record what he did every day, even though every day of his long life had been the same.
We had mince pies for breakfast, then we went to chapel. As I sat there on the hard cold pew, I felt as if the eyes of God were boring right into my soul. I was certainly destined for hell now. I’d broken two rather major commandments on the day before Christmas—although I hadn’t exactly committed adultery. I was so overcome with guilt that I couldn’t even join in “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.”
As we walked home, it started to snow, which made it feel nice and Christmassy. I left my parents and ran over to Ginger’s house with my present for her. I’d spent too much money on a scarf. She smiled and said she liked it, but then she said she’d been hoping for a ring—still, next year, maybe?
I don’t know how much she thought I earned in the mine. Not enough for the sort of ring she’d want. She gave me the Picture Post Annual, with lots of pictures of Hollywood stars in it. On one page there was a picture of Fred and Ginger, and she’d crossed out the word “Fred” and substituted “Tref.” I thought I was a lot better-looking than him, and I had more hair too!
We had a chicken for dinner—the one Dad suspected of laying the least. Turkeys had disappeared from the face of the earth. And Mum’s plum pudding wasn’t half-bad. She confided she’d used the last of the medicinal brandy in it.
We sat around the fire and listened to the king’s message on the wireless. He didn’t have any good news, just a lot of rubbish about everyone pulling together through these dark days. The sort of stuff they’re always telling you, as if we didn’t know that the days were dark and we’d all got to pull together!
After Christmas dinner, my mum and dad both fell asleep in their chairs by the fire. I sneaked upstairs and got out my paints. No sense in waiting. I had to get to work on that picture right away. Every time I looked at it, I knew it was a
hopeless task, but I’d promised Ginger that I’d try.
But I’d hardly done more than put on an undercoat when my mother came charging up the stairs. “Are you using those smelly paints in the house, Trefor Thomas?” she demanded. “What did I tell you? Paints belong outside.”
“But, Mam, it’s freezing out there and there’s something I really want to paint today—it’s a sort of Christmas present for Ginger.”
“If you want to give her a present, go to Mr. Jones-the-Cloth and get a yard or two of his best flannel, so that she can make her skirts a decent length,” she said. There was nothing for it. I had to stop painting.
The next few weeks I was a bag of nerves. Every day at the mine, I expected to hear that there had been a break-in. Every night I expected to hear hammering on the front door as the police came to take me away. But as the weeks passed, and nothing happened, I began to relax. Now that I was aware of it, the security was really not too hot. I could have taken a whole lot more paintings if I’d put my mind to it.
I might tell you I was very tempted to sneak back into the shed and take another painting instead of the one I’d got. I must have picked the bloody hardest painting in the whole National Gallery to copy. As Ginger had said, it was dark and gloomy, but the gloom had such shape and texture to it that the figures became part of the darkness. I just didn’t have paints in my palette to even attempt those shades of darkness. I suppose they must have all been in Rembrandt’s head.
But I kept working at it, every time I had a spare moment. When my parents were out at one of their many chapel meetings, I even painted in my room. I kept the window open and smoked cigarettes all the time to hide the smell. Bit by bit, a fairish copy came into being—nothing like the quality of the original, mind you, but you could tell what painting it was meant to be.
Finally, by March, it was finished. I took it outside and looked at it in the bright light. It was a passable imitation at best. But Ginger was very impressed.
