Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  “Father was all for guidance rather than a zealot. His parishioners loved him.”

  “Do your parents still live here?”

  “No. They’re both dead.”

  “Sorry.” He peered through a window, as if he doubted me, expecting to see them sitting either side of the fireplace.

  “The place looks old.” He turned back to me.

  “It’s mentioned in the Domesday Book.”

  “Really?” Basil traced the lettering carved in the stone on the porch, with his fingertips. “What’s Halghetree?”

  “The name of the original village. It means ‘Hallow Tree’. All its inhabitants died during the Black Plague. The only parts of the village that still exist are the remains of the old church, and part of its graveyard. These are within the structure of the rectory and its garden.” I pointed to the back garden through the side gate.

  “How creepy.”

  “Yes. I suppose it is, though our old housekeeper, Mrs. P, said my mother found it to be a fascinating place. That’s why she bought it.”

  “Really.”

  Basil entered my home without waiting for an invite. As I closed the door, he took in the beamed, vaulted ceiling.

  “Nice.” He ran his fingers over the oak panelling. “Lovely.”

  “Come through to the drawing room.” I held the door for him, but he remained where he was, studying a photograph and some small sketches. A stunned look crossed his face and I knew he saw what Candela had seen a year ago.

  “Whisky?” I asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder as I stepped away from the door. By the time, I had poured a couple of whiskies he’d entered the room. His jaw dropped, and I knew he had recognised the artist of the portrait over the fireplace.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, as I pushed the glass into his outstretched hand, his eyes never leaving the picture. I watched his stunned expression as he continued to study mother’s portrait.

  In the style of Gustave Klimt, Mother had painted herself nude using bands of colours and broad strokes of gold. She lay on her side in the centre of the picture. An ornate bracelet, shaped like a snake, was wrapped around her wrist, while her open palm supported her head. Her dark green eyes were wide and inviting. They peered out from under a mass of black curly hair that cascaded over her shoulders, covering her creamy breasts, but allowed her nipples to be exposed. Her other arm rested along the full length of her body. On her hip she held a red apple that had a bite taken from it.

  Placed discreetly and far enough forward to hide her modesty sat another red apple. Sitting upright on the top of the apple was a large cartoon-like worm. At the bottom of the apple was a hole where the worm had entered. A simple wash of colour surrounded the figure and the worm to keep the viewer focused on what she, the artist, wanted them to see. Beyond this were a patchwork of gold and an array of colours.

  The symbolism within the painting explained everything, if you knew how to read her work. A small plaque at the bottom of the painting read, ‘Eve was as perfect as the apple until her destruction,’

  “Your mother— was Jane Elspeth Maedere?”

  “Yes.” I sipped my drink and leant back. Some might find it strange, but I have a bit of an Oedipus complex. There were too many unanswered questions. I want to understand mother more. In a Freudian way, by understanding her, I could understand the artist in both of us.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That your mother was—”

  “I’m quite aware of who my mother was, Basil.”

  “But—don’t you understand, James! What a huge selling point you have by adding her name to your work.” He gaped at her painting as though willing her to agree.

  “No— Basil.”

  Puzzlement clouded his face. “Sorry! No! You mean you didn’t know, or no as in—”

  I smiled. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “No, as in I wish to sell my work on its own merit.”

  “Oh— of course.” He lowered himself into my father’s chair, disappointment lining his face. He gulped his whisky and leant forward, keeping eye contact with me.

  “I understand totally, James. But once it is known, your sales will increase by a small fortune. Everyone wondered what happened to her when she disappeared.”

  “She died, Basil.”

  “Oh, I assumed that she disappeared from the limelight, rather than went missing. I didn’t realise she had died. In my research on your mother I found no details about her death— or that she had married.”

  “Your research?”

  “I’m a bit of an expert on Jane Elspeth Maedere. What happened to your mother?”

  “Are you really? My parents enjoyed a private life. Her funeral was a low-key affair. Anyway, no one needs to know unless someone tells them.” Basil lowered his eyes and studied his empty glass. I changed the subject. “So why did you come to see me?”

  “I was interested to see where you work. What inspires your pictures?” He set his glass down.

  “Really.”

  “Okay, not quite, but I’m glad I did.” He pulled out a slip of paper from his jacket pocket. “As we’re on the subject of going missing, I wanted to ask you about a picture printed in yesterday’s paper.” He held out a newspaper cutting to me. “You might have already seen it though.”

  “I don’t have the dailies.” I took the well-thumbed cutting and unfolded it. A grainy photograph of a girl stared out at me. My hands trembled as if it, too, remembered its part in capturing her forever on a canvas, my first of ten. I looked up. Basil was studying me.

  Chapter Five

  “The quality of the photo is very poor, Basil.” I studied the image on the cutting. “Is that you in conversation with a good-looking woman?”

  Basil gave a sharp nod. “Take a good look at her, James.” His eyes never left my face.

  “From an artist’s point of view,” I began, knowing it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “She holds herself well, high cheekbones and a strong jawline— in a well-cut dress. Makes quite a presence when entering a room, what more can I say?”

  I smiled and offered him the cutting back.

  He raised his hand in protest. “Does she look familiar to you, James?”

  “Nope. Should she?”

  “Went missing from the art exhibition we attended last year.”

  “We attended?”

  “Yes, where I met you”

  I re-read the headline, ‘Hockney Exhibition 1963 Missing Girl.’ “The place was heaving, Basil. How would I recognise one ordinary girl when there were so many famous faces? Anyway, after meeting you I left.”

  “It’s important. You might remember seeing her.”

  “No. Sorry, I don’t.” I handed the cutting back. Basil scrutinised it as though looking for something he might have overlooked.

  “The police came to see me the other day—” Basil said while pocketing the cutting.

  “The police.” I leant forward in my seat and gripped my glass with both hands. “They questioned you, and now you’re questioning me. Why?”

  “I’ve been hoping someone else saw her that night. As you were there, you might have seen her too.”

  “Right after we met, I left. Anyway, why did they question you?”

  “For the same reason they questioned me a year ago.” Basil rose. Without asking, he poured himself another drink.

  “Hang on, are you telling me you’ve been questioned before about the girl’s disappearance?”

  “I wasn’t the only one. They spoke to everyone on the guest list.” He turned, bottle in hand and pointed it at me. “Just a minute—” his tone was almost threatening. “If you weren’t questioned previously then you weren’t invited. How did you get into the launch party?”

  I grinned. “Gate-crashed, along with the reporters. That’s why I left before anyone realised I wasn’t meant to be there.”

  “I don’t know whether to be pleased for you or not. Any
way, I told them the same thing I did a year ago. With the passage of time, along with too much to drink, everything was a little hazy. It’s a wonder I can even remember our meeting on that night.” He smirked and ran his hand over his face. “I had no idea who they were talking about when they first questioned me. Evidently Candela Waterbrook worked as a picture hanger at that gallery and quite a few other well-established ones around London. It’s funny how some odd little things happen at the most awkward of times.” He recapped the bottle and set it down. “To help me identify who they were talking about, they showed me a drawing of the girl. It made quite an impression on me. Miss Waterbrook’s boyfriend had drawn it.”

  Basil sat down in my father’s chair and took a swig of his drink. “I remember desperately wanting to know more about the artist. He was quite an accomplished one. Shame it was an inappropriate time. Apparently they found a bloodied knife among his damaged paintings.”

  “Do they think he might’ve done away with her?”

  “No idea. Not that they would’ve told me. Even so, I wasn’t a suspect then.”

  “Are you now?” I asked while pouring myself a drink. I was glad I had my back to him as his next question threw me.

  “The least said. When you were living in London, did you ever hear of an artist called Tom, Thomas, or Tommy Blackbird?”

  My hand shook causing the bottle to rattle against the glass. “No— why?”

  “Are you sure?” Basil’s tone echoed his question.

  “Of course.” I swung round. “Such an unusual name, not one you’re likely to forget.”

  “It’s not just his name that’s odd. He’s a bit of an enigma.”

  “In what way?” I glanced out the French windows. The shadows on the lawn told me the afternoon was nearly over. And here I was wasting time.

  “After living for six months in the same squat as the Waterbrook girl, all anyone knew about Tommy Blackbird was just that, his name.” Basil pulled at his cuffs, as though he had a card trick up his sleeve.

  “Did the police think they’ve left together?” I returned to my seat.

  “It’s hard to say. I wasn’t privy to their evidence. According to a friend, if the police hadn’t discovered blood in Blackbird’s studio, they might have followed up on that line of enquiry. The blood threw a kind of spanner into their investigation.”

  “Whose blood was it?”

  “According to my friend, no one bled out at the scene. They had nothing to compare it with. There was no sign of a struggle, so the police felt it was staged. They identified the fingerprints as Waterbrook after lifting some off a hairbrush found in the boyfriend’s bathroom. Her prints matched those on the knife they believe was used to damage his paintings.”

  “Are they looking for Blackbird?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. It’s a mystery to my friend.”

  “Your friend knows a lot.”

  Basil ignored my comment. “Why would a struggling artist leave behind such valuable art materials if he wasn’t coming back? There’s no evidence of him ever entering Waterbrook’s boyfriend’s studio. Most of her belongings were gone, so it was believed the girl went off on her own volition.”

  “If it’s the girl’s choice, why the fuss?” I relaxed back into my seat, eager to hear more.

  “The girl’s parents received a letter saying she was heading home. She was pissed off with her boyfriend. Her parents said she wasn’t the sort of girl to make them worry unnecessarily.”

  “So no evidence of foul play?”

  “After twelve months of nothing, it seemed that way. Until this picture turned up.” Basil flexed his slender fingers before playing nervously with a ring on his little finger. “Now the police are re-questioning everyone on their list. I cannot tell them anything more than I did a year ago. I knew neither Waterbrook nor her boyfriend. Others reported seeing the girl and her boyfriend having a blazing row about me. God only knows why.”

  “Surely the people who witnessed the row were questioned.”

  “Of course they were. Some remember seeing the boyfriend afterwards, but no one saw Candela. Her disappearance would’ve remained a cold case if the mysterious owner of the photograph hadn’t sent it to the police.”

  “The police had the picture published in the paper?”

  “No. The newspaper received a copy at the same time. They published it to see if anyone could identify themselves among the people milling around behind the girl and myself.”

  Basil pulled out the cutting again and pointed to the grainy photograph. “It would’ve been helpful if Blackbird appeared in the background, but no one really remembers what he looked like. At the time, the police were unsuccessful in tracing everyone who lived at the squat as most of the artists were itinerant. Since the exhibition, the whole area has undergone regeneration. None of his belongings at the squat helped the police in tracking him down.”

  Basil refolded the cutting. “I just hope that if one new photo can surface, then maybe others will follow proving I wasn’t the last person to see her alive that evening.”

  “So they can feel just as shitty as you do?” I laughed, trying to lighten his mood.

  He swirled the whisky around in his glass. Lines of fatigue etched across his forehead. He took a gulp before slipping the cutting into his pocket. “No, this might seem funny to you, but another young woman has also gone missing. This time it is from my local bookshop. The missing girl, Bella Wright, had sorted out the order my secretary Jenny had placed for me. I collected it the day Jenny was off work.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “The day Miss Wright went missing. Of course the police got very excited about this and put my name at the top of their suspect list.”

  “Woo— damn unlucky old man,” I chuckled, trying not to look up, knowing that Bella, my latest muse, waited for me.

  He glared. “Hang on a minute. Wasn’t that the day I saw you coming out of the bookshop, just as I was arriving? Now I remember we were due to meet at five. Was it that week or the following one when we bumped into each other? God, I hate it. Now I even doubt myself.” He set his glass down. “Once they’ve finished questioning you, you’re so muddled.” A frown crossed his face. “I’m not good at remembering things at the best of times, especially when Jenny’s off work.”

  I refilled his glass. Basil took a large gulp of his drink. With his free hand he ran it through his hair as if to wipe away any lingering tension, before relaxing into the chair. He surveyed mother’s portrait again. His grey eyes absorbed every detail as though, like an artist, he was sketching her. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ve nothing to worry about. It isn’t as if I knew the girls personally. I’m not even sure I even spoke to that girl in the bookshop. Most of the time, Jenny takes my orders in for me. On the odd occasion I had to collect it myself I don’t know whether I dealt with the shop owner or not. Anyway, we’ve more important things to think about, James. Your paintings, I’m pleased to say, are selling well. I’ve been thinking it’s time to up the ante.”

  “In what way do you mean up the ante?’ My stomach churned. When he didn’t answer, I wondered if he had heard me. The dark smudges under his eyes told me he hadn’t slept well for some time.

  Up the ante? I swallowed the rest of my drink as I waited for him to elaborate on what he meant. My inner demon screamed, ‘you’ll never be better than her!’

  “Hmm,” Basil sighed. His eyes focused on mother’s portrait. “How about doing something that reflects our society, something urban?”

  “Urban.” I smiled.

  Basil smacked his lips together and lifted his glass to the portrait. “Cheers old girl.” He leered at mother as he ran his tongue around his lips. “She was quite the stunner. I would’ve loved to have met her.”

  The lewd tone of his voice made the bile in my stomach rise. I had heard him use the same tone when discussing his latest conquest over drinks and nibbles at other artists’ exhibition parties. He surveyed the young female artists more tha
n the paintings on show which had earnt him the reputation of being a bit of an alley cat.

  At forty-two, Basil was fifteen years my senior, and unmarried. His athletic build and flirty grey eyes meant he was never without a string of girlfriends. They all believed they would become Mrs Hallward. Most were gullible young artists who were convinced he had their best interests at heart, but I knew better.

  His past conquests would be of great interest to the police. I was sure they would get the wrong impression of him. Many of those young women would still hold a grudge after discovering just how little Basil thought of them.

  “You certainly inherited your mother’s looks as well as being a bloody genius.” His eyes rested briefly on me before turning to the portrait again.

  “Not quite all mother’s looks. Her eyes were green. Mine are blue.”

  “How odd? well, you have her dark wavy hair. I wish she was alive. Such a talented beauty.”

  “I’m sorry that she’s not alive too.” I peered down into my empty glass and caught sight of my white knuckles.

  “Good God, James. I apologise, I meant I would’ve loved to have discussed her work with her.” Basil leant forward in his chair to reach for his glass. On taking a sip, he realised the glass was empty and set it down with a thud. “She was a bit of an enigma in the art world.” Basil leant back in his seat. “No one really knew what happened to her. She seemed to have dropped off the radar just before the end of the war.”

  “I guess in Britain at that time everyone was a little preoccupied with staying alive,” I mumbled, though he wasn’t really listening.

  “Jane Elspeth Maedere…” Basil breathed mother’s name out like a lover whispering to his sweetheart. He turned his attention back to me. “So, James. Why didn’t you tell me she was your mother?”

  “As I’ve already said, Basil, I’m selling my own work, not my mother’s.” I was wrong. I didn’t have his attention, but the son of Jane Maedere did.

  He rose and I thought he was about to leave, but he crossed to the drinks cabinet and helped himself again. As he recapped the whisky bottle, I noticed some deep scarring at the top of his little finger, almost as though he had lost part of it. I made a mental note to ask him about it. As he returned the bottle to the cabinet, his attention went to a small group of mother’s framed sketches.