Local Artist

by Paul Trembling

  She unlocked the door, let me in, and gave me a quick tour. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. The bed in the spare room’s made up, just make yourself at home, OK? I can’t say when I’ll be back, probably late.”

  She left with a final admonition to keep the door locked. I dumped myself down in the living room. It wasn’t as luxurious as Coren Hall, but it was comfortable. I glanced round. Clearly, June liked things neat, without being obsessive about it. However, there were indications that someone with a more relaxed attitude to life had been here: the jacket tossed onto a chair looked like Rob’s. They’d have to find their own point of balance, as all serious relationships must.

  The TV control had slipped down a side cushion, which I guessed was another indication of Rob’s presence. I worked out how to switch it on, and found a news channel.

  Sir Arthur’s death was the third item, right behind an international crisis and a political scandal. Not much actually in the item: some old footage of him in his heyday, a map showing Coren Hall Village, and the bare bones of the story: “Police confirmed that Sir Arthur had died from gunshot wounds at his home…” etc.

  But then, “Our Arts Editor looks back on his life and work.”

  I sat up and paid close attention, as the picture switched to the inside of an art gallery, with the reporter standing in front of what was clearly one of Sir Arthur’s portraits. I even recognized it – a member of the Royal Family, but not in the full regalia. Instead, she was wearing mud-stained country clothing, sitting on a low stone wall, and apparently drinking something from a thermos. She was gazing out of the picture with a look of amused irony. I could almost hear her saying, “What? Surprised to see me looking like a normal person?”

  “Sir Arthur Templeton was perhaps the most famous portraitist of his generation,” began the reporter. “Known internationally for his paintings of the rich, the famous, and the great: known too for his ability to look past that wealth and fame and greatness and show something deeper and perhaps more real in his subjects.”

  The picture faded to a montage of other Templeton portraits, with particular points highlighted by the commentary, before coming to a grainy black-and-white photo of a scruffy schoolboy accompanied by a pretty but tired-looking young woman.

  “But Arthur Templeton was not a native of the high-flying and glamorous world that he came to both inhabit and depict with such skill. He was born Arthur Waterhouse, in very humble circumstances which soon became outright poverty when his father, a farm labourer, died. His mother moved into town to find work, and it was there that she met James Templeton, a widower and the owner of the factory where she was employed. Both she and Arthur took on the Templeton name, a family including an older brother and sister, and a much more comfortable life with better prospects.”

  The reporter went on to talk about Arthur’s early signs of talent, his attendance at art school, and the contacts he made there which led to his first commissions and the beginning of his rise to fame. But – apart from noting that there was no mention of “Memory Lane” – I tuned out of that part. My mind was full of these new revelations about Sir Arthur’s past.

  “Older brother and sister.” Presumably that meant that Carr was the son of Sir Arthur’s half-sister or half-brother. Did that make him a half-nephew?

  The reporter had moved on to interview one of Sir Arthur’s contemporaries, an artist whom I’d never heard of. He seemed to be aware that no one had heard of him, and was bitter about it. A poor choice for an interviewee, I thought. Probably the first person they could find at short notice who had known Arthur well enough to talk about him: but while saying all the right things, he still managed to give the impression that Arthur’s success was more due to social skills than to artistic talent.

  “Catty little man,” I said, resentfully.

  “Of course,” the reporter was saying, “one of the things Sir Arthur was known for was that he never signed his work. Why was that, do you think?”

  The interviewee, a flamboyantly dressed figure with a ridiculous goatee beard over a double chin, waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s what he liked people to think. It was part of his mystique, as it were. But the truth is he did sign everything. Even his rough sketches, would you believe! Though the dear man did love to talk about how recognizable his work was, he never quite had the courage of his convictions, and he always put his initials in there somewhere. For instance, look here…”

  He pointed to a part of the royal portrait behind them, and the camera zoomed in on the indicated section. “Can you make that out? Do you see just there in the detail of the stone wall? That mark on the surface makes an ‘A’ and the shadow next to it, where the blocks join, that’s the ‘T’. Arthur Templeton!”

  The camera pulled back to show the unknown artist looking insufferably pleased with himself. “There’s probably not more than half a dozen people in the world know about that!” he proclaimed. “I’m one of the very few people Sir Arthur told, and he swore me to secrecy! But I don’t suppose that matters now, does it?”

  The reporter wrapped up and handed back to the studio, where things moved on to sport. I switched it off.

  Hidden signatures.

  I remembered Sir Arthur looking so intently at one part of my painting – and his sudden shock at something he saw there. Could that have been a signature – one concealed in the same way?

  Not Sir Arthur’s own, of course. But someone who knew him – perhaps had been taught by him? Someone who had learned about his signatures and had used the same idea?

  If it was a signature or initial that Sir Arthur had recognized, that might explain the shock.

  I scrolled through the pictures on my mobile until I found the ones of my painting. The original was – I hoped – safely back at home: I’d put it near my laptop, in the office. Well clear of the fire-damaged area. I was tempted to jump in my car and go for it, but dismissed the idea. I wasn’t up for any more driving, and June would not be pleased if I left the safety of her house on a whim.

  So I did what I could on my phone, zooming in until the quality of the picture began to deteriorate, then slowly scanning across the surface, looking for something like a signature or an initial.

  It was slow going. The resolution of the image simply wasn’t good enough for such close examination. There were various blurs and marks in the shadows that could have been letters – but nothing that I was sure of.

  I sat back, my eyes aching. And my head, and my throat again. The painkillers were wearing off.

  Where exactly had Sir Arthur been looking? I struggled to remember. In truth, I hadn’t really noticed. I’d been more concerned about getting out before Carr arrived.

  But it seemed to me that perhaps he’d been looking more at the centre of the painting. In the lit area around the flower.

  I went back to searching.

  And just there – in the angle between leaf and stalk – was that a “V”? And if so, then next to it, the fine pattern on the leaf surface made a “T”.

  T – V.

  I blinked, and rubbed my eyes and looked again. The T shape was surely anomalous. The veins on a leaf didn’t run that way. Or did they? It was a long time since I’d looked at a leaf.

  The V was just the natural shape. But the way it was shaded made it stand out. I looked at that part again. The shading continued down the other side of the stalk. So it could be an “N”.

  Or it could be my eyes, or my imagination, or just noise on a low-resolution image blown up too far.

  All the same, I found myself wondering who “TN” could have been.

  And had it been on the other painting? Sir Arthur had been looking at it when I’d left. What had he muttered?

  It might have been a name. It might have been anything.

  I found the pictures of the room in Coren Hall and went over them in the same detailed way.

  That – there, in the shadows cast by the easel – wasn’t that a “TN”?

 
It could be. I wasn’t sure. My headache was getting worse.

  I sat back and closed my eyes. Tomorrow I’d try to get home to take a closer look at the original. And perhaps Macrae could get the painting from Sir Arthur’s house and look at that one, though I supposed it would be part of the crime scene.

  Still thinking about tomorrow, I dozed off, and didn’t wake up until June came back in.

  “Hello! You can use the bed, you know!” She grinned as I peered at her through blurry eyes, trying to remember where I was.

  “Oh. June? Um – what time is it?”

  “Half past eleven. I’ve just got off. Things are pretty much at a standstill for now, so Jimmy’s sent us all home so as to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow. Which we hope will be a big day!”

  “Why?” My brain was slowly coming together. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “I’ve no idea. We always hope for a big day, though. Sometimes we’re right. I’m going to have a hot chocolate and get to bed. Do you want one?”

  “Yes. Please. Definitely. My mouth tastes like something died in there. And I’m overdue a painkiller or two.”

  “Coming up, then!”

  June clattered around in the kitchen for a while before returning with two steaming mugs. I took mine gratefully, wrapped my fingers round the hot china, sniffed the rich aroma, and finally took a slow sip. Hot, thick, sweet. “Heaven in a mug,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Can’t beat a cup of chocolate to unwind with.”

  We sat together for a while in companionable silence. “How’s the investigation going?” I asked eventually.

  June shook her head. “No sign of Carr, no sign of Emily, no leads, no clues. Rather not talk about it if you don’t mind. I need to try to switch off from work for a while.”

  “Of course. So – tell me what else has been happening in your life, then.” I looked pointedly at her finger.

  “Oh, this!” June looked at it herself, examining it curiously as if it was the first time she’d seen it. “Rob gave it me – was it just yesterday? Yes. Yesterday.”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “Well, I was. I mean, I know we’ve been heading this way for months. But somehow, it was still a bit of a shock. Perhaps I didn’t think he’d ever get round to it. He’s a bit – what shall I say? – relaxed about life? Not much sense of urgency?”

  “Any, er…?” I broke off, trying to find a more tactful way to put my question, but June had already realized what I was thinking.

  “Second thoughts?”

  “Sorry. Not my business.”

  “No, it’s OK. We do seem so different sometimes. Chalk and cheese. Like I said, he’s so laid-back… and I can be a bit – the opposite, I suppose.”

  “So what convinced you, then?”

  She was silent for a few moments, thinking. “You know how we met? After Laney Grey died? Of course you do, you were involved as well.”

  “Yes, I remember. As I recall, you saved his life.”

  “And he saved mine! But… there was this moment, when I thought he was about to die, when I just felt that if he did, I would die with him. Or that something irreplaceable would have gone out of my life.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I’m not sure how to say it. The words just don’t do it.”

  “It’s OK, June. I understand what you mean.”

  She gave a shy little laugh, and glanced at me in a way I’d never seen before. And I realized that what I was seeing was a depth of her that rarely surfaced. A vulnerability and uncertainty that lived inside the confident, professional young woman.

  “The thing is, I barely knew Rob then. We’d only met a few days before. But he was already the most important person in the world to me. And I don’t get it, Sandra. I just don’t get it.”

  “Don’t try to get it, June. Understanding is overrated. Some things go deeper than we can think. Love is one of them.”

  “So what’re you saying? Follow your heart?” She grinned, making a joke of it, cloaking herself again.

  I grinned back. “Well, don’t switch your brain off entirely! You’re going to need that as well. Just don’t overthink it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.” She took a long swallow from the cooling chocolate. “Any other advice?” And before I could answer, she stopped me with a raised hand. “Nothing trite and obvious, please, Sandra. I know all about needing to talk and needing to listen and all that stuff. Tell me something real. Something from yourself.”

  “OK.” I drank some more chocolate, thinking. “OK. Something I’ve only learned very recently. Watch out for guilt. It gets in the way. And it doesn’t matter if it’s real guilt or false guilt. Once you accept that narrative, once you start living in it, the guilt shuts down communications and colours relationships and…” I shrugged. “Yes. It gets in the way.”

  She looked at me and frowned. “So what are you saying? That you’ve had to forgive Graham something – or that he’s had to forgive you?”

  “Both of those. But the real problem is forgiving myself.”

  She finished off her drink and stared into the bottom of the cup for a moment. “Yes. I think I know what you mean.” Glancing up, she caught my eye. “Thanks, Sandra. Well…” She stood up and stretched, working some kinks out of her shoulders. “I need to get some sleep. Briefing’s at eight sharp tomorrow morning, and Jimmy wants to come round here to go over a few things before then.”

  “This secondment to CID seems to be working out well for you.”

  “Yes. Jimmy’s indicated that he’d like me to make it permanent. But I’m not sure. I was pretty comfortable in uniform. And I’ve got a lot more on my mind at the moment!” She waved her ring finger at me. “Too much happening all at once! Goodnight, Sandra.”

  After June had gone, I took the mugs through to the kitchen and rinsed them out before heading upstairs myself. My head was still buzzing, but I was too tired to process the thoughts.

  June’s spare room smelled gently of lavender. I put my mobile on charge before I got into bed, and noticed that there was a stack of messages waiting to be answered. I scanned through quickly, but there was nothing from the hospital. The rest could wait.

  I hadn’t even checked my Word for the Day. I took a quick glance. “Sinistrous”, meaning “giving the impression that something bad will happen; ominous”.

  “Too late,” I muttered to myself. “It’s already happened.”

  I slipped between crisp, fresh sheets and into deep, soft sleep.

  DAY 7: QUONDAM

  I woke up to the sound of June clattering around in the bathroom. I’m sure she wasn’t doing it deliberately, but when you live alone you can make as much noise as you like, and it’s hard to break that habit. Especially if you’re half asleep yourself.

  I could have gone back to sleep, but I wanted to be up in time to phone the hospital early on. So I forced myself out of the warm bed and, lacking my dressing gown, put the tracksuit back on. I’d packed it, reluctantly, as it was one of the few things I had that didn’t smell smoky. But at least the colours helped to wake me up.

  While June finished in the bathroom, I revisited my messages and started deleting the ones I didn’t need to answer. The Word for the Day, I noticed, was “Dunderhead”.

  “Great start,” I muttered. “Insulted by my own phone.”

  It was a boring word, anyway. Everyone knew what a dunderhead was. I’d have to find something better than that.

  June finished, I made use of the facilities, and then followed the smell of coffee downstairs, to find June and David Macrae poring over a map on the table. They glanced up as I came in; I was sure that he blinked as he took in my outfit.

  “Good morning, Sandra,” he said. “You’re looking… bright today.”

  “Coffee’s in the kitchen,” June told me. “Decaf or the poisonous stuff, which I’ve had to start keeping in for Rob. Until I can get him off it. I’ve had some toast, but there’s cereal in the c
upboard.”

  I just nodded, speech being beyond me until I was caffeinated, and headed for the kitchen and the real stuff. “Thanks, Rob,” I said to myself as I sipped on it and returned to the living room.

  “What’s happening, then?” I asked as I entered. “Anything you can tell me?”

  Macrae shrugged, and indicated the map. “We’ve got some possible sightings of the Porsche, but nothing confirmed as yet. We were hoping to see some sort of pattern developing, which might tell us where he’s away to, but if there is one, I’m not seeing it.”

  “Neither can I,” I admitted, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m finding it hard to believe. That Sir Arthur’s dead – and that his own nephew could have killed him! Though I suppose that sort of thing happens all the time?”

  “Most murders are committed by people who knew their victim,” June confirmed. “Friends and family. But the motives are usually clear-cut. Jealousy, frustration, abusive relationships, that sort of thing. It’s not so obvious in this case.”

  “I’m thinking that I may have provided the trigger that set him off,” Macrae said grimly. “It was a big mistake to send you in to see Sir Arthur. What he saw in your painting – and perhaps in his as well – may have led him into a confrontation with Carr. And now you’ve confirmed the link between the paintings and Coren Hall – thanks for that, by the way – and therefore with the farmhouse as well, it makes it more likely in my mind that this is all tied in with what happened thirty years ago.”

  “Where was Carr back then?” I wondered aloud.

  “Australia.” Macrae fished in his briefcase, brought out a cardboard file, and opened it up on top of the map. “This is the result of all the research we’ve done so far. Our man Sir Arthur had a sad start to life. His father died when he was young: 1942. He was just five years old.”