by Rob Campbell
* * *
It was so much to take in. We’d questioned how the vicar’s letter could be meant for Monkey, who hadn’t been born for almost a century after it had been written. Now we were faced with an equally impossible question: how was it possible that Monkey’s face appeared on a painting that was more than 150 years old? With the shock finally wearing off, I was able to consider yet another conundrum: if this was the painting that Abernathy had created in a post-séance fever, how the hell had he painted the Morning Tower in such vivid detail? Was Culverton Beck someplace he’d visited before the séance, or was it all part of the same holy vision that had enabled him to capture my friend’s face with startling accuracy?
We spent a few minutes discussing the possibilities only to decide that we didn’t really understand anything. Where we went from here, I didn’t know, but one thing was for sure: we’d come to find the painting, and we weren’t leaving without it.
After lifting it gently from its hook, I carried it under my arm. We found a key for the back door in one of the kitchen drawers and slipped silently away like two thieves in the night.
Which was exactly what we’d become.
Chapter 31
Whilst pure adrenaline, allied to a desperate need to know whether the painting lay in that house, had carried me through Wednesday night, I had only one overriding feeling as we stepped into Lester’s on Saturday night: guilt.
Maybe a bit of fear as well. A feeling of cold steel in my gut that refused to budge. But it was the guilt that fuelled the nightmares that I’d suffered the last two nights. I kept seeing scenes in my head: policemen arriving at my door to arrest me, or a hand on my shoulder in the street. Miss Bryson? We just have a few questions.
I hoped that tonight’s party for Lester’s birthday would be as good as Victoria had promised – that it would be enough to distract me from the thoughts that had plagued every hour of my days and nights since the break-in at the abandoned mansion. The weather had suddenly become milder since, yet still I found it difficult to shake the chill from my bones.
We had been so focused on getting our hands on The Truth that we’d not stopped to think about what we’d do if we did lay our hands on it. It was too large to fit in the safe at the Recorder office, and even if it wasn’t, how were we going to explain to Mick and Anja where we’d got it? If it was supposed to be some cheap item we’d picked up from an antique shop, how would we explain why we wanted to keep it in the safe? Plus, Dylan Fogg’s warning about not trusting Lester was fresh in my mind. Did we want The Truth to be locked up in his vault alongside The Frenchman? The jury was still out on Dylan, who we hadn’t seen or heard from since last weekend.
Something deep inside me, something that I couldn’t explain, told me that it was safer in my bedroom than anywhere else. Was I becoming like Lester? Whilst Napoleon languished in his impregnable vault, the painting suffered a similar fate in a less than secure location under my bed.
Monkey and I were seated on a couple of chairs that faced out into Lester’s darkened garden. Strings of lights were draped over the bushes and trees, wrapping the surrounding shrubbery in a faint glow. Despite the improved temperature, I was glad that we were inside looking out, but I did notice that Victoria had made good on her promise to get some patio heaters. Hopefully, they would keep us warm when we were shepherded out onto the patio later.
“Are we not lighting those?” Monkey asked, pointing through the French doors at a stack of what looked very much like Chinese lanterns on the edge of the patio.
“Of course,” Victoria responded. “But not yet. It’s all part of the grand finale.”
My teacher had done a great job of decorating both the lounge and garden, but it left me wondering how much of Lester’s money she’d spent in doing so. Whilst she sauntered off to instruct Lester’s cook on how best to serve the canapes, I decided once again to try to find out what was troubling Monkey.
“Do you like Chinese lanterns?”
“They’re okay. Why do you ask?” he replied in a surly voice.
“It’s just that that’s the most excited I’ve seen you since, you know, the other night.” After the brief excitement of Wednesday’s action, Monkey had slumped back into his moody malaise.
He shrugged, hiding his face behind the large glass from which he was gulping coke.
“Something’s been bothering you, I can tell.”
“Are you not feeling a bit guilty about what we did?”
“Yes. But that’s not what’s bugging you. You’ve been like this for days.”
He set his glass down carefully on the table, frowning in my direction. “I’ve had another letter.”
“From the vicar?”
“No. From my uncle.”
“Your Uncle Archie? I thought the people at the orphanage had told him that you weren’t interested.”
“They did. So he decided to pass me a letter through one of the lads at Crow Hill.”
“What did the letter say?”
“It said—”
“How’s it going, kids?” Frank had arrived at just the wrong moment.
I tried to hide my disappointment at Monkey’s news being interrupted, but Lester’s chauffeur smiled amiably, making it hard to hold a grudge with him.
“Can’t wait to see what Victoria’s got planned for her grand finale,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s something spectacular,” said Frank, laughing. “She’s been buzzing around here all week organising one thing or another.” He sat down next to us, suddenly adopting a serious face. “Nasty business with this murder,” he commented sombrely.
Over on the sofa next to the fire, the Reverend mumbled something about bad omens and beasts.
“It’s more than a bad omen. The guy’s dead!” Frank laughed sourly. “Crazy old fool,” he added under his breath.
The Reverend scowled in our direction, his eyes ablaze with something that might be described as righteous fire. “I should have seen this coming! The beast has spread its wings.”
“Is he okay?” I asked.
Frank glanced in the Reverend’s direction before leaning into me. “Something’s happened to him whilst he’s been away. And not something good, I might add.”
“I feel bad for Anja.”
“Why?”
“She was seeing Ramón, the guy who died. She’s really cut up about it.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!” Frank said with genuine concern.
“That’s terrible!” Victoria said as she brushed past, the air thick with her lemon-scented perfume. “Did you know him?”
“Not really. Just saw him around the Recorder office with Anja.”
Later, when Frank left us to help Victoria with something in the kitchen, Lester sidled over. “It’s no coincidence that this Ramón Blanco has been killed after talking to Gooch on the phone. Nothing good happens around Gooch! Didn’t I warn you about him?”
I found it hard to disagree with Lester and told him that I’d been thinking along similar lines. It seemed likely that Ramón’s death and his contretemps with Gooch were related.
“Still, I’m enjoying myself tonight,” Lester said, perking up. He already seemed a little tipsy. “Victoria has excelled herself. I can’t wait for the grand finale!”
“Any idea what we can expect?” Monkey asked.
“Probably some firework display. I promised her I would stay in my office all afternoon, so she’s had the run of the garden. Wouldn’t surprise me if there are some heavy-duty rockets hiding behind those trees,” he said, gesturing to the end of his garden.
With the exception of the Reverend, who seemed lost in his own little world, the party went smoothly, and everybody was in good spirits. I decided that it was best not to quiz Monkey over the mysterious letter from his Uncle Archie. There would be plenty of time for that afterwards. We had a good chat with Frank about how his brother, Train Man, was getting on. Victoria had set up some fun party games, the last of which had Le
ster wandering around his lounge with a tie across his eyes, acting as a blindfold. Watching him try to step over objects that weren’t there as Frank and Victoria screamed out for him to ‘watch that table!’ or ‘be careful, there’s a vase right next to your right leg!’ was downright hilarious. Even funnier because of his inebriated state.
Just after ten, Victoria tapped a spoon on a champagne glass, as if she was proposing a toast.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “If you would be so kind as to make your way to the patio. Champagne will be served ready for the finale.”
“Come on,” Lester said, shooing us all out into the chilly night air.
When we were all through, except Victoria, Lester turned to her.
“What next, my dear?”
“You pour yourself a nice glass of champagne. For the final part of the entertainment, I have to meet somebody out front. It was a bit big to bring through earlier,” she whispered. “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
Lester gave her a peck on the cheek and joined us on the patio, whilst Victoria closed the door and headed out front. Frank lit the patio heaters, and soon they were giving off a comfortable glow that was enough to ward off the bite of the night air.
“I’ve not seen you so happy for quite a few years, Mr Hawkstone,” Frank said.
Lester joined us, taking a swig of champagne – a few more mouthfuls of alcohol to add to the copious amounts that I’d seen him knock back over the course of the evening. He gave a satisfied sigh, waving his free arm about.
“It’s Victoria: she’s made a new man of me!” he said, slurring his words. He stumbled, Frank coming to his rescue, holding him by the arm.
“Steady on, boss. Might be best if you put that down for a while,” Frank said, gently trying to prise the champagne flute out of Lester’s hand.
“Nonsense!” Lester slurred, waving his arm again and nearly catching Monkey in the face. Luckily, Monkey was agile enough to duck the blow and stared at me with a knowing look. Meanwhile, Lester staggered about as if the soles of his shoes were lined with sticky bubble-gum.
“It’s my birthday in my garden. I’ll do as I please!” As if to underline the point, he grabbed another glass from the table, draining the contents in one gulp.
The Reverend made some comment about alcohol being the Devil’s poison, which Lester countered with a comment about the Reverend being more fun before he’d found God for the second time.
There was a silence of no more than a few seconds as Lester and his spiritual advisor glared at each other intensely. “I might ask Victoria to marry me!” Lester declared, rather loudly.
“Marry you?” Frank asked, clearly surprised.
“Why not? She’s a fine woman. She’s beautiful, she knows how to throw a great party, and best of all, she knows her way around an oil painting. Life moves fast. You have to grab it with both hands whilst you can,” he added, and I wondered whether Victoria had been whispering her philosophy into Lester’s ear at opportune moments. “Life has suddenly become wonderful since she’s been around!”
Frank leaned in to whisper to me. “I’m happy that he’s happy, but he’s sounding like a bad Elton John song now,” he said with a grimace.
Lester suddenly became calm, sitting down on a wicker chair and sipping his champagne slowly. A serene look crossed his face, a boyish smile taking up residence.
“He does seem happy. Less intense than I’ve seen him before,” I commented.
The three of us stared at him whilst the Reverend continued to mumble from his chair near the lawn.
“Do you know what I really love about Victoria?” Lester declared suddenly. “Her smile,” he added when it was clear that we weren’t going to attempt an answer. “And the way she dresses. And her shoes. And her perfume,” he said, his list of favourite things about Victoria only interrupted when he stopped to take another sip of champagne.
“I notice he’s not mentioned her time-keeping,” Frank said sarcastically, looking at his watch as if to emphasise the point.
I looked at the Chinese lanterns, standing unlit on the lawn, and that cold feeling that had slowly drained away over the course of two fun-filled hours suddenly returned. A feeling that something wasn’t right.
“Where is Victoria?” I asked.
Lester, draining the contents of his glass, gave a short giggle. “Oh, and another thing. I really like that little tattoo at the top of her thigh.”
“I’m not sure we want to know any more, Lester,” Frank commented.
My heart missed a beat. “What tattoo?”
“It’s a little snake and a cross of some sort,” Lester giggled.
“The mark of the beast!” the Reverend whispered.
“Eh?” Lester said, standing up and stumbling around to face his advisor. “I suggest that you take that back, sir!”
“Ramón had one of those tattoos!” I explained to Frank. “Dylan Fogg said that this is the mark of the Wardens!”
Frank held my gaze for a split-second before dashing off into the house, running through the lounge.
“Victoria!” he shouted before disappearing into the kitchen. He reappeared in short order, returning to the lounge, looking one way then the other and then sprinting off to the hallway. Monkey and I ran after him, Lester staggering behind us, a bewildered look on his face.
In the hallway, I caught a strong lemon scent.
“Oh, God!” I said, realisation dawning. “Frank! The vault!”
We dashed over to the stone steps that led down to Lester’s vault and made our descent, two steps at a time.
The vault door stood open like a gaping wound.
Frank ran into the vault, and I heard him curse a few times before he walked out disconsolately. “The Frenchman. It’s gone!”
By this time, Lester had managed to stumble to the top step.
“Where are the fireworks?”
“Victoria’s gone!” Frank said angrily.
“Gone?”
“How could she get in there?” Frank pressed.
“She wouldn’t. Not my Victoria.”
“Wake up, Lester. She’s played you for a fool!”
“How did she get in?” I asked, repeating Frank’s question and pointing at the supposedly impregnable vault.
Lester uttered something unintelligible and slumped down to a sitting position at the top of the steps. We left him there, Frank yanking open the front door and racing outside. I caught up with him just in time to see a pair of red tail lights, presumably Victoria’s, turning left out of the gate and disappearing into the night.
We made our way back inside to find that Lester hadn’t moved.
“How could I be so stupid?” he mumbled. “She must have got the combination from the piece of paper I keep in the bedside drawer.”
“You kept your combination written down on a piece of paper?” I asked incredulously.
“My memory is not what it once was!” Lester protested.
“Jesus Christ, Lester! What were you thinking?” Frank asked, his hands slapping down against his legs in exasperation. “She’s really played you here!”
“There’s no fool like an old fool, eh?” Lester said, managing a weak smile.
But by now, the horrible possibility that Lester hadn’t been the only one she’d played was dawning on me. All that rubbish about her being interested in art and wanting to see the paintings owned by Lester. Then there was her claim about her understanding my pain because, like my dad, her mum had died when she was young. Had she made all that up just to get close to me, to win my trust?
I started to feel sick.
When I saw Lester, head in his hands, sitting on his stone steps and sobbing like a toddler, I felt guilty all over again. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I had brought all this trouble to his door.
Chapter 32
Wherever he’d lived in the world, Gooch had always enjoyed a walk on a Sunday morning. By the standards of an English autumn, it was bon
e-chillingly cold, but over the years, he’d walked home through the streets of Chicago as the winds had swept in across Lake Michigan, and he’d experienced the deep chill of a Russian winter. In comparative terms, this was nothing.
Walking was his last true pleasure in life. The simplicity of putting one foot in front of the other, taking in the sights and sounds of wherever he might be stationed, helped ease whatever tension was coursing through his stomach. Or, if necessary, helped grease the wheels of whatever project he was cooking up. Being honest, it wasn’t helping him come up with a scheme to outwit Lester Hawkstone, but at least it was taking his mind off other matters. If the Bookkeeper thought that he was going to cower in his apartment whilst waiting for the council’s decision, the greasy-haired bean counter was wide of the mark.
Gooch made his way through the thin mist that lingered around the edges of the park. It was deserted at this early hour, but the duck pond was a hive of activity for Culverton Beck’s feathered inhabitants. The scene reminded him of those days in Chicago with Milly and Max, and he smiled at the memory. He tightened his grip on the briefcase, easing through the park gates and back onto the pavement.
Despite his experience in colder climes, the bite of the wind on his face told him that it was time for a cup of steaming black coffee. He crossed the road, feeling little need to check for traffic but glancing left and right all the same, and made the short journey through the tight streets that led to his apartment.
As he pushed open the glass doors to his building, a spotty-faced youth appeared on the stairway, seeming in a hurry to reach the ground floor. The youth leapt down the last three steps and headed for the door as it closed behind Gooch, slipping between door and frame with the dexterity of a lithe cat before jogging out into the street.
Gooch laughed to himself, wondering whether the lad was on his way to some important rendezvous or was merely escaping for home after a raucous Saturday night. He took the stairs at a sedate pace – he was ready for a coffee, but he didn’t have plans for the rest of the day, so a few more seconds was nothing to him. He walked down the corridor towards his apartment, the muffled sound of televisions audible behind a couple of doors. The place was otherwise silent, the residents enjoying a Sunday lie-in.
