She carried her dinner through into the sitting room and devoured the steak and kidney pie. The strong drink a perfect accompaniment, cosseting her senses from a room adorned with portraits and mixed with hunting scenes too gruesome for anyone but a hardcore fanatic. Anita tried not to look at them as she forked the great hunks of steak into her mouth. She would not be dissuaded from finishing her meal.
She’d been more than relieved when the ancient television had proven itself as reliable as the oven. Her viewing choices a home renovation show or an old Tom Hanks film. Settling for the movie, she poured a second wine.
Curled on the couch, the outdated television mumbling in the background and two glasses of wine under her belt, she dozed off.
A man in one of the catalogued portraits, his face in shadow, shimmered momentarily as if he’d been caught in candlelight. He eased himself out of his frame, stretching, released from his slumber. He stood over Anita, intentions unclear, observing her sleep, before tucking her hair behind her ear. Fingers to his lips, he touched her forehead before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
Anita woke in the early hours of the morning, the television an avalanche of static snow. Confused, she bolted up, heart racing. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she stumbled her way upstairs to bed, leaving the still lit chandelier swaying ever so slightly, the empty frame unnoticed in the corner.
In the turret, a lone artist stood in front of his easel cleaning his brushes with turpentine, before wiping the soft sable bristles on a cloth. Dipping the tip of the brush into the smear of paint on his palette he began applying a blush to the face on the canvas.
Chapter 7
It was clear when Anita woke that the storm hadn’t blown itself out yet. Catching the mournful gaze of the children on her bedroom walls was the catalyst for flinging herself out of bed, regardless of chill in the air. She’d tried not to look at the creepy little poppets, annoyed at herself for not taking them down the day before, grateful she’d had the two large glasses of wine with dinner or she would never have slept last night.
A breakfast of farm fresh eggs and lean bacon strips followed by a mug of strong coffee flushed the remnants of the wine from Anita’s system and pushed her gritty eyes open. Now she needed to work, the portraits wouldn’t catalogue themselves. She had a couple of days left to complete the mammoth task ahead of her before the packers turned up, and one more night before the rest of her team arrived, if the weather didn’t close in. There was lots left to do, so leaving the dishes in the sink she headed off to retrieve her computer and camera.
She paused beside one of the half-dead ferns she’d watered the afternoon before. Its new growth and healthy foliage a far cry from the shrivelled desiccated plant she’d tipped water into the day before. She wasn’t a botanist but the quick recovery struck her as unusual. Mind you, the peace lily in her mother’s kitchen always looked half-dead, but a cup of water revived it in minutes and it would remain pert and healthy for another couple of weeks.
Unconsciously she twisted the tiny diamond studs in her ears, a nervous tic she had when she was thinking, checking to see they were still there in her lobes.
Ignoring the paintings she’d dealt with, she ticked the dining room off her to-do list as she climbed the staircase back to her bedroom. Each tread that tiniest bit wider than the standard stair tread in modern homes. Her calves would feel it after a week of running up and down. She wouldn’t be making any gym sessions this week so she’d take what exercise she could get.
The paintings of the children were so artistically distinct from the rest of the paintings in the house, but whether they were done by a different hand she couldn’t tell, not yet. Putting her camera up to her eye for the first shot, she pressed the button and, nothing, a flat battery. In vain Anita searched her room for a power outlet for the charger.
“Blast it”. Grabbing her camera and charger she went downstairs in search of a power point. She already knew the dining room didn’t have any. There was one for the television in the sitting room, hidden behind an ugly seventies entertainment unit - the only ‘improvement’ she could see anywhere in the house, and bar taking a crowbar to it, there was no access. There was no way she could get to the plug for the fridge when it seemed like the kitchen had been purpose built around the old fashioned behemoth. The fridge was wedged so tightly into an alcove, that it probably wouldn’t come out until the house was being demolished and some burly workman manhandled it out with the help of a couple of equally burly friends. Whoever the original electrician had been back in the day, he hadn’t thought through the placement, and quantity, of power points. Of course no one could have predicted exactly how many electrical appliances and gadgets people used these days. If there was a power point she could access, it would be in the study, so she ventured there first.
She had only glanced through the doorway on her initial walk through of the property and now felt dwarfed. A giant roll top desk dominated the study, stuffed to the gunnels with generations of paperwork. Floor to ceiling bookcases filled three of the walls, with not an inch of space spare. Leather-bound books, first editions, religious tracts. A rare book dealers paradise. She wasn’t an expert but at first glance the books far exceeded in value most of the portraits she had seen.
Focusing on the desk, she spied an old-fashioned green hued bankers lamp. That must lead to a power outlet. Bingo. Bending, she struggled to force her modern plug into the bakelite socket. A cold breeze nuzzled her neck. She whipped around, draughty old house. Turning back to the bothersome plug, she froze.
Her heartbeat slower than a glacier’s ponderous path, she turned and backed into the bulging bookcase, willing the shelves to embrace her, to offer her their protection.
A brass valet stand, complete with suit jacket, scarf and hat, tucked behind the door. She’d caught sight of it from the corner of her eye and thought someone was in there with her. Her worst nightmare and one which had once come true. A long time ago, but it still gave her the jitters. So many nights she’d climbed out of bed to double check the windows and doors; the inside of wardrobes and under the beds, before she felt safe enough to sleep.
Her phone rang. Jumping, she fumbled in her pocket, pulling out the impatient phone, the display showing the number of Alan Gates, the lawyer. He said he’d ring. Despite her feelings about the lawyer, the normality of speaking to another person was a relief.
“Hello?… Yes, I’m making good progress, two rooms done so far—”
Interrupting her, the lawyer impressed upon her the need to finish before the packers arrived. Anita undertook to reassure him she’d finish well before then, with the help of her colleagues, but he’d rung off already. She looked at the silent phone in her hand. Odd it was working now when she hadn’t been able to get any signal anywhere else in the house. Dialling the number for her mother, conscious of needing to check in, the call failed, no signal. Trying a second time, moving about the room, holding the phone further away, up higher, the way you do even though you know it’s futile, but nothing. A frown fled across her face, weird, she’d try again later - she had to.
The camera on charge, she poked about the room. Where there weren’t books on the shelves, they were full of knickknacks. Doulton pottery, old wind-up tin toys, shoe boxes piled atop of other boxes, filled with postcards, first day covers, cigarette cards. Meticulously labelled in sloping script. A gentleman’s hat box, with more than a lifetime’s collection of stamps. Mostly used, there were others still hinged to their neighbours. To the right person, a hatbox filled with stamps was manna from heaven. To the auctioneers, unless a Penny Black, or a Tyrian Plum turned up, they weren’t interested. It’s not that stamps didn’t sell, it was more that a collection this big never recouped the time spent sorting the wheat from the chaff, so they didn’t bother.
The study hadn’t avoided the proliferation of portraits. Despite the lack of wall space a number of small pictures hung from nails hammered into the cross supports of the bookcases. These
were more in the style of realist painter Gustave Courbet, where the subjects stared out wide-eyed with desperation on their faces. With a limited palette, the artist had captured their fears with his brush. Where the rest of the pictures in the house were life size renderings, these were more the size of the miniatures common in the 17th and early 18th centuries.
This job was turning out to be bigger than the Vatican Museum’s collection. Every surface held something of value. Rooms full of antiques of varying ages and condition. She hadn’t looked everywhere yet and now she wasn’t sure she wanted to. The decision to send her on her own was the wrong one. This task needed a dedicated team working on it. In fact, holding the auction on site might have been the best play. Auction at a desolate country estate. Cash and carry. Imagine the media mileage they’d get out of it.
A watched charger doesn’t charge any faster. Given the others would be here soon, and although they would concentrate on the furniture and collectibles, she should continue with her side of things.
With her focus restored, and her nerves resettled, she removed the miniatures from their hooks, stacking them in a wood basket next to the empty hearth. She gave no thought to the lack of dust or silky cobwebs linking the artworks. Carrying the basket into the dining room, where the light was better, she laid them on the table. They’d photograph fine here given their size and she could start describing them while waiting for the battery to recharge. She’d do the portraits in her room next. There was no way she would spend another night sleeping with those children overseeing her every breath. Drinking a whole distillery of rum still wouldn’t let her sleep with them watching.
The miniature paintings filled the table, leaving enough space for the laptop and a plate of fruit for lunch. Nibbling on apples and apricots, she carefully created an entry for every portrait.
Title: Gilberto (inscribed on rear). Oil. Gilt frame. Signed “GLK”
Title: James Benham (inscribed on rear). Oil. Oak frame. Signed “GLK”
Title: Hopper (inscribed on rear). Oil. Gilt frame (damaged). Signed “GLK”
Title: Mary C. (inscribed on rear). Oil. Sterling silver frame. Unsigned
Title: Untitled. Woman in white dress. Watercolour. Pine frame. Unsigned
She got into a groove, working her way along each row, before starting the next. Before she knew it, she’d come to the end of the miniatures. She counted them, double checking she had the corresponding number of entries in her spreadsheet. Excellent, it worked. Now she needed to take the photographs, upload them and that’d be two rooms done.
She checked her phone. Still no signal. She wasn’t too concerned. Besides, if anyone tried ringing and left a message, she’d be able to pick it up next time she went into the study. At least there was one room in the house where there was a signal, sometimes.
One more coffee then she’d photograph this lot, then straight to her room to photograph those children, before she took them on a one way trip downstairs. She’d have a figure out a way to store them after she’d catalogued them. Somewhere convenient for when the transport company arrived. The last thing they needed was for some buffoon to run a chair leg through a priceless painting. Not that she’d found one yet. Give her time, Anita thought to herself. She needed to prove to Warren and to his managers above him, that she was an exceptional appraiser, to get her own territory to manage. To grow. Her goals weren’t as lofty as others. She wanted to handle the best pieces of art out there. To meet up and coming artists. Going to galleries, museums and art shows gave her a reason to live, even during her darkest times. She couldn’t paint to save her soul. You didn’t need to know how to paint to appreciate art. All types of art, not just art acceptable to closeted housewives or oil barons, or to the docents of mid-level galleries, who were in a world of their own. Their interpretation of art and artists akin to an octopus injecting itself with heroin and being let loose in an art gallery with a set of crayons. Their opinions scaring people away from art in droves.
The view from the kitchen window as gloomy as that from the dining room. Rain pummelled the sea and the shore, clouds obliterating any view of the farmland or ocean. The house could well be floating on a carpet of cloud and she’d be none the wiser. Surprisingly it had proven itself watertight, a miracle. She’d taken from the paperwork that the former owner was a bachelor, with no family. So either he’d died suddenly and had looked after the place till then. Or the lawyer had someone overseeing the house. If he did, why hadn’t she met them yet?
Pondering this over her coffee, she wandered back to the staircase.
Finding the stairs as a form of enforced exercise, she began the ascent. She’d dispense with those children now. She couldn’t help but feel creeped out.
Hands wrapped around her mug, she walked into her bedroom. It wasn’t as messy as her room at home, but given she’d only been here two nights, it was heading the same way. The bed unmade, pyjamas in a heap at the end, dirty clothes lay on the floor jumbled together with castoff shoes unworn since she arrived. Socks sufficed.
The huge Narnia-esque wardrobe stood shut against the far wall. Curious, she pulled on the turned knob. The door swung open revealing a row of white cotton dresses of various sizes. Pristine on their hangers, they mirrored the outfits the girls wore in the paintings.
She dropped her mug. It smashed, coffee splashing onto the hems of the longer dresses and over the clothes on the floor.
Anita wrestled her crazy thoughts into something sensible. These children lived here, this had been their home. Most people left stuff at their childhood home. Boxes of her own adolescent memories remained stacked in her parent’s garage, things her mother begged her to dispose of. She slammed the wardrobe door shut, too creepy whatever the circumstances.
Hesitant, as if removing them from the walls was a sacrilege, she lifted the first portrait from the wall. The one of the older girl, perched on an upturned sailboat, a china faced doll resting by her feet. Anita tilted the frame to read the name of the boat, “Tabitha,” she mumbled reading it. She paled and before she could save it, the painting slipped from her hands and plummeted to the floor. The frame disintegrating on impact, a tiny silver heart-shaped locket skittered beneath the bed. Anita screamed.
The portrait landed facedown, broken picture wire hanging from the eyelets. Holding the wire had pushed it past its limit, with the weight of the frame snapping the wire. Nothing otherworldly, but not the best look for an appraiser to damage the art before cataloguing it.
Tabitha had been a name on the gravestone, meaning two of the other children were the owners of the other names. Heart racing, she shivered. The clothing left in a wardrobe? The lack of heirs? If one child survived, what had become of them?
The sooner these pictures were catalogued, the earlier her heart could return to normal. She thought she’d be fine here by herself, but paranoia filled the isolation. Paintings on a wall, nothing more. The coincidence of their names on the gravestone no different to a portrait of George Washington, or Queen Victoria and their graves. No different.
She gave up examining them in her room and her skin prickled with irrational fear as she removed the remaining three from the wall and carried them downstairs. She dumped them onto the dining room table before feeling guilty and laying them out in a more dignified way.
There was nothing she could do about the broken frame. They’d sell better as a set at auction, like subjects with like, so she should go looking for tools to repair the frame with but, to be honest, she didn’t want to handle these children more than what was necessary.
A sense of unease was palpable. They were paintings of children long dead, who’d have been long dead even if they hadn’t died tragically. Ignoring the dread lurking in her subconscious, she entered the descriptive details;
Title: Tabitha (inscribed on rear). Young girl on rowboat. Oil. Gilt frame (damaged). Signed “GLK”.
Fingers poised above her keyboard. “GLK”? The portraits in the study had the same signature, but
their ages were so different it couldn’t be the same artist. Drawing her magnifier from her bag, she flicked on the light before settling it on her head. She almost looked like she was wearing a virtual reality headset and she’d learnt to ignore the sniggers when those outside of the industry saw her wearing it. The headset provided complete freedom for her hands and cast daylight into dark corners.
Through the magnified lenses, the tiny initials in the corner loomed large; “GLK”. Each letter done with one smooth red stroke. No sign of a second stroke on any of the characters, showing utter mastery with a brush. She stroked the letters with the tip of her finger. She couldn’t achieve that with a ballpoint pen, let alone with tricky oil paints.
Staring at the screen she settled for making no statement about the possible connection between the artists. She’d revisit it later. Sometimes a collection itself was enough of a tie. The artists might be related, but the auctioneer’s commission would say whether they needed to prove it.
Moving Tabitha to one side, she focused on the boys. There was no mistaking them for brothers. Twins? Haunting blue eyes and matching clefts in their chins. They looked awkwardly out from their frames, each holding a small Meccano model. Hard to tell what the models were — boats, or a bridge, it didn’t matter, they seemed to reach towards each other, as if they’d been standing together but the artist had painted them apart.
Turning the frames over, neat labels were handwritten on the back; Cole and Saul, the other names on the gravestone. Simple names compared to the exotic sounding Tabitha.
Apart from entering their names, all she needed to do was some judicious copying and pasting. She could add the dates of the children’s deaths, although that didn’t help date the portraits.
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