At last, the pram woman leaves. The proprietress flips the sign on the door from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. She sighs like a hard day’s work is finally finished. Then, she turns around and sees that I’m still there.
‘I’m closing up now, will you be wanting anything else?’
‘I’d like you to tell me more about Rosemont Hall. I thought maybe I’d…’
At that moment, an idea strikes me.
‘…write a book about the history of the house. The things that aren’t mentioned in the archives. The nameless women who lived and loved there. I’m a teacher – or, at least, I was. I can’t save Rosemont Hall, but I can preserve some part of its history.’
Now that I’ve voiced the idea, it seems like a no-brainer. Why didn’t I think of it before? Writing about Rosemont Hall is right up my street – provided there’s something to write about. Which I’m increasingly sure there is.
‘But I need to uncover more information,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘A story that will really bring the place alive.’
The woman looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. I don’t care. My chest feels fizzy with excitement. I can go home and start right away.
‘Hmm.’ The woman shakes her head. ‘I’m not the one you should ask. If you want colourful detail, my sister knows a lot more.’
The bell on the door tinkles again. We both look up.
‘This must be your lucky day. Here she is—’
I barely hear the words. I stare at the old woman who’s just come in. She looks at me and frowns, her eyes – her forget-me-not-blue eyes – sharp and piercing. And suddenly I guess the truth – that’s been staring me in the face all along.
- 32 -
Mrs Bradford hobbles in leaning on her cane. The huge Saint Bernard, Captain, pads in behind her. When she sees me, her face remains impassive and she nods almost politely. Captain, comes over and licks my hand like today I’m friend, not foe.
‘Hello,’ I say, staring at her wizened face like I’m seeing it for the first time.
‘This is my sister,’ the proprietress says. ‘As I say, she’s the one you should be asking your questions.’
‘We’ve met, actually.’ I feel like I’ve been flattened by a very large bus.
The cane points in my direction. ‘Amy Wood,’ Mrs Bradford cackles, ‘Estate agent.’
The dog lays down at my feet and I scratch his shaggy head, still staring at the old lady.
‘Estate agent?’ The proprietress looks at me with suspicion clouding her face. ‘You said you were writing a book.’
‘Um... yes, I am – in my spare time.’ I grip the edge of the table, bracing myself for an outburst from one or both of them about ‘poking my nose where it doesn’t belong’.
To my surprise, Mrs Bradford starts to laugh. ‘A book, is that it?’ She hobbles over to a table across the room from me and manoeuvres herself into the chair. The stick waves in her sister’s direction and clatters to the floor. The dog growls and picks it up in his mouth to give it back to her. ‘What is it? Some kind of two-penny romance with you as the heroine, I suppose.’
‘Actually,’ I say through my teeth, ‘it’s a history book.’
‘A history book.’ She raises a bushy white eyebrow and chuckles again. I’ve no idea what could possibly be so funny. ‘Get another cup of tea for Miss Wood, will you, Gwen.’ She gestures for me to join her at her table. I stand up and move over to the empty chair, as her sister goes off with an irritated tsk.
‘Please, call me Amy,’ I say.
She waves off my request with a gnarled hand. ‘So, what is it that you want to know today? Let me guess – all about that painting on the landing. Who that girl is; what her life was like. What her secrets are.’
‘It’s a stunning painting,’ I say. ‘And the artist has really captured something of the subject – she’s beautiful certainly, but more than that too, I think.’ My eyes lock with her familiar blue ones – or rather, with those of a girl – many years younger – in a pink dress.
The laughter fades from her face. ‘So you’ve finally guessed, have you, Amy Wood?’
‘It was you all along, wasn’t it?’ I shake my head. ‘How silly of me not to have seen it.’ Of course it’s her – right in front of me, staring me in the face. No wonder Jack thought she looked familiar. And Flora – her granddaughter – is her spitting image.
Mrs Bradford sighs. ‘Maybe it isn’t so obvious looking at her pretty face – innocent dope that she was. But give yourself another sixty years and the trouble I’ve seen and see how you fare.’
I sit forward, leaning on my elbows. ‘Tell me the story, Mrs Bradford. How did you come to be painted like that?’
‘You mean how did a lowly girl from the village come to be hanging on the wall in the big house? Just say it, Amy Wood. You won’t be the first.’ She sits back in her chair, her lips pursed like a sphinx.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘if you like.’
Her sister returns with a tray and sets it on the table. With a cursory frown, she takes up the story. ‘A trunk full of costumes was delivered,’ Gwen says. ‘Sir George wanted everyone to dress up in period costumes for the ball – even the hired help. We were supposed to dress as kitchen servants, but then we found a whole room of beautiful dresses and costumes that belonged to Sir George’s late wife. We couldn’t resist trying on the beautiful gowns. They were fabulous – made of silk and satin, taffeta and chiffon. Trimmed with pearls, lace and sparkly beads – what girl could possibly resist?’
‘I understand completely,’ I say. I doubt I could have resisted either. ‘When was this?’
Gwen looks at her sister before answering. ‘It was a week or two before the last ball,’ she says. ‘The one that Sir George held for Henry’s 21st birthday. Sir George had an artist friend there – some Spanish chap – handsome too. He was working in the studio in the attic. He was there to paint Henry’s portrait, I think. But he had an eye for the ladies. He took a shine to Maryanne. He sketched her, and then did that painting.’
‘The sketchbook,’ I say, stealing a glance at Mrs Bradford. ‘I came across it in the library the night that Flora was there. I umm… took it for safe-keeping. It’s at home in my drawer along with the lighter.’
‘Hmmff, I thought as much.’ Mrs Bradford crosses her arms. Other than the sunken blue eyes, her pudgy, lined face bears little or no resemblance to the girl in the painting.
I shake my head. ‘I just can’t believe it was you…’ I trail off, only just realising that I’ve spoken aloud.
‘Well, Amy Wood, it’s the truth.’ Mrs Bradford nods firmly. ‘I was the girl in the pink dress – and a hot and scratchy thing it was too, let me tell you.’ She chortles. ‘And those costumes are still there in the house – in the closet off the Rose Bedroom. But of course, you found them too.’ She lifts her chin. ‘Oh yes, I noticed.’
I smile uneasily. At least I was right about the pink dress – it wasn’t a replica of the dress in the painting, it was the real one.
‘Anyway, now you know.’ She shrugs. ‘No big secret.’
‘But when I asked before, Mrs Bradford, why didn’t you just say it was you?’
She sniffs. ‘You asked if she was Sir George’s wife, or his mother, or Arabella – someone posh and important. You never dreamt it might be a nobody like me – though that’s what I told you the first time you asked.’
‘Well, you have to admit, it does seem a little strange. I mean, if the artist was there to paint Henry’s portrait, then how come he never did?’
‘He said, “Henry was no picture”,’ Gwen says with a little laugh. ‘An eye for the ladies, that’s what he had.’
‘It seems odd that he never did what he’d been commissioned to do,’ I say. What did the letter say that I found? Something along the lines of ‘we will say that you are here to paint my son’s portrait’. ‘But maybe Sir George wasn’t all that bothered?’
Mrs Bradford snorts like I’m stating the obvious.
‘And what about the Rembrandt?’ I say. ‘It used to hang in that space, didn’t it? The man I was talking to earlier said that it wasn’t in the ballroom the night of the fire. Do either of you remember seeing it there?’
The obnoxious ring of my mobile cuts off my question. I fumble frantically in my bag to turn it off, but it’s too late. Gwen looks at her watch, then at me. ‘I’m closing up now,’ she says. ‘We’ve got choir practice.’
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘You can’t go yet.’ I find my phone and jab at the mute button.
Nonplussed, Mrs Bradford whistles through her dentures. The dog jumps up, his head and tail high like he’s standing to attention.
The phone rings again in my hand. Cursing under my breath, I check the screen – my parents’ number is blinking on the display. Mrs Bradford hoists herself to her feet. The phone rings and rings. I have to answer it.
‘Amy!’ Mum shouts frantically in my ear. ‘Please… come home right away. Your dad’s had an accident.’
The blood drains from my face. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Mum.’ I hang up the phone and stand up.
‘I have to go now,’ I say to Mrs Bradford. ‘But please will you tell me the rest of the story another time?’
Ignoring the question, Mrs Bradford hobbles off towards the loo in back, thumping her stick, and chuckling her head off.
- 33 -
I prepare myself for the worst: Dad’s been hit by a car; or had a heart attack; or a stroke, and I’m too late and he’s dead. I should have been a better daughter: providing them with grandchildren, or at least doing something with my life that they could brag about to their friends at the Scrabble club. I should not have muted the phone the first time Mum rang. All the way home my heart is in my throat. I turn into the lane expecting flashing ambulance lights, wailing sirens, and gaggles of curious onlookers.
When I rush into the house and find Dad sprawled on the sofa watching a repeat of Antiques Roadshow with Mum holding a packet of frozen peas on his ankle, I’m relieved – of course! – but also a tiny bit perturbed.
‘Dad fell off a ladder putting pigeon spikes on the shed,’ Mum explains. ‘He fell into the lilac – otherwise, he might have broken something.’
I kneel down beside the sofa and give Dad a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m glad you’re okay—’
‘Shhh,’ he waves his arm, ‘let’s hear the valuation.’
I look at the TV. Fiona Bruce is wearing a green leather coat and tight red jeans. Beside her is a rotund, bearded man whose face is pouring with sweat.
‘The good news is the vase does have the mark from Occupied Japan…’ the bow-tied valuation man says.
‘That man is hoping he can sell that vase to build an extension so his mum doesn’t have to go to a home,’ Mum says. ‘Isn’t that sweet?’
‘But I’m afraid that the chip in the base means it won’t fetch much more than two hundred at auction…’
The rotund bloke looks crushed. I stand up and offer to make supper.
‘That would be nice,’ Mum says (making me feel bad for not offering more often). ‘I’ve thawed some sausages, plus, these peas.’
Sausages! Peas a la Dad’s ankle!
‘Actually, I was thinking I might do something different, like… uhh, chilli con carne—’
‘Shhh.’ This time Mum holds up her hand. ‘This one looks interesting.’
I roll my eyes and start heading to the kitchen.
‘I’ve had my eye on this painting all day…’ The valuer says. ‘Tell me how you came by it.’
I hover at the door. There’s no denying that I’m a sucker for Antiques Roadshow.
‘My grandmother died, and I inherited it…’ a young woman is saying. ‘She was Jewish and she lived in Germany before the war. Luckily, she got out.’ The camera pans to a painting of two children playing at the seaside.
‘You could make one of those curries—’ Dad says, struggling to sit up.
‘Shhh. Dinner can wait. I want to hear this.’ I grab the remote off the arm of the sofa and turn up the TV.
‘A genuine Mary Cassatt!’ the valuer says. ‘And a lovely one at that. But you said there’s more to the story?’
‘A friend of a friend put my grandmother in contact with a Spanish artist who was also an expert smuggler. Walredo, his name was. He helped her hide it. Here’s a photograph of her house…’
Oh my God. Walredo – the man in the photo with Sir George. I never did look up the name. My heart begins to thunder in my chest. I move closer to the TV. The woman holds up a black and white photo of a painting. But it’s not the Cassatt. It’s…
‘That’s fascinating. You mean, they hid the Cassatt to smuggle it out of Germany…?’
...a portrait of a Spanish flamenco dancer painted in a style that’s remarkably similar to one I’ve seen. She seems to melt out of a background darkness, and dominate the canvas with her dark eyes and strong presence.
‘Yes, that’s right…’ the woman smiles. ‘The Nazis never found it.’
A painting that hides a secret.
‘It was pure genius to hide it so well…’
Buried treasure that could save a house.
‘…and the story you’ve told me makes it worth even more…’
And at this moment…
‘I’d say you could easily be looking at seven figures…’
I know where it is.
- 34 -
Sir George might have been a devil, but he was also devious and shrewd. His beloved Rembrandt wasn’t sold or destroyed in the fire – he made sure it was carefully hidden. And then, he died without letting anyone in on the secret. It’s been right in front of me – and everyone else – all along.
All through dinner with my parents, followed by a game of three-handed bridge (Dad pulls the invalid card, so I can hardly refuse), I’m more and more convinced. In fact, the day I had coffee with Mary Blundell, I should have started putting two and two together. But I didn’t, and now I’ve lost precious time. The sale to Hexagon will complete as soon as the probate decree comes through – any day now. But if I can find the painting, maybe there’s still a chance to stop the sale.
There’s only one little problem niggling in my head – I no longer have the keys to Rosemont Hall.
*
Of all the things I thought I might be doing as an estate agent, breaking and entering did not figure high on the list. Nevertheless, the decision comes easily. After the game, I settle my parents in front of the TV to watch Wallander, telling them that I’ve got a headache and am planning to get an early night. I change my clothes in my bedroom, then sneak out to the garage and find Dad’s torch. Luckily my car is parked a little way down the road, so my parents don’t hear me as I get in and drive off.
I reach my destination shortly after ten. Just as I’m about to turn into the drive, I slam on the brakes. The old stone pillars have been reinforced with new brickwork and the ornate iron gates have been rehung. They now meet firmly in the centre, shut with a heavy chain and padlock. Obviously, someone has got wise to the fact that leaving Rosemont Hall vacant is a security risk. Now, they’re making an effort to keep people out – people like me.
I park the car in a lay-by and turn off the lights. There’s no traffic at this hour, and disguised in my black leather jacket, leggings, black trainers and knit woolly cap, I blend in with the darkness.
No sooner am I out of the car, when a police car passes, its blue lights flashing. I flatten myself against the prickly hedgerow and take a few deep breaths. There’s nothing to fear – I’m not here to steal anything. I haven’t done anything wrong.
Yet.
The gates tower over my head, black and imposing. I try to climb the iron scrolls but can’t get a good foothold. Instead, I follow the old stone wall a few metres from the gate. The wall is overgrown with brambles and ivy, and I find a place where the top stones have collapsed and I can scramble over. I thunk to the ground on the other side right into a ne
st of stingers.
The moon breaks through the clouds as I brush myself off and begin the long walk to the house. The wood is dark; the bare trees spindly and sinister like skeletons. It takes the better part of twenty minutes before I top the last hill and the Rosemont Hall is before me. The windows shine black in the distance like glassy pupils – seeing all. Seeing me.
Gravel crunches under my feet as I reach the front of the house. A tiny shape runs across my path – a mouse or a squirrel. My heart begins to pound faster.
I try the front door, but of course it’s locked. I make my way around the side of the house. The paving stones are uneven and I have to flip on the torch. I creep up the gracefully curving staircase that leads to the back terrace. There are plenty of broken windowpanes, but unfortunately, none of them are at a level where I can reach a latch. I shine the torch over one of the sets of French doors that lead into the green salon. Clenching my teeth, I knock the torch hard against a cracked pane near the handle. The glass shatters. I unlatch the door and slip inside the house.
I’m now officially a criminal.
Inside, darkness swallows the beam of the torch. The parquet floor creaks and groans with my every step, as if protesting the illicit entry. I grope my way through the green salon to the great hall, not daring to turn on the lights. I tiptoe up the main staircase and stand before the portrait.
Now that I’m here, I’m not quite sure what to look for. I half-wish that I’d brought Mary Blundell along for some tips. I shine the torch over the painting. The oil paint glimmers, accentuating the shadows and the folds of the pink dress like moonlight. She truly is beautiful – though I’m still finding it hard to imagine that the lady is really a young Mrs Bradford. I try to visualise the ball she spoke of: the ballroom in the East Wing lit by candlelight, well-coiffed ladies swirling around with handsome men in old-fashioned costumes. The portrait painter sketching a young woman as she tries on costumes before the ball: her neck long, shoulders soft and white, the silk clinging to her body like a second skin.
Finding Home Page 25
