PAINTED

by Kirsten McKenzie

  His grumbling continued long after he’d left the room. They exchanged a look conveying the same thought, moron. Anita wanted to ask again who’d died in the pond, but the farmer had moved on.

  “His father was a good man, my lawyer too. Changed to a different firm after he died. More interested in appearances that one.” The farmer shook his shaggy head. He paced around the living room, taking in the empty picture hooks and the barren dust rings on the shelves. “You’ve packed things up?”

  “I’m only here for the portraits, the rest isn’t my area of expertise, someone else is coming to do that,” she said.

  The farmer wiped a finger through a dust ring on the mantelpiece and through its twin on the other side. “Someone’s been packing things up,” he said, holding his finger out for Anita to see.

  Anita swung her legs round till she was sitting up, the scratchy blanket tight under her arms.

  “I have touched none of the chinaware, or anything other than the art,” she said, challenging the farmer to believe her.

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “I guess I should get changed, so…”

  “… had to get you out of your wet clothes. You’d have caught your death if I’d left you in those. Didn’t let Junior near you. Sent him to make a hot drink, worst coffee I’ve ever had,” he chuckled.

  Anita tried smiling. The mutual dislike of the lawyer a positive start, even though this man had seen more of her than her mother had in the past decade. It was a peculiar situation she found herself in.

  “I’ll go upstairs then…” Anita shuffled out of the room, the heavy blanket held tight against her skin. She’d started up the stairs when the farmer called out as he opened the front door.

  “I’ll be off. It’s not the lawyer you need worry about in this house.”

  He’d ducked out and had shut the door before she could interpret his words. It wasn’t the swirling snowflakes settling on the tiled floor making her shiver.

  Chapter 16

  A change of clothes had done little to dispel the chill which wormed itself around Anita’s heart. The farmer’s words leaving an imprint which worried at her as she pulled a sweatshirt on over her t-shirt. What had he meant?

  Even her trusty bed socks wouldn’t do much to warm her, so she rifled through the drawers in the bedroom. The dark mahogany chest of drawers were a goldmine of well-made clothes. Musty with age but still serviceable. She pushed through piles of cotton singlets and starched handkerchiefs yellowing with time. The next drawer delivered sensible skirts in various muted shades, with such tiny waists no modern woman could hope to fit them. In the bottom drawer she found hefty knit jerseys and lighter weight cashmere sweaters. Rolled up in one corner were pairs of thick woollen socks. Picking a pair at random, she pulled them free and noticed a tiny embroidered coin purse tucked into the corner. The catch rusty with age, she forced it open, tipping out its contents. A motley collection of costume jewellery, brooches and rings, missing one or two stones. She had a cursory poke through the things, nothing of any value. Then her hand hovered over a shiny star-shaped brooch. She stroked its sharp corners, her chilly feet forgotten for the moment. It was a striking piece, most of the good paste pieces were. They’d been an essential part of every woman’s jewellery box until fashions changed, leaving them gathering dust in drawers. Just like this one.

  She returned it to the pile, her numb toes reminding her why she was here. She pulled on the socks, the itchy discomfort only bearable because of the instantaneous warmth they imparted. In her chunky socks, she padded downstairs, the pile of jewellery left for later.

  She found Alan prowling the dining room. Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline as his limp reappeared as soon as he noticed her in the doorway.

  “Miserable weather. It’s those jet streams from those foreign airlines which cause it you know,” he said.

  Anita refused to even consider responding to such a ludicrous assertion. How he’d ever passed the bar exam was beyond her. That he believed in poisonous jet streams showed severe failings in the school curriculum. A smile teased at the corners of her mouth as she tried to predict his next barmy statement. She couldn’t decide between alien abduction or that fluoride in the water was the government’s attempt to brainwash the population. He surprised her with his next comment.

  “It could’ve been a ghost you heard, like a siren, luring sailors to their deaths on long sea voyages?”

  Dumbfounded, Anita gawped at the lawyer.

  “The farmer was right, it was the wind, blowing through old pipes, or forgotten machinery. I was an idiot, running outside in this weather. But it wasn’t some ethereal being trying to lure me to my death. Where did you get your qualifications again?”

  “Didn’t sound like wind. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was a ghost. Anyway, why does it matter where I went to school? What matters is that I did. Don’t try changing the subject, we still haven’t finished our conversation from upstairs. Did you think playing that poor little me game would work? That old farmer may have bought your story, but you still need to explain why you defaced property which wasn’t yours to touch. That piece of art in the turret could’ve been valuable. Who knows what damage you’ve done now.” Alan dropped into the old carver chair at the head of the table, dramatically lifting his burnt leg onto the chair Anita had been using.

  “I told you, I haven’t touched the portrait. Whoever altered it has real skill.” She faltered, “But maybe it was like that the whole time. To be honest, I hadn’t looked that carefully. It was too cold up there, so I never got round to admiring the view. That’s what drew my eye, more than the unfinished portrait.”

  “Before you got here, I’d had a good look at everything. Did my own stock take, wanted to make sure nothing went walkabout, if you know what I mean? You can gussy it up all you like, but the fact remains that someone has taken it upon themselves to finish it. And ruined it.”

  “Regardless of who did it, you can't say it’s ruined,” Anita retorted, her cheeks flushing. She took a deep breath. Confrontation was something she avoided. Her family were masters of brushing delicate topics under the carpet. She offered Gates an olive branch.

  “Unless it’s an unfinished Rembrandt, it will not be worth anything. So can we leave it? Both of us remember different things which is why we’re confused about how much was painted. With so many pictures in one house, it’s not surprising. The snow will keep us both here a little longer. And I presume the others won’t get here until tomorrow, or even the day after, so shall we have a coffee?”

  Gates nodded, mollified by her conciliatory tone.

  “Coffee would be fantastic and with some biscuits too.”

  Anita disappeared to the kitchen. If this is what it would take to survive the next day, or heaven help her, the next two days, she’d play tea lady. She had to keep her anxiety under control. She needed to persuade herself that her unease was unnecessary. Why did she feel the need to keep checking over her shoulder? The screaming she’d heard did not sound like wind wailing through a pipe, but that was the only explanation. She shuddered. Closing her eyes, she waited for the kettle to boil. There’s nothing here which can hurt you. There’s no one here who can hurt you. You are safe. She repeated the mantra as the kettle boiled.

  With the coffee delivered with slabs of fruit cake she’d found in the pantry, the atmosphere settled into something she could work with. Ignoring the lawyer’s humming as he leafed through a stack of old National Geographic magazines, she carried on cataloguing the art.

  “Did you know sharks only eat once every six weeks?” Alan announced.

  “No.”

  The pages rustled, accompanied by soft exclamations and the occasional click of his silver pen, which was never far from his hand. Now and then he’d underline a passage in the magazine he was reading or circle a word.

  “And did you know there’s a place in England where people volunteer to dig up old Romans?”

  “You mean archaeologists
?”

  “Lazy unemployed people on welfare, enjoying themselves thanks to generous handouts from the government. Though why you’d want to dig up Romans is beyond me. What did they ever give us? The Pope?”

  She could explain underfloor heating and aqueducts but the man was an imbecile and she’d be wasting her breath. Instead she shook her head which Alan interpreted as she expected.

  “See, they gave us nothing. Do they still print this stuff?” he asked, turning the magazine over to check the publication date. “This is from the Seventies. Who keeps magazines that long?”

  “I guess the information is still factual,” Anita said.

  Alan grunted and stretched as if he’d been pouring over artwork with an eye loupe trying to discern the artist’s signature and composition of each piece. He limped to where Anita was working, his body odour pushing forward despite the chill in the air.

  “Who’s that one by then?” he asked, peering at the art laying on the table, gesturing with his pen to a morose gentleman dressed in black, hunched over, his mouth a thin humourless slit.

  “It’s by the same artist who did the miniature portraits in the study. A lot of his art is in the house. He must have lived here or was a regular guest because most of the paintings are of people in these rooms. Although I haven’t figured out which room this one was done in yet,” Anita said.

  The black clothed man was standing next to a fireplace. Which narrowed it down, but there were half a dozen fireplaces and Anita couldn’t remember which was where. Not that it mattered for the auction catalogue, but it was an interesting observation. It would help with the provenance of each piece, which prudent buyers of art insisted upon. The prevalence of forgeries on the international art market was growing at an alarming rate. If a vendor couldn’t prove provenance, the price plunged on downwards.

  A ubiquitous Gingerbread Ansonia clock and a pair of white Parian Ware statues adorned the mantel. The statues were two halves of a whole; one, a naked Adonis poised with a sword, hate carved into his features. The other, a Medusa-like woman cowering beneath the threat of the sword. Hardly a relaxing shepherdess or a pair of loving suitors trading glances for eternity across the polished mantel. This pairing would give even the most sadistic of people uncomfortable dreams.

  “He looks miserable,” Alan commented.

  “I suppose so, but he had to stand there for hours over several days until it was completed. These portraits weren’t painted from a photograph like they are today,” Anita said, tilting her head examining the expression of the man in the portrait. There was a tie pin stuck in his black silk cravat. Using her loupe she peered closer at the picture. Sometimes tying in a piece of family jewellery was enough to provide provenance and track the artist. Auction houses did it all the time. Easier with paintings featuring substantial articles of jewellery though, not just a tie pin.

  The pin had a black enamelled border, the lettering too tiny for Anita to read but which appeared to be in Latin. A family motto? The enamel bordered a delicate swirl of hair, distinguishing it as mourning jewellery. Anita’s mind flicked back to the children’s gravestone. The death of any child would make a man look miserable, but the death of three would scar your face with a loss no artist could disguise.

  Making a note on her computer, Anita heaved the portrait off the table, carrying him into the foyer. With the continual falling of snow, she was losing light and wouldn’t be able to achieve any more today. She leaned him against the stack, the mournful face pleading with her to end his misery. Anita was about to walk away but couldn’t leave him facing outwards, the pain in his eyes was too much. She turned him inwards, fitting it against the others waiting to be boxed up.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she stroked the top of the frame.

  Straightening, she turned to talk to Alan, who she assumed had joined her in the hallway, only to find no one there. Odd, she’d have sworn she’d heard him coming out. Anita turned around, her socks sliding across the polished tiles. A full circle, but nothing. She could now hear Alan mumbling to himself in the other room. But she could’ve sworn she’d heard someone else moving about. Old houses, she told herself, but that didn’t stop her skin prickling despite the woolly socks and sweater.

  She took a few steps back towards the dining room before a flicker up the staircase caught her eye. Nothing there, shadows. Shaking her head, she hurried back to the dining room. Alan’s company better than the irrational fear she was experiencing.

  Alan was studying one of the paintings and Anita froze in the doorway when she saw what he held in his hands. It had been the portrait of Abraham. Had been, because now the portrait was empty. The man painted sitting in a chair, head bowed with dark eyes looking towards the artist, had gone. The frame devoid of any sign of him. It was as if someone had taken an eraser to the canvas and removed any trace of the man.

  Chapter 17

  Bile rose in Anita’s throat and she swivelled her head as if the errant Abraham was lounging in the room somewhere. She must be dreaming. There were no words to describe what she was seeing. Utter disbelief coursed through her.

  Walking over to the canvas, her fingers stroked the old paint. The ridges familiar territory and the scent of linseed oil clung to the canvas. There was no sign this painting had been anything other than a sparse architectural composition.

  “I don’t… I don’t understand,” she said.

  “What? Oh this piece, unusual isn’t it? A picture of the corner of this room,” Alan said, pointing to the fireplace.

  “There was a man in the painting, sitting on the chair,” Anita whispered.

  “What? Sorry, didn’t hear you. This one certainly stands out, far less creepy than the others on the walls. I like it.”

  “But there’s nobody in it,” Anita said, pointing at the empty painting.

  Alan looked at her oddly before leaning the painting against the wall. Limping back to his chair, he sighed as he sat, as if in pain.

  “It’ll be the shock of falling into the pond I expect. Dinner and a drop of wine should fix it,” he said, clicking his pen.

  Anita’s face was a picture of agony. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the empty frame. It would have been better if the canvas itself had disappeared. There had been a man, she’d described him and she’d taken photos. The photos!

  Tapping at the keyboard until it powered up, she scrolled through the hundreds of photos of the art she’d catalogued. She didn’t notice the battery icon was red, the percentage slipping past critical. Scrolling quickly, her eyes scanning every photograph as they sped past. There! She scrolled back up, and the laptop powered off.

  “What?”

  Confused, she pressed the power button. No response. Her hand followed the power cable until she reached the plug she’d never plugged in.

  “Oh no!” she said, running her fingers through her hair looking at the black screen, praying the computer would power on.

  “Should’ve charged it,” the lawyer said. “Good time to prepare dinner then I’d say. How about you find a place to charge it, then we can eat?”

  “But the painting…” Anita’s voice trembled. She knew what had been in the painting and the photos confirmed it. She just had no idea how it had happened.

  “Try the study. Off you go,” Alan interrupted.

  Anita fled.

  Once she’d gone, Alan tried to make himself comfortable. Alan had no time for foolish girls and their fanciful imaginations. The more he saw of this girl, the more he considered her unsuited to the task. And he was hungry. No golf, no club dinner. It was turning into a dire week stuck in this chilly old pile. Still, maybe she’d surprise him and make a decent meal. Wine would make it better. Wine made everything better.

  He wasn’t exaggerating the pain, his legs bloody hurt. After that obnoxious farmer had yelled at him, he’d put on a pair of trousers and the fabric was rubbing uncomfortably. At this rate he’d need more than a bottle of wine to get to sleep tonight. He’d
be compensated for his discomfort and pain, that was for sure.

  Gingerly he lifted his legs onto the other chair. Every movement made the cheap cotton fibres scrape away at the raw skin. He closed his eyes, grimacing, so never saw the shadowy figure in the doorway watching him. Dark eyes calculating.

  A foreign hand reached towards the bakelite switch.

  Flick

  The room plunged into darkness. The elegant chandelier snuffed out.

  “Hey what’s going on Anita?” Alan called out. “Has the power gone off?”

  Alan got to his feet. He lumbered around until he found the wall where he ran his meaty hands along the flocked wallpaper until he hit the light switch. Flicking it up and down elicited no response from the chandelier which remained in darkness. Alan didn’t know if it was a power failure, or a blown bulb.

  “Anita?”

  No reply, the kitchen too far away for her to have heard. He’d have expected her to come back to the dining room if the power had failed.

  He edged out into the dark foyer. The sun had set, so what little light the snow had let through during the day was gone. The foyer was in complete darkness.

  “Anita, are you there?” Alan’s voice wavered. He’d never liked the dark. It was his biggest fear; that and being poor. Not that he could imagine that. Only stupid people were poor, but anyone could be afraid of the dark.

  Bumping into the furniture in the dining room set his legs on fire. Excruciating pain ran through his thighs as he crept along the wall. He’d forgotten about the stacks of paintings.

  He stumbled into the first stack. Portraits scattered like a pack of playing cards in the wind. Disoriented in the dark by the crashing of the frames, instead of heading towards the kitchen, Alan inched his way along the opposite corridor, calling to Anita. Panting, one hand groping the wall, the other probing the darkness in front of him. Rounding a corner, he careered into a dark mahogany plant stand. The planter jettisoned off the top, smashing into a hundred jagged edged shards. The desiccated remains of the fern joined the broken pottery.