A Study in Gold

by Annie Dalton

  ‘Lili Rossetti,’ she whispered.

  SIX

  It was not the first time that Anna had stayed up, obsessively entering names into Google, when she should have been asleep in bed. But at this point, stopping seemed too much like giving up. And so it was that Anna typed Lili Rossetti’s name into the search engine and made an unwelcome discovery.

  She immediately closed her laptop, as if that might keep this alarming information from spilling out. She was dimly aware that her kitchen had grown cold and that she was very thirsty. She poured herself a glass of water, but instead of drinking, she carefully set the glass down on the counter, because doing things carefully meant she still had some self-control, and then she started up the stairs to her study.

  She got as far as opening the door, but for the first time she hesitated. The light shining from the hallway picked out familiar details: the lamp on her desk, her metal filing cabinet, her running machine. Everything had been squashed into one corner to make space for the ominous cupboard that dominated the room. Jake had never asked her why she kept her super-sized, antique armoire in her study and she’d never explained. She’d found it in a street market, falling in love with its hand-painted patterns, though in places only the faintest blue and gold stippling remained. She hadn’t intended to use it for her personal Pandora’s Box, a repository for all her nightmares. But, for a time, the cupboard had seemed like the only way she could keep her madness from overflowing into the rest of her life.

  Still she didn’t move, just stood in the doorway, trying to calm her breathing. She mentally reviewed the macabre contents that she now knew by heart: newspaper clippings, curling photographs, witness statements, printouts of floor plans, scrawled-on Post-its, all connected by crazy spiders’ webs of taut criss-crossed strings. Anna wondered if she would ever tell Jake, share these horrors with him and exorcise them from her life forever. She had a recurring fantasy, where he helped her to chop this monstrous piece of furniture into pieces, and then they took the broken-up cupboard and its contents into the garden and burned everything down to ash. And in this fantasy she was no longer ashamed.

  Anna heard the soft click of Bonnie’s claws on the wooden stairs. A cold wet nose pushed itself forcefully into her hand. Exhausted gratitude washed over her. I’m not alone.

  ‘You’re right,’ she told her dog. Her voice sounded small and far away. ‘I’ll call him.’

  She pulled her mobile out of her back pocket. Jake answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart, you just caught me in the shower. Hold on!’

  She held on, literally gripping the phone for dear life. ‘I was worried I’d wake you.’

  ‘No, I only just got in.’

  She closed her eyes, felt herself gradually returning to her body. She heard herself ask. ‘The conference goes on this late?’

  ‘God no!’ Jake sounded horrified. ‘Just couldn’t sleep. Too much sitting and too much talk. These security geeks make you lose the will to live. I went out for a walk around the city, trying to tire myself out.’

  He described his walk around the Fifth Arrondissement, where Ernest Hemingway and his friends had hung out in the 1920s.

  ‘I’ve wanted to go there ever since I read A Moveable Feast. Ever read that book? I was scared it would have changed, but it’s beautiful.’

  He told her about a French Canadian he’d met in a bar; an ex-soldier who’d served in Iraq, and who was in the process of setting up a charity to rescue and rehome dogs, like Bonnie, from war zones.

  ‘Not, of course, that there are any dogs like Bonnie,’ he added.

  ‘None,’ Anna said.

  While she and Jake had been talking, Anna and Bonnie had migrated to her bedroom. She perched on the edge of her bed and pulled a woollen throw around her shoulders. Bonnie sat at her feet, with her pure white ears pricked, occasionally tilting her head and looking puzzled, as if she could detect Jake’s voice coming through the phone.

  Jake didn’t ask why Anna had called. He knew she’d tell him when she was able. He just chatted to her about his evening. He and the ex-soldier had eventually left the bar and found a small café, where they ate cassoulet and talked about the stupidity of war and the crazy wisdom of dogs.

  Though she had cleverly concealed this knowledge even from herself, Anna had fallen in love with the sound of Jake’s voice some weeks before she’d met him in person. The first time he’d said her name she’d almost passed out with longing.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in security, Jake McCaffrey,’ she told him now, pulling her throw more closely around her. ‘You should be on late night radio.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure that’s flattering.’ Jake sounded amused. ‘We have some pretty extreme late night stations in the US.’

  ‘Like?’ Anna settled back upon her pillows, allowing herself to be lulled.

  ‘Well, there’s a few that cater to preppers.’

  ‘You’re going to have to explain preppers.’

  ‘People who are preparing for the coming apocalypse.’

  ‘Like survivalists?’

  ‘Kind of an offshoot. Then there’s all the evangelical stations obviously. Plus, there’s one widely syndicated station that focuses on the weird and wacky: near-death experiences, alien abductions, crop circles, Big Foot sightings, the Hollow Earth theory …’

  ‘Is that what it sounds like?’

  ‘The Hollow Earth theory? Ah, well, very few people know this, but this planet contains unlimited interior space, which is lucky as they’re gonna need plenty of room for all those roaming herds of mammoth down there.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve listened to this station a lot,’ she commented.

  ‘Never missed a night.’ Jake laughed and she felt a spreading warmth behind her ribs.

  ‘In the UK, late-night talk radio is designed to soothe insomniacs, like the radio version of hot milk and honey,’ she said.

  ‘Happy to be your late-night radio host any time,’ he said.

  Anna pictured him in his hotel room: the battered kit bag containing his few requirements for the trip, his leather jacket slung on the back of a chair, the photo Tansy had taken of him and Anna with Bonnie.

  She took a breath and told him. She told him all of it from the dead woman they’d found in the pond, to David Fischer and his allegations about the missing Vermeer. Yet this time she told him what she’d previously held back, that she was terrified her dad had become mixed up with something morally dubious, especially now she’d understood how Lili Rossetti and Fischer must be connected.

  ‘You know how you should stop googling, because you’re so tired but you just can’t?’

  ‘No, darlin’,’ he said with affection, ‘but I know how you can’t.’

  And because there was no trace of condescension in Jake’s voice, Anna felt able to struggle to the end of her confession.

  ‘I did a search for Lili Rossetti and I found out what she did. She was a fine art restorer.’

  The first time that Anna had experienced one of Jake’s long telephone silences, she’d wondered if his phone had run out of charge or if he’d simply got fed up and cut her off. Now she knew he was simply absorbing what she’d told him.

  ‘That’s quite a coincidence,’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes. I hate coincidences like this. They make me think I’m going crazy again. Connecting up dots that don’t exist outside my own head.’

  ‘You’re not crazy,’ he said with quiet certainty. ‘So what are you going to do now?’ Jake knew her so well, Anna thought. He knew she’d have to follow this up.

  ‘First, I need to get a closer look at that photo,’ she said. ‘Make sure I’m not just spooking at things that aren’t there.’

  They talked for a while of other things, then Jake said, ‘Think you can sleep now, darlin’?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, softly. ‘I think I probably can.’

  ‘This is one of my favourite views,’ Isadora said as they drove down Long Wall Str
eet and over Magdalen Bridge.

  ‘Mine too,’ Anna agreed.

  The loveliness of the May morning made the craziness of the previous night seem like a fever dream. Spring sunshine fell on ancient honey-gold stone, the trees were in full blossom and rows of bright-coloured bikes were padlocked to any convenient railing. Anna loved her city in all its moods and seasons but, this morning, Oxford was at its picture postcard best.

  ‘I’m so glad you asked me to come!’ Isadora sounded as if Anna had offered her a huge treat, instead of a day trip to Reading.

  ‘The Institute isn’t actually in Reading,’ Anna said. ‘It’s on the outskirts somewhere.’ She overtook a young woman pedalling hard on her bike, a short academic gown billowing out behind her.

  She had called the Wennekes Institute first thing, asking if they could email her a better photo than the one she’d found online, but the woman she spoke to said the photo Anna had seen was ten years old. They only had a hard copy in their archives. The woman offered to post her a copy, if Anna would send them a stamped addressed envelope, but Anna couldn’t wait that long. She needed to know now.

  She heard Hero whining in her travel crate.

  ‘Shush!’ Isadora told her sharply. They turned into the Iffley Road, where stately Victorian houses were interspersed with occasional curry houses, a rare book shop and a bicycle repair business. Anna kept catching glimpses of an alert and interested Bonnie in her rear-view mirror.

  ‘I’m guessing you didn’t get much sleep?’ Isadora said.

  ‘No,’ Anna said.

  Before she could explain her latest worry, Isadora said, ‘Nor did I. I sat up emailing my friend in Prague, then Geraldine – my friend in the art world who I told you about – and then I did some online research into Vermeer.’

  Anna shot her an astonished glance. Tansy used to crack jokes about them being the dog-walking version of Charlie’s Angels but, at some point, it had apparently ceased to be a joke and they’d actually become the dog-walking detectives.

  The usual traffic congestion on the Iffley road needed most of Anna’s concentration, making it hard for her to absorb Isadora’s enthusiastic potted bio of Johannes Vermeer. Like so many famous artists, he’d died in poverty leaving eleven fatherless children after the art market had mysteriously collapsed. This possibly had something to do with a war in France but Anna might have blanked on that part.

  ‘Most experts agree that he only painted twenty-five paintings at most in his lifetime which contradicts what Fischer says on his website. Oh, I’m so sorry!’ Isadora had set Anna’s indicator flashing with one of her expansive gestures. ‘I’m hoping Geraldine can help us figure out where your Mr Fischer’s Vermeer – if it exists – might have fitted in the chronology.’

  Anna privately thought of the Old Masters as belonging to a dead-and-gone past, more suited to a museum. She had an additional difficulty, though, with Vermeer.

  ‘I’ve never really liked Vermeer’s paintings,’ she admitted.

  ‘No?’ Isadora seemed astonished.

  Anna shook her head. ‘They’re so static.’

  ‘Still, maybe, surely not static,’ Isadora suggested, sounding rather as if she was giving a tutorial.

  ‘And his women all have those scrubbed wholesome faces,’ Anna said. ‘You can just imagine them turning on anyone who is less wholesome than themselves and – I don’t know – denouncing them to the church elders or something.’

  ‘My goodness,’ said Isadora. ‘That is a powerful response!’

  Anna stopped at some lights.

  ‘I could be prejudiced,’ she admitted. ‘My first psych ward had two Vermeer prints; the Lace Maker and the Milkmaid. Not the ideal way to be introduced to his work!’

  ‘I should think it’s enough to put you off for life!’ Isadora said.

  ‘Could have been worse,’ Anna said, straight-faced. ‘Could have been The Scream.’ She slid a glance at Isadora. ‘Last night, after I found that photo, I did some more online sleuthing. I found out what Lili Rossetti did for a living; she was a fine art restorer.’

  Isadora looked startled.

  ‘That is an extremely strange coincidence.’

  ‘That’s what Jake said.’

  ‘I distrust coincidences,’ Isadora said.

  ‘So do I.’

  It took a while to locate the Institute, which was not in some mellow, Berkshire, country house as Anna had been picturing, but sandwiched between The Fun House Soft Play and Party World and a firm of mortgage brokers, in a business park so close to the M4 that they could hear the steady whoosh-whoosh of traffic like ocean waves.

  ‘One doesn’t expect somewhere dedicated to preserving the arts to look so corporate,’ Isadora remarked in a low voice as they walked in.

  The inside was as bland and sterile as the outside. On the wall, behind the receptionist’s desk, glossy blown-up photographs were juxtaposed with slabs of text relating to the work of the institute. Anna had time to register grim-faced men with guns, in the smoking wreckage of a modern city, before the receptionist looked up from her keyboard and asked if she could help. Since she wasn’t the person Anna had spoken to earlier, Anna had to explain for a second time what was starting to seem like a peculiar mission even to her.

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t leave the desk,’ the receptionist said. ‘I’ll have to get one of our volunteers to take you to our archives.’

  She picked up the phone. ‘Oh, Anthea, it’s you,’ she said without enthusiasm. ‘I’ve got two ladies here wanting to see a photograph. Could you come and help?’ She replaced the handset and gave them a smile that failed to reach her eyes. A door opened, then closed with a muted thud, and a woman (Anthea, Anna assumed) appeared. Her openly resentful expression suggested that she’d been interrupted and forced away from some far more important activity.

  Her hair was pulled back into a single greying twist that hung almost to her waist. She was dressed in floating, and – in places – visibly fraying layers, all of them black. As she drew closer, Anna saw that the roses in her cheeks were actually tiny broken veins.

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting,’ Anthea said in a raised, utterly insincere voice, which Anna sensed was possibly for the benefit of the receptionist. ‘Now how may I help you?’

  She took them through to the Institute’s archives; it was a windowless room lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all crammed with box files.

  Anthea asked what year the photo had been taken and Anna told her.

  ‘It’s of someone called David Fischer,’ she explained. Anthea gave an irritated huff. ‘Oh, him.’

  Isadora looked at her with interest. ‘You don’t like him.’

  ‘He’s a nightmare.’ Anthea said with venom. ‘Acts as if the Institute was set up for his personal use. Turning up whenever the fancy takes him, harping on about his precious painting that never existed outside of his father’s imagination.’

  She started hunting along the shelves and eventually disappeared around a corner. Though they couldn’t see her, they could still hear her huffing to herself. Isadora and Anna exchanged glances.

  ‘Diplomacy maybe not her strong suit?’ Isadora whispered.

  Eventually, Anthea returned with the file.

  ‘It’s taken us a while to get into the digital age, I’m afraid.’ She hovered, not attempting to disguise her curiosity, as Anna began leafing through the photos.

  She quickly found the original of the one she’d seen online. As she’d hoped, it was much sharper and clearly showed David Fischer and Lili Rossetti side by side, at what seemed to be a fund-raiser of some kind.

  ‘May I?’ Anna quickly snapped a picture on her mobile, before Anthea could tell her not to. Unlike Anna, Anthea didn’t appear to have hang-ups about personal space. She immediately came to peer over Anna’s shoulder at the photo. She’d been sucking peppermints; Anna could feel and smell her minty breath.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s David. You can’t mistake that hair! Poor Lili, I saw in
the papers she’d been murdered. She was another funny one. Clever, though, in her own way.’

  Even her compliments had a spiteful edge, Anna thought.

  ‘What did Lili actually do?’ she asked, surreptitiously moving away.

  ‘Oh, she was very sought after. Lili worked for all the big London galleries and auction houses.’

  Why don’t these places ever have windows? Anna could feel herself starting to perspire. ‘Well, thank you so much for your help,’ she said, this having been her late grandmother’s favourite stratagem for bringing unwanted conversations firmly to a close.

  Instead of taking her cue, Anthea not only stepped back into Anna’s space, she actually took hold of her jacket sleeve.

  ‘They seemed to spend a lot of time together, I must say,’ she confided, ‘though I doubt they were a couple in that sense.’ She gave them a meaningful look. ‘Lili was such a pretty little thing and David was so much older, and that hair – like a fright wig! I always call him the Reading Rasputin!’ Anthea laughed, her eyes bright with malice.

  ‘Reading?’ Anna said, startled. ‘David Fischer lives in Reading?’

  ‘Yes, he runs a second-hand bookshop in the Harris Arcade, down near the station.’ Anthea gave them her terrifying fake smile. ‘Now is there anything else I can do for you ladies while you’re here?’

  ‘So now I assume we’re going to drop in on David Fischer?’ Isadora said as they walked back to Anna’s car.

  Anna felt a flicker of panic. She needed to talk to him, but did she really want to hear what he had to say?

  ‘We should probably let the dogs out somewhere, first,’ Isadora said.

  Fortunately, she remembered the way to some public gardens. They parked nearby, put the dogs on their leashes and wandered along the paths in the sunshine.

  ‘There used to be an abbey here in medieval times,’ Isadora said. She gave one of her hoots of laughter. ‘In fact, the last abbot was hanged, not far from this spot. Hung, drawn and quartered, poor man.’ Isadora related further gruesome snippets of local history, before she realized that Anna wasn’t taking it in.