by Agatha Frost
When she was alone in bed, she turned to the suspects list with a freshly sharpened pencil grasped in her hand. Using the soft glow of the bedroom lamp as her guide, she thought back to what Simon had revealed to her and wrote it down word for word.
“Oh, Nancy,” she whispered to herself, her writing taunting her. “I hope I’m wrong about this.”
5
A couple of days after moving into the farmhouse, Liz was surprised when her art group turned up for their regular meeting at her shop. She was less surprised when Catherine and Nancy were the only two not to show their faces. Liz had not seen either since Katelyn’s death and was beginning to think they were purposefully lying low.
Liz had not prepared anything, so they trotted down to the coast to paint the last of the evening sun before it faded. Liz set them up next to the harbour in hopes of seeing Christopher, but his office was locked up. A sign in the window announced, ‘CLOSED DUE TO FAMILY BEREAVEMENT’, in stark black ink that left Liz feeling a little cold.
Sandwiched between Debbie and Lance, Liz tried her best to slip into her special place; it did not happen. She had settled on an uninspired composition, her colour choices were obvious, and her strokes were clunky. More than once, she caught herself staring at Christopher’s office. When Debbie announced that she was cold and wanted to go home, Liz was more than happy to cut the group short.
When Debbie and Lance wandered off in one direction, and Polly and Sylvia in another, Liz realised she had missed her chance to interview her suspects covertly. She wondered if the police had questioned any of them yet, or if they had not made the connection as quickly as she had. The group had been surprisingly quiet, and none of them had mentioned the ruined exhibit or the murder, which was suspicious in itself. With only Trevor, the owner of the Scarlet Cove Manor Hotel, not in a hurry to leave, the fake paintings sprung to Liz's mind.
“Do you still have those paintings?” Liz asked, forcing her tone to stay casual. “I was wondering if I could have a look at them? I’ve never seen a real Murphy Jones before. I suppose this is as close as I’m going to get to one.”
To her surprise, Trevor did not deny her request to see the fakes. They loaded their equipment and unfinished paintings into the back of his car before driving up to the hotel.
Like Simon’s farm and Scarlet Cove Castle, the manor hotel sat atop the hill looking down over the sloped coastal town. Liz had never visited, but she had passed it on many occasions during her evening strolls with Paddy. By the time they pulled up in front of the hotel, the sun had completely set, but the dusk did not take away from its beauty. It was perfectly symmetrical with a long balcony inserted in the middle. In the dark, it was beautifully lit, bringing out the moss and ivy that grew neatly on the walls. The large stone building was the perfect holiday spot for those with a little more money to spend.
“My great-great-grandfather built it in 1853 as a holiday home for the family,” Trevor explained as he jumped out of his car, which he had parked next to a bright pink Range Rover. “It’s been passed down from generation to generation. It was my father who turned it into a hotel.”
“It has the wow factor,” Liz said as she climbed out to join Trevor in looking up at the building. “I bet this would be fun to paint.”
“You’re more than welcome to come up and give it a go,” Trevor said with a polite smile. “I’ve tried, but I never quite capture the scale of the place. It looks even more beautiful in the summer.”
Liz followed Trevor through the grand entrance and into the reception area. An ornate sweeping mahogany staircase commanded attention in the centre of the space. It took Liz’s breath away, but Trevor wandered into the room as though he was walking around an empty space. He had no doubt seen the beautiful view every day since he was a little boy.
“I still have them displayed in the sitting room,” Trevor said as Liz followed. “I may as well try and get my money’s worth out of them.”
The sitting room was a majestic room with windows on three of the four walls looking out over the beautiful grounds. A fire roared in the grate of a giant fireplace, the armchairs and sofas angled in its direction. Two elderly women were enjoying tea by the flickering flames, both looking at the new arrivals before returning to their conversation.
“I still can’t get over the shock of finding out they were fake,” Trevor said as he stared at the two giant landscapes. “They look so real.”
Liz stepped back and looked at the paintings. They were so clear and photorealistic it took her a moment to recognise that they were even paintings. One depicted a forest, but the composition focussed the attention on the setting sun above the treetops. The other was a shot of the countryside, captured in winter with grey and blue tones. Both were so different, and yet their technical perfection was breathtaking. Liz had studied Murphy Jones’ work at university, but she had never come across either piece before.
“They’re stunning,” Liz whispered, stepping closer to the paintings, which were so large, they swallowed up most of the wall. “How can these be fakes? The detail is extraordinary.”
“It’s easy to spot if you know how,” announced an unfamiliar male voice from behind them. “Even if they are perfect examples of excellent forgeries.”
Liz turned to see a tall, handsome man in his mid-sixties staring at the paintings. Like Trevor, he had his shirt open at the collar, but unlike Trevor, his body was rather trim, and he had a full head of thick greying hair. From the clothes he was wearing, Liz could tell the man was wealthy. He flashed her a toothy, charming smile, which she could not help but return. The stranger had an instant likeability and warmth to him that few people had.
“This is Brian South,” Trevor said, motioning to the tall man. “He’s the expert who spotted that they’re fakes.”
“I’m no expert,” Brian said. “I’m merely a simple antique dealer enjoying a holiday by the coast. It’s lovely to meet you –”
“Liz Jones,” she said as she shook the man’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Jones?” Brian said, arching a thick brow with a smirk. “No relation to the famous Murphy, are you?”
“Not that I know of,” Liz answered as she turned back to the paintings. “You said it was easy to spot fakes if you know how?”
“It’s all in the dates,” Brian said, stepping back as he hooked his thumbs into his jeans pockets. “Murphy Jones lived an extraordinary life. He was born in 1884 to David and Jacqueline Jones, but they both died in a factory fire not long after, leaving him an orphan. He was raised in an old Victorian workhouse before they were outlawed. When he was eighteen, he moved to the Cotswold village of Peridale, which is where I was born and raised, although our paths never crossed. I may be old, but I’m not that old. He became an apprentice of the famed Peridale painter, Donald Clapton, who like Murphy, was a brilliant landscape artist. I think even Donald would have agreed that his apprentice outgrew his talents.
“When a lot of people think of Murphy Jones, they think of his Yorkshire landscape paintings from his later years. He didn’t achieve fame for his work until the 1940s, and he was about my age by then. Few know that he lived in Peridale between the ages of eighteen and thirty-two. He had a natural talent from the start, and he painted a lot during his time in Peridale, that was, until he was enlisted in the army to fight in the First World War. Unlike his paintings, he survived the war. Nobody knows what happened to his work from those years. He painted infrequently during his famed period, but when I was a child, there were enough people around who remembered Murphy Jones. They say he was seen constantly painting, and he was amazing at it. He’d sell them to locals, but like anything without any perceived value, things go missing and get destroyed. That's why when one of his pre-war paintings does show up, they sell for a lot. I’ve known one to sell for over a million pounds at auction.”
“I should have known it was too good to be true,” Trevor said with a roll of his eyes.
“You’re not the
first to be duped by a fake Murphy Jones,” Brian said, patting Trevor on the shoulder. “In fact, you’re not the first to be duped by that specific forgery.” He pointed at the wintry countryside painting. “I saw that myself this past July. Caused quite a lot of trouble back in Peridale. The best man at both of my weddings, Anthony Kennedy, stole that painting from his lover thinking it was a real Murphy Jones. He hid it in plain sight, knowing all about the one that sold at auction for over a million. He made the mistake of telling his mother about it, not thinking she would know the significance. She was old enough that her timeline had crossed with Murphy Jones’. Their relationship wasn’t good enough for her to spare his life.”
“His mother murdered him for a painting?” Liz asked, her detective senses pushing forward. “I read about that in the paper.”
“It made the national news,” Brian said with a roll of his eyes. “She poisoned him with arsenic, hoping she could steal the painting for herself to keep her cosy in her retirement, not that she could find the thing. He owned a coffee shop in the village and hung it on the wall, knowing most had forgotten all about Murphy Jones. It’s funny what the promise of money can do to people. People have killed for that painting, and it’s not even real. I have no idea how it ended up down here.”
“You still haven’t explained how you know they’re fake,” Liz said, feeling uneasy in the presence of the wintry countryside. “If they’re so rare and valuable, how can anyone tell?”
“Because that was painted in the 1930s, not before the First World War,” Brian said confidently. “It’s all in the colours. They’re not contemporary to the period they’re claiming to come from. These were painted by another famous man from Peridale, an art forger named Martin Edwards. I’ve seen his handiwork more than once. These pictures have no real-life counterparts that have been discovered. Martin was also an incredibly skilled artist himself, but he was a chameleon. He could copy people’s styles as though he had their hands. He painted a batch of Murphy Jones paintings in Peridale in the 1930s. I’ve looked at photographs of the landscapes and the trees from that period, and they match up with what he recreated in Murphy’s style. If they had been real Murphy Jones’, the landscape would have looked subtly different. A lot can change in twenty years.
“Martin’s little enterprise made him a rich man before he was caught and imprisoned. His grandson was Anthony’s lover, and he’d kept hold of the fake. He never knew the truth of his grandfather’s forgery past, and it cost him his life. Anthony’s mother also poisoned him with arsenic when she realised he might work out the true value of the painting to try and steal it back. Aside from Anthony, he was the only person who knew what the painting looked like until I noticed it on the coffee shop wall. Of course, it was all too late by then, and the coffee shop closed immediately after. I went back to give the painting to the authorities, but it had vanished.”
“Sounds like you live in an eventful village,” Trevor exclaimed. “I’m glad Scarlet Cove is quiet.”
“Peridale has its moments,” Brian said with a dark chuckle. “Although I overheard someone talking about a beheading here at Halloween? My daughter is quite the amateur detective. I’m sure she would have figured that out in a matter of days.”
“It was figured out,” Liz said almost defensively, not mentioning that it was her who had put the pieces together. “Do you have any idea how Katelyn Monroe could have got hold of these paintings to sell?”
“It’s not difficult,” Brian said with a subtle shrug, his eyes trailing to the window. “Art, especially stolen art, moves quickly and smoothly through underground channels. There’s usually a chain of people involved with putting people in contact with buyers. You might have handed over a million pounds for the pair, but I doubt she kept even half of that. She would have taken a finder’s fee, but that’s likely all.” He waved to the window, his attention suddenly divided. “Listen, I need to go. We’re going to dinner with some friends, and we’re checking out first thing in the morning. I wanted to thank you for a great stay and to apologise that you’ve been the one to end up with these paintings. If you want my advice, keep them and don’t let them pass around anymore. There’s too much blood on these paintings already.”
Brian shook their hands before heading for the door. Liz looked out of the window at a platinum blonde woman who was wearing a very revealing outfit. She held a baby in her arms who could not have been more than a couple of months old. At first, Liz thought the young blonde must be the antique dealer’s daughter until he kissed her on the lips before they both climbed into the bright pink Range Rover.
“Lucky fella,” Trevor said with a sigh. “Married a girl twenty years younger than him. We should all be so lucky, right?”
Liz smiled uncomfortably, her age-gap with Simon suddenly shrinking into insignificance. She stared up at the wintry painting again, remembering Brian’s comment about there being blood on the painting. She looked back at Trevor and wondered if his need to get his own back on Katelyn could have resulted in her death. Aside from his outburst at the art club the night of Liz’s kitchen fire, he was usually mild-mannered, if not a little pompous and arrogant at times. Was he capable of murder?
“I should get going,” Liz said as she checked her watch. “I promised Simon I’d be back in time for dinner. Thanks for letting me look at them. I know you’ve lost a lot of money, but they are wonderfully painted. Perhaps in another lifetime Martin Edwards was the famous painter, and Murphy Jones was the imitator?”
“That’s a lovely thought, but I can’t make any money from that, can I?” Trevor said, a hint of the anger she had seen from him before pushing through his deep voice. “I’m an art collector. I was going to hold onto them for a couple of years, and then sell them. They’re worthless pieces of junk otherwise.”
With that, Trevor stormed off, leaving Liz alone in the sitting room with the two elderly women. She smiled over at them, and they smiled back, no doubt having eavesdropped on their entire conversation. Leaving them to gossip about the scandals they had overheard, Liz headed for the door. She decided she would walk across the top road to the farm and enjoy the cool evening air. On her way to the exit, she spotted Christopher and Elisabeth being shown around the grand reception area by a staff member. They were arm-in-arm and taking in the details, relaxed smiles on their faces. Liz hung back for a moment, wondering if she could walk out before they saw her. When Christopher caught her gaze, he smiled and diverted their tour towards her.
“What a pleasant surprise, Elizabeth!” Christopher exclaimed in his usual posh voice, no trace of sadness at the recent death of his sister. “Are you taking a break from the town?”
“It’s a flying visit,” she explained, smiling awkwardly at Lizzie, who was even more intimidatingly beautiful than Liz remembered. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Christopher replied, his lips smiling rigidly, but his pale blue eyes empty. “Absolutely fine. We’re here looking at using this as a potential wedding venue.”
“Wedding?” Liz asked, the words catching in her throat. “Isn’t that a little soon?”
“We’re in love,” Lizzie said in a matter-of-fact voice. “There’s no better time.”
“I meant because of what happened to Katelyn,” Liz said, her eyes imploring Christopher to drop the pretence. “It’s only been a matter of days.”
His eyelids fluttered for a moment, but his veneer did not shift. Lizzie pulled him in tighter, as though trying to remind him of something they had previously discussed. Liz wondered if she had been the topic of that discussion, or if she was reading too much into the look in Lizzie’s eyes.
“We’ve set a date,” Christopher said flatly. “We’ll be married before the end of the month.”
Liz almost protested. She wanted to see a flicker of grief from the man she knew was sweet and caring under the stiff-upper-lip attitude. Deciding it was a lost cause as long as he had Lizzie glued to his side, she gave up, making a mental note to catch him alone.<
br />
“I’m happy for you both,” Liz said with a forced smile. “This is a great building, so you’ve picked well.”
“I don’t like it,” Lizzie announced, her Australian accent sticking out like a sore thumb in the sea of British voices. “It’s tacky. Don’t you think so, Christopher?”
“Very tacky,” he echoed. “I’ll see you around, Elizabeth.”
Christopher and Lizzie walked back to their guide, leaving Liz lingering by the desk. A young woman came over and asked how she could help, causing Liz to scurry for the front door. As she walked home in the dark, she could not shake one single thought from her mind. She did not trust Lizzie one little bit.
6
Liz made her way from the farm to the gallery, bundled in her winter coat that now smelt of floral washing powder rather than smoke.
Her visit to the Manor hotel the previous day had revealed a lot about the history of the paintings. An evening of research had confirmed Brian's story, but she was not sure where it fit into the broader picture, if at all. It put Trevor in the frame and confirmed that Katelyn was as dishonest as Liz had always suspected. Despite his temper, Trevor did not strike Liz as the type of man who would be capable of strangling a woman to death.
As she walked through the small town, she picked up on an uncomfortable silence. It was something she had experienced twice since moving there, both after unexplained murders. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as she weaved down a winding street, eager to force out the chill. Little rain droplets pattered from the sky, so she was glad when the gallery came into sight.
She walked into the foyer and the heat inside replaced the nippy weather, but the relief did not last long. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach when she saw that Nancy was not in her usual spot behind the desk.
