‘Ah. Modified rapture, possibly?’
‘Politely expressed loathing. Sensible woman. Oh, but Alan, there’s good news for a change!’ I told him about Gillian’s good fortune.
‘Well done Gillian! I hope she sells them all for lots and lots of lovely lolly. Did you talk to Penny about the crimes?’
‘No more than we did in the car. I’m hoping something might strike her, some anomaly, some … oh, I don’t know. Something a bit off that it would take another artist to notice.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
‘Then we’ve had a pleasant visit and we’re no worse off than we were before.’
Penny was voluble in her praise of the prints and photographs she’d seen. ‘Both those men are outstanding artists,’ she said. ‘It’s such a pity about those prints that were destroyed. I do hope the printmaker … what’s his name?’
‘Thomas. Matthew Thomas.’
‘A Welshman! Anyway, I hope he comes back soon to pull some more of those astounding woodcuts.’
‘Oh, good grief, I hadn’t thought about that.’ I smacked my forehead. ‘The blocks are still there, then?’
‘There were a good many of them stacked on shelves in the printing room. I suggested to Gillian that she see to having them locked up. Most of the destruction you described had been cleaned up, but I could still see that it was vicious. If it was aimed at the printmaker in particular, rather than being just blind rage, whoever did it might well go for the blocks as well, and that would be a great loss to art.’
‘Not to mention to Matt. Oh, I do wish we could find him!’
‘Me, too.’ Alan’s voice was calm, but I could hear the tension in it. ‘They’re working as fast as they can, love.’
‘When I get back home, I know a few people who’d be happy to help look. Do you know exactly where he’s from?’
‘No, but Derek will,’ said Alan. ‘I’ll ring him as soon as we get home.’
Alan never uses his phone while he’s driving, partly because it’s illegal, but also because he’s a sensible man.
We had a quick tea, as Penny needed to get back soon to her friend in the neighbouring village. I tried to steer the conversation away from the college of art and its problems. If she had any insight for me, I wanted it to come of its own accord, without any prompting. Penny was happy to tell us about her spa, its triumphs and disasters, and the quiet tempests in her teapot village of Llanelen.
‘I hope Gillian will come for a visit soon,’ she said. ‘I did invite her, and maybe you could let her know it wasn’t just a polite invitation. I really meant it. North Wales is so beautiful, and we have a number of galleries who’d be very interested in her work, if that London one doesn’t decide they want exclusive rights to it.’
I assured Penny that I would try to convince Gillian to accept the sincere invitation. ‘She needs a break, poor dear. She had so looked forward to beginning this new chapter of her life, but so far it’s been one disaster after another. I don’t know when she could find the time, though.’
‘Any time. It doesn’t matter.’ She put down her teacup. ‘Now I really must go. Thank you for a lovely lunch and such a pleasant afternoon, looking at all that marvellous art. Even Braithwaite seems to be doing a bit better than he used to.’
‘Really? I admit I hadn’t looked closely at any of the stuff he had on display, knowing I’d hate it.’
‘I still hate it,’ said Penny with a smile, ‘but he’s painting much more carefully now. Better brushwork, more attention to the effect of colour.’
‘I bow to your expert knowledge. Maybe he’s trying to ramp up his sales. Not that he’d ever admit there was ever anything wrong with his work.’
‘Not he! I was so glad he wasn’t in his studio. I’ve never met the man, but from what I’ve heard, I’d have had a hard time being civil to him.’ She stood, gathered her things together, and then pulled an envelope out of her leather portfolio. ‘I thought you might like this by way of a memory of Wales.’
It was a watercolour of Conwy Castle, light shimmering on the old stone and reflecting from the surrounding River Conwy. ‘It’s beautiful, Penny! We’ll hang it in the kitchen, if you don’t think that’s insulting it. We spend so much time there, and I want this where I can look at it often.’
‘The kitchen it is, and a compliment rather than an insult.’ She gave us both a hug. ‘Keep in touch, and don’t forget to tell Gillian how welcome she’ll be in Llanelen.’
Then she was gone, leaving me with several thoughts to try to put together.
SEVENTEEN
When Gillian came home that evening she was still full of excitement about the London gallery and its implications. As she helped me prepare dinner, she talked of extravagant plans.
‘I’m thinking about buying a house. A farmhouse, with a good big barn I can turn into a studio. Then I could have animals, too, and space to work, and a lovely big kitchen with a slate floor and an Aga, and geraniums on the window sills.’
‘Hand me that head of lettuce, will you, Gilly? And you could chop up a scallion or two, if you don’t mind them in your salad. The cutting board’s over there, and here’s the sharpest knife. And Gilly, my dear, my first husband used to have a saying: “It is unwise to calculate the quantity of juvenile poultry before the period of incubation has been completed”.’
She blinked. ‘What does that mean?’
‘“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” Frank liked to make things funny. But what I’m trying to say is, it’s all right to have dreams. In fact, it’s necessary. Those who never dream will never have their dreams come true. But don’t start believing the good things will all come at once. There are probably a lot of disappointments in store before you achieve your ambitions.’
She grinned. ‘I do know that, really. And honestly, I was just dreaming. But someday, I’m going to have that house and that barn, and a warm, friendly kitchen with red-checked curtains and a fat tabby cat asleep in a chair.’
Emmy, who was in fact asleep in a nearby chair, heard the word ‘cat’ and woke, stretching. When humans talk about cats, in her experience, they often feed them. She jumped down with loud meows, and of course Sam and Watson heard and came running. Gillian abandoned her preparation of human food and concentrated on the demands of the animals.
We heard very little in the way of progress on the case for the next few days. Alan found out from Derek where Matt was born and raised, and phoned the information to Penny. It was a tiny village in North Wales, in the slate-mining district, and as Penny had done some painting near there, she knew a few people, and promised to ask them to keep an eye open for Matt. Derek had also examined the personnel records at the college and learned that all the staff had been in place when Chandler was hired. Which didn’t seem to get us anywhere, one way or another.
Beyond that, things appeared to be at stalemate. Gillian put the final touches on Summer and sent her off to London, with high hopes. She bought masses of clay, storing it in our cellar until her living arrangements were a bit more secure. She wanted to return to her flat, but Alan quite firmly discouraged her. ‘You don’t,’ he said in the authoritative voice he seldom used, ‘want to be a burden to an already overworked police force. So long as you’re here, you’re in little danger. Alone, you might very well be.’ She saw the sense in that and acquiesced, and I thought she was secretly relieved.
September turned sunny again, but quite chilly. I searched out the heavy sweaters I’d put away in the spring, finally finding them, along with a couple of deceased moths, in a box under the spare room bed. I did a little work in the garden, helping Bob clear away summer plants to make more room for the asters and chrysanthemums of autumn. In truth, Bob would have made more progress without me, but he was in one of his kindly moods and allowed me to get in his way without too much grumbling.
‘You don’t want to pull up them geraniums,’ he said sharply one afternoon, ‘afore you takes cuttings.’
&nbs
p; My blank look displayed my ignorance.
Bob leaned on his spade and delivered himself of a little lecture on gardening. ‘No need to buy new plants every spring. You takes cuttings, see, and puts ’em in water for the winter, and when they root, you plants ’em in pots. Indoors, mind,’ he added, doubtful of my grasp of botanical matters. ‘You don’t want ’em to freeze. Then when they’re big enough to set out, and the weather’s warm enough, I plants ’em for you, and bob’s yer uncle.’
‘Do I have any pots?’ I asked humbly. Where plants and gardening are concerned, Bob is my infinite superior, and I know it.
‘Stacks of ’em, in yer shed. Tell you what, I’ll find some jars to start ’em in, and show you what to do next.’
‘Thank you, Bob.’ I knew the cuttings would probably die under my tender care. I can kill a philodendron. A plastic philodendron. But I’d try, if only to keep Bob happy.
‘That’s a nice girl you’ve got stayin’ with you,’ he said, returning to his spading. ‘From over to the college, ain’t she?’
‘Yes, she teaches there.’
‘Little trouble over there, eh?’
‘You could say that. Is this about right?’ I held up a severed piece of geranium.
‘No, you wants ’em shorter than that.’ He held his fingers about four inches apart. ‘And healthy-lookin’. Don’t want no scrawny ones. Me mum works over there, y’know.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’ I rose creakily from the bench I use when gardening. My days of kneeling in a garden are long past, but I can reach most of what I need to from a low bench, and Bob does the rest. Getting up is sometimes a challenge. ‘So Ada cleans at the college?’
‘Now and again. Used to be twice a week, regular, but two, three years ago they started cuttin’ back, and now it’s only three, four times a month. Place is a tip, she says.’
‘Did she help clean up the mess in the print studio?’ I asked, and then wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
‘’Ere! ’Ow’d you know about that?’
I can lie like Ananias when it seems necessary, but I’m uncomfortable about lying to Bob. He’s as honest a man as I’ve ever met, and somehow, lying to him seems a sort of betrayal. ‘Um … actually, I saw the vandalism.’ I hoped he would leave it at that. I didn’t really want to explain what Alan and I were doing there, quite probably illegally.
Bob looked away from his digging, straight at me. ‘Did you, now?’ he said, with a speculative gleam in his eye. ‘Ah.’
I had the feeling he saw the whole situation, but he said no more about it. ‘Found some interesting stuff in all that clobber, she did.’
‘Oh?’ I tried to sound casual.
Again he fixed me with that watery blue eye, and again I felt he knew exactly why I was asking.
‘Paints, you know, or inks or whatever they are. And paper enough to cover the room. And nasty sharp little knives and that. Wonder she didn’t cut herself to ribbons.’
‘I’m certainly glad she didn’t.’ And what else, I asked silently. What else?
‘And a plane ticket. Or one o’ them computer things, what does instead of a proper ticket. Wasn’t torn nor nothin’, but it was too old to use.’
‘What a pity.’ It was, too. I was hoping for something really incriminating. A cufflink, now. (Did men wear cufflinks anymore?) The butt of a particular brand of cigarette. Anything that would link the vandalism to any particular person, preferably the detestable W.T. Braithwaite.
‘A real pity,’ Bob went on. ‘Me mum would’ve liked a nice little trip to Greece.’
I nearly dropped my pitiful bits of geranium. ‘Greece?’ I said in something nearer a squeak than my usual tone of voice. I cleared my throat. ‘Sorry. Frog in my throat. Greece, did you say? A ticket to Greece?’
‘Somethin’ o’ that. You’d want to ask her. I only know it was no use to her. Here, d’you still want this here barberry? It don’t grow too good here. I can ’oick it out fer ya and put in a nice hydrangea as’ll bloom beautiful next summer.’
‘Whatever you think is best, Bob. You know this garden and what it needs. Here are the geranium cuttings, if you think they’ll do. I think I need a shower.’
Bob took the cuttings with no more than a dubious look, and I escaped inside to think.
A ticket to Greece? But Chandler had used his. Another ticket to Greece? Was there to have been a companion? Then why didn’t he – or she! – go on the trip?
I would have liked to discuss it with Alan, but he had gone to buy something mysterious for his computer. I had that shower and then went back to speak to Bob for a moment.
Bob had gone. The garden was looking much tidier. The small barberry bush had been ‘hoicked out’, and the resulting hole neatly covered and raked. As always, Bob had done a great job. But I had wanted to ask where I might find Ada just now. She had a heavy schedule, for she was such a good cleaner she was in great demand.
Oh, well. She was coming to clean for me in the morning. I would just have to wait until then.
‘Bless you, I don’t rightly remember! It was Bob what noticed it. I stuffed it in me bag, cause it looked valuable-like, and showed it to ’im when I got ’ome. He saw it said Athens, and then some word in heathen writin’.’
‘That’d be Greek, I expect. They use a different alphabet from ours.’
‘It was Greek to me, anyway! But as to what else it said, I couldn’t say. If I didn’t throw it in the dustbin, I’ll bring it to you next time I come round.’
‘It could be important, Ada. Would you mind if I came home with you when you leave here?’
‘Not goin’ ’ome from here. Got some shoppin’ to do, and then I do the deanery this afternoon. But Bob’ll be ’ome abaht lunchtime. He could mebbe find it for you. Now, I’ll get a start on the kitchen. That dresser needs a good turn-out.’
I left her to it. Ada is neat-fingered and never breaks anything, but her whirlwind speed when handling my good china makes me nervous. I went upstairs to tackle the bedrooms.
I kept a close eye on the clock, though, and when noon rolled around and Mrs Finch shouted her farewells, I was on her heels. ‘Can I give you a lift?’ Mrs Finch had never learned to drive, and the only vehicle in the family was Bob’s truck, which had been on its last legs for at least five years.
‘Don’t mind if I do, dearie. These pegs ain’t gettin’ any younger.’
I left a note for Alan, who was at his computer deep in his memoirs, and took Ada to the High Street. Then I went on to the oldest part of town, twisty little medieval streets with small houses. Ada’s, as one might expect, was a little gem, with lace curtains of a bridal white, a front door with gleaming brown paint and a brass knob and knocker that shone like gold. The front steps were freshly scrubbed, and the pocket handkerchief of a front garden held flourishing chrysanthemums and annuals, and not so much as a single leaf of a weed. With Bob at the ready, one felt, weeds wouldn’t dare show their heads.
Bob answered my knock, looking surprised. ‘Did I get me days mixed? Did I ought to be at your place?’
‘No, nothing’s wrong, Bob. I’m just curious about that airline ticket. I talked to Ada, but she didn’t remember much about it. She thought you might know where to lay your hands on it.’
‘Ah. Thought you’d be interested. Me mum tossed it, but I scrabbled about in the dustbin and found it. Pongs a bit.’
Bob reached in a pocket and pulled out a greasy, crumpled piece of paper which was indeed smelly. I surmised it had shared the bin with the remains of yesterday’s dinner, but at the moment I cared only that it was still marginally legible. I scanned it eagerly.
‘Look, Bob.’ I pointed. ‘This is a ticket from Greece, not to. See: ATH – that’s Athens airport – to LHR. London Heathrow. Someone was flying from Greece to England.’
‘Huh. Would this be somethin’ leftover, then? A ticket stub, like?’
‘I don’t think so. Every time I’ve flown I had to trade something like this for a proper boardin
g pass.’
‘Why didn’t they, then? Why buy a ticket and not use it? Must’ve been somebody rich. Ya don’t fly to foreign parts for tuppence.’
‘I can’t imagine. I wish I could read the name, or even the date.’ That information was obliterated by grease, and no matter how I squinted and held it up to the light, I was no wiser. ‘Do you mind if I take this? I’d like to show it to Alan and see what he makes of it.’
Bob made a courtly bow. ‘Welcome to it, m’lady. Wouldn’t be my idea of a little present, but anyfink you like.’
Alan, by this time, would have come out of his den, flexing shoulders sore from too much computer work, and hungry for lunch. I hurried home and found him in the kitchen setting out sandwich makings.
‘Oh, good. I’ll get that potato soup out of the freezer. And while it heats, Alan, I have something interesting to show you.’ I laid a paper towel on the counter and put the unlovely document on top of it. ‘I wouldn’t touch it, not when you’re going to eat lunch in a few minutes. Just take a look and see if it tells you anything.’
He wrinkled his nose and picked up the paper towel. ‘It tells me it’s been keeping bad company. I’m moving it to the parlour, out of range of food preparation.’
‘But do take a look while I stir the soup.’
‘Where did you get it?’ he called from the other room.
I told him. ‘I’ll tell you the whole story when I don’t have to shout.’
As we ate our lunch, I told him as much as I knew. He frowned. ‘Derek’s men should have found this when they searched through the mess.’
‘They’re not professional cleaners. It must have been hidden under something, or in a crack. You know Ada never lets anything escape her.’
He was still frowning. ‘And having found it, she should have turned it over to the police.’
‘How was she to know it was important? Be reasonable, Alan, and stop being such a policeman. Bob thought it might be useful and saved it for me, so we have it now. What do you think it means?’
The Gentle Art of Murder Page 13
