Alice-Miranda at Camp 10
Page 14
‘I think your father’s in the reading room, Detective Freeman,’ Alice-Miranda said, hoping that the woman would be eager to see him.
Fenella nodded her thanks, but before she could move off, Matron Bright bustled along the hall, carrying a stack of cardboard. ‘Oh hello there, everyone,’ she warbled. ‘If you’re looking for your father, DS Freeman, he’s gone up to his apartment. He said he wasn’t feeling well and I’m afraid he’s had another one of his little episodes.’
Fenella frowned. She turned to Ed and Alice-Miranda. ‘Thanks for the tour.’ She headed for her father’s apartment, unable to shake the feeling that she’d seen that Turner painting somewhere before. Perhaps her father had pointed it out during one of their gallery visits.
‘Are the children in the craft room, Mr Plumpton?’ Matron Bright asked, eager to get started on the signs for the fair.
The teacher should his head. ‘No, I was just coming to find you. We have to head back now due to a change in the program but I believe Miss Wall’s group will be over shortly.’
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘And how are you getting on, Mr Clifton? Is there anything you need?’
‘No, matron. I’m fine, thank you,’ Ed replied. But that was far from the truth.
Matron Bright smiled and scooted away to the craft room.
‘Say goodbye to your uncle, Alice-Miranda,’ said Mr Plumpton. ‘We’ll be back again tomorrow.’ And with that the teacher strode across the foyer and outside to meet the waiting group of students.
‘Uncle Ed, what are you going to do?’ Alice-Miranda asked urgently. ‘Shouldn’t we tell Detective Freeman?’
‘Not yet, I need to see what else I can find,’ Ed replied. ‘But how did you recognise that painting?’
Ed Clifton knew that his only niece was an incredibly perceptive child but he found it hard to believe that she could identify stolen artwork.
‘We did a project on Rubens last year and our teacher found some old newspaper articles about a robbery. I thought it was fascinating that something like that could just disappear out of a museum in broad daylight, so I did some more research. It’s been gone for quite a few years,’ the child explained.
Ed nodded. ‘It’s not the only one.’
Alice-Miranda’s brown eyes were the size of saucers. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I found another. Last night.’
‘Another Rubens?’ Alice-Miranda asked.
‘No, it’s a Monet,’ the man replied.
‘Have you told Daddy?’
‘I tried but he’s away until tonight,’ Ed replied. ‘I have to be sure that those are the only two paintings that don’t belong to Mother’s collection,’ Ed said. ‘I suspect there could be at least one more.’ He couldn’t stop thinking about the Turner landscape that DS Freeman had just spotted.
‘Alice-Miranda!’ Millie peered in from the main door. ‘Mr Plumpton’s frothing at the mouth out here. You need to hurry up!’
‘Coming!’ Alice-Miranda called back.
‘You’d better go, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow and hopefully by then I might have figured some of this out,’ Ed said with a deep sigh.
Alice-Miranda gave him a hug. ‘Don’t worry, Uncle Ed. There’s got to be a sensible explanation.’
But Ed Clifton wasn’t so sure. Possession of stolen goods was a criminal offence and at the moment the paintings in that basement were in the possession of his brother and sister-in-law.
Several of the Barn Owls scurried along beside Mr Plumpton as the short man trotted to Bagley Hall. He was fully aware that they were running much later than they should have been.
‘Where are we camping, Mr Plumpton? Figgy asked.
‘Somewhere along the river,’ the teacher answered.
Sloane scoffed. ‘That’s stupid. Why do we have to sleep in a tent when we have perfectly good beds inside Bagley Hall?’
The teacher looked at the girl. Personally he quite agreed and wasn’t looking forward to an evening on the ground, but he could hardly say so. ‘It’s about the experience, Sloane. You will have to pitch your tent, make a campfire and cook your own meals, as well as digging a toilet. Passing this test is a big part of your Queen’s Blue.’
‘Oh, gross,’ Sloane sighed. ‘I just won’t go.’
‘But you have to. As I said, it’s part of the challenge,’ Mr Plumpton chided.
‘Not the camp, Mr Plumpton,’ Sloane said, shaking her head. ‘The toilet. I won’t be going to the toilet while we’re out there.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Mr Plumpton frowned. He’d been wondering about that himself and hardly relishing the thought.
‘Good luck with that,’ Rufus said. ‘Especially if we’re cooking our own dinner. I’ve always found that stew equals p–’
Mr Plumpton cut the lad off. ‘Pemberley, must you always be so … so base?’ The teacher sighed and shook his head. Having travelled to Paris with some of the boys from Fayle and now this camp, the man was very glad that he worked in a girls’ school. Dealing constantly with toilet humour and unpleasant smells was not his idea of fun.
Sloane shuddered. ‘You’re gross, Figgy.’
Millie glanced around, wondering where Alice-Miranda had got to. She spied her at the back of the group on her own. Millie stopped and waited for her friend to catch up.
‘Are you all right?’ Millie asked.
Alice-Miranda nodded.
‘You looked like you were somewhere else. When you get like that I wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me,’ Millie said.
‘I was thinking about Mr Freeman. This morning he was talking about a boy called Harry who was his best friend on the estate but it sounded like something terrible had happened between them. And then I found this when I was in the attic with Uncle Ed.’ Alice-Miranda pulled the piece of paper out of her pocket.
‘What is it?’ Millie asked. The handwriting was very old-fashioned and she could hardly make out any of the words.
‘It’s a note about Mr Freeman’s father, saying that he was dismissed from the estate because of an incident where a horse was killed.’
‘That’s horrible,’ said Millie.
‘Mr Freeman got very upset this morning. He said something about it not being his fault – that Harry made him take the blame. I wonder if it was something to do with this, but the second page is missing. Can you imagine your best friend blaming you for something they did?’
The red-haired girl gulped. Alice-Miranda was her best friend in the world – someone Millie imagined she would be friends with forever. She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to help Caprice with her plan to win the medal. ‘No, it’s too horrible for words.’
Caprice had fallen back to listen in on their conversation. Sappy little creatures. How sad for that old man to have a friend and then not have him any more. Wouldn’t that be terrible? She smiled to herself. Millie was about to find out just how terrible that was.
Millie handed the page back to Alice-Miranda.
But Alice-Miranda hadn’t told Millie everything. She was worried about Mr Freeman and what she’d found in the attic, but she was even more perplexed about the painting in the cellar. If only she could spend the night at the house and help her uncle sort things out.
Fenella Freeman knocked on the door of her father’s apartment.
‘Coming,’ he called, and opened the door a few seconds later.
‘Hi Dad.’ Fenella held up the cable in her hand. ‘I forgot the lead for the radio.’
‘What radio?’ the old man asked as she walked inside.
The woman sighed. ‘The one I left for you last night, Dad. It’s in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Donald hurried after her. He picked up a small leather-bound book from the table beside his reclining chair and slammed it shut, hoping his daughter hadn’t noticed it.
Fortunately Fenella walked straight through to the kitchen.
‘Dad,’ she called. ‘Do you remember a Turner painting that you once took
Niall and me to see?’
Donald stuffed the book between the couch cushions and walked into the kitchen.
‘There are a lot of Turners, Fen. He was prolific. And we’ve probably seen hundreds of them.’ Donald wondered where this conversation was coming from and where it was going.
‘I thought it had an opposite too – it was part of a pair, I think,’ said Fenella. The cloudy memory swirling at the back of her mind was starting to focus.
‘Sorry, Fen, I don’t remember.’ Donald shook his head and went to put the kettle on.
‘Light and Colour! That’s it!’ Fenella clapped her hands together.
Donald felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just went downstairs with Ed Clifton. Have you met him? He’s Hugh Kennington-Jones’s long-lost brother. I’m sure you must have heard of him. He’s a painter – does some really attractive work, by the looks of what I saw online. He offered to give me a tour of his mother’s art collection in the cellar and, I don’t know why, but I thought it would be interesting. I’ve just been down there and as soon as I saw this one, something sparked. It’s there, Dad. Light and Colour by Turner. They own it,’ Fenella frothed.
‘It’s probably just a reproduction,’ her father said. He was standing in front of the sink and staring out the window.
‘I don’t think so. There’s so much art down there. I mean, there’s one giant jumbled room full of furniture and then there’s this room with a steel door and a combination lock, with racks and racks of artwork. Seriously, how does one family have so much?’ Fenella griped. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d like to know, seeing as you always loved that one. Perhaps Ed will take you down to have a look if you ask him.’
Donald gulped. ‘I don’t think so, Fen. My old legs are playing up a lot at the moment. I can barely get up and down the stairs.’
‘Come on, Dad. You’re all right. I know there wasn’t much time for galleries when Mum was sick but you could have gone back to it, you know. Don’t tell me you don’t miss it.’ Fenella walked over and stood shoulder to shoulder with her father.
‘Would you like a cuppa?’ the old man asked, ignoring his daughter’s question.
Fenella glanced at the clock and realised that she’d been gone far longer than she’d intended. ‘Sorry, Dad, I’d better get back. Besides, I want to do some research and see when the Kennington-Joneses bought that painting. I’m sure I saw it somewhere with you when I was a child. But Ed mentioned that his mother died forty years ago. That can’t be right. You have to wonder about these people. Priceless artworks and they don’t even hang them on the walls. More money than sense, wouldn’t you say?’
Fenella turned and gave her father a peck on the cheek.
‘I’ll see you in a couple of days. The radio’s set up, Dad. You just need to turn the dial and tune into whichever station you’re keen on these days.’
‘What was he doing down there?’ Donald asked as Fenella turned to leave.
‘They’re selling the collection,’ Fenella replied. ‘He mentioned something about cataloguing and getting it ready for disposal. I told you. You should ask him to take you for a look before it’s all gone.’
Donald nodded and closed his eyes. He’d known it would happen one day. He’d just hoped it would be long after he’d gone. He heard the door close and waited a minute before he walked back into the sitting room. He dug his hand in between the cushions and pulled out the small black book. Donald shook his head. His daughter had wanted a big case. And here it was – about to land in her lap. But he couldn’t let it happen.
The Barn Owls had fifteen minutes to pack a change of clothes and their sleeping bags into their day packs. Fortunately they wouldn’t have to carry their food as well, as the camp staff would drop that off at the camp site.
The sun had dipped behind some fat grey clouds and Mr Plumpton sensed a change in the wind. He hoped they weren’t in for a wet night. That was all they needed.
‘Hello Mr Plumpton,’ said Miss Reedy as she spotted the teacher in the quadrangle.
‘Oh, hello Miss Reedy.’ Mr Plumpton couldn’t help but smile broadly.
‘Sorry about the change of plans with the canoeing,’ she said, sighing. ‘Mr Lipp insisted that he couldn’t have the children out tomorrow night as he needed another rehearsal with the choir before the fair. Honestly, you’d think they were performing for the Queen. As far as I can tell, there’ll be a lot of people from the village and the residents of Pelham Park and that’s about it. If Harry had his way, those children would be practising all jolly day and half the night.’
‘Don’t worry yourself, Livinia,’ Mr Plumpton said. ‘I just hope he hasn’t been bothering you too much.’
‘You have nothing to worry about, Josiah,’ Miss Reedy confirmed. ‘Mr Lipp could be Lawrence Ridley’s twin brother and it wouldn’t change a thing about the way I feel.’
Hearing those words made Josiah’s heart soar.
‘What was that you were saying about me being Lawrence Ridley’s twin brother?’ Harold Lipp said cheerily as he approached the pair. He smoothed his safari suit and winked at Miss Reedy. ‘I had no idea you’d seen the resemblance.’
Mr Plumpton bit his tongue.
Miss Reedy smothered a grin and said, ‘Pity you don’t have the same fashion sense.’
‘Yes, I quite agree. The poor man looks as if he could do with some styling. I’d be happy to offer a few tips next time he pops in to see Lucas at school,’ Mr Lipp boasted.
Several of the children had arrived in the quadrangle. Mr Lipp was waiting to speak with Caprice about a song.
‘Have a lovely time, Mr Plumpton,’ Miss Reedy said quietly, and reached out to give his arm a gentle squeeze. ‘I wish I was able to join you,’ she whispered.
Mr Plumpton’s nose glowed red. ‘Have a good evening, Miss Reedy.’ He beamed as she skipped off to check on Miss Wall’s Hawks at the swimming pool.
Figgy appeared at that moment. ‘When are you going to ask her to marry you, sir?’
Harold Lipp did a double take. ‘Figworth, that’s none of your business.’
‘Not you, Mr Lipp. Miss Reedy doesn’t fancy you at all. I was talking to Mr Plumpton.’ The boy rolled his eyes.
‘I knew that,’ Mr Lipp huffed. ‘And don’t be ridiculous anyway.’
Josiah Plumpton stared the man down. ‘Why would that be ridiculous, Mr Lipp?’
‘Well, there are more reasons than I care to count. For a start, Miss Reedy’s a woman of the world. She’s well read and extremely bright and she’s deserving of someone who can, well, complement her,’ Mr Lipp blathered.
‘And I don’t?’ Mr Plumpton demanded.
‘No offence, Josiah, but you’re hardly a catch, are you?’ Mr Lipp sniffed. He hadn’t realised that the rest of the Barn Owls had now arrived and were eagerly listening to the teachers’ conversation.
‘That’s not true. Mr Plumpton’s a great catch,’ said Alice-Miranda.
Jacinta leapt to the teacher’s defence too. ‘He’s smart and he’s sweet and he loves his work – even if he does blow things up quite a bit. I’d say that makes his lessons even more interesting.’
Josiah Plumpton beamed.
Mr Lipp was flummoxed. ‘You have no idea what we were talking about, Jacinta, and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.’ He turned and strode off across the quadrangle, completely forgetting why he’d been waiting there in the first place.
A few minutes later he sheepishly returned. ‘Caprice, may I see you please?’
Mr Lipp handed her a sheet and asked if he could possibly impose on her to learn the song before the next day’s rehearsal.
‘Of course, Mr Lipp,’ Caprice said. ‘It will be a pleasure. And might I say, sir, that I think you and Miss Reedy would make a lovely couple.’
The teacher smiled at her. ‘It’s good to know that some people around here have decent taste.’ And with that he hurried away.
Fenella Freeman arrived back at the station to find the place locked and a note from Wilson and Barker saying that they’d been called out to an accident on the motorway. She wondered why both of them had to attend, particularly when she learned that it was a single-vehicle incident involving a little old lady who’d run off the road into the median strip and become bogged. Hardly a major event. She glanced at the pile of paperwork on Barker’s desk. Those two were the laziest creatures to walk the earth as far as she was concerned.
She didn’t care, though. It was nice to have the station to herself. Fenella sat down in front of the computer and jiggled the mouse to bring the screen back to life. She typed the words ‘Light and Colour Turner’ into the search engine and waited. A vast number of hits appeared. She added the name ‘Kennington-Jones’ and waited but nothing came up.
Fenella decided to search for the history of ownership. She scanned the first site and realised where her father had taken her and Niall to view the painting. What came next had her eyes glued to the screen and made her heart thump in her chest.
Stolen? Really? She searched the police database too, taking extra care to check whether the painting had been found and returned to its owners or whether it was still an open case. She wasn’t about to go off half-cocked again.
The telephone rang. Fenella picked it up and her ears were immediately assaulted by shrieking.
‘DS Freeman, how may I help?’ she asked.
The woman on the other end sobbed hysterically. Fenella couldn’t understand what she was saying for the first few minutes and had to ask her to calm down and take a breath. When she finally got her words out, all Fenella could hear was ‘murdered’.
The detective leapt out of her chair and snatched up a notepad. ‘Your address?’ she demanded. Fenella scribbled the details on the pad.
The painting would have to wait. It seemed that life in Dunleavy had suddenly become a lot more interesting than it had been for a very long time.