Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  A tremor passed through Annie’s body as her feet met the bed. Once down, she lay with her eyes closed. I hadn’t used the bird clips on her as the painting’s theme didn’t require them. I supported her shoulders with my hands and felt the muscles in her neck tighten. I whipped off the chinstrap and once her head was free, I lowered it onto the pillow. She was scarcely breathing and twisted her head away from my touch.

  “It’s okay, I’m just moistening your lips with some water.” I soaked a wad of cotton wool and dribbled a little water onto her mouth then her tongue shot out, trying to lick her lips. Her mouth, no longer full and pink was grim and colourless. Her skin ashen-coloured was clammy to the touch.

  Between the drying stages of the oil paint, I had given her a small amount of water and food as well as allowing her four hours rest. Her resilience had surprised me, but the chloroform had taken its toll.

  I released Annie’s thin arms and covered her before pushing the cot back into the muse’s bedroom. There I held a fresh chloroform pad to her face.

  “Maybe, by some miracle, they’ve managed to trace the driver of the green car,” I said as she slipped into unconsciousness. I covered the painting with a damp cloth not knowing how long they would keep me talking.

  I dashed out onto the roof and peered over the balustrade, hoping they were not already snooping around outside. I ducked down just as the police car swept onto the drive. There was little chance of them finding the entrance to the studio. Not even Basil knew of its existence, but I did not want to take any chances. I closed the studio door and took the stairs two steps at a time to the next floor. After locking the door that concealed the lift and stairway to the attic, I slid the ornate wooden panel back in place.

  In mother’s studio I groped around to find a half-finished landscape and threw it onto the easel. I snatched up a discarded palette, squeezed a random selection of usable paints onto it and then picked out a handful of brushes. Working as fast as I could I dabbed fresh paint over the surface, just enough to give the impression I had been busy at work.

  Just as I stepped back to see how it looked, the doorbell rang causing my stomach to clench. I took my time descending the main stairs allowing my thoughts to settle, knowing that I had nothing to fear. From the stairs, I could see through the frosted glass of the front door, two impatient silhouettes moved about in the sunlight.

  I caught my reflection in a full-length mirror on the final landing. Mother had placed there to check her appearance before meeting anyone. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a paint-splattered artist. I wiped some paint off my beard and decided that it really could do with a trim. I inhaled as I re-tied my ponytail, hoping to force the look of anxiety off my face.

  The bell rang again, long and sharp as though someone was leaning on it. I hurried down and flung the door open.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. That’s the trouble with living in such a big house. How can I help you?”

  “Ravencroft? James Ravencroft?” A burly, long-faced man asked.

  Behind him stood another shielding his eyes as he studied the exterior of the house. I wondered if he had seen me on the roof, but I knew that was impossible. They both wore similar dark check tweed suits with narrow trousers and highly polished black shoes, though the younger man carried less weight, and more muscle.

  “If you’re selling insurance, I’m not interested.” I began to close the door.

  “No sir, we’re police officers.” Long Face put out his hand as if to stop me from shutting the door.

  “Police officers? Why? I haven’t called you?”

  Long Face smiled as if this would win my trust. “Do you mind if we come in, and have a brief word?”

  I paused in closing the door.

  “Mr Ravencroft, I can assure you we are police officers,” the younger man said, as they both produced their warrant cards.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Reg Heythorp,” Long Face said. “This is my associate, Detective Constable Hayden Wicklow.”

  I opened the door further. “Now I’ve seen your ID’s you had better come in then. I apologise for my apprehension, but I do live alone— and for a good reason too. I hate to be disturbed, while I’m working.”

  “Then we’re sorry to disturb you, Sir,” said Heythorp, as he followed me into the hallway.

  “Well, it’s done now. Anyway, I was just getting to the point where I needed a break. Come through.” I led them into the drawing room, with its heavy dark wood furniture, blood red flock wallpaper and its collection of powerful works of art. Framed sketches of mother’s paintings dotted the walls in small groups.

  “A mighty fine pad you have here, Mr Ravencroft, if you don’t mind me saying.” Heythorp grinned.

  “Thank you.” I made my way to the drinks cabinet, hoping a shot of whiskey might help me relax.

  Wicklow examined a group of pictures on the wall before looking up at the portrait over the fireplace. He nodded in its direction. “One of yours, sir?”

  “Oh, so you know I’m an artist then?” I poured a drink.

  “Part of our training sir is being observant,” said Wicklow.

  I looked down at my paint-spattered jeans and T-shirt and laughed. ‘I suppose being covered in paint gave the game away.” I offered them the bottle.

  Wicklow shook his head. “No, sir, unfortunately, this isn’t a social call, otherwise we would be delighted to join you in a drink. So is the painting one of yours?”

  “No, my mother’s.” I gestured for them to sit on the large sofa opposite the fire while I took my father’s chair next to the fireplace.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Heythorp sat, pulled out a small black well-worn leather notebook and thumbed through a few pages. Over Heythorp’s shoulder, Wicklow bending slightly forward as he studied the group of pictures Basil had admired so much.

  “Well, Mr Ravencroft… or may I call you James?” Heythorp asked.

  “James will be fine.”

  “You don’t seem at all curious to know why we are here.” Wicklow’s voice came from behind my right shoulder, making me turn in my seat.

  “In connection to what happened to Mrs Loring, I’m guessing—” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew my arrogance had the better of me. “My agent told me about her car crash.”

  “Mrs Tamsin Loring?’ Heythorp leaned forward, and his blue eyes shone with curiosity.

  I took a sip of my drink and became aware that my hand was trembling. “Yes— I was in a meeting with her— on that day.”

  “You met her?” Heythorp kept his eyes on his note taking.

  “Yes.” I hesitated to wait for him to make eye connect, checking to see I wasn’t lying. Finally, he looked up, and I continued. “My agent arranged the meeting between Mrs. Loring and me at the golf club restaurant, Potter’s Bar. Mrs Loring wanted to commission me to paint a portrait of her and her daughter, Jeannie.”

  “Your agent’s name?” Heythorp asked.

  “Basil Hallward. There isn’t much more I can tell you, I’m afraid.” I took another sip of my drink as Heythorp stopped his scribbling and a questioning look flitted across his face.

  “Why’s that?” Wicklow asked from behind me. I twisted uncomfortably in my seat again; aware that the young police officer was taking a deep interest in looking at all of mother’s paintings as he made his way around the room.

  “Well, it must be at least what… three or four weeks ago.” I tightened my grip on the glass, my knuckles white now. My mind shouted, shut up you fool. I took another sip of my drink. “You know what it’s like when you’re busy, you lose track of time.”

  “Three weeks, James,” Heythorp said. “What can you tell us about that day?”

  I turned back to face Heythorp. He seemed relaxed as his pencil hovered over his notebook in expectation of my answer.

  “Well… nothing outstanding. At least not on that day as I didn’t know Mrs. Loring had died, but the next day when my agent phoned.”

>   “Quite a journey you made for a five-minute chat,” Wicklow said as he stood in front of the fireplace.

  “My, you’ve been doing your homework.” I leant forward in my seat and finished off my drink.

  “We coppers are busy people too. We’re just following up on some leads regarding Mrs Loring,” Wicklow said. “Your chat with her was rather short after such a long journey?”

  I shrugged. “It seemed longer to me, but if you say five minutes then I’ll believe you.”

  “We’re only interested in the time you were there with Mrs Loring on your own.” Heythorp licked the end of his pencil.

  “Right.” I crossed to the drinks cabinet, poured another one, and dropped in a couple of ice cubes, aware they were both watching me. The heat of the room made it hard for me to think straight so I unlocked the French windows and pushed them open.

  “Tell us why you were there.” Wicklow asked.

  I inhaled deeply, but the air was dry and muggy, with no breeze. I sipped my fresh drink before turning back to my unwanted guests. “My agent called, inviting me to meet one of his important clients. After weeks of going stir-crazy working here, I jumped at the chance. Even better a chance for a good meal. One can get tired of beans on toast.” I forced a smile. “By the time I arrived at the restaurant, they had already eaten.”

  Heythorp laughed. “They didn’t wait for your arrival then?”

  “I suppose not. I might have misunderstood my agent, though I did arrive late.”

  “What do you mean by misunderstood your agent? Did he feel you were beneath them, if Mrs Loring was an important client?”

  I laughed. “What on earth do you mean by that, Detective Heythorp?”

  “I meant… Mrs Loring was a wealthy woman. I wondered if your agent… thought you were a struggling artist.” Heythorp stumbled over his words as he looked about the room. “Clearly, you’re not. Obviously, your agent has been to your home, so would’ve known—”

  “That’s very middle-class of you, Detective Heythorp, to judge a man by his material belongings. Sure, I’m indebted to my parents for my standing in the world.”

  “Is that so, Sir,” he said, regaining his confidence. “So can you tell us why you left so soon after arriving?”

  “Why are you questioning me?”

  “It’s our job to establish what happened. Questioning those who were there helps us to establish a clear timeline leading up to the event, and what happened afterwards.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Do I need a solicitor?”

  “Do you want one, James?”

  I rolled my glass between my palms before making eye contact with Heythorp again. “No, not at all.”

  He looked down at his notes and flicked a couple of pages before speaking again, “You said you’d arrived in the afternoon and everyone at the table had eaten.”

  “Yes. There were plates on the table. I had only expected my agent and Mrs Loring to be there. She and the two other younger women had also been drinking. Her daughter Jeannie and her friend whose name I think was Annie, though I wasn’t introduced to her.’

  “Why weren’t you introduced to everyone?”

  “People’s manners these days are very relaxed, I guess.”

  Heythorp nodded. “Go on.”

  “Not long after Basil had introduced me to Mrs Loring, her daughter and her friend got up to leave. They said something about shopping.”

  “So how did you know the girl was called Annie?” Wicklow asked. “After all, you told us they were already there when you arrived, so surely they must have introduced themselves.”

  “I think Jeannie said something like ‘she and Annie were going shopping because they were going to America’. Then Annie told Basil that they had met before as she worked in the café on the corner near his office.”

  “So Mr Hallward has had contact with this woman Annie prior to meeting her at the restaurant.”

  “Yes, she said she’d seen him in the café when his secretary wasn’t working late, and he’d been in to pick up his order.” I took a sip of my drink and rolled the melting ice cubes in my mouth.

  “Let’s get this straight,” Heythorp said, reading his notes. “You’re telling us Basil Hallward knew Annie Linton prior to meeting her that day.”

  I nodded and crunched on the ice cubes. “If Jeannie Loring’s friend, Annie, is the girl you’re talking about. Though, I wish to make it clear I didn’t know her surname.”

  “Point noted, James. Annie Linton is her name.”

  “Basil offered to run the two girls into London after Mrs Loring refused to allow her daughter to drive her car.”

  “Do you know why Mrs Loring didn’t want her daughter to drive the car?” Heythorp asked while making a note.

  I shook my head. “Maybe Mrs Loring had no other way of getting home without it.”

  Heythorp smiled. “You said, Jeannie Loring told your agent they were going to America. Did she mean her and her mother, or her and Annie?”

  “I can’t be sure, but I think Basil said Mrs Loring was taking the two young women.”

  “Your agent is Basil Hallward of Hallward Art Agency?” asked Wicklow.

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you known him, Mr Ravencroft?”

  “About five years.”

  “Now, let’s get back to that day at the restaurant.” Wicklow said.” You stated they had already eaten when you arrived. So obviously they had been drinking, too.”

  “Their plates were being cleared as I arrived. Basil offered to buy everyone a drink, but the girls were leaving. He said something about heading back to his office to wait on an international call. He bought Mrs Loring and me a drink before he left with the girls.”

  “I see,” Wicklow said.

  “Does your questioning have something to do with the crash?” I asked.

  “What makes you think that?” Heythorp interjected.

  “I’m not sure.” I sipped at my drink and settled back. They could question me all day as far as I was concerned, if it meant I could find out what they knew or didn’t know.

  Heythorp stood and took a step closer to the fireplace, “You said your mother painted this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm, I don’t think my father would’ve been happy having such a portrait of my mother hanging in the living room. Your father must be pretty laid back about such things.”

  “My father was Reverend Donald Robert James Ravencroft.” I emphasised the past tense.

  Wicklow glanced at the painting. “Now I get it— Eve with the apple,” he said, almost child-like in his discovery. “I guess it’s a sort of religious painting, which is why your father was happy to have it hanging here.”

  I looked at the picture as though seeing it for the first time. Was that why my father loved it so much? As a child, if I needed my father the best place to find him, once mother’s uncontrolled eruption had left a cold silence hanging over the house, was in the drawing room, sitting glass in hand before the painting. I believed he felt if he understood her art and by doing so he could get inside her head.

  “That’s the thing about art. The artists— like you, James…” Wicklow interrupted my thoughts.

  “Pardon?”

  “You don’t always paint what you see. You expect the viewer to make sense of it. The clues are always in what the artist doesn’t show rather than what’s there. Now photographs— they’re a different story. They only show you what the camera sees. As a camera only has a single lens, they only have one viewpoint.”

  I nodded, but his statement unnerved me.

  “Very profound, Wicklow,” Heythorp said. “You’re an artist, James. A brilliant one at that, so why isn’t there any of your work on show in this room?”

  I looked from one to the other.

  “So you’ve noticed that too, Sarge.” Wicklow grinned. “There isn’t one of Mr Ravencroft’s paintings here. But then again if you knew who Mr Ravencroft’s mother was you would understand w
hy her pictures dominate the room.”

  “So who is she, lad?” Heythorp asked, lifting his eyebrows in mock annoyance.

  “None other than Jane Elspeth Maedere, Sarge.”

  “Now you understand what I have to work with, James.” Heythorp turned to Wicklow. “Okay, so she was an artist but what makes her so special that you assume that I would’ve known of her.”

  “Her work is the most sought after by serious collectors. As always rarity makes them worth a small fortune.”

  Heythorp nodded in my direction. “What this lad doesn’t know about art isn’t worth knowing. He’s planning on joining a special branch of the force that’s going to focus on stolen art. Apparently, there’s a growing market for it.”

  Wicklow crossed to the window. “How’s your security, sir?’ He examined the locks as much as he had mother’s paintings.”

  I smiled at his questions. The Jacobean builder also had security in mind when constructing the house with its red brick. The stone mullioned-latticed windows were enough to put off most hardened burglars. The narrow windows made it impossible for an average-sized man to climb through and made the room too dark to see if there was anything worth stealing in the first place.

  “Do you mind if we check the security in the rest of your house, especially after seeing what an amazing hoard of Maederes you have?”

  I stood. “Where would you like to start?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  1966

  Heythorp and Wicklow followed me down three steps and along a panelled corridor into the galley-style kitchen. Enlarged during the Victorian era using stones taken from the remains of the ruined church, it overlooked both the drive and the rear garden.

  While the coppers snooped about, I leant my back against the sink. Beyond the main kitchen area was a walk-in larder that led through to the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the house. Mrs P often complained that the solid oak back door was difficult to open because of its weight. She said the heaviness of its key alone made her feel like a jailer when she locked the door in the evening.