“Any sounds from him after that?” asked Rupert.
“Well someone went for a pee in the bathroom at our end of the house at about six. Why, are you worried about him?”
“Not really; Floyd was never the most reliable man around. Still, it would have been nice to watch him paint.” Rupert’s eyes travelled to the new colour that Sebastian was squeezing onto his palette. “Goodness! Is that actually gold? I didn’t know you could get a gold oil paint.”
“Oh yes,” smiled Sebastian happily. “This is actually a renaissance gold – I find the Winsor and Newton gold a little too buttercup coloured for my taste. I have a tube of silver too: nice in clouds.” He proceeded to dab some of the gold into the foreground as highlights. Somehow the picture that was beginning to take shape seemed to bear no resemblance to the view of Claresby Manor as it stood in front of them, but Rupert supposed that this was all part of the great artist’s modern interpretation, or perhaps he was just building up an under-painting. Rupert didn’t really know much about paintings and was inclined to go for photorealistic scenes of the English countryside left to his own taste.
Rupert could see Laura a little way off, standing with a cup of coffee in her hand and surveying the scene before her with some satisfaction. He left Sebastian and went over to join her.
“I’ll go and help sell programmes at the gate come twelve,” she commented, glancing at her watch. “How is Sebastian getting on? I want the painting for in the Great Hall if it is any good; we need a modern interpretation of Claresby Hall.”
“Hard to tell,” said Rupert, absentmindedly. “He is using gold paint – the writing on the walls in Floyd’s room was in gold.”
“Is that relevant?” asked Laura, squinting her eyes against the sun as she looked questioningly at him.
“Probably not; I just happened to notice.”
“Did you find out anything new? You were saying something about the junk room earlier.”
“Well, it linked to that fact that there were Egyptian hieroglyphs on the wall. Just before you called us down for that Chinese takeaway, when we were looking for an easel, Floyd somehow managed to unearth an old suitcase belonging to Tom Mortimer.”
“There has been more than one Thomas Mortimer over the centuries.”
“This one was a nineteenth century Tom. There was a sketch book in there covering a trip to Egypt. It would have been in the eighteen-nineties.”
“I think there was a Thomas Mortimer who used to be a bit of an artist. There are a couple of his watercolours in the library – of Cornwall, not Egypt. I think he was the one who had a perfect fetish for knick-knacks; he used to collect Dresden shepherdesses, that sort of thing.”
“Well, he had collected an Egyptian artefact; a ring. When I looked through his writings he seemed to think that it had belonged to Nesperennub.”
“Nesperennub? I know that name. Is it from one of the Mummy films?”
Rupert smiled. “No, you remember the name from the time I dragged you around the British Museum. Nesperennub is the mummy who is famous for having been subjected to a CT scan so that his body could be examined in a non-intrusive way. He is thought to have been a priest of Amun-Ra in the temple at Karnak.”
“You said that one of the hieroglyphs on the wall in Floyd’s wall represented Amun-Ra: is someone playing games, or should I expect some of those squealing resurrected mummy things to start popping out of the windows?”
“I would be interested to know if the ring is genuine. As far as I remember, Nesperennub was discovered at Luxor at about the same time Tom was in Egypt. The fact that the mummy was sold to a curator of the British Museum suggests that someone was happy to flog the bits and pieces; at a price, no doubt.”
“But,” mused Laura, “even if this ring is genuine, you are not seriously suggesting that the discovery of it has anything to do with Floyd’s death? I know that mummy curses make for good television, but does anyone really take them seriously?”
“Lord Carnarvon may have done. He died a year after the celebrated excavation of Tutankhamun’s tomb – as a result of a mosquito bite. But you have to hand it to the ancient Egyptians, they just knew how to write a curse: “They that shall break the seal of this tomb shall meet death by a disease that no doctor can cure!” and “Death shall come on swift wings to him who disturbs the peace of the King!” – these are quality curses. There are a host of rational explanations given, such as a deadly fungus growing in enclosed tombs and infecting those who enter. It is a case of sceptics and believers – take your pick – and perhaps belief in a curse is enough to bring a man down; that is the basis on which any good ancient gypsy curse could work.”
“Yes, but we didn’t open the tomb; so no curse and no nasty bacteria. We don’t even know what killed Floyd.”
Rupert sighed. “You are right, and I am going to have to inform Dr Lowe that he is dead. Sooner or later someone will go and find him, so it is better I sort things out quietly and tell Jinny. Like you I am a sceptic about curses – and yet I did pick up that ring pretty gingerly. Mike from Cambridge works at the British Museum; I’ll get him to look at it and see if it is genuine.”
“Who did touch the ring then: just Floyd?”
“Well, Sebastian wanted to look at it, but I’m not sure if he did, because we all came downstairs. Anyway, he is still happy, healthy and painting. I won’t panic unless he dies mysteriously too!” And with that Rupert gave his wife a fond kiss and made his way back to the house.
Laura watched Rupert go with a mixture of fondness and concern and then promptly forgot about him as she returned her interest to her pet project: Claresby Fair. It was beginning to get hot and the colourful stalls stood out on the lawns like flower blooms. Even before the arrival of villagers and other visitors, there seemed to be a lot of people about the place. She let her eyes sweep over the displays of dried flowers, embroidered purses, exotic silk screen prints, woven baskets and polished carved wooden bowls. She could see Samantha chatting to members of the Claresby Art Club and wondered what they would make of the ferocious and blunt spoken art critic. She had deliberately chosen Conran Hawkes to judge the art because he was less likely than Samantha to say anything downright offensive in his critique. It had seemed fairly safe to put Samantha in charge of judging the flower arranging – after all, flowers were nice, what could she find to be scathing about? Nonetheless, Laura decided it was prudent to move Samantha away from the mild-mannered but sensitive amateur artists.
“It is so lovely to see some plain, honest good painting,” Samantha was saying in strong tones to Bill Smith, the top of whose head barely reached her shoulders. “One wonders who the real artists are – the likes of Sebastian Fullmarks and Floyd Bailey or the worthy members of your club. It is just a case of showmanship and cheap celebrity that makes them their money if you ask me. I’m not saying that Floyd can’t paint, but I would happily say that Sebastian can’t – or if he can, he never does.”
“And yet,” intervened Laura with a light smile, “he is currently working away at a painting of Claresby Manor. I have not seen it yet, but I’m sure it will be a work I can display with pride.”
“Let’s hope so,” replied Samantha, scepticism in every syllable.
“I was just going to ask you if you would help me at the entrance? We are due to open in five minutes.”
“Of course,” replied Samantha, and the two women made their way towards the sweep of the drive and the recently erected wrought iron gates at the main entrance of the manor. The next hour was a swirl of greetings and payments and despite growing heat and a pain starting to blossom behind her eyes, Laura experienced a swell of satisfaction at seeing how popular Claresby Fair was turning out to be. She also spared a grateful thought for Samantha, who worked hard beside her without complaint. Fortunately, come one o’clock two of the villagers Laura knew well came and took over and she and Samantha were able to repair to the beer tent for a glass of Pimms with a whole fruit salad floating in it. T
hen they made their way over to the hog roast and were gifted rolls with a mere smidgen of salad and a hunk of crispy meat. Laura felt herself perk up and even the immaculately groomed Samantha was tucking into the ungainly fare with enthusiasm. Then the two ladies drifted around the stalls and Laura made some courtesy purchases of handmade cards and a paperweight with an arrangement of rosebuds in it.
“Well,” said Laura as they thanked the woman who had made the cards, “perhaps we should venture up and see if Sebastian is making headway with his painting. I must confess to being curious as to how he will pull off a conventional landscape with building. I sometimes think he is more of an inventor at heart than an artist.”
“A charlatan, more like,” sniffed Samantha. “But I must confess that I was impressed that he was prepared to expose his talent to public view by painting alla prima in such a populous venue.”
They could both see his easel now, top heavy with its enormous canvas. A small group of people were looking and Frank Bowler, organist at Claresby church, moved away and caught sight of them.
“Nice painting,” he said with a wink. “I wonder where he spent his holiday!”
Bemused, Laura hastened up the slope and turned to look at the canvas. The painting that met her eyes depicted a turbulent sky of moody blues and purple. Below, emitting a sense of heat and menace, was the Sphinx.
“Well!” exclaimed Samantha. “I’m astounded. With art I cannot lie, and this is a wonderful work: strength, energy, brooding, ominous – brilliant! And I’m going to have to admit as much to Sebastian. How galling.”
“Yes, but aren’t you missing the obvious,” returned Laura. “What on earth was he thinking about? He is meant to be painting Claresby Hall.”
“What does it matter?” replied Samantha dismissively. “The painting is good.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter, but I am just wondering what was in Sebastian’s mind. And where is he? The painting doesn’t look quite finished and he has left his little stall of...meat.”
“Perhaps he went to the beer tent; we’ll soon find him.”
But they didn’t. Exhaustive search of the fair, grounds, beer tent and kitchens did not reveal Sebastian and no one had seen him, nor had he spoken to anyone.
Laura sighed. “I’d better go and tell Rupert. Samantha, one more favour; could you just look after Sebastian’s stall. He is selling those replicas of Plate of Meat for the benefit of Claresby church. And his work is, after all, quite valuable.”
“What me? – Sell that?” Samantha was incredulous.
Laura, however, did not seem to register this reaction. “Yes, if you would be kind enough.” And with that Laura set off in the direction of the house with her mind full of concern. She was not so consumed by this concern, however, that she didn’t take just one look over her shoulder to enjoy the ironic spectacle of Samantha Pearson having to tout just those goods which she despised most on behalf of her adversary, Sebastian.
Laura was not sorry to be returning to the house. Not only did she want to appraise Rupert of Sebastian’s disappearance, but she also felt in need of a freshen up. As she made her way through the Great Hall, she encountered Keith Lowe, the local doctor. Keith was a very good looking and pleasant bachelor in his forties, one of the few locals whom Laura actually welcomed to the occasional dinner party which she felt obliged to arrange.
“Oh, hallo Laura, is everything going well out there? When I’m finished I hope to take a look around. I’ve arranged for the body to be taken away. There will have to be a post-mortem of course, but I imagine with Floyd’s lifestyle we can assume heart attack – that’s off the record, by the way!”
“Thank you. We will have to tell his wife, Jinny – she is down there looking after his stall.”
“Not easy; she is much younger isn’t she? Rupert said she wasn’t staying here last night, which perhaps explains why nobody found his body for so long.”
“Yes; we just assumed a hangover and left him undisturbed,” Laura lied fluently.
“That’s pretty much what Rupert said. The press will make a story out of it, I imagine.”
Laura winced. “I suppose so. There is a photographer coming to take pictures of Sebastian and his painting later – that’s if we can find Sebastian.”
“Well, if you will mix with artists: unreliable lot.” Keith winked and made his way out in a brisk, businesslike manner.
Laura carried on up the stairs and met her husband on his way between the green bedroom and their own room He followed Laura in and flopped down on the bed. Laura went to quickly slosh a bit of water on her face and then came and sat beside him.
“Keith seemed satisfied,” she said. “He thinks heart attack.”
“Hopefully he is right. Anyway, I spoke to Mike Herbert. As luck would have it he was staying with his parents who are only about ten miles away. He became very excited when I told him about the ring and mentioned a possible link with Nesperennub and got straight in his car – it’s just his field of expertise. He’s on his way over here now. Any objections if we offer to donate it to the British Museum if it is genuine? I just have this feeling that things might be better if the ring and the owner were reunited so to speak.”
Laura looked mildly surprised by this indication of continued superstition on Rupert’s part, but agreed readily enough. “If you like,” she said. “Will you wait in here for him?”
“I’ve got to wait for one of those private ambulances to collect Floyd. Hopefully its arrival will go relatively unnoticed if everyone is otherwise occupied. How is the fair going? I’m sorry I’ve been so out of it.”
“Not your fault,” Laura gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek and smoothed his light hair off his forehead. “Anyway, I better go and talk to Jinny – she might want to see Floyd before they come for him. Oh, and I thought I should tell you – Sebastian seems to have disappeared. And he was painting a strange Egyptian scene on his canvas.”
Rupert, who had been propped up on one elbow in a weary stance, suddenly sat upright at this sudden revelation. “That’s what I didn’t want to hear. Are you sure he is gone? Couldn’t he just have wandered off for a drink?”
“Maybe, but Samantha and I had a pretty good search for him. Don’t worry too much now. See your friend and when you are free come and find me and we’ll have a good Sebastian-hunt. Oh, and remember that we are presenting prizes at four. I’d really like you to be there if you can.”
After his wife had left to find Jinny, Rupert took himself down to the kitchen for a cold drink. He wasn’t sure what to think. It had been reassuring to have Keith walk into the green bedroom, pull the curtains and dispel the eerie green light, and examine the body with a practical, professional manner. When Rupert had glanced at the hieroglyphs even they seemed to fade to nothing in the bright daylight. Keith did not seem to see anything to arouse his suspicion above sniffing the air and commenting that artists always seemed to carry about with them the smell of turpentine. And then there was the apparent disappearance of Sebastian. Still lost in thought, Rupert sliced himself some bread and cheese and took a jar of pickles out of the large, walk-in larder. He had just cut a piece of Victoria sponge when he heard voices which he recognised to be those of Delilah and Jinny. Bracing himself, he went out to meet Floyd’s now fully informed widow. He found her dry-eyed but obviously upset, Delilah flustered but comforting.
“He had been warned by the doctor last week about his drinking,” Jinny was saying, “but you could no more ask him to stop drinking that to stop painting: it’s what he lived for!” She gave a sad little laugh at this irony.
“He lived his life the way he wanted to,” said Delilah.
“Yes, and he didn’t suffer. I just wish I had been with him last night. I was going to come, but my mother had been in hospital after a minor operation on her knee. I wanted to visit her and spend the evening with my dad. It seemed to make sense to come down here this morning – and I just expected Floyd to turn up; late, disorganised
, unapologetic and adorable as ever.”
Delilah patted her arm.
“I’d like to see him and say goodbye,” sniffed Jinny. She looked imploringly up at Rupert. “Would you come with me and show me his room?”
Rupert nodded and rapidly swallowed the rather dry cake crumbs in his mouth. He took Jinny up the stairs, leaving Delilah behind in the kitchen, obviously reluctant either to confront a corpse or to intrude on a private moment.
It was four o’ clock and prize giving time. There were a greater number of clouds in the sky and a little breeze had picked up, but it was still a beautiful afternoon. The photographer had pictured Sebastian’s lonely, abandoned easel and looked eagerly for those two great artists: Sebastian Fullmarks and Floyd Bailey. So far disappointed, he and an associate had stayed only after hearing rumours that Floyd was dead and Sebastian had fled. The rivalry between the two was well known.
Laura had been explaining procedures to her friend, Wendy, from Claresby village. “I’m going to hand out the raffle prizes, then Samantha Pearson will announce the prize for a flower arrangement and Conran Hawkes will choose a winning painting from Claresby Art Club. The Bishop is choosing “Best Stall” – I thought I ought to slip him in somewhere.”
The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries Page 6
