by H. Y. Hanna
There were a bunch of steps at the back of the courtyard, leading up to a second, raised level overlooking the whole garden—a sort of elevated terrace heavily planted with trees and shrubs. I went up and found a stone bench tucked into a corner behind a bush, and sank down on it gratefully. The night air was chilly and I hadn’t brought my coat, but I was so overheated that I didn’t mind it for the moment.
I leaned back and savoured the panorama around me. The back of the garden must have been built on a natural hill and I was able now, from my raised position, to get a view of not only the whole garden but also the surrounding rooftops—the medieval towers, Gothic arches, elegant cupolas, and high parapets that made up Oxford’s “dreaming spires”. The gallery was located in the very heart of the historic university city and, once again, I was reminded of the breathtakingly beautiful architecture which made Oxford such a top tourist destination.
I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky, clear and dark except for a sliver of moon and a smattering of a few stars. They looked strange and slightly upside down, now that I’d got used to the way the constellations looked in the Southern Hemisphere. I could see Orion’s Belt and, for the first time in eight years, the brilliant North Star shining in the night sky…
The sharp acrid smell of smoke disturbed my thoughts and I glanced around. Although my raised position gave me a view of the whole courtyard garden, much of it was obscured by foliage and shadows. I saw a movement through the tops of the trees right below me, and as I leaned forwards to peer through a gap in the leaves, I saw that it was the waitress from behind the bar. Her pale hair gleamed in the moonlight. She had just come out of the rear door and was standing beside it, her hands cupped around her mouth. I saw the flicker of a flame and then the smell of smoke wafted across to me again. Obviously out for a ciggie break—although as I watched, she took a few furtive puffs, then hastily stabbed the cigarette out and pulled something out of her pocket. There was the sound of ripping plastic and then she slapped a small square patch onto her arm, muttering as she did so.
I felt a twinge of empathy. I’d never tried smoking but I could understand the struggle to break free of an addiction. I sat back again, thinking that I really ought to return to the party—Cassie would probably be wondering where I was—but I was enjoying the peace and solitude out here. A few more minutes, I promised myself.
Then I became aware of the sound of whispering.
At first I thought it was the waitress, but then I realised that the sound was coming from the other side of the courtyard, in the shadows among the trees to the right. I shifted on the bench and peered into the darkness. On the level below me, I thought I could make out two figures, but it was difficult to see properly. I wouldn’t really have cared except that there was something in the urgent, furtive quality of the whispering which caught my attention. I leaned forwards, unconsciously straining my ears to discern the words.
“Are we going to do it tonight?”
“Relax… everything in good time.”
“I… I can’t bear the waiting. The suspense is killing me!”
There was a cold laugh. “You knew what you were getting into. Don’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on.”
Was this conversation for real? I felt like I had stepped into some kind of Cold War spy movie. I leaned forwards even more, trying to see through the darkness. Yes, definitely two figures and, from their relative heights, a man and a woman perhaps? It had sounded like a woman who had spoken first. Was it the waitress after all? Perhaps she had crossed the courtyard to meet someone in secret there?
I was just thinking of creeping closer when the sound of footsteps came from the other side of the garden. Someone coming out of the back door, a cough, and then the unmistakable sound of a striking match. That acrid smell of cigarette smoke again. Another smoker coming out to indulge in his habit.
The couple in the shadows went silent, then there was a flurry of movement and, the next moment, the shadows were empty. I stood up hastily and rushed towards the steps, hoping to catch a glimpse of them. I don’t know why, but suddenly I needed to know who they were. They had to have come into the garden from the back door so they must have been guests at the party. And one of the voices had sounded vaguely familiar. It was hard to tell with whispers—a voice lost all the tones and timbres you used for recognition—but there had definitely been something in the inflection…
I dived down the steps, trying to take them two at a time, but my haste ended up being my undoing. I’d forgotten about my stupidly high heels and I slipped, toppling backwards.
“Ahh!”
I slid the rest of the way down on my bum and landed in a heap at the bottom of the steps.
“Ow…” I groaned.
“Hey, are you all right?”
I looked up. It was the man who had come out for a cigarette. He was standing over me, eyeing me with concern. I took the hand he offered and let him help me to my feet.
“Yeah, fine, thanks,” I said, embarrassed. I glanced quickly around. “Did you see another couple out here just now?”
“Another couple?” He looked around the empty courtyard in puzzlement. “No, I passed the bar waitress going back in as I was coming out, but then it was just you. I heard you cry out and saw you fall so I came over to help.”
Good thing this wasn’t a Cold War movie because I was turning out to be a crummy spy, I thought. The other couple must have taken advantage of the distraction from my fall to slip back into the party unnoticed. Well, no point standing out here in the cold pondering it any longer. I was just going to have to accept that this was a mystery which would remain unsolved. Rubbing my sore bottom, I thanked the man and went back in to rejoin the party.
CHAPTER TWO
The warmth of the gallery was actually quite welcoming as I stepped back inside. I hadn’t realised how cold I had become sitting on that bench. I noticed instantly that the blonde waitress was back behind the bar. She couldn’t have been one of the couple, I reasoned, because the man had said that he had passed her coming in on his way out—and I knew that both figures had still been whispering when he stepped outside and disturbed them.
So who were they? I cast my eyes around the room, scanning the crowd, trying to see if anyone might fit the dark figures I’d seen. Then I did a double take as my eyes fell on four little old ladies on the other side of the gallery. Oh my God. The Old Biddies. What on earth were they doing here?
The leader of the group, a stout, formidable woman in her early eighties with a helmet of woolly white hair—tinged slightly blue—and a determined gleam in her eye, marched purposefully towards a canvas suspended by wires from the ceiling and peered at it. Mrs Mabel Cooke. Probably the worst of the Old Biddies and as deadly as the Spanish Inquisition when she was after information. She and her friends, Glenda Bailey, Florence Doyle, and Ethel Webb, ruled the village of Meadowford-on-Smythe, where my tearoom was located (although there were rumours that their influence penetrated to the top reaches of the Oxford City Council).
I felt a hand grab my arm, and turned to see Cassie next to me, her eyes brilliant with excitement.
“Oh, Gemma! Jon’s just told me that he’s travelling to Italy to attend an auction on Monday. It’s in Florence and he asked if I’d like to go with him!” She hesitated. “Do you think you’ll be all right without me at the tearoom for a bit? We’re closed anyway on Monday so it’s just Tuesday really. I’d be back on Wednesday and I know it’s never as busy during the week—”
“Go,” I said, smiling at my friend. “Don’t worry, we’ll manage fine. You know you’re not a slave to the tearoom, Cassie! I’m really grateful you help out as much as you do, above and beyond your normal hours. Do you think you’ll have time to visit the Uffizi Gallery, see Michelangelo’s David and all that?”
Cassie nodded eagerly. “Yes, we’re going to go on Tuesday before we fly back. I’ve been there and seen it, of course, but it’ll be so different going with Jon!” She sighed dre
amily. “He’s got such a unique way of viewing things and he’s so knowledgeable about art history…”
I squirmed slightly. Hearing Cassie gush about Jon Kelsey was not on my list of favourite activities. Hastily, I changed the subject. Nodding towards the Old Biddies, I said in an undertone, “Why are they here?”
“Oh…” Cassie followed my gaze and looked slightly bewildered. “I don’t know really. I mean, I invited them but—”
“You invited them?”
She gave a helpless shrug. “Mabel was asking me about my exhibition and I told her about the party tonight and then… I don’t know… somehow I found myself giving out invites to them. Jon was a bit annoyed, of course, since they’re not likely to become clients of the gallery…”
“No, I should think not,” I said dryly, thinking of the exorbitant price tags I’d seen on several of the other paintings so far. You could buy a small mansion for that money! I knew that art was subjective and value was in the eye of the beholder… but I just couldn’t understand how two random blobs of paint could be worth so much. Still, if Cassie could get a share of the spoils, then I was happy for her.
I looked back up and suppressed a smile as I saw the Old Biddies accost Jon as he was talking to a group admiring an exhibit. For once, I had no pity for Mabel Cooke’s victim. Cassie made a horrified sound in her throat and hurried over to rescue her boyfriend, and I followed (although I have to admit it was more in gleeful anticipation than sympathetic support).
The crowd around Jon was looking at a small table on which was the “work of art”. From where I was standing, it looked like a blob of some soft, blue substance, pressed into the surface of the table. There was even an imprint of the artist’s thumb showing on the surface of the blob.
“This is a prime example of abstract expressionism focusing on the juxtaposition of the permanent and impermanent,” said Jon. “The blue adhesive draws the eye and suggests an exploration of the transgender politics of the 20th century.”
Mabel pushed her spectacles up her nose and leaned over to look at the blob.
“I don’t know,” she said loudly, her booming voice carrying across the gallery. “Looks like a bit of Blu-Tack stuck on a table, to me.”
“Or gum,” said Ethel eagerly. “When I used to work at the library, the children used to leave gum stuck on the underside of the tables. Most annoying! And it looked exactly like that.”
There were gasps of horror and outrage from the crowd and Jon looked annoyed.
“That, madam, is a priceless piece of contemporary art,” he said haughtily.
Mabel looked at him in astonishment. “Are you sure?”
“Maybe there was something stuck on it and it got knocked off. You know how sometimes you use Blu-Tack to keep things in place,” Florence suggested helpfully. She looked at the floor around the table. “Maybe it’s fallen down around here?”
Jon’s face was getting redder. “I assure you, madam, that there are no pieces missing from this work of art. This is the entire piece. Its very simplicity denotes the power of the artist’s vision.”
Glenda turned aside and said to the other Old Biddies, in a loud whisper, “I think the artist needs to check his vision. Do you think he knows about the two-for-one offer at Specsavers? I got a great deal on my bifocals there.”
Jon made a strangled sound in his throat and Cassie hastily stepped in.
“Have you ladies got a drink yet?” she said. “Why don’t you go over to the bar? There’s a waitress making up cocktails for people.”
As the Old Biddies trundled off, I saw Jon unclench his jaw.
Cassie patted his arm soothingly. “They mean well,” she said. “Once you get to know them better, you’ll see.”
“I’m not sure I want to get to know them better,” said Jon. Then he took a deep breath and looked down at Cassie indulgently. “But this is your night, Cassie, and I’m not going to let anything spoil it.”
Cassie looked wistfully at the price tag stuck under the piece of Blu-Tack. “If only my pieces could be worth that much someday.”
Jon smiled at her. “Everything in good time.”
I stiffened, catching my breath. I stared at Jon Kelsey. Suddenly I was hearing that furtive whisper from the garden again:
“Relax… everything in good time.”
Was it Jon I had overheard in the garden? But who had he been talking to? And what had they been talking about? It had sounded like they were plotting something… but what?
The door to the gallery was suddenly flung open by a late arrival to the party. A young woman tottered in, heavily made-up and expensively dressed in a flamboyant pink cocktail dress, jewels sparkling at her neck and ears. She had the kind of arrogant confidence often seen in those born into privilege and used to the best, which gave her a superficial maturity. In fact, she was probably about the same age as the waitress behind the bar, although she looked older with her make-up and sophisticated clothing. There was something vaguely familiar about her—as if I might have met her before—but I couldn’t quite place her.
She cast her eyes around the room and her gaze stopped on Jon. A small smile curled the corners of her mouth. Tossing her sleek blonde hair over her shoulder, she sashayed across the gallery towards him. She was unsteady on her feet, stumbling a few times as she came towards us, and several people around her reached out instinctively to catch her. I wondered suddenly if she was slightly drunk. I glanced at Cassie’s boyfriend. He had stiffened, his face expressionless and his eyes watchful as she approached us.
“Jon…” She cooed, reaching a hand out to his lapel as she drew near.
“Miss Waltham,” he said, neatly side-stepping so that her hand fell short of its target.
She gave a bitter laugh. “Why so formal, Jon? Are you afraid of letting everyone know how close we really are?” Her voice was slurred and heavy.
Jon glanced at the guests around him who were all watching avidly and took a step towards her, saying in a lowered tone, “Miss Waltham… Sarah… Why don’t we go into my office? We can have more privacy there…” He tried to put a hand under her elbow.
She shook him off roughly. “Why? I don’t want privacy. I’m here for the party. Though I must say, you never invited me…” She pouted at him. “But never mind… I’m here now…” She giggled, then stumbled sideways. Jon caught her just in time.
“You’re drunk,” he said accusingly.
She tossed her head. “No, I’m not. Not unless you’re talking about drunk on love…?” She giggled again.
Jon glanced at Cassie, whose face was beginning to look stony. Once again, he attempted to move the young woman away. “Look, Sarah, why don’t we go into my office and talk there? If you are unhappy about the service you’ve received…”
“Unhappy?” She gave a shrill laugh. “Oh no, the service was very good. Very good indeed.” She leered suddenly at Cassie. “Is he giving you the full service too?” She laughed and wagged her finger in Cassie’s face. “I hope you know what you’re getting into… the great Jon Kelsey—everyone thinks he’s so wonderful, so charming, so brilliant… and nobody realises what a bastard he is!”
There were gasps from the crowd and I saw Jon flush angrily. Cassie looked like she didn’t know what to say. I felt terribly sorry for my friend and the sordid scene she was facing.
“Miss Waltham, if you do not behave yourself, I’m afraid I’ll be obliged to call the police and have you removed from the premises,” said Jon through clenched teeth. “I will not have you threatening and harassing my other clients.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Client? Is that what you call her?” She laughed again. Then, as Jon took a threatening step towards her, she raised her hands defensively. “Fine! Fine! I am going to get a cocktail and enjoy myself.”
“I don’t think you should have any more drinks,” said Jon quickly. He looked across the gallery and caught the waitress’s eye behind the bar, giving his head a sharp shake. Raising his voice, he ca
lled across the room, “Miss Waltham can have a cup of tea, if she likes, but no alcohol.”
“Fine!” Sarah snarled. “I knew you’d find some way to spoil it for me!”
Turning, she staggered across the room towards the bar. People parted like the Red Sea around her, their reactions ranging from open curiosity and speculative whispers to a polite blind eye and pretended nonchalance.
Jon turned back to Cassie and said in a low voice, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Who is she?” Cassie demanded.
Jon compressed his lips into a thin line. “Sarah Waltham is a customer who came into my London gallery. She told me she wanted to get something for her father’s birthday and I tried to assist her in her selection, but I very quickly realised that what she was really interested in was a date with me. She was very pushy and I thought maybe if I was pleasant to her and took her out once for a meal, then she would be satisfied. You know, show her that we could be friends but nothing more. Unfortunately, it backfired on me badly,” he said ruefully. “It just made her even more delusional. After that dinner, she seemed to think that we were a couple and she began calling herself my girlfriend. She started showing up at the gallery every day, following me home, even waiting outside my apartment in London to catch me when I came out… and when I made it obvious that I had no interest in her romantically, she became spiteful and vindictive. She came into the gallery and made scenes, scaring the other customers away.”
Cassie’s eyes flashed. “What a cow.”
Jon sighed. “I thought that my coming up to Oxford to set up a new branch of the gallery here might help things—you know, take a break from London and hopefully she might cool off. I didn’t realise that she was actually a resident of Oxford and had been going down to London regularly to see me there! Talk about out of the frying pan, into the fire! I’d hoped that maybe she wouldn’t find out about me being here but…” Jon glanced across the gallery, then back at Cassie. “I guess she must have found out tonight.”
