A Bed of Scorpions

by Judith Flanders

  She seemed just as pleased to see me. She had, she said, been head of ‘kitchen operations’, feeding the people who had come to visit over the past week. Now there was just the funeral to get through, and then things would return to normal, so she wasn’t going to be needed anymore. I apologised for having failed to bring the supplies I’d promised on the weekend. She examined my face with a naïve openness that was much better than the covert looks I’d been getting, and said, peering at the scabs, ‘If you were making excuses, at least you went to the trouble of making it look authentic.’

  I smiled. ‘My mother’s a lawyer. I’m a stickler for an alibi.’

  She jumped and flushed. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘You weren’t rude. It was a big improvement on the people who talk around the subject, hoping I’ll mention how it happened so they don’t have to ask a direct question.’ Asking direct questions in middle-class, professional England gets you deported, probably to the colonies, where they don’t know any better.

  She put her head on one side, interested. ‘Sort of the way we treat death. Poor Toby. I think if one more person puts a hand on his arm and says, “How are you, really?” he’s going to explode. Except Toby doesn’t explode. That was Frank. Toby was the smoother-over afterwards. Even for gallery explosions.’

  ‘I didn’t know Toby had ever had anything to do with the gallery.’

  She nodded, her eyes scanning the room restlessly. Apparently being head of kitchen operations hadn’t quite worn off, and she was checking to make sure everyone was supplied. Which they were, and the noise was rising accordingly. ‘Officially, Aidan does the selling and Frank was the artist-wrangler.’ She gave a small smirk, to mark off her cynical assessment that artists needed to be herded like cattle. ‘But without Toby as social glue, I doubt there would have been an artist left on the gallery’s books. Or a staff member.’

  This was as good a place as any to start the investigation Helena had ordered. ‘I had no idea. I saw one of the gallery people last night, or at least an ex-gallery person.’ I looked over her shoulder, as though I wasn’t much interested. ‘Matt Holder.’

  Her eyes snapped back to me, but she didn’t say anything.

  I shrugged. ‘One of those who needed smoothing over, I hear?’

  She looked curious, now. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I heard that there was an argument about his seeing an ex of Frank’s.’ Who was now dead.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, a worldly-wise twenty-year-old mourning the foolishness of her elders. ‘God knows why that was ever a problem, but it was.’ She stopped, seeming to feel that this discussion was at an end.

  I didn’t want to barge off, as though I’d only stopped to pry, so I changed the subject. ‘I also chatted to Jim Reynolds yesterday at the Stevenson press conference. What I saw of the pictures looked great.’ It wasn’t the most original, or interesting, comment I’d ever made, so I wasn’t surprised when she just smiled mechanically. I was more surprised that she didn’t reply. Maybe Jim liked her more than she liked Jim? At any rate, she wasn’t interested. So I might as well push off. ‘Is Aidan here?’

  She didn’t even look around. ‘Last I saw he was in the conservatory, talking to Myra.’

  I turned. He was still there, and having Myra identified was a bonus: she was definitely one of those faces I was supposed to know.

  I started to make those noises you do when you’re ready to leave. ‘This all coming together must be so difficult for you.’

  Lucy had clearly decided the gathering held more interesting people than me, which I couldn’t really argue with. ‘Will you excuse me?’ she said, as though we’d never met. ‘I think they need more ice over there.’

  Another dazzling display of social skills on my part. I turned and trudged off to the back of the room, which Lucy had called the conservatory. Aidan had moved off, but Myra was still there. She was the one, I remembered, who had sent the email with the funeral details, so I introduced myself and thanked her for including me. She recognised me, but I had no idea if we’d ever spoken before or not. I cast around for conversation, not easy when I didn’t know what she did at the gallery. So I just repeated what I’d said to Lucy – that I’d been at the press conference for the Stevenson exhibition and it looked as though it would be a great show, and added, ‘It must be taking up enormous amounts of everyone’s time at the gallery. And particularly now, without Frank.’

  She wasn’t a chatty type, apparently, because the only answer I got was pursed lips. I bet no one ever said, a party’s not a party without Myra.

  ‘Does it all end up with Aidan now?’ I tried next. ‘Frank never struck me as a paperwork type.’ I considered it for a moment. ‘Not that Aidan does either.’

  She huffed. ‘I do the paperwork. That’s what a registrar does.’

  I had no reason to stay with this grumpy woman, but maybe she had been close to Frank and this was her way of dealing with it. I tried to look sympathetic instead of answering her words. ‘It must be hard for someone who worked with Frank as closely as you did.’ And then I made a break for it.

  I went into the kitchen and found myself a glass of wine. I also found Aidan, who was listening to Lucy, who was gesticulating furiously, but with tears in her eyes – more upset than angry. Whatever it was it didn’t appear to worry Aidan too much, because he just patted her on the shoulder when he saw me and walked away, leaving her there biting her lip.

  He couldn’t have seen me when I’d arrived, because he was now staring at my face, appalled, not bothering with the sidelong glances others were deploying. I agreed with him. Most of my face was now not only scabbed over, but had turned an elegant sea-green from the bruising. But while I found it mostly embarrassing, Aidan seemed to be personally insulted by it. ‘Jesus, Sam.’ It was an accusation.

  But not one that was worth responding to. ‘I fell off my bike. It looks worse than it is.’ I didn’t want to talk about it, and if I talked to him quickly about Holder, I could get the hell out of there. I thought ‘How are you managing?’ was a good opening gambit. He could tell me how he was feeling, or how they were managing at the gallery, or he could just take it as a variant on ‘How are you?’, whichever he liked.

  He chose reality. ‘I’ve been here every evening for a week. I’m contemplating becoming an alcoholic.’

  I tried to sound encouraging. ‘These late career changes can be good. I’m sure there’s a call for a professional lush somewhere.’

  I agree, not funny, but it was the night before his partner’s funeral. I don’t think any of us were making great jokes.

  He wasn’t really listening anyway. And I was surprised that he hadn’t mentioned Schmidt’s death. That no one I’d spoken to so far had. I thought briefly that I might avoid it, and then vetoed that. Aidan had come to me when Frank died.

  ‘I heard about Werner Schmidt this morning. I’m sorry. Was he an old friend?’

  Aidan rubbed his eyes, much as he’d done that first day at lunch. It was a bit like one of those nightmares, where every time you go back to sleep it starts all over again. ‘Everyone else has been too tactful to mention it to me.’ He smiled an old-friend smile. ‘Your tact levels never change, do they?’

  I was mortified. ‘I never know whether talking about things or tiptoeing around them is worse.’

  He patted the air. ‘Tiptoeing is worse. I’m glad you said something. And yes, he was an old friend. He was at art college with Frank, and they were together for a few years. Frank always knew he wasn’t good enough to be a successful artist, and became a dealer almost as soon as he graduated. Werner …’ He hesitated. ‘Werner wasn’t good enough either, but he didn’t accept it for a long time. Never did, really. He started to do bits of restoration for friends, and then ultimately retrained, but he always continued to make his own art. It just isn’t very good. And so restoration became a living, and his own art a hobby, although he didn’t think of it that way.’

&
nbsp; ‘Poor man. To do something you love badly, or at least not well enough, and not love the thing you’re good at.’

  He nodded. ‘He was very bitter. A great guy, as long as you never discussed art. Or, at least, I didn’t, apart from the restoration he did for us. He and Frank had a much tighter relationship.’ Then he frowned. ‘How did you hear?’ Even as he asked, he knew the answer. ‘Your policeman?’

  ‘Yes. This morning.’ I shook my head, pre-empting his next question. ‘I don’t know anything apart from the fact that he’s dead, and it was probably an accident. That’s all Jake had when I went to work.’

  ‘Then I know more than you. He was found dead in his studio on Monday morning by a courier who was booked to collect a job from him. As far as any of his friends can work out, he was last seen on Friday night. He was invited to a party on the Saturday, and didn’t show up, so we’re assuming between then sometime.’

  ‘Do you know how? Jake said “industrial accident”, but I don’t know what that means.’

  Aidan’s mouth twitched. ‘A very official phrase. At the moment, we’ve been told that it looks like it was glue inhalation.’

  ‘Glue inhalation? Sniffing glue, you mean?’

  ‘Sam! Spray glue is used for mounting works on paper.’

  Of course it was. Designers at T&R always had tins of glue lying around too. But I hadn’t known it could kill you. I said so, and Aidan agreed. He hadn’t either.

  ‘That’s all I know at the moment. No doubt the police will be back in the gallery soon, buzzing around the place.’ He saw me wince. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean your policeman in particular. Although …’ he raised an eyebrow. ‘Will it be him and his colleagues again?’

  ‘I think so. I’m sorry.’

  We were both apologising back and forth, like some sort of parody of English people stepping on each other’s toes. Aidan recovered first. ‘So, how is it out there in the real world?’

  He didn’t want to know about my world just then, and anyway I still had Helena’s dirty work to do.

  ‘Same old same old. Timmins & Ross might be taken over. And I disgraced myself at a party last night. I kicked my dinner partner.’

  He was amused. ‘On purpose? What did he do?’

  ‘Grabbed my face, the dick. A man named Spencer Reichel. Do you know him?’ I kept everything except annoyance with Reichel off my face.

  Aidan’s face didn’t alter either. ‘Sure. He collects twentieth-century art. He buys from us a bit, although he’s not a regular client. And he funds that art charity, the one for reproductions. We dealt with them in the past for a couple of catalogues raisonnés of our artists.’

  Dear God, this hadn’t been where I was going, but I grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. What?’

  He looked at me curiously, and repeated, ‘He’s an art collector, and he funds an art charity. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘The Daylesworth Trust?’ I accused him, as though this were information he’d been hiding from me. ‘Celia Stein works for him?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said patiently. ‘And?’

  And what indeed? I didn’t know why it should matter, but somehow it did. I tucked it away and returned to the fray. ‘And the man’s a dick.’

  Aidan didn’t bother to hide his contempt. ‘He is, but that’s not why you mentioned him. What are you ferreting around for?’ It wasn’t as if he didn’t know me well.

  ‘Matt Holder was at the dinner too.’

  Aidan was cross now. ‘And?’

  I might as well be blunt. ‘I also sat next to Alan Derbyshire – I didn’t kick him,’ I added virtuously.

  He smiled briefly. ‘Well done.’ The smile vanished almost before it had appeared. ‘Holder’s solicitor. What the hell is this about? If it’s just Helena wanting to make sure that there’s nothing that’s going to come back and bite me, tell her to ask. And then I’ll tell her that there isn’t.’ He stomped off.

  My, hadn’t that gone well.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I STOPPED TO FILL the sit-by-Toby position for ten minutes, and then made my escape. It was a gorgeous evening. It would be light for another couple of hours, and the air had that sense of elasticity that summer in London does, as though there were magically more hours in the day.

  It made me feel as though I ought to use that extra time, so I walked instead of taking the bus. It would only take another ten minutes, and if I went the way I would have come from the market on Saturday, I could collect my bike, which should still be chained up to the lamp post where I’d fallen.

  Should. It wasn’t the greatest neighbourhood, but then, I didn’t have the greatest bike. In the privacy of my own web browser I look at what I call bike porn – high-end Dutch and Danish commuter bikes, with amazing add-ons and accessories. But back in the real world, a combination of pragmatism and cheapness means that, whenever I need a new bike, which has only been twice in twenty years, I end up with a bog-standard city bike. Nothing anyone would want to steal.

  I know this for a fact. One day I had a brainstorm when I was in town, and forgot to chain my cycle up when I went to see a film. Three hours later, right on a main road, it was still there when I came out. I stood there boiling with fury at the insult to my poor cycle – my bike isn’t good enough to steal? – even as I realised this was not an entirely rational response.

  Nonetheless, the odds, I thought, were anything from fair to good that that same cycle would now be where I’d left it on Saturday, and so it proved. Somebody had even reattached the front basket, which had flown off when I’d gone arse over tit. As I bent down to unlock the chain, I saw there was a note taped to the basket’s base: ‘Thank you for the flowers. I hope you’re alright. Viv at number 73.’

  It was written on a piece of paper that had been torn from an exercise book, and the writing looked like the kind that was taught in schools in the thirties and forties. I presumed number 73 meant 73 of the street we were on, or a street name would have been included. I looked around. There was a 73 only metres away. I didn’t give myself time to think, or even wonder why I was doing it. I replaced the chain, walked over and rang the bell.

  There was a long pause, and I was about to give up, when I heard a step in the hall. ‘If you’re selling something, you can bog right off,’ called a voice.

  I was immediately glad I’d rung. ‘I’m not selling anything,’ I called back. ‘I’m the person who had the cycle accident on Saturday.’

  The door opened immediately. It was the grey-haired woman who had suggested I ring a friend, and she must have been standing on the mat. I’d been flat on the pavement when I’d last seen her, and not in any condition to notice anything much, but even so, I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed how short she was – she was more than a head shorter than I am, and I’m shorter than almost everyone over the age of eight.

  Despite her lack of height, she looked me up and down and made me feel that I was the small one. She didn’t say anything, either, just waited.

  ‘I came to collect my cycle, and was so pleased to see you’d left your name in the basket, so I could say thank you for your help.’

  Her eyes, which had been so vague on Saturday, snapped now. She nodded decisively. I had passed some unknown test. She stood back. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  I loathe tea, and think of it as something that I’m forced to drink when I’m ill, but I realise that only emphasises my foreignness, which I didn’t want to do now. ‘Very much, thank you.’ I wiped my feet carefully, even though it was sunny and there was no particular reason for them to be dirty.

  She nodded again. Another step up in her estimation.

  ‘Come in,’ she said over her shoulder, already moving down the passageway.

  Most of my part of London is a patchwork. Because of the nearby railway lines, the area had been heavily bombed in the war, and so afterwards streets got chopped up, rows of Victorian houses like mine suddenly stopping dead to give way to blocks of flats like Viv’s, built in the 1950s to
replace flattened neighbourhoods. The 1950s was an unbeautiful time for building generally, and these buildings were particularly unbeautiful. It seemed likely, looking at the kitchen, that Viv’s parents had been the flat’s first residents. The linoleum on the floor was a 1950s-style black-and-white check, the few cupboards were chipped melamine, both the cooker and the fridge were tiny and incredibly ancient. Nothing could have been altered or renewed for at least four decades, and it might well have been longer. But everything was cared for, looked after and valued. There were crisply ironed blue-and-white striped curtains at the windows, and a blue-and-white rag rug was on the floor in front of the sink. A tray of seedlings sat in a patch of later-evening sun on an almost doll’s-house-sized white-painted table, with two doll’s-house-sized white chairs pushed underneath. Above the seedlings were pots of herbs, and a hanging basket, and – I looked again – pots were on every single flat surface, lining the back of the counter, on top of the fridge, everywhere.

  ‘It’s a garden,’ I said, amazed.

  She smiled, the first genuine smile she’d given me. ‘I’m lucky. This side is south-facing, and so even though I don’t have a garden, I’ve got the next best thing.’

  ‘Then the flowers went to a good home, although you might say it was coals to Newcastle.’

  She speared me with a don’t-give-me-any-nonsense look. ‘I haven’t managed to grow peonies in here.’ Then she gave the sink a considering stare, as though now she’d mentioned it, she might give it a try.

  The kettle must have just boiled, because she moved a teapot that had been sitting beside the cooker onto the table. She gave me another look, up and down again, and then turned and took a biscuit tin off a shelf. I don’t know what it was that made her decide, but it was plain that I’d passed whatever test it was. Not everyone got biscuits. I was both pleased, and felt silly for being so pleased.