Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  Halfway up the second flight of stairs I caught a glimpse of the car, through the landing window. Two familiar men sat talking. My heart sunk these visitors wouldn’t leave if I didn’t answer the door. Hastily I descended. Through the frosted glass, one of the silhouettes raised a hand to the doorbell, and I knew I was right not to ignore them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Stone Angels

  The Eighth Painting

  1970

  On stepping away from the easel, I stretched, glad to be finished. I laid my brushes and palette down and dropped my cleaning rag on top of them. Every brushstroke sang in harmony, making my angel shine in all her dark glory. I had placed her at the centre of a cubist background of blue, browns and soft greys. Seven abstract statues stared vacantly at the viewer. Each face had a mask-like appearance with their features etched in profile and their eyes placed together on the same side. Like Macbeth’s witches, they all looked in the same direction.

  My angel was in the centre of the painting. It was the only figure in perspective to represent the single-mindedness of my mother. A garland of ivy held a shroud that covered her head and flowed down the full length of her body. Through the veil, the angel’s eyes were downcast. Her arms hung weakly at her side and her cold lips were slightly parted as though a final sigh rested on them. At her feet, a black dog sat on its haunches.

  As I placed the painting in the drying rack along with the others, I wondered if it was possible to create a living statue. I began to clean my brushes and realised just how tired and hungry I was after working through the night. I caught a whiff of stale body odour and ran a hand through my matted hair.

  On entering the dimly lit bedroom I caught my foot on something, fell forward and only just managed to catch my balance. With caution I made it to the window and drew back the curtains. I found I was standing in a pigsty. Dirty bed linen along with discarded clothes were strewn across the floor. After months of focusing all my energy on my work, I had ignored mundane things like housework. I stripped and took a shower.

  I should’ve taken Mrs P’s advice and hired a cleaner, though the idea of placing an ad in the local paper unnerved me. Mrs P wasn’t fond of hiring local people and often stated. ‘A wagging tongue from the village would only lead to trouble.’ Curiosity would get the better of anyone I employed, and I would soon be known as the crazy artist that lived down the lane.

  After showering I dressed in my oldest and tattiest clothes and returned to my studio to tackle the small problem of the disposal of Phoebe Browning. She hung from the ceiling in the same way a spider discards a fly once all the goodness was sucked out of it. Her waist-length hair hung dull and lifeless making it harder for me to see what had first attracted me to her Gone were the same beautiful hollowness in her green eyes, like mother.

  I sat at my desk, pencil in hand, and sketched out the image before me while I planned how I was going to encase her body in concrete.

  ***

  Eight months ago, I had become a little desperate as to where I would find my next muse, but fate had kindly stepped in. I had completed another commission and was delivering it to the gallery. I was halfway up the stairs when a young woman emerged out of Jenny’s office and came hurtling down the stairs. I threw myself against the wall, hugging the painting to me, in fear we would both land at the bottom of the stairs in an untidy heap.

  “So sorry. I was in a world of my own,” the beauty gasped while pushing her long copper-coloured hair behind her ear. A slight smile played on her lips as she adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag and continued past me.

  For a spilt-second I couldn’t speak. In her beguiling eyes I recognised the all too familiar emptiness. Her honesty and sincerity in the few words she uttered had silenced me. I hurried after her, but by the time I reached the high street, she had disappeared among the crowds.

  A month or so later I spotted her at Cleo Anderson’s exhibition. She leaned against a wall, glass in hand, surveying the crowds of art connoisseurs. It surprised me that no one spoke to her. It was as if she seemed invisible to all around her, but me. I had wanted to ask Jenny if she knew who she was but thought better of it. I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact I had shown an interest in her. When the time came seizing Phoebe Browning was far easier than I had expected.

  After finishing the sketch, I made a list of things I needed for my project. A quick wander around the outbuildings delivered some positive results as I managed to find many of the items I needed.

  In one of the stables I reconnected the electricity. On entering its dark space, I discovered it had become a dumping ground for unwanted items from the house since father fell ill. I ran my hand up and down the wall just inside the door until I found the light switch. The bulb crackled as it came on. Once settled, it revealed before me a collection of old paint cans, a motley collection of bicycles, odd bits of damaged furniture, boxes of jam jars, and newspapers.

  I hauled the unwanted clutter out and dumped it in the next stable along. I thought about the obnoxious bastards, D S. Heythorp and his sidekick Wicklow, and my missing paintings as I worked.

  ***

  Late last year their unannounced arrival at my home caught me at a bad time. On that particular morning Basil had already interrupted me, so the last thing I wanted was the police appearing on my doorstep, but there they were like a couple of annoying fleas. Desperate for a drink after Basil had pissed me off, I showed them into the drawing room, knowing if they were going to delay me further in my work, I might as well be comfortable. Wicklow already had his notebook out as he surveyed the room. I wondered if it was something he automatically did.

  “Would either of you like a drink?” I had offered half-heartily, knowing they would both refuse. After pouring myself a large one, I gestured for them to take a seat.

  I dropped into my father’s chair while Wicklow took his usual stance and positioned himself away from Heythorp. He stood in the corner of the room just on the outskirts of my peripheral vision. Much to my annoyance, I found I had to turn away from Heythorp to keep an eye on him. On a previous visit they had given me a lot of shit about my security and mother’s missing paintings.

  Unfortunately, unbeknown to me at the time, Wicklow had the proof I needed about mother’s disappearing paintings. He was the last person to see them before they vanished. I sipped my drink and waited.

  During their previous visit I had let slip that I suspected my agent had taken mother’s paintings. Their reaction had surprised me. They wanted to know if I could enlighten them on Basil’s whereabouts on certain days over the last six years.

  “Yes, I’m sure I can. I’d been making notes. Most of the paintings’ disappearances coincided with my agent’s visits as he wanted to ensure that I could deliver the commissions he had ordered. He wanted updates before he flew out to America.”

  “But surely your agent has rights over all your work?” Heythorp had asked.

  “Not my mother’s paintings he doesn’t!”

  “So all the missing pieces are your mother’s works, then?” Wicklow had asked while studying mother’s sketches father had framed years ago. Though his eyes wandered to the semi-nude portrait of mother that hung over the fireplace. He had shown a keenness for the painting since his first visit

  “Mr Ravencroft, the last time we visited,” Heythorp finally opened the conversation as I sat nursing my glass, “you told us about your mother’s disappearing pictures. How can you be so sure it’s him?” He leaned forward, his notebook resting on his knee.

  I swirled the whiskey around in my glass before answering. If they didn’t believe me previously, why should I help them with their enquiries now? My expression must have said all that I was thinking as Heythorp stated, “I’m not questioning you, Mr Ravencroft. But as police officers we need evidence.”

  “Look.” I had slammed my glass down, and splashed whiskey over my hand. “If I show you something, you’ll have your evidence.”

  “Show us,
” Heythorp said.

  They followed me up the stairs to mother’s studio. Of course, Wicklow and Heythorp had been there before only this time it was on my terms.

  “Your mother’s studio.” Wicklow’s tone of voice edged with excitement.

  “Still have all your mother’s gowns, I see,” Heythorp commented, though it was more of a statement than a question. He hovered in the doorway as though a little hesitant about entering this time. Previously he had burst in and made stinging remarks about my sexuality, saying the gowns suggested I was a cross-dresser.

  “No reason for me to dispose of them.” I tugged on a drawer beneath one of the drying racks. “A house of this size has plenty of room to store all my parents’ belongings.” On opening the drawer, I slid my hand under a pile of drawings until my fingertips found what I needed.

  Heythorp moved past mother’s dressing room and stood beside the French window. He scanned the room, with its collection of paintings that leant against the walls and filled two racks along another wall. At the centre of the room, on a raised platform, was mother’s large gothic bed, made up ready for her return, the cover too fresh and dust free.

  “Do you have a cleaner?”

  “No, I do it myself when I have time. I paint here, too. The light is always good.”

  Heythorp ran a finger along the edge of a cabinet where I had laid out my paints in the same way she had. Wicklow scrutinised something on mother’s bookshelf, and then with the tip of his pencil moved it. On seeing me observing him, he had straightened.

  I found mother’s book and pulled it out. “You need to understand that she kept a detailed account of all the works she sold. She never gave anything away. Every picture Mother painted, drew or created, no matter how small was numbered and catalogued in here.” I waved the notebook as if to emphasise its importance. “I’ve checked. They’re no longer in the house.”

  Heythorp gave a brisk nod, and then picked up one of the paintings. He turned it and his eyebrows lifted, as though unsure of what he was looking at it. “These are valuable.” He set it down again.

  “Yes. If you’re wondering if I’ve sold them, then the answer is no. My parents left me well off. Also, I have a steady income from my own work.”

  I passed mother’s notebook to Wicklow. He eagerly flicked through the pages. Every now and again he would stop and make a few notes in his own book. “Are those the missing ones you’ve marked and dated?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “They tally with dates we have for when Mr Hallward was out of the country.”

  “So is that evidence?”

  “Not enough. We need to catch him leaving the country with a painting.” Wicklow held out mother’s notebook to me. “Your mother certainly kept a detailed record.”

  “She couldn’t bear being parted from her creations. As you can see, she coded them as well as their titles.”

  “You would need a code breaker to work it out.” Wicklow said with a grin.

  “Not if you knew mother. The code tally with the date of creation, the numbers on the drying racks and their log number in the book. She did it so no one could make copies.”

  “Your mother was paranoid?”

  “Mistrust seemed to be part of her nature. She felt people were too greedy and judgmental. It’s why she sold so few. She made buyers sign a contract to say that, if they decided to sell her work on, she had the right to buy it back at their original price.

  “Were any of the pictures taken from here?” Heythorp had asked.

  “Yes, and four small framed sketches off the walls downstairs. Most of the rooms in the house had some of her work on display. I’m really not…”

  “If I recall,” Heythorp interrupted. “We spoke to you about security a few years back.”

  “That’s my point. There’s no way anyone could have broken in. It’s an inside job. Nobody other than me lives or works inside this house.”

  “Hired help? Your lawns look immaculate,” Wicklow said, pointing through the French windows.

  “That’s old Bill’s handy work, but he doesn’t enter the house. If he needs to ask me anything, he telephones. I leave his wages in the potting shed every Friday. The only time we speak is if he sees me in the garden.”

  “Right.” Heythorp enunciated the word, drawing it out.

  “I’m sure if someone had broken in, old Bill would’ve said something.”

  I stepped out onto the balcony and Heythorp joined me. We peered down into the garden.

  “If someone was to break in, there would be damage to the garden. Old Bill’s very proud of his work. Footprints all over his neat borders wouldn’t go unnoticed.”

  “Yes, your point is noted, though we would need to chat with him.” Heythorp entered the studio before me. By the time I closed the door behind me, Wicklow had drawn one of mother’s painting out from the rack.

  “Jane Maedere was a prolific painter.”

  “She was. Having Mrs P allowed her to focus all her energies in one direction.”

  “Mrs P… your housekeeper?” Heythorp asked.

  “Yes. She more or less ran everything.”

  “Must’ve been lonely for you, a child in the house full of adults.” Heythorp looked around.

  I wasn’t sure whether he was expecting me to answer, but then to my relief, he changed the subject, sending the ghosts back into the shadows.

  “It’s easy to see if someone has been in here.” He pointed to a stack at the back of the room. “With the amount of dust covering those paintings.”

  “Yes, if you look here.” I showed him the clear imprint of a hand on the back of mother’s painting. “There’s a nick in the top of Basil’s little finger on his left hand.”

  “Yes, we saw he had a damaged hand,” Wicklow said. “Though you could’ve easily shown him the painting.”

  “So you’re saying it’s no proof at all?”

  “Look, Mr Ravencroft, we’re not your enemy. Since we last met, I’ve acquired some new duties.” Pride shone in his eyes. “I’m now part of a new branch of the police force. We investigate stolen works of art. We can start looking into the loss of your paintings, but you’ll need to fill out a report. Do you have any photographs of the missing works? If you do, we can add them to our database.”

  “Photographs? A few of her earlier works appeared in old magazine articles. There might be a few in the background of family snaps. Mother focused more on painting than taking snaps of her finished works.”

  “It’s worth checking in family albums. We can enlarge the paintings from the main shot.” Heythorp headed for the door.

  “I’ll need to buy a new camera. Once I’ve taken shots of the remaining pictures, if any more go missing, I can send you a copy.” I followed Wicklow.

  “Much obliged. We’ll let you get back to work…” Heythorp paused, his hand resting on the banister as he reached the head of the stairs. “I take it that’s your studio now?’ He raised one eyebrow in a questioning slant as I came towards him.

  “Yes. I’m busy working on another commission.”

  “Hmm…” His eyes narrowed as he pursed his lips in thought. “Why is there only one painting of your own in the studio.”

  The hair on the back of my neck rose.

  He sighed, a fleeting wry smile crossing his lip. “I guess you sell your work regularly. There doesn’t seem to be much in the house either.” He descended, with Wicklow following next. I hung back, looking towards the studio. On the first landing, Heythorp handed me a card over his shoulder. “Here’s my number. You’ll come straight through to me if you want to file a report. Let us know if any more pieces go missing. We can check for fingerprints. Other investigations have led us to believe that there’s a syndicate at work in this country. They’re stealing to order for overseas collectors.”

  “Only Basil knows I have this collection.”

  At the bottom of the stairs Wicklow turned as I came down to join them. “Don’t quote us, Mr Rave
ncroft.” Wicklow had dropped my first name, his tone sharper. “We’ll deny making such a statement.”

  “But you said you’re investigating art thefts?”

  “No. We came to question you about Basil Hallward’s connection to the disappearance of six young women over the last six years. You’re the one making allegations against him in connection with missing paintings. Until you have sent in your details and we’ve opened an investigation, we can’t make any further comments. Thank you for your time, Mr Ravencroft. Good day.”

  ***

  After shifting the last dusty box, I rubbed my hands down my trousers and surveyed the empty workshop. My stomach churned at Heythorp’s last comment about my lack of completed paintings and sketches in the mother’s studio. For days afterwards it had worried me. Had Basil been so focused on mother’s paintings that he hadn’t commented on my lack of work, sketches or drawings? If he had just mentioned it once, I would’ve set the stage better.

  Clearing my thoughts, I focused on the disposal of my last angel ready to begin hunting for my eighth one.

  I set to work on my new project enthusiastically, never having worked in three dimensions before. I just hoped that Old Bill hadn’t noticed that his chicken wire had gone missing. I laid the tools out on the bench along with a pair of thick gloves. I had already practiced on a dead rat I found at the back of the workshop while shifting the boxes. I used a pair of wire cutters to cut a large square of chicken wire. Then I bent it around the rat’s body shaping it as I went. It was impossible to wear the gloves as I worked. The wire caught the fabric too often, leaving a finger of the glove trapped as I pulled my hand free after trying to bend the wire into the shape I wanted.

  I soon discarded the gloves. The wire dug into my hands and fingertips like sharp needles. The pain increased my sense of pleasure, but soon beads of blood pooled on the surface of my arms and scarlet rivulets ran down my fingers. Without wanting to stop to wipe the blood away, I licked my skin. The metal taste of blood left a horrid taste in my mouth, and I spat it out.