“Nigel. Nigel Templeton? So you must be – Geraint?”
He took a little bow. “Yes! Good. You got there in the end. Well done. You’re only the second person to figure it out. Third, if Terry realized before I hit him with the fire extinguisher. And Sir Arthur only recognized me after he’d been given a clue from that painting he was sent. Terry’s painting, of course.”
“Why? Why kill anyone in the first place?”
“Oh, heavens, not more questions!” He shook his head. “You’ve got all the names – that’s what you’ve been searching for all this time. Really, there’s no satisfying some people.” He glanced at his watch. “OK, then. We have a little time. Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable?”
In the middle of the room, behind one of the pillars, was a table not covered in brushes and paints, but with a laptop, some A4 paperwork, and a digital camera arranged neatly on top. There was a printer on a shelf underneath, and a chair behind it.
I sat down. Ferrers-Manton, aka Geraint Templeton, moved behind me. It was even worse, somehow, having him out of sight than it had been when he was in front of me and pointing the gun at my face. I turned in the chair and watched as he went over to the windows at the far end and began opening them.
“Let’s have a bit of fresh air in here,” he said. “A bit of extra oxygen to feed the accidental fire that’s going to happen!”
I wondered if I could make it to the stairs and get down before he noticed, but even as I thought it, I realized that he still had the pistol aimed in my direction. He smiled brightly, as if he’d read my thoughts, and walked over to stand behind me, peering over my shoulder at the A4 sheets.
“I do believe that Emily was planning to make a speech at the exhibition. Why don’t you read it out to us? It would be interesting to find out what she knew.”
I hesitated. “Emily’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Well, of course she is! If she was alive I would have got her to bring me here, and we’d never be having this conversation! Silly girl tried to run away when she saw what I’d done to Terry. I threw the fire extinguisher at her. Clumsy thing to throw, but it caught her on the leg and she went down. Hit her head on a bookshelf. I took her back to my place, hoped she’d come round, but she died after a day or two without recovering consciousness.”
I was crying. “She was still alive? You could have taken her to a hospital. She might have survived!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I wasn’t going to let her live.” He tapped me on the head with the pistol. “Read!”
I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, and began.
“Good afternoon. My name is Emily Coombe, and I am here today on behalf of the artist who painted these remarkable works, Terrance Naylor. Terry has opted not to come in person today, and I think that when I have told his story, you will understand his reasons.
“I first encountered his work some five years ago, shortly after I had moved here and started work at the library. At that time I was living in rented accommodation on the edge of the Delford Mills area of town, and going into a local shop one day, I noticed some drawings for sale.”
Emily’s talk had been intended to go with a media presentation. At several points there were references to “Slide number…” and thumbnail pictures. In this case, it was a pencil sketch of a shop front.
“They were very rough pencil drawings, on cheap paper, but had been done with remarkable skill. I have been a lover of art and an amateur artist myself for many years, and as soon as I saw these I realized that they were the product of an amazing talent.
“However, the shopkeeper was unable to tell me who the artist was. He talked vaguely of some ‘down and out’ who lived in the abandoned housing round the demolished Mill buildings, and who occasionally came round selling his drawings. They were, he conceded, ‘not bad’, and he usually gave the man a few quid for them.
“I bought all he had, and began a search for this mysterious artist.
“It took me all of a year to track him down, and as long again to gain his confidence. Eventually, with gifts of food and clothing and – most importantly! – art supplies, I was able to find out where he lived.
“At that time he was occupying part of an old back-to-back house on Quondam Street, and living in the most appalling conditions of squalor imaginable. I did my best to get him to move to somewhere better, but he absolutely refused. He was tied to Quondam Street for reasons I only discovered much later. So I was forced to adopt a different plan. I set about cleaning out and renovating one of the better of the abandoned houses.
“Eventually, I was able to introduce Terry to much better living conditions, and a proper studio for his work.
“In all this time, he rarely spoke more than a few words to me. It was very clear that he had, at some time in his past, suffered some terribly traumatic experience that had rendered him all but unable to communicate and indeed terrified of most human contact. Clearly, he needed proper professional help, but he utterly refused to meet with anyone else but me. I could only continue to try to build our friendship, hoping to get to the point where I might be able to introduce him to someone else.
“In the meantime, there was his painting.
“With the access I provided to proper materials, his art flourished, and he soon showed that he had a natural mastery of all mediums. With only occasional help from me, he was soon working in oils, acrylics, and watercolours, as well as his original pencil or charcoal sketches.
“I wanted to start showing these to a wider audience, but Terry was absolutely insistent that no one should know his name or where he lived. He trusted me and, to some extent, some of the local people – but he was terrified that someone, and he would not or could not say who, might find him.
“So I selected the best of his work, and offered it to the market through some dealers I knew of in London. Like me, they quickly recognized the quality of his work, and it began to sell.
“But some paintings Terry refused to let me put on sale. There were certain themes that he returned to obsessively, painting the same or similar scenes over and over again, and these he absolutely refused to show to anyone else.
“Most often, there was a room, an ugly place in some old building. I thought at first that this was somewhere in the Mills, but Terry indicated otherwise. The only description he would give was ‘Farmhouse’.
“Sometimes he depicted himself or other people in this place. It became clear to me that this was somehow tied in with his traumatic past. I encouraged him to explore this in his painting, because I felt that bringing these things out into the open might be the best or only way to deal with them.
“And so it proved. Though it was sometimes incredibly painful for him to revisit these memories, every time he went there it became a little easier, he was able to show a little more, and sometimes even say a bit about it. In time, Terry was able to produce the paintings you see here today, and I was able to put together the terrible story behind them.
“Terry was an orphan, and he knows nothing of his parents or even where he was born. His earliest memories are of being in some sort of institution, or institutions – he can’t even be sure how many places there might have been. But sometime in his early teens (he thinks) he was sent to Coren Hall.
“I think it likely that Terry already had problems with communicating before that happened, and Coren Hall was supposedly a special school and orphanage that would help young people like him. But it soon became clear that it was something else, something that was – and I do not think this is an exaggeration – evil.
“To put it bluntly, Coren Hall was a high-class paedophile brothel.”
I had to stop at that point.
“Oh, come on now!” Geraint sounded impatient. “All that time you were investigating, surely you must have had some idea what was going on?”
“I – I suppose it occurred to me. Only, I didn’t want to think that that was possible.”
He chuckl
ed. “Not many people did want to think about it then. Apart from the ones who thought about it all the time, of course! That worked to our advantage. Carry on.”
“I will not tell you here everything I learned from Terry. I have written a full report separately and that will be going to the proper authorities. And I suspect that most of what went on there he still cannot talk about. Perhaps he does not even remember. But there is no doubt that he and others there were systematically abused over a period of years.
“There was one bright spot in the darkness that covered Coren Hall. That was the occasional visit of someone whom Terry would only refer to as ‘The Sir’.
“Terry wanted to make it absolutely clear that this person had never abused or taken part in any abuse of himself or any of the other inmates of Coren Hall. It is possible that he did not even know about the true nature of the institution. He came every now and then to teach a class in art, and whilst he was there, none of the other ‘guests’ came to visit. It was some time before I came to understand that this person was none other than Sir Arthur Templeton.
“From what Terry has told me, I believe that Sir Arthur genuinely thought that he was donating his time to a charitable foundation.”
Geraint sniggered. “That’s true. Gullible old fool was always congratulating Nigel on how he had such a wonderful heart for the kids! You should have seen his face when we finally told him the truth!” He shook his head. “Those art classes were a pain in the neck, though. We had to keep the customers away while he was there. I had to join in the classes as well. Just to keep an eye on what was happening, make sure none of the brats talked out of turn.”
“And it was in these art classes that Terry discovered and developed his artistic talent. Sir Arthur recognized it early on, and gave him extra tuition.”
“That’s when things really started getting difficult. Uncle Arthur was wanting to pop round every week to check on his star pupil. Of course, he didn’t have much time for me, even though I was his nephew!”
“For Terry, these classes opened up a whole new world. One that gave him an avenue of communication that he had never had before. He has acknowledged that, and the debt he owes to Sir Arthur, with a special painting.”
The thumbnail was, of course, of the Coren Hall painting that Sir Arthur had received.
“But something even more terrible was about to happen at Coren Hall.
“Discipline had always been harsh. Direct physical punishment was rarely used, but the ‘pupils’ were forced into submission with threats and deprivation of food and, above all, fear. As part of this cruel treatment, offenders were taken to an abandoned farmhouse near the Hall and locked in. Sometimes they were left there for days on end, without food or water.”
“Days on end? That didn’t happen much. Overnight was usually enough. The little bastards –” Geraint sniggered, “– that’s literal truth in most cases, I’m not swearing – were absolutely terrified of the farmhouse. Psychology, you see. Didn’t want to do anything to damage the merchandise physically, our customers liked undamaged goods, even the ones who wanted to play rough. But get them frightened of something, and you don’t need anything as crude as a beating.”
My eyes were stinging. I turned to glare at him, ignoring the pistol. “You – you… monster! You treated these children like… like…”
He shrugged. “Like merchandise. As I said. They were no good for anything else.”
I continued to look at him, but no longer glaring. I just stared, totally unable to understand a mind like his. Other people were no more than commodities to him – I realized that, but I couldn’t grasp it.
“I can’t imagine what it must be like to be you,” I said. Softly. Almost to myself.
He smiled. “Well, it’s pretty good, actually. But please read on. We’re getting to the fun part.”
I turned back to the sheets of paper, rubbing my eyes.
“This part of Terry’s story was the hardest of all for him to put into words, though it was the major theme of his paintings. What I came to understand was that one of the older boys managed to escape. I don’t know how it was managed – according to Terry, the grounds were patrolled by ferocious dogs, trained to attack anyone trying to get in or out.”
“Well, you know that bit’s true!” Geraint said. “We made sure all the kids saw the dogs rip something up – a rabbit or once it was a sheep – and that kept them from wandering around at night! But Malcolm, he was a bit smarter than the rest. Hid himself in the boot of a customer’s car. Got himself locked in, though, and when he was discovered, they brought him straight back.”
“The escape ended in failure, and resulted in a terrible punishment. The day after the escape attempt, the entire school was marched down to the farmhouse. You can see from the paintings exhibited here how they were forced to sit in a circle, and made to watch whilst the escapee was murdered by being hung from the rafters.
“And you can also see the person responsible. Standing behind them, making sure they didn’t look away.
“This was the traumatic event which, above all, scarred Terry’s life. A memory so terrible that he could never escape it; a fear so profound that it remained with him forever.”
“Did the job, then!” Geraint said with satisfaction.
“However, it also marked a change in things at Coren Hall. Over the next days and weeks, the ‘customers’ stopped coming. There were rumours that the police had visited, though they didn’t speak to anyone except the staff.”
“That was your fault!” Geraint’s tone of jovial self-congratulation changed abruptly to a petulant anger. Without warning, he hit me on the side of the head with the pistol barrel. Hard enough to almost knock me out of the chair. I managed to stay upright, even though I was dizzy with the sudden pain. “You ruined everything, snooping about, poking your nose in! What were you doing in the farmhouse anyway?”
I put my hand to my ear, and it came away bloody. “I was lost. In the woods – with the storm. I was just looking for shelter.”
“So you thought you could just wander in anywhere you wanted?” He raised the gun and I flinched.
“I knocked. I shouted. There was no one there. And the door wasn’t locked.”
“Ahh. So that’s it! Baz forgot to lock up after us!”
“Who was Baz?”
“Barry Hargrove. Big lad, ex-con. We used him for a bit of muscle round the place. Happy to do anything to anyone for a bit of dosh. None too bright, though.” He shook his head. “He was giving me a hand with that little job, in case any of them kicked off. Last one out, he was supposed to put the lock on. We were going to go back later and get the body, but then the storm broke and we decided to put it off till the next day. Except that the next day the place was swarming with police! I never did understand how you’d got in there.”
I thought back over that day, and shuddered. While I was on the bus, going out to start my walk, Geraint was marching children down from Coren Hall to witness a murder. About the time I got off in Frayhampton, he was stringing one of them up.
Malcolm. He had a name now. When I was making my decision to go down the valley instead of along the ridge, Malcolm was choking to death.
“Of course, we had to put a hold on things whilst all that was happening,” Geraint continued. “Couldn’t have the customers running into the Old Bill, could we? But Dad had a word in a few ears, made sure that things were wrapped up quickly and neatly.” He glanced at his watch again, and frowned. “Let’s finish Miss Coombe’s story, shall we?”
I flipped over the page and continued reading.
“Several months went past. There were still no ‘customers’. Terry couldn’t say much about this period: it is probably that he was still in a state of shock after what he had seen. But I was able to piece together what had happened to change things at Coren Hall: and it is largely due to the work of a remarkable woman whom I am proud to know personally – Mrs…”
I stopped abruptly. And felt
the gun muzzle poke against the back of my head.
“Don’t be shy! Too late for that now. Read it!” Geraint hissed the words into my ear.
“Mrs Sandra Deeson.”
I paused again, the gun ground harder into my skull, and I felt a shudder go through me. Geraint felt it as well, and it seemed to amuse him. He chuckled, his mood switching abruptly from anger to good humour, and he pulled the gun away.
“Quite the hero, aren’t you? Do let me know what Miss Coombe had to say about you.”
“Mrs Deeson was the person who discovered the body and who alerted the police. But she did not leave things there. She continued to investigate, even after the police investigation had been completed with suspicious speed and without anything being learned. Determined to discover the identity of the body, she refused to let the matter be brushed under the carpet. Even when her persistence cost her her job, she carried on.
“I believe it was as the direct result of this that Coren Hall was suddenly closed, nearly a year after the murder. Terry recalls that suddenly the children were told to pack their belongings – such as they had – and were sent away. He never saw Coren Hall again.
“When I told Terry about Mrs Deeson and the part she had played, he began producing a new series of pictures. He had often used the image of dead or dying flowers to represent his time at Coren Hall. Now he began to show sunlight breaking in to bring those flowers back to life. In this way, he felt, Mrs Deeson’s actions had brought him hope and had delivered him from the terror and darkness of the Hall.”
“Oh, well done Mrs Deeson!” Geraint sounded angry again. Aware now of how rapidly his moods could change, I braced myself for another blow to the head, but instead he began clapping – or as well as he could with the gun still in his hand. “I expect you feel very proud of yourself, don’t you!”
I turned and looked at him, thinking about how I felt as I did so.
“Yes. Yes I do, actually. For the last thirty years I’ve been telling myself that I wrecked my career with a pointless obsession, and now I’ve found out that it wasn’t pointless at all. I stopped you. I put an end to the evil thing you were doing at Coren Hall, and I gave Terry and those other kids a chance at freedom. And that’s something I can feel very proud of.”
Local Artist Page 20
