Stone Angels

by Paula R. C. Readman

  “The paintings are valuable?”

  “I’m not interested in their monetary value. They belonged to my mother. That’s the only value they have to me, but you wouldn’t understand that.”

  “We understand. What I’m trying to comprehend is how your agent came to know about your huge collection. You said no one came to your house. Yet you allow your agent in.”

  I laughed and went to fetch my glass. “He’s an art agent and recognised her work straightaway. He suggested marketing her works, alongside mine, but I wouldn’t allow it. Then he wanted to market me as the son of— again, I said no.”

  “You’re suggesting he took your rejection badly?”

  I shrugged and returned to my seat. “At first, he seemed okay, still interested in marketing my paintings. He’s making a good profit without exploiting my mother’s name. Soon I realised he was promoting other artists over me, by allowing them to have solo exhibitions. All I got were empty promises.”

  “If your exhibition was to be successful, would you go it alone?’ Heythorp leaned forward in father’s chair.

  “I guess I would. Easter left Basil’s agency and is now in America.”

  “So it’s a case of him barring your route to success. It would piss me off.” Wicklow glanced at his superior.

  “You think I’m setting my agent up because I’m pissed off with him.” I downed my drink in one, went to the drinks cabinet, sloshed more whiskey into the glass and slammed the bottle back into the cupboard.

  “You’d be amazed by how many fraudulent claims we come across in our line of work.” Heythorp softened his tone.

  “That’s what you think I’m doing?”

  “No, but with a huge growth in the number of art thefts we are well aware of the growing market as most stolen paintings disappear into someone’s private collection.” Heythorp looked at the remaining pictures. “Hayden, if James is right, why did he select those pictures over these ones? Are they all of equal value?”

  “Difficult to say, Sarge. Jane Elspeth Maedere’s work is sought after by all great collectors. A small piece like this…’ He pointed to a framed sketch of a woman’s hand. “I guess at least a quarter of a million easily, maybe even more on a good day.”

  “That’s a bit of a wild guess for something like that. Dear God. It looks unfinished.”

  “They’re sketches, Sarge.” Wicklow grinned, flashing white teeth. “Please forgive him, James. He’s a philistine.”

  “Can’t see what all the fuss is about meself.” Heythorp shook his head.

  “I won’t be making an insurance claim, because they’re not insured.”

  “Well, that’s very imprudent of you, Mr Ravencroft.”

  “You can’t make your mind up. If I had insured them, I’m making a false claim. Now, I’m a fool for not doing so. All I want is their return. Mother was exploited while she was alive, now she’s being exploited in death too.”

  “Okay.” Heythorp moved back in his seat. “What can you tell us about your agent’s trips to America?”

  “In what way?”

  “Why does he go so regularly?”

  “Through his contact there he has access to the American market and beyond. That’s where he first encountered mother’s work and became infatuated with her.”

  “So he’s an art collector? Stolen works maybe, or just a dealer in stolen works.” Wicklow’s eyes sparkled as he pondered.

  “A possibility.” I glanced out of the window. Old Bill was pushing a wheelbarrow towards the rhododendrons. I fought back the urge to storm across the lawn and ask him what he was doing.

  “So Mr Ravencroft, you’re saying you didn’t…”

  Aware that Wicklow was talking to me, I turned.

  “…a clever man, like you.”

  “These collectors are at a disadvantage. They can’t exhibit their collections if their works are stolen.”

  “It’s possession they’re interested in. Owning something no one else has. What’s so wrong with sharing your mother’s art?”

  “Having my own career and not living off my mother’s fame. That’s why I use my father’s name.”

  “Surely it would be a blessing.”

  “Dear God! You’re just like everyone else. If you have either rich or clever parents, people say the same.”

  “So your agent only found out later, who your mother was?’ Heythorp asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Refresh our memory to how you met. You live here, in isolation, and Basil is a Londoner,” Wicklow said, flicking through his notebook.

  “At the launch of David Hockney in ’63. The evening was very noisy so we exchanged details by writing our addresses down. I then met him at his office.”

  Heythorp’s eyes widened and he gave a sharp nod in Wicklow’s direction. I ignored it and carried on. “The following year he turned up here unexpectedly. That’s when he discovered who my mother was.”

  Heythorp straightened in his seat. “Mr Ravencroft, why did you fail to mention that you were at the Hockney exhibition in 1963?”

  My stomach nosedived. Too much whiskey had loosened my tongue.

  “Were you living in London at the time?” he persisted.

  “Yes, in some ropey old squat and lasted about three months. With some other artists all dreaming of fame and fortune. It was the first time I had to support myself. My parents were both dead—” I rambled and only stopped when I saw Heythorp exchange looks with Wicklow.

  “A squat. Whereabouts was it?”

  “Cartwright Gardens, Holborn.” I didn’t hesitate, knowing it was long gone, along with the other artists.

  “Why haven’t you ever come forward when an appeal went out for any information on a missing artist, Tommy Blackbird, and a young woman named Candela Waterbrook? They were at the same squat as you.”

  “Sorry—not familiar with those names. After I met Basil at the gallery, I left London, Detective Heythorp.”

  “You were seven when you lost your mother.” Wicklow broke in.

  His question threw me. “Yes. But what has that to do with Basil’s theft?”

  “It’s why you feel passionate about your mother’s work.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “You would be surprised what we come across.” Heythorp leant forward. “Some would even sell their parents’ hearts, if they thought they could make a bob or two. Nothing’s sacred these days.”

  I looked into my glass. It was empty. Another one would loosen my tongue further. I crossed to the French window and drew in a couple of deep breaths trying to clear my head “My agent has the same driving force as me, but unlike Basil I wasn’t about to exploit my mother to the highest bidder, just to be the best, nor am I willing to help Mr Hallward to fulfil his dreams.”

  “His dreams?” Heythorp asked.

  I leant against the doorframe. “A renowned international art agent, and ultimately the art dealer, who discovered a major missing art collection.”

  “Two strings to one bow. Nice.” Wicklow said. “Who’s his American contact? Do you have a name?’

  “Someone called Sparks.”

  “That’s a start, I suppose.” Heythorp said in a dismissive way. “Sparks.” He repeated as though storing it to memory. “This Sparks— is there anything more you can tell us?’

  The silence of the garden was shattered as the sound of Old Bill’s ride-on lawn mower started up.

  “Look, this will sound as though I’m an eavesdropper, but I once overheard Basil in conversation with his American counterpart. What he said pissed me off. It served me right for listening in…”

  “What did you hear?’ Heythorp cut me off.

  “I’d been on his books for seven years and he took on Easter and allowed him to have his own exhibition. So when I heard my name mentioned, I listened in on his secretary’s extension. Basil and the Sparks person have joined forces and gone into partnership. Sparks is definitely some sort of big name in the American art world. That’s
all I can really tell you.”

  “Who is Easter?” Heythorp began to pace about, and I suspected that’s how he did all his best thinking.

  “Joseph Easter.” The name was out before I could stop myself.

  “Small world.” Heythorp scribbled something in his notebook. “There can’t be many with that name. He’s the artist that lived in Cartwright Gardens, Holborn in 1963, too.’

  “I wouldn’t know.” Old Bill cruised across the lawn making sweeping strokes. As he came towards the house the sound got louder and then it faded as he moved away, leaving only the smell of the grass.

  “At least we have this Sparks person to investigate for the time being. What sort of sizes are the missing paintings?’ He nodded in the direction of the painting above the fireplace. “Bigger or smaller than that one?”

  “None that size. I’m sure I would’ve noticed sooner if something as large as that disappeared. Most are small pictures.”

  “The sort of size to fit easily into a suitcase?” Wicklow asked.

  “Yes.”

  Heythorp moved towards the front door with Wicklow trailing behind, still looking at mother’s paintings that hung in the hall.

  “You seem quite taken by my mother’s work.”

  “A fascinating woman. Her work’s a delight when you have an enquiring mind like mine, Mr Ravencroft.” With that, he walked out the front the door into brilliant sunshine.

  “I’m sorry about my colleague.” Heythorp turned to face me. “He gets quite attached to the pieces of art. I cannot understand it myself, but then I’m rather a philistine as my colleague has told you. The only stuff I enjoy is the sort my kids do. If you understand what I mean, nice and simple, nothing too taxing for the brain. Anyway, it has been nice meeting you again. I hope we haven’t disturbed you too much.”

  As I followed Heythorp out, I heard voices. Wicklow was talking to the gardener and his son.

  Heythorp followed my gaze.

  “So that’s your gardener?”

  I nodded. “Bill Jarman and his son.”

  “Have they worked for you long?”

  “For nearly twenty years. Bill’s father worked for my parents. Why?” I wasn’t really focusing on what Heythorp was saying. Bill was pointing and Wicklow was following his direction

  “Wicklow is quite a keen gardener, too,” Heythorp said.

  “Really,” I muttered as Wicklow and old Bill walked across the lawn to the fence.

  “Of course, it probably doesn’t mean anything. But if we don’t follow up on tip-offs, we get all sorts of complaints.” Heythorp pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up.

  “Sorry.” I turned to him.

  “It’s like my old dad used to say.” He let out a puff of smoke before continuing. “We’re damned if we do, and damned if we don’t. It doesn’t do to waste any new information, we get. That’s why we had to come and speak to you.”

  “Then explain to me the connection between the death of an art teacher in 1951 and my missing paintings?”

  “Well, Mr Ravencroft you need to understand it from my point of view. My gut feeling won’t go away. It has a nasty habit of creating a link between all sorts of unconnected pieces in my head.” Heythorp tapped the side of his head with his thumb while holding the cigarette. “I can’t just let go. I have to make sense of it all. At the moment there’s no real picture yet.”

  “Mrs Norris has spoken to you,” I muttered under my breath.

  Heythorp drew on his cigarette, gave a noncommittal nod and crossed the lawn to join his partner. I waited a moment before joining them.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Ravencroft,” my gardener said, touching his cap.

  “Is there a problem, Bill?”

  “No, sir.” He nodded his goodbyes to the two detectives before pushing his wheelbarrow around the corner.

  As the two police officers and I walked over to their car, Heythorp said, “Oh James something else that’s just come to mind. You were at the launch of Joseph Easter’s art exhibition last year, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, why?” I stopped in mid-stride.

  “Didn’t anyone question you?” Heythorp stopped too.

  “About what?”

  “A young woman employed by Basil Hallward. She disappeared. You must have heard about it”

  I shook my head. “You see where I live. I don’t have the dailies delivered, nor do I have a telly. Are you questioning me about her disappearance?”

  “Eight women have vanished without a trace. We’re asking anyone who has any connection to them, no matter how slight, if they remember anything out of the norm. You were there at Easter’s launch party before Hallward went to America. Do you remember anything?’

  “That’s nearly a year ago—”

  “I know, but any little thing could help trigger someone else’s memory. So see if something comes to mind and if it does, please give us a ring.” Heythorp gave me another one of his cards. “Any little thing could make a huge difference.”

  I gave a curt nod as they said their goodbyes and climbed into their car.

  Once they were out of sight, I closed the door and went through to the drinks cabinet. I poured another whiskey and carried it up to mother’s studio where I lay down on her bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Roofscapes

  1971

  As I swung the car into the road that led to Hallward Gallery car park, I caught sight of the headline emblazoned across the newsagent’s stand.

  ‘Grim discovery found in a derelict church!’

  My breath left me, as my mind could not process what I had read. Suddenly aware of a blaring horn, I looked in its direction. Something large and dark green was bearing down on me. I accelerated hard and shot across the road out of the path of an oncoming lorry straight into the car park, narrowly missing Basil’s car and another one parked at an odd angle across the space I normally used.

  My heart raced as I rested my head against the steering wheel, allowing the tension in my back and shoulders to ease. After a few moments, I climbed out and was surprised to find I was shaking. I took a few deep breaths unable to comprehend the shock, not the fact I was nearly killed, but the discovery of the eighth angel.

  Part of me wanted to dash across the road to buy a newspaper, but reason forbade me. Now was not a good time to change my behaviour. I paced the car park trying to convince myself that it was impossible for anyone to identify her as the concrete had set. The headline shouted at me, ‘Come buy me. Then you’ll know!’

  I aimed a sharp kick at a car tyre while marvelling at my own stupidity. If only I had kept them altogether, this wouldn’t have happened. After convincing myself I had nothing to fear, I pushed open the gate into an overgrown garden and followed the flagstone path. The headline stated, ‘Grim Discovery Found in a Derelict Church,’ which could mean anything, I reasoned. From an unexploded bomb, to the remains of people who had been sheltering from the blitz that had lain undiscovered until now.

  As I climbed the stairs to Jenny’s office, the sound of crying confused me. Jenny sat weeping into a hanky as I entered her office. Along the corridor loud voices boomed from Basil’s office. For once, the raised voice didn’t belong to Basil, but to an unknown woman.

  “Jenny, what’s going on?” I whispered, which seemed a stupid thing to do with hindsight, as neither Basil nor the woman would’ve heard me.

  “It’s too awful. Just too awful. The poor girl,” Jenny sobbed into her handkerchief.

  “What’s the matter? Who’s shouting at Basil?”

  Jenny looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. “Oh James,” she said, as though only just realising I had spoken to her. After dabbing at her nose, she continued. “Cleo’s here with her mother. They’re blaming Basil for Phoebe Browning’s death.”

  “What? They found Cleo’s missing friend?”

  “Haven’t you heard? She was… encased in concrete. It’s been on the radio and the television since the story broke.”

>   “I’ve been busy. Did you say she was encased in concrete?”

  “Yes.” She blew her nose. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “I’ve just popped in with the commission Basil has been hounding me for.”

  “Of course, the commission. I’d forgotten all about it.” She shook her head. “Where is it?”

  “I’ll fetch it from the boot of my car. Only another car was in my normal parking space.”

  “That’ll be Mrs Anderson.” Tears ran down Jenny’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, James. I know she’s been missing awhile, but you kind of hope that she’ll turn up safe. I guess this means Flossie is… is…” Her voice broke. She wiped at her eyes and gulped in air until her body stopped shaking. “Poor Flossie. She must be encased in concrete too.”

  “Please don’t upset yourself.”

  “I can’t help it.” Her lips began to tremble again. “I just feel…responsible in some small way. I persuaded Flossie to work for us.” She dabbed at her eyes with the soggy hanky.

  “Then we’re all to blame. Basil for suggesting he wanted a model, me for taking you to the restaurant where she worked, and also my friend for telling me to go there in the first place. Jenny, it’s just all a coincidence. None of us is really to blame.”

  Something in Jenny’s expression told me a thought had crossed her mind. As her features relaxed, she nodded in the direction of the shouting, “I think I better make us some tea.”

  She leaned over her chair, pulled a folded newspaper out of her bag and thrust it into my hand. “Read this.” Jenny crossed the landing to the small kitchenette as I unfolded the paper. The front-page bold headline spelt out my downfall.

  ‘Horror found in disused Church!’

  Police confirm that the grim discovery made two weeks ago in the war-damaged church of St Sithes was the body of 26-year-old Phoebe Browning who had been missing for over a year. Phoebe’s body was uncovered while the site was being prepared for much-needed housing. Two labourers working on behalf of the church, along with a priest, Father Philip who was overseeing the decommissioning of the building and the removal of its historical fittings and tombs, made the awful discovery in the crypt.