The Gentle Art of Murder

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘I’m chapel. I don’t drink.’

  ‘Well, have some orange juice or tonic and lime to keep us company, then.’

  We had to leave Watson behind, to his distress, but it had become much too cold to sit outside. On the way to the inn, Matt said, ‘You bought one of my woodcuts. Thank you. Gwyneth charges far too much, you know.’

  ‘Matt, we had to have it. It has a little sliver of our house in it!’

  So then we had to explain where we lived, and the difficulties of maintaining a Grade II listed building, and that lasted us nicely until we were seated with drinks in front of us.

  I lifted my glass. ‘Matt, here’s to you, and our joy at finding you safe.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Safe?’

  ‘My dear boy, didn’t you know everyone would be worried about you? The last time I saw you, you were terribly depressed, and then you disappeared without telling your friends you wouldn’t be at the dinner party, or cancelling your classes. Of course we were afraid something dreadful had happened.’

  But he had stopped listening and put his hands to his mouth in the classic ‘oh, no!’ gesture. ‘The party! I forgot all about it! How could I forget to tell anyone? But all I could think about was getting away.’

  ‘You do realize,’ said Alan with commendable patience, ‘that you still haven’t told us why you felt you had to leave in such a rush.’

  Matt toyed with his orange juice for a moment. ‘Who else knows I’m here?’ he asked finally.

  ‘No one except Mrs Davies at the gallery,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve made some phone calls to people in this area who might have known you or your family,’ Alan added, ‘but we didn’t say we thought you were here, or near here, only that we wanted to speak to you. In fact everyone I was able to talk to claimed not to know you at all. Dorothy?’

  I nodded. ‘Some of them didn’t even speak English,’ I added.

  He smiled at that. ‘Everyone knows some English, but they’re rather like the French, linguistically, at least. They understand only what they want to. But no one back in Sherebury knows where I am?’

  ‘Not from us,’ said Alan, ‘though we’re going to have to tell them something when we get back. We told Gillian we were going to look for you, and where, but left strict instructions that she was not to talk about it.’

  ‘I think, Matt,’ I said, ‘you’d better phone one of your friends, maybe Christopher, whom we know too, and tell him you’re quite safe and not coming back for a while. And when we get home we can tell anyone who asked that we had no luck, which is true enough if we were trying to bring you back with us. But you never answered Alan’s question. What drove you away?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I know something that could be very dangerous. At the moment I can’t prove it, so I’m not going to tell you what it is. No, I know,’ he said, holding up a hand against our protests. ‘I’m not going to tell you because if you let anyone else see that you know, it could mean harm, even death, to someone else. I’ve thought about this while I’ve been away, and there’s only one safe thing to do. And even then … well. Does either of you know an art expert? I mean a real expert, like a conservator, or someone who authenticates paintings for auction houses, anyone like that?’

  We looked at each other. ‘I don’t think we do,’ I said at last, ‘but I know where we could probably find one. We know quite a few people at the British Museum, and though they don’t have paintings in the collection, museum people stick together. I’m sure one of our friends would know a conservator.’

  ‘Then bring him, or her, to Sherebury to have a look at some of Braithwaite’s recent paintings, and some of the older ones. I don’t know how you’ll explain it.’

  ‘Are you going to explain it to us?’ asked Alan.

  ‘No. Just make sure the chap is discreet. If at all possible, Braithwaite shouldn’t know he’s there.’

  And he finished his orange juice, shook hands with us, and vanished into the autumn evening.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I was all for getting home as fast as possible, but Alan reminded me about the picture we needed to pick up in the morning. ‘We can call some of our BM contacts just as easily from here,’ he reminded me. ‘And no art expert could possibly get to Sherebury before tomorrow, more likely several days from now. So we might as well stay right here where we are, order dinner, have a leisurely evening, and go on our way refreshed tomorrow.’

  So while we waited for our meal, I phoned, or tried to phone, in order: Walter Tubbs, Jane’s grandson, who had done a lot of volunteer work at the BM (voicemail); his wife Sue, who worked at the Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood (voicemail); and Charles Lambert, a fellow American and old friend who had spent many months doing research at the BM. That was years ago, now, but he had eventually moved to London for good, and would still know museum people. That call wasn’t answered at all, didn’t ring, in fact. Which meant he’d forgotten to charge his phone again, or lost it, or bought a new one and forgotten to give me the number.

  Our food arrived, and it looked and smelled wonderful, so I put aside my frustration for the moment and refuelled, but when I’d finished every bite of my dinner, including the calorie-laden trifle (and sworn to diet in earnest tomorrow), I sighed. ‘Nobody stays home anymore. Or they don’t answer their phones, at least.’

  ‘One doesn’t have to be at home these days to answer a phone,’ he pointed out with that exasperating logic of his. ‘We’re not at home. Probably Walter and Sue have gone to a play or concert and turned off their mobiles. As they should. Why don’t you try Lynn and Tom?’

  ‘You know, just when I’ve decided you’re driving me crazy, you come up with something that makes me decide to keep you after all. Why didn’t I think of them?’

  He wisely forbore to answer.

  I waited to call our best friends in London until we were back at the guest house and ready for bed. Tom and Lynn Anderson are a couple of American expats like me, but there the resemblance ends. Tom recently retired from an extremely lucrative position with one of the multinational oil companies, so they have pots of money. Their house in Belgravia is the last word in elegance, with paintings all over the place, many of them Impressionists, all of them priceless originals. I used to wonder what the expense in insurance might be, and then decided to stop wondering. Whatever it was, they could afford it.

  Besides being wealthy, they are also two of the nicest people I’ve ever met, clever and funny and ready to help a friend at the drop of a hat. And as Alan had remembered, they know a great deal about art.

  The call was brief. When I’d finished, I reported to Alan, who had retired to bed with a book. ‘They’re in the south of France right now. But yet, they know a good conservator, and they’ll look up her number and email it to us. It’ll be waiting for us when we get home. You’re brilliant, my dear.’

  ‘I know. And modest. And extremely lovable.’ He dropped his book and quirked his eyebrows at me. I turned out the light.

  Friday, September 19

  We didn’t leave Caernarfon till after ten the next morning. That was when the gallery opened. Our picture was ready, beautifully framed, but Mrs Davies had to show it to us to make sure we were happy with it, and then wrap it elaborately for safe travel, and then there had to be the mutual exchange of courtesies. I had to go outside and walk Watson up and down the street to keep from screaming with impatience. At last, at last, we got started, and I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  ‘You’re as impatient as I was on the way to Wales,’ said Alan, smoothly negotiating a complicated double roundabout.

  I loosened my death grip on the armrest and nodded. ‘I didn’t know why we were coming all this way, and I confess I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about it. You were right and I was wrong. Now I have the same feeling of urgency about getting home.’

  ‘Because of Lynn’s message about the conservator?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes of course I’m eager to get in touch with the wo
man, and get her here to find out what Matt’s talking about. But it’s not that, or not entirely. I just feel we have to get home.’

  Some men would have said something moderately annoying about women’s intuition. Even Alan might have, once, before he began falling prey to forebodings he couldn’t explain. He nodded, and concentrated on driving.

  When our hunger and Watson’s needs could no longer be ignored, we stopped at a petrol station just off the motorway. I walked Watson so he could anoint every post on the property, while Alan filled the tank and bought us some food. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said as he handed me a bag. ‘All they had.’ But I was in such a state of impatience that packaged sandwiches and chocolate bars were adequate provisions. I poured a little bottled water into a bowl for Watson and put it on the floor of the back seat. He’d probably spill most of it, but it might satisfy him till we got home.

  I had expected the usual infuriating delays around the big cities, but by some miracle the roads were clear, so we got home by teatime. We hadn’t thought to warn Gillian that we were coming back early, and she was probably at the art college still, so the house was dark and chilly. Alan built a fire while I rushed about making tea and rummaging in the cupboards for anything edible to go with it. I found only a rather elderly box of mixed biscuits, a forgotten gift that had gone soft and tasted of nothing in particular. ‘Sorry, Alan,’ I said when we sat down. ‘This is as bad as lunch. I’ll come up with something good for dinner.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I’ll do some shopping now and some cooking in a bit. You go and find that name and number Lynn promised to send you, and get that project started.’

  I did as he suggested. There was still a strong feeling, somewhere around the back of my neck, that this was not my most urgent chore, but I might as well get it done. I sat down, booted up my computer, and went to my email.

  After dealing with all the spam, and wondering what life would be like if there were no email and all this junk had landed in paper form in my real mailbox, I found Lynn’s message. I was copying down the name and number (yes, with a pen; I’m still not a techie) when my phone rang.

  ‘Dorothy! Thank God! Are you home?’

  ‘Yes, Gilly, we got home an hour or two ago. What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s been another one! Can you and Alan come to the college, right now?’

  I didn’t waste time telling her Alan wasn’t home. I didn’t ask ‘Another what?’ I was afraid I knew. I ran next door, asked if Jane would drive me to the college, and phoned Alan on the way. ‘Something terrible has happened. I don’t know what, but Gilly just called me from the college, in great distress. Jane’s taking me over there. Meet me there just as soon as you can, will you?’ I hung up knowing that this, whatever it was, had been the source of my unease all day.

  When we got near the Fine Arts building, we saw swarms of police cars. Students were milling about; a gurney was being loaded into an ambulance. Jane let me out and went to find a place to park.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, you may not come in,’ a uniformed officer began, but Gilly ran through the crowd to me, crying. I put my arms around her and stroked her hair. ‘All right, sweetheart, it’s all right. Do you want to tell me what’s happened?’

  Alan drove up just then and parked, regardless of the double yellow lines and the police. He came up to the two of us as the same officer approached, looking furious.

  Alan pulled out his old warrant card and flourished it. It was plainly stamped ‘Retired’, but it had its effect. The officer stepped back. ‘I would like to speak to DCI Morrison, please, if he’s here,’ said Alan in his voice of command.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll find him, sir.’

  Gilly was still sobbing on my shoulder. Alan touched her arm gently. ‘We need to know what’s happened, Gilly.’ There was still enough of the chief constable voice left to quiet her sobs.

  She pulled out a tissue, blew her nose, and said unsteadily, ‘It’s Braithwaite. He’s been attacked. I don’t know if he’s still alive. I found him. It was horrible!’

  We saw Derek approaching. Alan conferred with him for a moment, and then said, ‘Take her home. I’ve told Derek I’ll make sure she’s available to question when she’s feeling better. Take the car; I’ll catch a ride with Jane or someone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He handed me the keys and hurried off.

  I bundled Gilly into the car and turned on the heater. It wasn’t really cold, just chilly, but Gilly’s teeth were chattering. She was suffering from shock and needed to be kept warm.

  When we got home I put the kettle on, first thing. The kitchen was pleasantly warm from the Aga, and Watson, with his sure instinct for a human in need of comfort, came and lay on Gilly’s feet. Sam strolled in and jumped on her lap, purring. When the tea was ready I put plenty of sugar in Gilly’s cup, and then sat down to keep her company and keep an eye on her.

  She finished her tea and poured another cup and then sat back with a shuddering sigh. ‘That’s much better. You’re a good therapist, Dorothy.’

  ‘Nothing like hot tea and warm animals,’ I said. ‘Did you have any lunch?’

  ‘Yes, but I lost it, back there. I don’t think I’m quite ready for food yet.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it? Don’t if it’s going to make things worse.’

  ‘No, I think I want to talk. Maybe it’ll stop me reliving it every moment.’ She shuddered strongly.

  ‘Turn it into a police report,’ I suggested. ‘Cut and dried, just a record of observations.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Where should I start?’

  ‘How about from the beginning of the day?’

  She nodded. ‘I went to the college as usual this morning and taught a lecture class first thing. Then I had some papers to mark, and then I went to work in the studio until I started getting hungry and realized it was well past lunchtime. I’d brought sandwiches, so I went and ate them in the staff room. No one else was there, probably because it was so late. I usually eat in the studio, but the work wasn’t going so well today and I didn’t want to sit and look at it.’ She finished her tea and lifted the pot, which was empty.

  ‘I’ll make some more,’ I said, though I was afloat. The sugar, at least, was helping Gilly. ‘Go on.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘Some of my students were hanging about in the corridor when I came out of the staff room, and they wanted to talk. So we chatted for … I don’t know how long. Maybe even as long as a half-hour. I know it was almost four when I got back to the studio, because the light was beginning to look late, so I glanced at the clock. I worked for a little while longer, but the head didn’t get any better. I looked around for a tool I sometimes use, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.’

  ‘What sort of tool?’

  ‘A kind of scraper, for putting texture into clay. It was the African woman I was working on, and I couldn’t get the hair right. I thought the tool would help, and when I couldn’t find it I was really annoyed. Sometimes the printmakers nick our tools, because they can be useful for making blocks. Not wood, of course, but linocuts. It can ruin the tools, and I was really furious at the idea that someone had taken it. So I went charging upstairs to have it out with the thief.’

  She paused and drank some of the fresh tea. We were coming to the bad bit, I thought.

  ‘You already know the walls are too thin in this building. The floors and ceilings conduct sound well, too. There was no one in the print studio. I started to look for my scraper, but then I heard noises over my head.’

  ‘That’s the painting studio, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sipped more tea. ‘I could hear shouts and thumps. It sounded like two men having a frightful row.’

  ‘You’re sure it was two men?’

  ‘At least two. I couldn’t distinguish any words, only voices, but they were angry male voices. And then … then I heard a scream, a man’s scream. I’ve never heard anything like it. It was … frightening. And then there were more thumps an
d bumps, and then … nothing.’

  I reached over and took her hand. She steadied her voice and went on. ‘I didn’t want to go up and see what had happened. Oh, so very much I did not want to go up! But … but I couldn’t not go, you know? It was so obvious that something bad had happened, and if I was the only one who had heard, and I did nothing … anyway, I went. And found him.’

  ‘Found Braithwaite.’

  ‘Yes. He was lying on the floor, and there was blood everywhere, and … and that’s when I lost my lunch. I made it to the loo, and as soon as I could I phoned the police, and then I phoned you. And that’s all.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It was far from all, I knew. Derek would want a great many more details. But there was no point in making the poor girl go over everything with me and then again with them. Despite the tea and the comforting animals, the warmth and cosseting, Gillian was still looking pale and strained. And no wonder!

  ‘Look, I have an idea. Why don’t you go up and have a little nap? Alan will be home soon and has plans to cook us something good for dinner. I imagine that when you’ve rested a bit, you’ll be hungry.’

  ‘I’m not at all sure of that. But a nap sounds great.’ She put Sam gently on the floor, nudged Watson away, and climbed the stairs like someone many, many years older than she. I made a quick trip to the bathroom (very necessary after all that tea), and sat down to think.

  This latest crime made a hash of all my theories about the earlier ones. I’d come to be more and more sure that Braithwaite was at the bottom of all the ugliness. True, not everything fit. I still couldn’t work out why he would have wanted Chandler dead. And I had no idea how anyone could have done the deed, with Chandler supposedly in Greece at the time his body was apparently lying at the bottom of the shaft. But I wanted it to be Braithwaite, and so many details did fit. He was such a nasty man, for a start. He’d almost certainly been blackmailing Chandler about something. He was just the sort to send Gilly obscene phone messages. He had trampled quite deliberately into the print studio mess, making it very hard for anyone to tell exactly when the inks and so on had got on his shoes. And Matt had some sort of suspicions about his paintings.