Blood on the Wood

by Gillian Linscott

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Also by Gillian Linscott

  Copyright

  To Jane Jakeman,

  who chose a picture for Nell to steal.

  The Dolefull Dance and Song of Death

  Can you dance The Shaking of the Sheets,

  A dance that ev’ry one must do?

  Sixteenth-century ballad

  Introduction

  THE INSPECTOR LEANED FORWARD, PAINFULLY POLITE. The constable prodded at a dead butterfly with the end of his pencil, not looking at us. It must have been dead for some days on the scratched table in this stuffy little room because its wing crumbled to dust as soon as the pencil touched it.

  ‘What I don’t entirely understand…’ the inspector said. He paused. ‘What I’m not entirely clear on, Miss Bray, was how you happened to find the body.’

  ‘I opened the cabinet in the studio and it was there.’

  Big black oak cabinet with the carvings of the murdered lady and the hanging man – not that I could see them in the dark, of course, but I could feel them in memory, knobbly and sharp under the fingers. Which wasn’t relevant to what the police wanted. The butterfly had been a tortoiseshell, I think, or possibly a peacock. Hard to tell from the bright fragments that the constable was now stirring with his pencil. I looked up and met the inspector’s eyes dishwater grey.

  ‘So how did you come to be in the studio in the middle of the night?’

  A long silence while I tried to think of a way out. Unsuccessfully.

  He prompted me, ‘Did Mr Venn know you were in his house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you weren’t staying as a guest?’

  ‘No. I’m down in the field with the rest of the camp.’

  A little wince at that, as if somebody had slid a dirty plate into the dishwater. The presence of a camp of young socialists was another complication he could have done without.

  ‘So would you be kind enough to tell us what you were doing in Mr Venn’s house in the middle of the night?’

  I took a deep breath, not seeing any useful alternative to the truth.

  ‘I was there to steal a picture.’

  Chapter One

  BY THE END OF IT ALL, I’d got to know that picture very well. At the beginning, all I knew was its nationality.

  ‘French,’ Emmeline said, ‘so you’re probably the best person to handle it.’

  We were sitting in her cluttered little office at our headquarters in Clement’s Inn, just off the Strand. It was less than a year since our organisation had moved its headquarters from Manchester to London and since then things had been moving too fast to get unpacked properly.

  ‘Not unless it talks,’ I said. ‘I speak the language, but I don’t know anything about paintings.’

  Emmeline disregarded that, as she tended to do with anything that got in the way of what she wanted. One of the secrets of her success.

  ‘It’s by Boucher.’

  She looked at me and I looked back at her. I know now that I should have sat up, looked excited and said, ‘You don’t mean the Boucher?’ But the name only rang the faintest of bells. To be honest, paintings have never been an enthusiasm. A friend says that’s because I never stand still long enough to look at them, which may be true. But it wasn’t time to think about that, because she was giving me my instructions.

  ‘Probate’s been granted on Mrs Venn’s will so there’s nothing to prevent us sending somebody down to collect it. I think you should call in to Christie’s first and arrange to take it straight to them for a valuation. The solicitor thinks it might be worth as much as a thousand pounds, and we certainly need the money.’

  The young man at Christie’s was at least as beautiful as the things they sold. His hair was as fair as thistledown in the sun, hands moving when he talked as if on currents of some warm invisible sea. When I said the word ‘Boucher’ they wafted upwards above the tooled leather top of his desk, almost breaking the surface of his languid calm.

  ‘You’re quite certain it’s by Boucher? What do you know about its provenance?’

  I wasn’t certain of anything.

  ‘It was left to the Women’s Social and Political Union by the late Mrs Philomena Venn. You’ve heard of her?’

  He hadn’t, of course. Not many people outside the movement had.

  ‘She was a pioneer,’ I told him. ‘One of the women who signed the suffrage petition back in 1866.’

  I could see that meant little if anything to the elegant young man, but we’d liked and respected Philomena Venn. She was Irish by birth and had joined the formidable band of women who’d fought for the Vote a good part of the previous century, before some of us were born. They hadn’t got what they wanted but, a generation ago, they’d achieved a great step forward in the shape of the Married Women’s Property Act, which meant women had a right to keep their own money instead of handing it over to their husbands. The year before, in her late sixties and already ill, Philomena had come from her home in the Cotswolds to visit us at our new headquarters and give us her blessing, from one generation to the next. She was a little grey-haired woman in an old-fashioned bonnet and black lace gloves, frail with the heart disease that would kill her within a few months, but with lively eyes, a beautiful speaking voice and a surprisingly deep and wicked laugh. Because what happened in the next few weeks was the indirect result of decisions by the late Philomena Venn, I’d like to make it clear here and now that none of it was her fault. She made her provisions with generosity, good faith and – to some extent – in blissful ignorance and couldn’t possibly have foreseen the mess we were going to make of her intentions.

  ‘Yes, your movement.’ Christie’s young man made it sound as if it were happening in some faraway country. ‘The Women’s Social and Political Union, I think you said.’

  ‘Or the Suffragettes, as the Daily Mail prefers to call us.’

  The hands had sunk down again and were resting lightly on his desk like things in a rock pool.

  ‘And Mrs Venn told you she was leaving you a Boucher?’ He was frankly sceptical now.

  ‘She didn’t mention the artist’s name. She thought our office needed cheering up and said she’d leave us a picture in her will. She died back in the spring and her solicitor got in touch soon afterwards.’

  ‘Where is the picture now?’

  ‘At her house in the Cotswolds. Her husband’s still alive. I’m going down to collect it from him in the next day or two.’

  ‘Her husband being…?’

  ‘Mr Oliver Venn.’

/>   His expression changed, which surprised me. All I knew about Mrs Venn’s husband was that he was a committee member of the Fabian Society and the young man at Christie’s hardly seemed the type to know about socialist groups, even tame ones like the Fabians.

  ‘I think I may have heard about Mr Venn. Is he an art collector?’

  From sceptical, he’d turned interested again. I told him I had no idea. I was already tired of the picture question and wanted to get it over.

  ‘So shall I bring it in to you for a valuation?’

  ‘By all means, but I should warn you, as we always warn our clients, not to set your hopes too high. It’s always sad to have to disappoint people.’

  I didn’t tell him, as I suppose I should have, that our movement was used to being disappointed – and over a much more important thing than pictures. I let him show me out and went to consult a railway timetable.

  Chapter Two

  THE VENNS’ HOME WAS ON THE Oxfordshire edge of the Cotswolds, near the Gloucestershire border. Two days later, sitting in the train from Paddington as it left the flatlands around Oxford and started its easy climb up the low hills, I was enjoying what amounted to a day off. It was late August, harvest time, with gangs of men out in fields that were half stubble, half standing wheat. One gang was using a steam reaper and the white vapour mingled with straw dust, turning the air to a golden haze. Although the leaves hadn’t started their change to autumn colours there was a hardened, almost metallic green about the hedges and copses that goes with the end of summer.

  It was the first time I’d been out in the country since spring. It had been a more than usually busy year for us, with the move to London and a new Liberal government that must be made to see sense, and I’d had my living to earn as well. I’m a freelance translator and the present job on hand was translating catalogues and other sales material into German for a Birmingham bicycle manufacturer. It paid quite well – or would do when they got round to handing over the fee – but working out the German for gear ratios and brake block specification tolerances was uphill work. So a simple day trip to the Cotswolds to pick up a picture was as good as a rest cure.

  Two days before I’d sent a reply-paid telegram to Mr Oliver Venn, asking when it would be convenient to collect the picture, and had received a lunch invitation by return. Another exchange of telegrams fixed the train I’d travel by and the assurance that the Venns’ gig would be at the small railway halt that served the village to meet me. With luck, and if lunch didn’t drag on too long, I might get the picture back to London in time to take it to Christie’s before they closed for the evening. By taxi, not bus, we’d decided. Philomena Venn’s legacy deserved that at least, even though I’d passed on the young man’s warning about being prepared for disappointment. I had to kick my heels waiting for a connection at Chipping Norton Junction then travelled a few stops along the local line. The halt was no more than a wooden platform with a corrugated iron shelter, some empty milk churns, a rack for bicycles. The gig was waiting for me in the yard as promised, a smart little Lawton with the wheel spokes picked out in yellow, a strawberry roan between the shafts and a bowler-hatted groom in the driving seat. He got down to help me in – not that I needed it, but it was an occasion for ladylike manners – and we bowled along uphill between more harvest fields, trailing a light brown plume of dust behind us from the dry earth road.

  ‘That’s it, miss.’

  The groom pointed with his whip to a gem of a manor house, set above a stubble field and just below a wood. It was built of the local limestone that glowed gold as if generating its own light, possibly Elizabethan, with a lot of narrow windows glinting in the sun and a cheerfully disorderly roofline of gables and tall chimneypots. Although it wasn’t large as manor houses go it still looked a grand place for a veteran suffrage campaigner and her Fabian husband. I reminded myself not to be prejudiced. There were people who managed to combine wealth and socialism. Logically perhaps there should be more credit given to them than to poor socialists, since they had more to lose. I couldn’t bring myself to be quite as logical as that but wouldn’t think less of Philomena Venn because she’d lived in a beautiful place.

  Looking away from the house and down at the road, I saw two hikers ahead of us. They were going in the same direction as ourselves, heads bent down and invisible behind huge knapsacks. The road was sloping quite steeply uphill at that point and if I hadn’t been on my best visiting manners I might have suggested that we stop, and offer to carry their packs to the top of the hill. There would have been just about room for them on our laps, although the gig could carry only two people. But I said nothing, then felt guilty when we passed them and I turned back to see their sweating faces through a cloud of our dust. They were oddly dressed for hikers, in dark and crumpled suits like city clerks, with pale indoor faces. It seemed to me that they looked resentful and I couldn’t blame them. I said something to the groom about it being hot weather for hikers.

  ‘Oh, they’re not hikers, miss. They’re Scipians. Mr Daniel’s got a whole lot of them coming here.’

  ‘Scipians?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  He didn’t seem to think it needed explaining, and soon after that we turned through a gateway and up a drive between two lines of elms with sheep grazing underneath them. When we drew up on a sweep of gravel outside the front door, a plump man in a pale linen suit came down the steps to meet me, full of anxious enquiries about my journey.

  ‘Was your train on time? Isn’t Paddington intolerably crowded these days? Aren’t you simply gasping for a glass of lemonade?’

  A kind man, a fussy man with a neat tonsure of grey hair that looked as soft as a baby’s round an otherwise bald pate, eyes brown and protruding like a spaniel’s. No obvious sign of mourning, unless you counted the mauve silk cravat that he wore instead of a tie at the neck of his crisp white shirt. The bereaved husband, Mr Oliver Venn. A maid appeared to take my hat and travelling coat.

  ‘It’s nice and cool in the studio.’ He put a tentative hand on my elbow and guided me towards a door on the right. ‘Unless you’d rather go upstairs first.’

  His anxiety to make me comfortable came close to being irritating. I let myself be guided into the studio and stopped too suddenly a few steps inside it so that he cannoned into me.

  ‘What a beautiful room.’

  Because he and Philomena came from an older generation, I’d expected something mid-Victorian and heavy, but the big room was full of sunlight, light furniture in elm and oak, curtains and upholstery swirling with leaves and birds. Mr Venn had been spluttering apologies for stepping on my heel, but this seemed to calm him. He came alongside me, spaniel eyes shining.

  ‘It’s Carol’s taste mostly. They use it as a display room for the workshop.’

  I was too busy admiring it to ask who Carol was and what workshop. It was full of blues and greens in the curtains and upholstery, woven cream and blue rugs on the polished wood floor. Blue and white hand-painted tiles surrounded the fireplace. Long windows extended almost down to floor level on the side facing the garden, with late white roses and vine leaves framing them from the outside, echoing the leaf and flower patterns on the fabrics. I found out later that it had once been a Victorian conservatory. The size and lightness of it meant that it could take a lot of furniture without looking crowded. There were oak tables, robust enough for farm kitchens but finely proportioned, simple ladder-backed chairs with woven rush seats, carved and painted chests, an oak three-seater with immense cushions in a honeysuckle pattern. The pattern made me feel as if I’d come home – not that I’d ever lived in a place half so grand. In my earliest memories of my mother she was wearing a dress in it.

  ‘William Morris.’

  ‘You admire his work?’ Oliver Venn sounded reassured.

  ‘I certainly do. He and my father used to be friends.’

  It was politics, not art, they’d discussed for hours on end, my father and that gentle bear of a man. My father was
as ignorant of art as I am but he liked Morris for his ideas.

  ‘Carol’s a great admirer, of course. The workshop is run very much on his principles. That’s his work too.’

  More confident now he was talking about art, he turned me round to a tapestry that took up the whole wall behind us, a pale long-necked woman in a flowing blue dress holding a pomegranate, with doves and rabbits in the grass at her bare feet. ‘That was one of my birthday presents to Philomena.’

  A maid entered the room, with two glasses of lemonade on a tray. Mr Venn was too absorbed in the tapestry or his memories to notice her and I didn’t like to help myself unasked so all three of us stood there in a row staring at the long-necked woman until the maid gave a little cough to alert him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Annie. Do forgive me, Miss Bray. Would you care to sit over there?’

  I liked the fact that he’d apologised to the maid as well as to me. He and I sat at opposite ends of a couch, looking out at the garden through the long windows.

  ‘We thought perhaps, Miss Bray, that you might like to have lunch first and I can show you Philomena’s picture afterwards.’

  I thanked him, glad he’d brought up the subject. In spite of the civilised surroundings, my main interest was getting back to London with it as soon as politely possible.

  ‘Carol’s not here but Felicia’s out in the garden. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and call her.’

  I nodded. He opened a door to a terrace and carolled ‘Fe-lic-i-a’ out to the garden, every syllable as precise as a bird’s call. While he waited, I puzzled over who Felicia and Carol might be. As far as I knew, the Venns had been childless. Felicia appeared between the swags of roses and when she stepped into the room, it looked as if she’d been designed by nature to match it. There was a simplicity and neatness about her that carried an invisible label of quality, much like the furniture or hand-painted tiles. She was wearing a cornflower-blue skirt and a white blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves with a high neckline and a matching cornflower ribbon tied in a bow. Her hair was a light glossy brown, put up in a simple pleat at the back, her complexion creamy.