With only three torches between them in the semi-darkness, they found a statue of a young woman instead of the expected church relics.
Father Philip told our reporter, ‘Even though St Sithes is the patron saint of serving maids, he had not expected to find a statue of this kind in the crypt as there was no mention of it on his list,’
‘Father Philip had prayed for the strength of mind for her family and that of his two co-workers as they all suffered a nasty shock while trying to move the statue.’ He said, ‘As we tried to lift it part of the arm crumbled away, exposing rotten flesh, bone, and matted material. The smell was indescribable. In our shock, we dropped the statue. It crashed against one of the stone tombs and broke open. Never have I seen anything like it. Who could do such a thing?’
When asked if he knew how Phoebe Browning died, Father Philip said, ‘The police are still investigating, and the church has been cordoned off to stop sightseers. I don’t know which is worse, the discovery of the poor girl or the ghoulishness of people who want to see the place where she died.’
Our reporter asked for his views on whether Phoebe’s death had any links to witchcraft after someone reported to the newspaper that the statue was found within a circle of candles, and on the walls were a series of strange symbols, but Father Philip refused to comment any further. What he did say was that the police would make a statement once they had finished their investigation.
With my elbows resting on the table, I sat with my head in my hands. My mind began to turn everything over. It was only when Jenny placed a cup in front of me that I was aware of her return.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” She closed the door. The shouting became no more than a strangled, muffled sound. Once seated, she continued. “What that poor girl must have suffered is beyond belief.”
I sipped my drink while puzzling over how it was possible for them to know that it was Phoebe. Surely the quicklime in the cement would’ve dissolved her features. Jenny leant forward on her elbows, nursing her cup.
“Sorry, what were you saying, Jenny?’
“I said it must’ve been shocking for her family.” She lifted her cup, testing the heat of the liquid against her lips before taking a sip. Jenny’s expression was more than just sadness for a girl she hadn’t really known.
“It’s a lot to take in.” I laid the newspaper down. “Are you all right, Jenny?”
“Yes… well, no. I can’t help but think there’s some sort of ghastly coincidence that links us to what’s happened to these girls.”
“These girls? What do you mean?”
“The missing girls, James.” Her eyes widened.
“Yes, but… there’s no ‘us’ about it!”
“Oh, but there is, James.” She tapped the newspaper with her long pink nails. “Phoebe Browning isn’t the first to go missing in this area. There’ve been others; even the newspaper has stated that.”
“But what’s that got to do with us?”
She shrugged and sipped her drink. I sensed her unanswered questions and knew she was trying to put her thoughts into words.
“Well?” I prompted.
“Something’s just not right. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. That’s what they’re arguing about in there.” She pointed in the direction of Basil’s office.
My chest tightened as I glanced towards Jenny’s closed door.
“Don’t give me that look, James,” she said as I turned to her. “You know there have been others. You must be aware that Basil has been questioned every time another one goes missing.”
I gave a non-committal shrug. “As I’ve said before, I live…”
“Yes, don’t I know it…” she interrupted, with a bitter tone. “You live in the wilds of Suffolk, but I know for a fact that the police have spoken to you about Basil, so don’t pretend you don’t know.”
“Okay, you’re right. But he hasn’t really confided in me. You know what he’s like and he doesn’t want you getting caught up in all of this.”
“In what?”
“A vendetta against him.”
“A vendetta?”
“Please don’t let on I’ve told you.” I studied my fingernails and then met her gaze. “He has some crazy notion that you might land up on their hit list.”
Jenny picked up the newspaper. “That’s crazy on so many levels.” She pointed at the article. “What has a young woman encased in concrete have to do with a vendetta against Basil? We’re an art gallery and this is London, not Italy.”
“I know, Jen.”
“All the artists on our books get a good price for their work.” Jenny folded the newspaper and dropped it into her bag. “I’ve never received any complaints from clients. The gallery hasn’t received any threatening calls.”
“You know more than I do about Basil and this gallery.”
“A possible link between the women and us is more about the gallery’s location. From what I’ve read, all the women worked in this area, but apart from that it’s very random.” Jenny took a sip of her drink. ‘It’s sweet that Basil worries about me, but I’m not at risk. I can’t believe that Basil hasn’t noticed that all the missing girls are white.”
“I think Basil was concerned about why he was being singled out, and that they might go after you too. I’m glad it isn’t worrying you personally.”
“You’re wrong. I am worried. Eight girls go missing and one’s found encased in concrete. It’s bloody serious. I might be black but I’m a woman first. Anyway, if they’re linking Basil to these women, then I must be a suspect too because I knew most of them in one way or another through work.”
“Okay, I get your point. It’s nothing more than coincidence; you must see that, Jenny.”
She pulled a file off the shelf behind her and laid it open on the desk beside her typewriter. “I’ve been collecting these.” She thumbed through the newspaper cuttings and then held each little paper-clipped bundle up in turn. In the file box, I noticed a small notebook too.
“I don’t see it as a coincidence. Why has Basil been singled out? What is his link to the girls? Remember, I know his movements more than others do.” She paused and unclipped one of the bundles.
I waited for her to go on.
“Something has been nagging at me. And, for the life of me, I can’t put my finger on it.” She leaned forward and rubbed her left temple. “The answer must lie with us somehow… Oh, never mind. Ignore me, James.” She gathered up the bundle and dropped them into the file before picking up her cup. “I’m not sure what I mean. I guess I’m in shock, but there’s one thing I know for sure. Basil isn’t connected with this girl’s death.”
“I agree with you, Jenny. But it isn’t us he has to convince.”
She slammed her cup down, splashing some tea on the papers in front of her. “I know for sure this time, because I made arrangements for his weekend away with Nancy.”
“Nancy?”
“Yes, Nancy Windgate. They’ve been together for a year now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Jenny?”
“Tell you? Why should I tell you, Mr Ravencroft? It isn’t my place to tell you about my boss’s personal arrangements.” She gathered up our cups, and opened her office door. The argument still raged as Jenny crossed the landing. I closed my eyes and saw the dark green lorry bearing down on me. Had it been a warning? I decided the best thing was to keep Jenny on my side. When she returned, I tried to inject a little humour into my tone. “I’m sorry, you’re right. Of course, your loyalty is to your boss first.”
“I’m glad you understand. Hello they’ve gone quiet. Sounds like peace has returned.” She looked towards her door. “At last, they’ve stopped shouting at one another.”
A loud thud as a door struck the wall, followed by heavy footsteps hurrying down the stairs, told us the shouting was over, but happiness hadn’t been restored. Jenny’s office door flew open and Basil appeared. His face flushed and his cheeks puffy.
“Jen, please hol
d my… Oh, James, you are here! Could I speak to you, err now? Jenny, I won’t be speaking to anyone and I mean anyone. If they ask say I’m on my way home as far as you know.”
“But what if I’m asked what time you left?”
Basil checked his watch. “Say one o’clock.”
“I have to tell the police the truth, Mr Hallward.”
“I know you do, Jenny. I just can’t be dealing with them. Not now and not today. Any other day I wouldn’t ask it of you. If you want, take the rest of the day off…” He paused. “Yes, that’s it, please just go home now, and come back afresh tomorrow. I’ll still pay you for the whole day. As soon as I’ve had a chat with James, I’m going to see my solicitor.”
Jenny smiled briefly. “Thank you, Mr Hallward. It’s very kind of you, but I would rather get on with my work. What with Cleo’s next exhibition coming up soon, there’s…”
“Forget it, Jenny. She’s just withdrawn her work. That’s what the shouting was about.”
“What! But I’ve put in so much time…” Jenny’s voice died away when she saw Basil’s stricken face.
“Yes, I know, but there’s nothing we can do about it. My main concern is how it makes the gallery look. With all these accusations floating about, the last thing we needed was her pulling out. I tried reasoning with her. To get her to understand I’ve played no part in any of this. I’m just too angry to deal with the police today. Tomorrow I’ll be fine.”
Jenny nodded. “Okay, Mr Hallward. I have a few other errands I can be getting on with outside of the office. I’ll take my keys with me, so I can let myself back in after you’ve gone.”
“Thank you,” Basil said.
“Mr Hallward would you like me to make you a cup of tea before I go?” she asked, while switching the phone over to the answering machine.
“That would be great, thank you.”
We went through to his office. Basil sat down with a heavy thud as though all the fight had left him. On his desk, I noticed a large grey box folder. The label read ‘Private Information’ in Basil’s distinct handwriting.
I took the chair opposite him. Basil picked up the folder and placed it on a shelf behind him. I wanted to ask what progress he had made in his research into the girls’ disappearances, but after reading the newspaper article, I decided against it. With both Jenny and him absorbed in hunting for answers the less, I said the better.
Basil leaned forward in his chair, his eyes scanning my face. “I need… err, I was wondering if you would be interested in filling Cleo’s shoes.”
“Sorry?”
“I know it’s short notice, but you are my only hope. I was thinking we could put together an exhibition using your landscape pictures.”
I paced the floor.
“Please, James…”
I faced him. “am I your last resort?”
Basil stood. “I’m not in the mood for dealing with hurt egos. I’ve been calling in favours all morning after Cleo phoned me first thing. I asked her to drop by to see if I could talk her out of it, but as you heard, she wasn’t about to change her mind.”
I sat down.
Basil did the same. “I can’t tell you how embarrassed I feel. Just knowing that young woman was too scared even to come on her own to talk to me about what has happened.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Anyway, we won’t dwell on that now. I’ve made some enquiries and know a few clients who have bought your work in the past, who are willing to loan us their paintings.”
“You’re giving me my own exhibition?”
“Yes, but I’m hoping that you can provide some new pieces of works, too. Do you have some we can sell on the evening?”
I smiled. “One or two. When is it for?”
“You’ve a couple of months’ grace. Three at the most, James.” A physical weight seemed to lift from his features. “Thank you, James” He began to shuffle papers around on his desk as though he was avoiding eye contact with me. Then he drew in a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Also, would it be possible… Well, more of a favour, if…” he hesitated and then made eye contact with me. “I know I’ve asked before, but…”
It was too much to expect. He still wanted the son of Jane Elspeth Maedere.
“It would be of great help. You do understand, don’t you?”
I shook my head as the twitching of a muscle in my temple began. “Is this blackmail, Basil? If I say no, I don’t get an exhibition?”
“Not at all, James. I was just asking.”
“You’re implying that you have no faith in my work.” I stood ready to leave.
“You know that’s not true, James.” Panic edged Basil’s voice. “You’re an unknown, and you’re not even using her name.”
“That’s not true, Basil.” I placed my hands squarely on his desk and leaned in. “Not according to Mrs Norris.’
“Mrs Norris?” Basil leaned back in his chair. His skin looked sallow, and his hair had lost its shine. “She’s one of my best clients along with a few of her friends. I wasn’t aware you knew her?”
“We met at Easter’s launch. Actually, she asked me why you hadn’t allowed me to have a solo exhibition yet.” I straightened up as Basil leant forward.
“Really. So that’s why she nearly bit my arm off when I asked if she would be interested in allowing her paintings to be part of the exhibition. Mrs Norris can be very persuasive when it comes to getting what she wants. If we get her on-board then she’ll persuade all her rich friends to come along to the event. Well, my lad, Cleo pulling out has done us both a favour. It might even be the making of us both, too.”
“How many paintings do you want?’ I dropped back into my seat.
“Five.” He leaned back in his chair, which engulfed him.
“Five hmm?” I knew I had already completed three. Not to my usual high standard as I had grown bored with painting land and seascapes. The paintings were good enough for people like Mrs Norris and her friends who were only interested in the monetary value of art. “Yes, I can fulfil your order.”
“I knew I could rely on you. Deliver the paintings on time, and if this exhibition is successful then we’ll talk about you having a solo one next year.”
“A whole new body of work, Basil?”
“Something to consider. But for now, let’s see what happens on the evening. If you have a picture for me, please leave it with Jenny. I’ve got a few things I need to sort out before heading home.”
“To Nancy,” I added with a smirk.
“How do you…” He stopped himself.
“Why the big secret? I’m happy for you, Basil.”
“There’s no big secret, James. I just don’t mix business with pleasure. It’s the way I’ve always been.”
I was heading for the door when Basil said, “Thank you, James.” Though this time I was not sure what it was he was thanking me for.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stone Angels
The Ninth Painting
1971
I suppose I should’ve been grateful that the police had not arrested him before the exhibition. Otherwise I would’ve missed the opportunity to launch my long-awaited career. I wanted it to be my first solo exhibition, but I had to satisfy myself with the fact that the main body of the work was mine.
Basil suggested he would fill the two smaller areas before the main hall with a selection of works done by his other artists, as it was such a large venue. He called them a taster that led the viewers into the main exhibition. Still, it was a chance to show off my back catalogue, plus a few new paintings.
I hadn’t realised the underlying pressure I was suffering until early one morning two days prior to the exhibition. I woke with a start and found myself cocooned in damp sheets and unable to rise from the bed. Panic washed over me as I relived every painful second of a vivid nightmare in which I was naked, with my back to my paintings, facing the connoisseurs gathered at the launch of my solo exhibition. The unfamiliar faces
pointed and jeered at me as I tried to shield my work from their cruel criticism.
A cold sensation ran down my back as I became aware that the crowd was now pointing at my feet. The paint I had so meticulously placed, brushstroke by brushstroke, had bubbled up and cascaded in a stream of colours. Blues, reds and yellows blended into a dark, muddy pool as though paint had melted off the canvases.
My body shook as the paint ebbed between the gaps in the floorboards. It pulled at my ankles and feet until I toppled over. With flailing arms, I tried to escape the tide of paint that swept me along past the jeering crowd. I clawed at the floorboards but there was nothing to grab onto as the paint slipped through my fingers. The chortling connoisseurs ignored my cries for help as they all raised their glasses in a toast to the disappearing art. The sound of their laughter grew deafening as they merged into a single figure that rose up out of swirling paint. It towered above me in a familiar form— my mother.
She leaned forward, offered me her hand giving me hope of rescue. Stuck between the floorboards, I reached for her, begging to be saved. Without warning, her face began to melt. Her mouth became a black cavern that folded back over her head. As it did so it spat out all the insults she had screamed at me as a child.
“How dare you think you’re better than me?”
“Who do you think you are, you stupid boy?”
I wrapped my arms around my head and allowed the paint to swallow me up.
I shook myself free from the sheets and sprang off the bed. Naked and still shaking, I padded through to the bathroom and took a shower. The water washed the sweat along with the remaining threads of my awful dream. Refreshed and dressed, I went to my studio. The eighth Stone Angel rested on an easel. I was on target to complete my collection, just two more to go.
Though I was eager to show Basil, I held back. The timing had to be right. I knew that once he viewed the first few paintings, adding to the series would be impossible. My thoughts wandered to the discovery in the church. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty, but I needed my ten.
Stone Angels Page 27