The Gentle Art of Murder

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Oh! I’d done nothing about the paintings! The latest emergency had put it right out of my head. I looked at the clock over the stove. After seven. Way too late to call anyone at a business, but the matter was urgent, I felt. I wondered if Tom and Lynn had a home phone number for their pet expert.

  I pulled out my phone and called them.

  Tom answered the phone with ‘Well, D., you’re having an exciting time in your little burg, aren’t you?’

  ‘Wait till you hear the latest.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve heard, unless there’s been something more since the “murderous assault on world-famous painter”.’

  ‘Oh. The news.’

  ‘BBC at six. Lead story. I guess it’s been a slow news day. Does this have something to do with your need for a painting expert?’

  ‘In a way. I’ll explain everything when I can, but right now I need to know if you have an evening phone number for said expert. Everything got a trifle hectic around here for a while, and I forgot to call her.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser! You two owe us a fancy dinner and full details when things have settled down. Wait a minute, I should have her number right here – yes. She’s become a good friend over the years, and she won’t mind you calling her at home.’

  He gave me the number.

  ‘Yes, the fanciest dinner you want, at the fanciest place you want to choose. Thank you, Tom!’

  I heard Alan at the door just then, and went to meet him. He was laden with groceries. ‘Oh, good, you remembered to get food.’ I took one of the bags from him. ‘What’s the latest? Is Braithwaite alive?’

  ‘Only just. He was stabbed several times; one of the injuries was critical. He lost a good deal of blood.’

  ‘Gilly said there was blood all over the place. Do the police have any idea about who?’

  ‘Not so far. It’s early days yet, and of course they need to talk to Gilly. Did she tell you anything?’

  ‘Nearly the whole story, but I wouldn’t let her go into detail. She’s upstairs asleep. At least I hope she’s asleep. I gave her quite a lot of sweet tea, but she wouldn’t eat anything. I hope you weren’t thinking of roast beef for dinner, or anything like that.’

  ‘Stir-fry, with prawns.’

  ‘Oh, good. That sounds perfect. I’ll leave you to it. I have that phone call to make, and then I’ll wake Gilly.’

  ‘Phone call?’

  ‘To the conservator. I was just about to call her when Gilly called.’

  ‘Ah.’ He started sorting out groceries and I went to the parlour to make my call.

  I suppose voicemail is a wonderful thing. It may save endless repeat phone calls. But it’s frustrating in the extreme to an impatient person like me. Alan has often chastised me gently for my irritation when the world fails to adjust itself to my needs. I plead guilty as charged.

  I identified myself as a friend of the Andersons, left a detailed message requesting a callback at any time of the day or night, and went upstairs.

  Gillian was sleeping so soundly I hadn’t the heart to wake her. She had fallen on the bed in her clothes, not even bothering to take off her shoes. I gently removed them and spread a light blanket over her before I turned out the light and left the room. She’d had a rough few weeks, poor child. Let her sleep.

  Alan and I were exhausted, too. It had been a very long day; the conversation with Matt seemed to have taken place months ago. We had a simple supper of scrambled eggs and toast; it seemed a pity to make something elaborate for just us, and the ingredients Alan had prepared would keep just fine for a day. He said that Derek didn’t plan to see Gillian until tomorrow, which was a very good thing. We tidied up the kitchen, had a modest nightcap, and were just about to let Watson out one last time and then go up to bed when my phone rang.

  ‘Ignore it,’ said Alan.

  ‘I can’t, not with everything that’s been going on. It could be something important.’ I pulled it out of my pocket and answered.

  ‘Mrs Martin? Kate Winston. You called me about an art question? It’s rather late, I know, but you did say any time.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m so glad you called! It’s not really late at all, and I’m sorry if I sounded irritated. It’s just that it’s been a long day, and I was headed for an early bed. The thing is, I need your expert opinion about some paintings.’

  ‘If you’re thinking of buying, I charge rather a lot for authenticating—’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It may be a criminal matter, and it’s pretty complicated to explain over the phone. Do you think my husband and I could come and talk to you? We live in Sherebury and could be there any time you like.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand. Are you connected with the police?’

  ‘My husband is a retired chief constable, and we’re looking, unofficially, into some disturbing events at the Wolfson College of Art and Design.’

  ‘Ah. Wasn’t the head killed some time ago in rather peculiar circumstances? Fell down a lift shaft or something?’

  ‘Or something. There are people under threat, Ms Winston.’ I thought about Gilly, asleep upstairs. ‘It’s really quite important that we talk to you.’ I heard my voice wobble, to my disgust.

  ‘I see.’ I could tell from her voice that she didn’t, but she was softening. ‘I actually have an appointment near Maidstone tomorrow morning. I could stop and see you sometime in the afternoon, if that would work out for you.’

  ‘That would be perfect. We can meet you anywhere you like.’

  ‘You live in Sherebury?’

  ‘Yes, next to the Cathedral Close.’

  ‘Then let’s say the Cathedral. It’s one of my favourites, and I’ve not seen it in some time. I’ll phone to let you know when.’

  I filled Alan in and we went to bed feeling that some progress was being made at last.

  Saturday, September 20

  We all felt much better in the morning. Gillian was somewhat subdued, but she made a good breakfast. It was a beautiful day, clear and crisp, with autumn definitely on its way. When she’d had all she wanted to eat, we told her about finding Matt.

  ‘Oh, that makes me feel so much better! But why hasn’t he come back?’

  I’d worked out an answer to that one. ‘He needs some time to himself. I think he’s still grieving, and as you would understand, the past few weeks at the college have been … distressing.’

  Alan chuckled at that. ‘And you say we English have the gift of understatement!’

  Watson, who had sensed some tension in the air, relaxed and joined in the laughter with several joyous barks. Sam took exception to the commotion and hissed at Emmy, who hissed back and began to chase Sam around the kitchen.

  ‘Let joy be unconfined,’ said Alan. ‘Oh, I had a call early from Derek. I thought you’d both want to know Braithwaite’s holding his own. Not conscious yet, but they think he’ll pull through.’

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ I said, ‘they know anything about who attacked him.’

  ‘Not a lot. They found the weapon in the art studio, a painting knife.’

  ‘A palette knife,’ I said, ever the pedantic retired teacher.

  ‘No, a painting knife. I didn’t know they were different, either. Apparently a palette knife has a fairly long, broad, blunt, flexible blade, while painting knives are of varied shapes, including short and pointed, with more rigid blades.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Gilly. ‘I remember those from the one painting class I took as an undergraduate. I was hopeless with them, or with a brush, either, come to that. Not my medium. But I never quite saw the point of painting with any sort of knife. Those pointed ones – well, not pointed, exactly, more tapered – I kept gouging holes in the canvas with them. I can see how they could do quite a lot of harm to a person, though I’d think it would take a bit of strength. The point isn’t at all sharp, nor is the rest of the blade.’

  ‘Well done, Gilly,’ said Alan. ‘That’s exactly what the forensics people are thinking. Snatched up in the he
at of the moment, used without real thought, but with plenty of fury behind it. The attacker was almost certainly left-handed, by the way. Which rules out perhaps eighty-five per cent of the population.’

  ‘But not eighty-five per cent of artists,’ said Gilly with some authority. ‘For some reason heaps of artists are left-handed. Dürer was left-handed. So was Paul Klee. Almost everyone knows Leonardo was a lefty, but not so many know Michelangelo was ambidextrous. And then there’s Rembrandt, and … oh, so many others.’

  Alan sighed. ‘One day, something’s going to be easy. I don’t suppose you’d care to say how many of the students and staff of the college are left-handed?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, seriously considering. ‘But, for what it’s worth, I am.’

  He sighed again. ‘And I don’t imagine for a moment that you attacked William Braithwaite, but I’d just as soon you didn’t tell the police about your little peculiarity, at least for now. If you’re ready to go, I’ll drive you to the studio.’

  ‘It’s a lovely day. I can cycle easily enough.’

  ‘My dear girl.’ Alan was using his most patient voice. ‘I recognize and salute your independent spirit, but I remind you again that a murderer is out there, and almost certainly connected with the college. I’m not your father, and I can’t insist. But I’d greatly prefer that you allow me to drive you back and forth, until we’ve caught the villain.’

  She grinned. ‘Do you know, I actually keep forgetting? I’ll be honoured to have an escort, thank you, sir.’

  ‘And can I, then, persuade you to come home at a reasonable time? Suppose I plan to come and fetch you around six.’ He made it a statement, not a question, and she didn’t demur. I thought it wouldn’t be a surprise if she called to try to negotiate a later time, but that was Alan’s problem.

  Meanwhile I wanted to take some action, see what I could find out before the conservator showed up. I found the list Alan and I had compiled about the crimes and other frightening incidents at the college, and sat down to study it.

  When Alan came home, I met him at the door. ‘Alan, we never went to talk to Mrs MacInnes. Remember, we were going to, but then we got worried about Gilly not coming home, and then all kinds of things have happened since, and I forgot. Let’s go now.’

  ‘Should we phone first?’

  ‘She doesn’t have a phone, not even a mobile. And with David ill, she’ll certainly be at home. I wish Dennis were here to show us the way, but I think I can find it.’

  ‘Wait.’ Alan disappeared upstairs and came back with two teddy bears, a larger and a smaller one. ‘The grandchildren are long past caring about these, and perhaps it’s the sort of gift that Mrs MacInnes wouldn’t be too proud to accept.’

  ‘Brilliant! It won’t put food in their mouths, but it’ll make the boys happy, if I’m any judge. Which, come to think of it, I’m really not. Too little experience. But they can’t hurt.’ I wished I had some baked goods to take along. Even the proudest person can’t turn away scones or fresh bread or the like, since it would be a slap in the face of the giver. But I hadn’t baked lately, and store-bought goodies were in an entirely different category. Then I had a thought.

  ‘One more minute,’ I said, and ran quickly next door.

  Jane was home, and had just made bread, from the smell of it. I explained my errand and she thrust one loaf into my hands, still warm. ‘Jam,’ she said, giving me a jar. ‘This year’s.’

  ‘You are an angel straight from heaven. I already owe you so many favours there’s no point in trying to repay, but I won’t forget this.’ I took my parcels to the car Alan had taken out of the garage, and we were off.

  Predictably, I got lost, but Alan managed to find his way, more or less by feel, when I described the house and the neighbourhood. I did recognize the house when we came to it.

  ‘Rather grand place once,’ said Alan, shaking his head sadly.

  ‘A very long time ago.’ We rang the bell at the back and waited.

  I was prepared to remind Mrs MacInnes of who I was, but she remembered me. ‘You’ve had measles?’ was her first question when I introduced Alan. He nodded,

  ‘Come in, then. I’m afraid David is a bit fretful this morning.’

  ‘I hope this might distract him,’ said Alan, holding out the bigger bear. ‘It belonged to my grandchildren, but they’re far too old for such things now. It’s been well-loved.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Mrs MacInnes studied the rubbed places, the eye that had been replaced a little off-centre, the half-torn ear. ‘I think perhaps it’s become Real.’

  ‘Oh! You know The Velveteen Rabbit! It’s my very favourite children’s book, but I didn’t know it was popular in England.’

  ‘A Canadian friend sent me the book for the children, and it’s nearly fallen to pieces.’ Without another word, Amy MacInnes and I had formed a bond, the instant bond of those who love the same book.

  ‘And Alan’s brought another bear for Bruce, so he won’t feel left out, and I ventured to make a contribution as well. My neighbour is the best baker in Sherebury, and when she offered me the bread and jam I thought I’d like to share them.’

  That was stretching the truth only a little, and Amy graciously accepted the offering. She led us downstairs into the dark, crowded flat, where David lay on the couch whining a little. ‘Darling, look what a friend has brought you.’ She handed him the teddy, putting a hand on his brow at the same time. ‘Isn’t he a lovely teddy? What will you name him?’

  ‘Dennis,’ said the little boy promptly, and hugged the teddy to him.

  ‘What a nice name! Now would you like a glass of milk? And there’s bread and jam for our tea!’

  ‘Dennis wants bread and jam, too.’

  ‘He can certainly sit with us while we have ours.’

  She helped him off the couch. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, and when his pyjamas parted a little at the top, I saw a fine rash on his neck and chest. ‘Oh, he’ll be feeling a bit better, then, now that the rash has come out,’ I said. ‘How’s the fever?’

  ‘Much better. He’s fractious now from inactivity more than anything else. And of course the itch. Lotion helps a bit, but …’ She shrugged.

  ‘And Bruce?’ I asked. He was standing in his crib, bright-eyed, listening to the conversation and eyeing David’s teddy.

  ‘The nurse came and vaccinated him as soon as we knew what David had. There’s still a chance he might get it, but I’m hoping.’

  ‘Mummy? My teddy?’

  ‘Yes, darling, the nice man’s brought one for you, too, see?’

  It took a little time to get everyone (including the teddies) provided with bread and jam and milk, real or imaginary, and tea for the grown-ups, but Amy managed it calmly. She served us as graciously as if we were seated round a damask-spread table drinking out of Royal Doulton cups, instead of being perched on various items of furniture with chipped mugs and plastic plates. The kitten got into the act, naturally, wanting some milk, wanting to explore the plates with bread and jam, wanting to know about the teddy bears, wanting to be everywhere at once. It turned into quite a hilarious party, with all of us laughing at the antics of the tiny, self-important creature. Never mind that it was closer to elevenses than teatime. We all enjoyed it.

  When the boys and the kitten had eaten all they wanted, and the loaf was reduced to crumbs, Amy settled them for naps (the kitten stretching out in the crib with Bruce) and then sat down with us. ‘I do appreciate the treat, and the toys, and so do the two bairns, but I imagine you didn’t come here just for that.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  There was an awkward little silence. I cleared my throat. ‘Well, no. There are some things we wanted to ask you about the college, if you don’t mind talking about it.’

  ‘It’s easier when the boys are asleep and I don’t have to watch my language,’ she said with the first trace of bitterness I had heard in her voice. ‘It’s quite a trick to talk about that place in terms appropriate for the
young.’

  ‘I can understand why,’ I said warmly. ‘Amy – may I call you Amy?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Okay, and we’re Dorothy and Alan. And to tell the truth, I’m not very sure what to ask you. We’ve met quite a few of the staff of the art school, and got a sort of idea of how it functions, but – oh, I guess we just want to get more of a feel for the place. So many awful things have been happening, and we, or at least I, can’t seem to get a handle on who’s responsible, or why. You know the people, and I imagine Dennis has told you most of what’s been going on. What ideas do you have about it all?’

  She took her time about replying. ‘I’m not an impartial witness, you know,’ she finally began.

  ‘Almost no one is,’ said Alan. ‘My wife didn’t tell you, but I used to be a policeman, and I’ve heard a lot of witnesses. I’m not certain I can remember a single one who was completely impartial.’

  ‘Dennis told me about your position,’ she said. ‘It’s why I’m inclined to trust both of you. One reason,’ she amended, glancing at her sons sleeping with their teddy bears. ‘You’ve been very kind. Till now, Dennis is the only one who’s bothered with me at all. You wouldn’t know, I think, how those one thought were friends run away like the proverbial rats when one’s ship is sinking. I don’t know if they think ill-fortune is contagious, or they’re simply ashamed to be around someone who has nothing.’

  ‘Or maybe they just are rats. I’ve never been reduced to your sort of circumstances, no. But when I lost my first husband to a mid-life heart attack, I was devastated by the number of friends who simply disappeared. I suppose they didn’t know what to say, or didn’t want to get mired in my grief, or something, but I found it hard to forgive them. I vowed then I’d try never to act like that, and I hope I’ve kept that vow.’

  ‘You have with me, anyway. So. You want to know what I think about the murder and mayhem at the college. I’m sure you can guess who I’d like the villain to be. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as totally and utterly cruel and selfish as William Braithwaite. He has a certain amount of superficial charm, but believe me, it is entirely superficial. Strip away the very thin layer of veneer and you find a man who would do anything to make sure he gets exactly what he wants.’