The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  After a lot of fast-forwarding and back-tracking, she could put the full sequence together: Aaron had arrived at Fathon House just after midnight. He had checked the main gallery, made a circuit of the rooms upstairs, then returned to the ground floor and put his head into the offices, loos and kitchen, before walking into the Specials room. He had left the building and locked up behind him at 12.20.

  At around 4.30, he had unlocked the front door again and gone directly to the Specials gallery. Julia saw that he approached the Assassin again, before walking back down the gallery, towards the door. He was in the centre of the room when he crumpled to his knees and fell to the floor. It was deeply shocking to witness the last moments of someone’s life.

  Julia had insisted Penny should go home as soon as Imogen returned from dropping off Sam. There was no reason for her to lose the rest of her free weekend. But after watching the security footage, Julia wished she had asked her to stay on. It suddenly felt very isolated at the desk, even though Imogen and Sheila were manning the main gallery and the upstairs rooms, and a few visitors circulated.

  When she’d called Hugh to let him know what had happened, he had offered to drop in. There wasn’t anything he could do, and she didn’t want to seem needy. But now she felt a need for human contact and decided it wouldn’t really be bothering Penny just to text. It might answer the mystery of Aaron’s second visit.

  Had Aaron’s schedule been changed to two patrols? He died after returning to the House at 4.30 AM.

  Penny’s reply was almost immediate: No. How weird. You’d better tell the police. They probably don’t know he wasn’t expected to make two rounds.

  Julia called the number on the card Inspector Barrett had given her.

  ‘That is curious, Ms Bailey. Thank you for letting me know. In light of developments, it could be very relevant. I may as well tell you, because it will be in the papers soon enough: we now know that last night Aaron Rowe’s wife was fatally stabbed. We believe sometime between midnight and 5AM.’

  Chapter 4

  Julia heard it on the radio news that evening: a woman found stabbed to death at her home in Kent - happened in the early hours of Saturday morning - her husband found dead shortly afterwards - police not searching for anyone else in connection with the incident.

  Julia was guiltily grateful that the museum wasn’t mentioned. The local, if not the national, press would, no doubt, pick up on that detail “soon enough”. She could hear the phrase in the police inspector’s smooth tone.

  It was difficult to know quite how soon they might be at the door of Fathon House. Julia composed an email to the volunteer list, so that none of the team might be ambushed by a reporter. Although a couple of the older regulars were not connected to the internet or, at least, never read their emails.

  She then realised that she didn’t just need to tell them what had happened, she had to provide a statement for the press, if they were asked about the deaths.

  “Everyone at Fathon House was shocked and deeply saddened to learn of this tragedy. Aaron Rowe’s employer provides night security for the museum and Aaron had been a reliable member of the team here, for many years.”

  That didn’t look contentious. It was suitably non-committal. Did it sound too cold? Julia’s ex-husband had once accused her of lacking compassion. But just because she thought about the practical issues at times of tragedy didn’t mean she was unfeeling.

  She wondered if she ought to check the statement with the trustees. No, it was the curator’s responsibility to represent the museum. She copied Hugh in to the message and clicked on send.

  She had planned to work from home on Sunday, but walked up to Fathon House at 9AM, to make sure the team on duty had received her message and were comfortable to face the public and - potentially - the press. She ended up staying the whole day. Sam had turned up for weekend duty, to keep an eye on visitors in the galleries, but Julia judged her too jittery to make visitors feel at ease and packed her off to her weekday lair on the top floor - their grandiosely titled conservation workshop.

  Most other art collections of their size would send work off site for cleaning and restoration work, but conservation was John Carmichael’s specialty and passion. He had battled with trustees, schmoozed with donors and chased grants to provide Fathon House with equipment that met his stringent requirements.

  Fathon House was a private charitable trust, but it was through his contacts at the new National Trust facility at Knole that they had Sam for six months. John said “It would be interesting to get it cleaned up a bit” so often, it had become a catchphrase used by the whole team. Their young intern played up to her bohemian art student image, but Julia was deeply impressed by the meticulous work she had undertaken.

  ~

  On Monday morning there were a couple of calls from journalists on national papers hoping to flesh out a backstory for the online editions. Julia had swapped her MJL office day to later in the week, so that she could be on hand if needed, but the callers were satisfied with Penny’s recitation of the statement and brief information about the museum.

  Julia had called Inspector Barrett at five past nine to ask when they would be able to re-open the Specials gallery. He requested that it remained sealed for the time being, something Julia was grateful for, when the local press arrived later that morning. The reception desk volunteer showed the journalist through to the inner office when Julia nodded acquiescence.

  ‘Ms Bailey? I couldn’t find out very much about Fathon House on the web.’

  ‘I’m afraid our website needs overhauling. We operate with a very small team and don’t have the manpower.’

  ‘You’re the curator?’

  ‘Acting curator. Dr John Carmichael is currently on sick leave.’

  ‘May I see where it happened? Where Aaron Rowe was found.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. You would need to speak to Inspector Barrett to request access to the scene.’ Julia caught herself, before she said crime scene. They still had no idea what caused Aaron’s death. Or why he had returned to the museum. The police - if the news reports were to be believed - thought he had stabbed his wife, but had he then committed suicide somehow in the Specials gallery? Could the shock of what he had done cause the heart attack which Penny had assumed killed him?

  ‘Oh well. Can you tell me anything more about Rowe.’ The journalist was undeterred.

  ‘I regret I didn’t even know that Mr Rowe was married. He was employed by Kent Secure Properties who provide our overnight patrols. It was rare that any member of the staff or volunteers here were on site when he was on duty. You would do better to talk to his employers. We really know very little.’

  ‘Why do you think he came here, after he stabbed his wife? What drew him back to Fathon House?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. It would just be a guess.’

  ‘Ms Bailey, if I may not see where he died, what can you tell me about it? What’s special about that gallery?’

  ‘We change the pictures exhibited every few months. Dr Carmichael makes a selection from the stored works. The total collection is much bigger than we can display in the space we have here.’

  ‘When did the present selection go on show?’

  ‘Just a couple of weeks ago.’ Julia belatedly realised it might be a good idea to be a bit friendlier. There might be no such thing as bad publicity, but unsympathetic coverage in a local paper would do the House no favours. ‘I’d be happy to introduce the paintings in the temporary exhibition to you, as soon as the police let us back in.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘But I’m afraid it won’t help your story. I can’t imagine the exhibition had anything to do with Aaron’s death.’ As she said it, Julia could see the mocking gaze of the Assassin in her mind’s eye. But how could the portrait, or any other picture, for that matter, possibly be connected with the deaths?

  ‘Hmm. The timing is curious though. Did you know Friday was Aaron Rowe’s first night at wo
rk after a two week holiday?’

  ‘No. We don’t know who the security firm has on duty on any particular day. I just knew Aaron was our regular guard.’

  ‘It means he wouldn’t have seen the exhibition before Friday night.’

  Julia felt harried by the journalist’s questions. ‘I think returning to work from holiday could be a more likely trigger for … disturbance, than anything one could see in our galleries.’

  ‘I expect you’re right, but no-one seems to know what was the trigger - as you put it. He had no record of violence. The neighbours say they kept themselves to themselves. Kent Secure says he was a good worker.’

  ‘We never do know what is going on behind closed doors or in people’s minds, do we?’

  He persisted. ‘Is there something behind your closed door that might incite a man to murder?’

  ‘The exhibition is all quite conventional paintings. I can provide you with a list, if you would like?’

  ‘Please. With some description, if possible.’

  ‘Yes, I can certainly do that. I’ll email it to you later today, if that’s OK.’ Julia made a mental note to ensure all the team avoided referring to the “Portrait of a Venetian Nobleman” by his nickname. The Sevenoaks Chronicle wasn’t known for sensationalism, but this chap was on a mission to link the exhibition to the deaths.

  ~

  Over the next few days, Julia made a call to the police each morning and was told the gallery should remain locked, but was given no further information.

  Each day, she had to tell volunteers and visitors that she didn’t know when they would be able to re-open the room. On Thursday afternoon, Inspector Barrett phoned, but not to let them unlock the gallery.

  He asked if the members of the team who had been at Fathon House on Friday or Saturday could be called in the next day for him to speak to, together with anyone who had known Aaron Rowe. He also requested that the security video from Friday night was cued up for him to review again.

  Julia suggested he used the second floor board room to conduct his interviews, and Penny provided a supply of tea, coffee and biscuits. It took very little time for the team members to each relate that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred before they left on Friday night and they were shocked by the discovery on Saturday morning. The inspector took rather longer going over the recording, as Julia had done, to examine Aaron’s midnight patrol of the gallery and then his last movements, when he returned.

  ‘Ms Bailey, would you unlock the gallery for me to take another look around, please?

  ‘Of course, Inspector.’ She fetched the key and followed him into the room, closing the door behind them. ‘Can you tell me? What did cause Aaron’s death?’

  ‘The pathologist says heart attack. No medical history, but that isn’t actually unusual. An alarming number of middle aged men in stressful situations die suddenly.’ He smiled to acknowledge the relevance of the statement to himself. ‘We have no idea what made him stab his wife that night. Domestic violence usually shows gradual escalation and we had no indication that he’d previously laid a finger on her. But then the victims often keep quiet about it.’

  ‘You are quite sure it was him?’

  ‘Oh yes, We don’t quite have an eye witness, but as close as.’ The inspector began to pace around the room, stopping in front of each painting and making a few comments, as something caught his eye. ‘She’s a pretty one. Or the artist did a flattering job to please his paymaster… I ran around fields like those, when I was a boy… I could live with that on my wall, quite happily.’ He turned to Julia again. ‘I suppose these were the gentry’s equivalent of picture postcards or holiday snaps.’

  Not far removed from the truth, Julia thought.

  ‘Now. He’s an evil looking bugger, don’t you think?’

  In the filtered light of the overcast day, the Assassin’s stare was sardonic. ‘He looks like he might have stabbed a few wives, in his time.’

  Julia shivered and rubbed her arms, feeling the sudden chill that the Assassin’s gaze sometimes exerted. She was annoyed that the painting continued to affect her. ‘He … the painting, that is, does have quite a murderous presence.’

  ‘Perhaps he did put the thought into Rowe’s head. It’s as reasonable a theory as any other.’

  ‘Is that going to go into your report, Inspector?’

  ‘God, no. I might be sent for psychiatric evaluation if I get too fanciful. The truth is, we will probably never know why.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think we need to keep this locked up any longer.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s a great relief.’

  ‘I’m afraid you may get a few ghoulish types coming to gawp.’

  ‘If they pay their entrance fee, they will be welcome to gawp.’ Julia’s hand went to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded heartless. I was very sorry - am very sorry - about the deaths, but I am also concerned for Fathon House, particularly when our curator is unable to represent us.’

  ‘You can wish him a speedy recovery from me. And when I have some time, I must bring my wife to look at the rest of the House properly.’

  ‘You will both be very welcome, Inspector.’

  ~

  Julia let the team know that the police were no longer interested. She knew that for everyone else, it felt open-ended and unresolved. And uncomfortable. Visitor numbers rose fractionally but if there were thrill seekers, they kept a low profile amongst the customary museum-goers.

  Until Sam, one of the few members or the team to use Twitter, spotted a post which directed her to an online news site: “The Curse of the Assassin?”

  Julia suspected the journalist who had spoken to her was responsible. He must have come back when the gallery re-opened - the story included a detailed description of the painting. The article linked the murder and Aaron’s unexplained death with John Carmichael’s continuing illness. It made vague allusions to the portrait exerting evil influences, without offering a coherent theory for the mechanism or a reason for the putative curse.

  After they had closed up that night and Julia was about to lock up and leave, she took a walk around the house. This was something she had occasionally done, since she first had a set of keys - the opportunity to enjoy the house and the collection all alone, without distractions.

  She started on the first floor, noting that the library windows could do with cleaning. The dining room was laid out for a meal and looked perfect - the volunteers kept the glassware and crockery sparkling. As ever, she experienced a twinge of irritation that a bedroom scene was displayed on this floor. It confined the public areas to two floors for simplicity, but was anachronistic.

  She returned downstairs to the main gallery. It was an elegantly proportioned room - large and high-ceilinged, but not so grand as to feel inhospitable. This was Julia’s regular volunteering domain. She had learned all she could about the artists represented here and the pictures on permanent display.

  She lingered and checked her watch. It was getting late and there was no need to look in on the Specials room. But she had to admit that wasn’t why she was avoiding it. There is no curse, she told herself. It is just a well-executed portrait of an unpleasant character. Well-executed? A psychologist would make much of the choice of that word.

  She opened the door and stomped across the room to confront the Assassin.

  ‘A curse huh?’ She said aloud, feeling foolish. ‘If I knew how, I’d curse you right back to your own century.’

  Montagu Family Archive:

  Unattributed Document

  My Dearest Cousin,

  I understand how ferociously angry that you are with me and I prostrate myself at your feet.

  However, I know you will come to appreciate that my course of action was essential. He was a bore and a bully and, as his Widow, you lose nothing of the power and influence that was the only value he, as a Husband, conferred upon you.

  I count it as nothing that restoration of your Honour required the sacrifices we now endure, but
I am sure the loss of your Husband is less burdensome than the powerlessness I feel, in my absence from London and the House.

  I am certain you will say that it could have been accomplished by more subtle means, but that would have led to even more unseemly Rumour. It is far better that I, alone, carry the responsibility. (Incidentally, I am now making a study of such subtle methods, at which the natives of this country excel. Adding to one’s Armamentarium is never a wasted effort.)

  My only regret is that the situation now requires me to abandon you to the tongue-wagging of the world, alone. For the meantime, my exile is required, and my presence, whilst it would afford comfort to us both, would not quell the tattle-mongers.

  I will not apologise for my action, but I do however, unreservedly, for the unavoidable and vulgar scandal. Forgive me, Beloved. In your heart, you know I have done only what you have - a hundred times - envisioned.

  Until I am able to return, I remain prostrate, and consequently, I may kiss only the hem of your gown -

  With all the affection of your fondest cousin,

  Henry

  Chapter 5

  A week later, Julia was in the office at the museum when John Carmichael’s sister dropped in. She had travelled down from Bradford to visit him in hospital and reported to the Fathon House team that he was no better - possibly worse. He was suffering gradual loss of function in multiple critical organs. The hospital had no explanation.

  At the MJL office, the partners hadn’t complained as Julia fell behind with their work, but she could sense they were getting restless. And she was flagging - she knew she couldn’t continue to juggle the two jobs for very much longer.

  She had been having weekly meetings with Hugh, so the trustees received regular assurance that everything at the museum was under control. If Hugh made it to the House while they were open to the public, they went up to the boardroom to talk, but his business commitments meant the meetings could be at almost any hour.