The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘You think Christopher Marston is going to torture it out of you?’

  She smiled uncomfortably. ‘No, but he might try and persuade me, as might Mike. And so might Ralph, to say nothing of the other one.’

  Robin grimaced. ‘I would have thought Ralph would have his own methods of finding it. After all, he found it here.’

  ‘Yes but he has been here before. He knows the gallery. He won’t know the place where you are taking it. Will he?’ she added anxiously

  Robin shook his head. ‘That, I can guarantee.’

  ‘That’s enough. I don’t want to know any more. I am going upstairs and I am going to throw open the door and the skylights in the studio and I am going to blow all the evil influences away. Whatever has happened here, whoever has caused it, once the picture is gone, it will all stop.’

  ‘Good girl. And I will see you tomorrow having dusted every trace of where I have been off my feet. Just don’t worry about it, Luce, OK? It will be safe, I promise.’

  She nodded. ‘I trust you, Robin.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He went round to the front of the car and climbed in.

  She waved him out of sight before going back inside the gallery. Flipping the sign on the door over to read Closed she switched on the downstairs alarms, then went up to the kitchen.

  The place felt peaceful and somehow clean. She walked through into the studio and looked round before going to push open the skylights. The gentle murmur of distant traffic filled the room as she moved round tidying away the bottles and brushes which had been scattered over the table, pushing the easel back against the wall, restacking the portfolios in the corner. One day she would have to decide what to do with this room . If indeed she decided to stay at all. It could be her study, of course. That would be a sensible choice, somewhere to store her books and papers and put a proper desk at which she could do her research. Or it could become a second bedroom, somewhere for visitors to stay. Or perhaps both. She sighed. In spite of what had happened over the last few days it still felt like Larry’s room. Larry’s domain. It was going to be a long time before it would properly be hers Perhaps one day she should go and get rid of the responsibility of the gallery. For now, though, she had no choice. She had to write this book. For Larry, but also now for Evie. She had to know what happened to Evie, she had to know who the enigmatic young man with the joyous smile was. And who the éminence grise.

  Leaving the door open behind her she went back into the kitchen and then through into the living room. On the table lay the books she had been studying. Sitting down she pulled the log book towards her once more and opened it. It was as she was leafing through the entries that she felt a cold draught blow through the flat. Behind her the studio door banged shut.

  Wednesday 14th August

  ‘She lied to you!’ Charlotte was sitting in the small back garden of Mike’s Bloomsbury flat sipping from a glass of prosecco as the shadows deepened. Soon it would start to get colder and it would be time to go in, but she had spent a long time worming out of him whatever it was that had been bugging him all week and at last he had come clean. Lucy Standish had failed to tell him the one important thing about her life. She owned, or at least had owned an Evelyn Lucas oil painting. ‘The conniving bitch!’

  Mike flinched. ‘She didn’t lie. She just didn’t mention it. And I can see why. If it was destroyed in the fire which killed her husband it is hardly the sort of thing she would want to remember.’

  ‘No. Of course not. She lost her man. But she also lost a fortune!’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Unless it was insured, of course.’ She took another sip from her glass. ‘Which goes for him as well, I suppose. One way and another she’s probably a rich woman now.’

  ‘Don’t be such a cow!’ he snapped at her.

  She gave him a haughty look. ‘Touched a nerve, have I? Oh, come on, Mike. Can’t you see beyond her wistful looks and her big eyes. She’s not a damsel in distress who needs rescuing. She is on the make. Your cousin is damn right about her. She is probably cleaning out Evie’s studio as we speak now she’s been warned off by him. When you next go down to Rosebank you will find it completely bare.’

  Mike sighed. Levering himself out of the garden chair he wandered across to the French doors and went inside. ‘It’s bare already, Charlotte,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘That’s the point. It has already been cleaned out by Chris. He helped himself to everything, including things which had been specifically left to people like Dolly who are not in a position to argue about it.’ He had wandered over to the counter, opened the fridge and helped himself to another bottle of lager.

  ‘Are you letting her continue sorting through the stuff?’ Charlotte followed him inside.

  ‘I didn’t tell her not to.’

  ‘Well then, you’re a fool.’ She put down her glass, elbowed him out of the way and went to the fridge in her turn. ‘I called in at the deli on the way back. There are some nice things in here for supper.’

  He watched her as she bent over, her silky hair sliding over her shoulder to expose her slim neck and tanned back in the scoop-necked dress, the delicate knobs of her spine looking strangely erotic as she moved. He was a lucky man to have such a beautiful woman in his kitchen however much she irritated him from time to time. As she brought out paper bags and cartons and began to lay out the food on plates he put down his bottle and caught her arm. ‘Why not do that later?’

  She smiled. ‘Because I’m hungry! And I know you; you just want to change the subject from the sainted Lucy.’ She smiled at him winningly. ‘Go on, deny it.’

  He felt another wave of irritation. ‘I do want to change the subject, yes. It is boring me. I am here now. I don’t want to spend the whole week agonising about Rosebank Cottage.’ He moved away from her and crossed to the couch which ran along the opposite wall. Throwing himself down he reached for the remote and turned on the TV.

  Charlotte watched him for a moment through narrowed eyes, then she went back to the food, laying it out neatly, opening drawers to find knives and forks and napkins, reaching for condiments and wine.

  ‘Do you want to eat over there in front of the telly?’ she asked when it was all ready.

  ‘May as well.’ He didn’t look round.

  She scowled. She pulled out the heavy lacquer tray his mother had given him as a house-warming present and transferring the food and plates to it brought it over to the coffee table. ‘Voilà! All ready.’

  He glanced up. ‘That’s great. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ She stood still for a moment studying his profile as he looked back towards the screen and suddenly she was afraid. She had never fallen in love before. She wasn’t sure if she had fallen in love now, but she was certain that this man was the nearest thing to a real lover that she had ever experienced. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with him and very probably she wanted to be married to him and suddenly tonight she had sensed her certainty that he felt the same way about her slip away. It wasn’t that she had annoyed him – she had done that before, God knows, it wouldn’t be a proper relationship if they didn’t irritate each other sometimes – but it was as if a cold draught had blown through the room. Not antagonism; it was something less obvious, something more subtle, something which had made the skin crawl on the back of her neck, something which she knew if she looked at it more closely might be panic.

  Sitting down next to him she found herself for a moment unable to move, so intensely aware was she of this internal radar which was saying: shut up, don’t mention Evie, don’t mention Lucy. Back off. Dangerous ground. Don’t go there.

  As though sensing her turmoil Mike turned and stared at her. ‘All right?’

  Wordlessly she nodded. ‘Food.’ She pointed at the table. That subject at least was safe.

  October 29th 1940

  Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table, looking very serious. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were alone. ‘Evie, I know you’ve been seeing Tony again. Wh
y didn’t you tell us?’

  Evie was standing by the door about to go out into the yard. She spun round to face her mother. ‘How do you know I’ve seen him?’

  ‘I could hear you both, darling, going downstairs.’ Rachel sighed. ‘I know you’re a grown woman, and I know you love him and he loves you, but you must, please, respect the fact that you are living under our roof.’ She bit her lip in anguish. ‘If it was just me, I wouldn’t –’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘You wouldn’t?’ Evie’s voice was harsh.

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything about him going up to your bedroom,’ Rachel said crossly. ‘I probably wouldn’t mind. He is an honourable young man, I am sure he is, but your father, Evie!’ She was twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. ‘He has strong values. He would not want his daughter doing anything to shame him. He does not want you to have anything to do with Tony.’

  ‘Shame?’ Evie stared at her furiously. ‘And whose shame is it he’s really worried about? I think we both know, don’t we?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rachel stood up and faced her daughter. The two women were of similar height and colouring, and as they stood glaring at each other it was for a moment as though they were twins. Then Rachel turned away, her face crumpling, their age difference at once obvious. ‘First you were absolutely miserable and it was all off, then suddenly you are wandering around the farm in a happy daze. You’ve left jobs untouched. I haven’t seen you with a sketchbook in your hand for ages. Are you even painting any more? Please understand, Evie. Your father is old-fashioned in many ways. And he has noticed the change in you. He has told me he doesn’t want you to see Tony any more.’

  Evie stared at her mother incredulously. Then it dawned on her. Her mother didn’t know. Of course. No one had told her about the loan. Her father had kept it from her and now Ralph too had kept his secret.

  ‘I’m not painting because I’m tired, that’s all. We are all tired!’ she said wearily. She gave a deep sigh. ‘And yes, I’m thinking about Tony. And Ralph, and all their friends. Of course I am. So are you. I see you standing there lost in thought sometimes, and I know you’re thinking about Ralph.’ She paused. ‘You are always worrying about Ralph! You always have! I thought you would be on my side over Tony, but you’ve never loved me like you love him,’ she went on sadly. ‘If I love Tony and I want to marry him you should both be pleased instead of trying to come between us. Then I would get out of your hair and no longer be under your roof!’ Unable to bear the confrontation any longer she groped for the door handle, pushed the kitchen door open and stumbled out into the yard.

  Eddie was standing just outside. ‘Evie!’ His face was white.

  ‘No, Eddie, I haven’t time to talk about painting now!’ Evie pushed past him and ran across the cobbles. For a moment he stood still, looking after her, then taking a deep breath he stepped into the kitchen. ‘Hello, Rachel.’

  Rachel had dropped into her chair again. She looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. One glance told her he had heard at least some of the conversation.

  ‘Eddie, she didn’t mean it!’ she said, instinctively trying to appease him.

  ‘Didn’t mean what? That she wants to leave home? That she wants to marry Tony Anderson? That she is too tired to paint?’ His voice was strangely flat. ‘I think she meant every word of it, Rachel.’ He dropped the parcel he was carrying tucked under his arm onto the table. ‘No doubt she won’t want this now. Perhaps you would like to pass it on to someone who would!’ he said, his tone icy. He turned and walked out. Two minutes later she heard the bang of his car door followed moments later by the roar of the engine.

  For a long time she sat staring at the table top then at last she pulled the parcel towards her and began to untie the string. Inside was a box of coloured pastels and a new sketchbook. Pushing them away from her with an angry shove, Rachel stood up wearily and walked across to the open door. The hens were placidly scratching in the yard outside, their gentle clucking undisturbed by the car that had raced past them.

  Wednesday 14th August

  Huw’s face lit up when he saw Lucy standing at the door of his vicarage, then it clouded as he noted her agitation. ‘Come in.’ He ushered her into his study, a room littered with papers and books. She noted a small crucifix hanging on the wall near the desk but that was the only sign of his trade.

  ‘Maggie, my wife, is out at the moment. At a meeting of the young wives,’ he said. ‘Sit down, Lucy. Tell me what has been happening.’

  Lucy was silent for a moment. ‘I wanted to apologise. I chased you out.’ She sat down on the chair he indicated after he had removed a pile of books and sat there upright, tense, fiddling with the buttons on her jacket. ‘I knew it wasn’t Ralph,’ she said at last. ‘In the studio, it was someone else.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could tell?’

  ‘Yes.’ He sat down at his desk looking concerned. ‘Do you know who it was?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘We have moved the painting. Robin and Phil have stored it somewhere. They haven’t told me where. We thought that best. I thought it would all be all right now.’ She bit her lip, appalled to find she was near to tears.

  ‘And it’s not all right?’ he prompted gently.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not.’ She jumped as the front door in the hall banged and they heard someone came into the house.

  Huw stood up looking visibly relieved. He went to the door and looked out. ‘Maggie, dear, I wonder if you can spare us a minute or two.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘You don’t mind, do you, if we tell Maggie what’s been happening? I promise you she is discreet and she could help us.’

  He ducked back into the room followed by an attractive woman who looked as though she might be in her early sixties, her wavy ash-blond hair damp and curly from the rain, her face glowing from her walk. She held out her hand to Lucy. ‘Hi, I’m Maggie, Huw’s wife. I have been to a meeting of the young wives in the village and I am knackered! I need a drink. Would you like one?’

  She left the room returning with two small glasses of whisky. ‘Here.’ She handed one to Lucy. ‘Drink it or I will have to have them both.’ She tipped some papers off the second spare chair and sat down. ‘Before you ask, I am a young wife on account of being the vicar’s wife, but also in this village young means anyone under eighty so all the wives qualify. In fact all females. In fact we have two men as well.’ She took a sip from her glass and closed her eyes with a sigh, leaning back in the chair.

  Huw ran his fingers through his hair, apparently silenced by this force of nature that was his wife. He glanced at her, satisfied himself that she had stopped talking and turned to Lucy. ‘I’m not sure if I mentioned to you that my wife is the psychic one in this house. We met five years ago when I was training for the priesthood. I was a widower and we met because of our interest in trying to resolve the pain of lost souls.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘I am afraid I bollixed his chances of getting on the bishop’s deliverance team. Huw knew I wouldn’t be acceptable to them as a camp follower. I am not a God botherer. He told me about you, Lucy, I hope you don’t mind. He said you and I would get on.’

  Lucy was silent for a moment and Maggie frowned. She set down her glass and leaned forward in her chair. ‘Would you like me to shut up and go away?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘No. No, I would rather you stayed. I’m sorry. I was a bit taken aback. I didn’t realise Huw had talked to anyone about me.’

  ‘I did ask you, Lucy,’ Huw interrupted.

  ‘Yes, you did. I remember now.’ Lucy rubbed her face ruefully. ‘So much has happened. I can’t cope with it all, somehow.’ She took a sip from the whisky and felt the warmth run through her veins. ‘I would like to talk to you, please. Both of you.’

  Behind them the door creaked open a crack. Lucy felt herself tense, but already Maggie was laughing. ‘Don’t panic. It’s Roger. As in Roger the Dodger, our cat. Do you mind cats? I’ll chase him away if you do.�
�

  Lucy managed a shaky smile. ‘I love cats. We could never have one, living in the middle of the town as we do, otherwise I expect Larry and I would have had cats and dogs galore.’

  She held out her hand to the magnificent ginger cat who walked into the room purring loudly as he went to Maggie and rubbed against her legs. He ignored Lucy.

  ‘Roger is deeply jealous of the young wives,’ Huw said, ‘as am I.’ He gave a tolerant chuckle. ‘Roger is a one-woman cat I’m afraid, but if you are very good he may condescend to speak to you when he is used to your presence.’ He turned to his desk. ‘Now, Lucy. You were saying that the picture has been removed to a place of safety?’

  Lucy nodded. ‘I thought the problems would stop, but they haven’t.’

  ‘Tell us what happened.’

  ‘The studio is still being haunted. There are noises; the door bangs; I can sense him there.’

  ‘Ralph?’ Huw asked

  ‘No, the other one. The angry one, and I wondered, that is, it occurred to me, do you think it is Rachel? Do you think I brought her with me from Box Wood Farm?’ Lucy looked from one to the other desperately.

  Maggie was studying her thoughtfully. ‘I can see the negative energy round you now, Lucy. It is a distinctly male energy. No,’ she leaned forward with a restraining hand as Lucy leaped from her chair in a panic, ‘don’t be afraid. We can deal with it. You are very open and vulnerable at the moment. We have to teach you to protect yourself, to make sure you have a strong shield in place.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘Huw does this by way of prayer, but if you feel prayer doesn’t do it for you, I can teach you some techniques which work just as well.’ She gave a gurgle of laughter and then glanced back at Lucy. ‘You can see why I am persona non grata with Huw’s boss.’

  ‘She is in spite of everything, a very good vicar’s wife,’ Huw put in loyally. ‘I doubt if any of the young wives would ever guess what she gets up to in her spare time.’