The Art of Intrigue

by P A Latter

  ‘There is no family, anymore…’ Mary Bedford interrupted, at the same time as Colin Harper said,

  ‘It wouldn’t need to be secured…’

  Not to be excluded, Philip Smythe chipped in. ‘If we are considering capital investment, there are other priorities…’.

  The board descended from uninvolved formality to undignified clamour in a matter of moments. Trustees were shouting over each other. Julia was startled by the transformation, but Hugh merely raised an amused eyebrow in her direction and tapped his water glass with a pen. It was sufficient to make them recover their decorum.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, our Acting Curator’s suggestion may have merit. It is now, however, only a suggestion. My suggestion is that she circulates a written proposal with a full financial case for our consideration. I would, of course, welcome any other written investment proposals from board members, which we can discuss at our next meeting.’

  Julia, sitting to Hugh’s right, noticed him apparently doodling on the edge of his agenda sheet. From her position, she was the only one who would be able to read the scrawl. They won’t bother, it read.

  ‘Chairman?’ Mary Bedford again. ‘I think a more pertinent issue is whether our staff and volunteers are safe, in the hands of the current security agency. If this company sees fit to employ guards who go around murdering their spouses, what guarantee do we have that they won’t attack our people?’

  Julia shot a grateful glance at Penny, who was seated slightly back from the meeting table. Penny had suggested last week that they requested a copy of the agency’s staff vetting procedures. Julia signalled to Hugh that she was happy to take the question.

  ‘Of course we cannot have a guarantee and I’m sure the … um… issue of Mr Rowe was exceptional, but I have reviewed the checks and references that Kent Secure Properties use before employing anyone. I have spoken with the police to confirm that these are to the highest standard and everything we could ask for.’

  Mary Bedford looked distinctly disappointed as if she had hoped to catch Julia out. She changed tack. ‘I would be interested to hear the views of our Acting Curator on establishing a café in place of the current temporary exhibition gallery.’

  Julia knew there was no right answer to this question and she would annoy at least one trustee, whatever she said. All the volunteers knew that a faction on the board believed a café on site would solve all their money worries, but that John Carmichael ferociously opposed the plan.

  After every board meeting for the last two years Julia had heard him sounding off about the idea - saying it would lower the tone of the museum, stink the place out and occupy space they couldn’t afford to lose.

  Julia hadn’t given a lot of thought to the scheme, but she was pragmatic and not fundamentally against it, if it really could make the museum’s future more secure. Whatever her personal view, she felt bound by loyalty to John to support his position.

  She took a gulp of her now-cold coffee, but mistimed the swallow and broke into a coughing fit. Hugh was instantly on his feet to fetch her a glass of water and ready to administer back thumping or Heimlich manoeuvre if it seemed necessary. She waved him away and made spluttered apologies to the board.

  She looked around at the expectant faces - none actively hostile, but all intimidating.

  ‘My understanding is that such a scheme would require significant capital investment - rather more than could be obtained from an unsecured loan and there would need to be approval from the board on how that could be raised before it could even be considered.’

  Hugh intervened, ‘It probably doesn’t make best use of everyone’s time to discuss hypotheticals while our curator is away.’

  Mary Bedford glared at him, but raised no further questions.

  The meeting moved on, touching on the Health and Safety incident; noted but didn’t query the drop in volunteer hours; and acknowledged the marginal upturn in visitor numbers with satisfied nods.

  Just as Hugh was winding up the meeting with a routine query for any other business and expecting none, he was interrupted by Philip Smythe.

  ‘Yes indeed there is, Chairman.’ He smiled benignly at Julia. ‘I think a vote of thanks is in order for our Acting Curator, who seems to be managing ably, under most trying circumstances.’

  Hugh responded immediately. ‘Definitely. We are extremely grateful to Julia for stepping into an unfamiliar and difficult role, at very short notice, with calm professionalism.’

  Julia thought of how she had whined and agonised to him at their weekly meetings and suspected subtle irony. But several of the board members actually broke into applause, with every appearance of meaning it.

  As the meeting broke up, two of the trustees approached Julia and thanked her individually. The board’s clear approval was an endorsement she had not anticipated. Penny caught her eye and mouthed something - possibly “piece of cake”.

  The trustees eventually drifted down stairs, but all except Colin Harper still loitered in the hallway. The reason became clear quickly.

  ‘I haven’t actually seen the current temporary exhibition yet.’ Jennifer Johnson said. ‘It seemed ghoulish - as if I wanted to view the scene of a murderer’s death.’

  Julia led the way into the Specials room, then stood back. She didn’t want to be quizzed about John’s selection of pictures, or be caught out, if a trustee asked an obscure question about any of the artists represented. Like so many of the everyday visitors, the trustees were drawn to the Assassin and, for a moment, Julia thought she might need to remind them not to touch an exhibit.

  ‘So this is the notorious Assassin.’ Philip Smythe beckoned Julia over. ‘It’s a very fine painting, even if he does look like a villainous sod.’

  ‘Really Philip, that’s quite unnecessary.’ Mary Bedford looked at him with disdain.

  ‘Sorry, but you know the notoriety is no bad thing for business. I think we should keep him on permanent display.’

  Oh no. It’s really not a Seckfield kind of painting.’ Jennifer shuddered.

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s clearly a Grand Tour souvenir, so entirely appropriate. All in favour for permanent display.’ Philip Smythe held up his hand and beamed at the other trustees.

  ‘We don’t have the full board in here,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘We’re still quorate and you’re just being sanctimonious because of the silly press story. Nobody else objects.’

  ‘I think you’ll need to find a permanent spot for the Venetian, Julia.’ Mary Bedford drew Julia away from the others. ‘You are doing well enough. I dare say Hugh is helping you run the place, in the hope of making you his mistress. Just remember there will be no museum to run, if there isn’t more money coming in soon.’

  It wasn’t a question, so Julia maintained a neutral expression and made no reply. The financial situation was a worry, but she might share the first part of the trustee’s comment for Penny’s enjoyment.

  After she and Hugh had seen the rest of the board members out of the building, his manner confirmed her conviction that Mary Bedford’s jibe had been no more than that. Hugh congratulated her on her handling of the trustees, but he was behaving more like a proud parent than a lover.

  With the approbation of the other trustees still fresh, Julia felt happier than she had been for days, maybe weeks. It renewed her confidence in her instincts. She was actually doing a good job of running the museum.

  However, the exchanges in the Specials room had created niggling concerns. Perhaps Julia did not understand the museum’s financial position as thoroughly as she thought. If Fathon House had to close, whether for financial reasons or because she had driven too many volunteers away while she was nominally in charge, she would never forgive herself.

  And she had been looking forward to returning the Assassin to storage. She thought its malevolence would be stifled by a prosaic packing case. Instead, he had cast a spell over the trustees and she was stuck with him.

  Chapter 7

  Ju
lia’s resolve to spend time going through the museum’s finances in depth was short-lived. A few days after the Board meeting, which had left her feeling unexpectedly buoyant, she received a phone call shortly after she arrived for work.

  ‘Ms Bailey? Julia… It’s Felicity Carmichael. John’s sister. I have some very sad news. John died in his sleep, on Sunday night.’

  ‘Felicity - oh, I am so sorry. We knew he was very poorly, of course. But I had no idea. I mean… I never imagined he wouldn’t recover.’

  ‘I was the same. When I first saw him at the hospital, they tried to tell me how serious it was. But he’d never been sick, before. It is just a terrible shock. They said at the end it was septicaemia and multiple organ failure. There will be a post mortem. No-one has been able to explain to me yet what caused the illness in the first place.’

  As her initial confusion receded, Julia wished again that she had Penny’s people-skills, for situations like this. ‘I don’t know what to say. That’s awful. He became so ill so suddenly. And to not even know the reason...’ Julia tailed off, thankful that at least Felicity couldn’t see her contorted expressions, as she struggled to find the right words. ‘I’ll speak to the Fathon House team. I’m sure many of us will wish to attend the funeral, if possible.’

  ‘Thank you Julia. The museum was John’s life really and I know he was well respected.’

  Julia was on easier and more familiar ground now. ‘Very deeply respected. His knowledge and appreciation of the collection here was incomparable.

  ‘It is good to hear that. He always committed himself completely, to whatever he did.’

  ‘I know there will be various practical matters that will need attending to, when you are ready, but let me know if I can do anything at all.’

  'Thank you, I will.’

  Julia gave her mobile number and said goodbye with the conventional, inadequate words of condolence. ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’

  Penny had arrived while Julia was on the phone and then disappeared down the corridor to the kitchen. When she returned and saw Julia hang up, she took a mug of coffee in to her. ‘Morning, Boss-Lady. Hey - are you OK? You look grim.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. But John’s dead.’

  Penny expressed her surprise and disbelief, much as Julia had done, and added, ‘You know what will be said, don’t you?’

  They said it in unison. ‘It’s the Curse of the Assassin.’

  ‘The press are going to be all over it, this time.’ Julia knew that was probably an exaggeration and she was over-reacting, but couldn’t help herself.

  ‘No more so than before.’

  ‘But this time, the gallery will be open. If we close it, it will only add fuel to any craziness.’

  ‘You did a good job managing the journalists after … after the other deaths.’

  ‘I didn’t manage to stifle the Curse story. I only hope the post mortem will identify the underlying cause of John’s illness. Those news-ghouls would get more mileage from a mystery affliction.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ Penny recited the formula automatically.

  ~

  That night, Julia felt the now-recognised peculiar sensation combining compulsion and reluctance as she walked into the Specials gallery. She stared at the Assassin from the far end of the room. Her rational mind refused to believe the painting could have anything to do with the deaths, but the Assassin seemed to have re-awoken a childish fear or perhaps it was a primal response.

  In the daytime, away from the gallery the curse was a joke. It was the big bad wolf that would get you, if you strayed into the woodland, so you kept away and kept safe. Until the story compelled you to enter the forest.

  ~

  Julia slept badly. In the morning, she tried to concentrate on the new tasks that multiplied relentlessly. She was saddened by John’s death but their relationship had been professional, not personal friendship. Grieving was quickly submerged under the burden of work created by his death. In addition to handling renewed media speculation, Julia had volunteers, trustees, donors and funding organisations to inform. Every issue she now had to address brought to mind how strange John’s death was. Even after the protracted illness, it was unexpected and seemed sudden.

  The curator had been named as the principal on several grants. The funders expected an experienced professional to be responsible for delivering their projects, not a stand-in volunteer. The appointment of a replacement became a pressing issue.

  Penny - never one to beat about the bush - tackled Julia directly. ‘Are you going to apply for the post?’

  ‘Me? I can’t be permanent Curator.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve been managing the job pretty well to date.’

  ‘I’ve just been caretaking. The trustees would never go for it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. You ought to think about it.’

  In fact, Julia had been thinking about it, almost from the moment she hung up, after John’s sister had called, but she didn’t want to say it, even to Penny. She felt uncomfortable that her thoughts had so swiftly shifted from shock at the news and sympathy for Felicity, to personal ambition.

  This could be the chance to take up the career she should have pursued years before. The job would surely be a bit easier if she was properly in charge and didn’t have to worry about her work at MJL. She tried to think how best to broach the subject with Hugh. Would he say she was being absurd, or would he applaud her aspiration and champion her to the board, as he had for the temporary role?

  Before she had resolved a plan, Hugh phoned her.

  ‘Julia, could I take you out for dinner? Are you free on Wednesday?’

  ‘Hugh, I … I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Strictly business. Not that I wouldn’t… No, you’re right, maybe not a good idea.’

  ‘What do you want, Hugh?’ It came out more aggressive than she had intended.

  ‘I want to talk to you about the curatorship, but I don’t have much time this week. And in any case, I think you could do with a nice meal and a decent bottle of wine.

  Julia instantly regretted her snappishness and softened her voice. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...OK, Yes. Dinner would be nice. Wednesday.’

  ‘8PM. Le Beau Monde. See you there. Bye.’

  ~

  The restaurant had been their favourite when they were together. Julia concluded that Hugh probably hadn’t chosen it consciously. It might be a little insensitive on his part, but it was a very good restaurant.

  If he wanted to talk about the curatorship, could it be to offer her the post? Or was it to let her down gently, that she couldn’t be considered as a candidate? Even if the post was advertised immediately, it would take quite some time to select and interview applicants. A new appointee would almost certainly have to give notice in their current role - Julia might still need to care-take the job for weeks, months even.

  She had tried to think through all the possibilities. If the trustees didn’t offer the curatorship outright, if she wanted to continue, she would still need to resign from MJL, with no certainty for the future. She couldn’t expect them to keep a place open for her indefinitely.

  How much did she want the curatorship and how willing was she to gamble on finding herself out of work? The job at MJL was comfortable, secure and well-paid. No small considerations. Julia had not come to any decisions by the time Wednesday came around and she walked into Le Beau Monde.

  Hugh greeted her with his customary both-cheek kiss. Julia no longer stiffened at the contact - it felt almost natural again.

  ‘You’re looking very elegant tonight.’

  Julia raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It was an innocent remark, honestly.’

  ‘Then thank you for the compliment. You’re evidently in a good mood.’

  ‘Sort of. My lawyer has reached a settlement with my wife’s. It’s painful, but not crippling.’

  ‘I’d heard rumours
the divorce was going through.’

  ‘Yup, should be all sorted out within six months. It’s a major weight off my mind.’

  He raised his glass and Julia noticed the depleted bottle in an ice bucket by his side. ‘You started without me, I see.’

  An attentive waiter took the bottle and hastened to pour for Julia. She sipped and nodded appreciatively. After they had ordered and wrangled amiably over sharing the amuses-bouches, Hugh got down to business. It was a lengthy speech.

  ‘There’s been a lot of email traffic amongst the board members since John’s death. I’m not going to sugar-coat this. Some of the trustees think you wouldn’t be able to bring in the funding that Fathon House needs to survive. However, some of them think you should have the opportunity to show what you can do.

  ‘You made a good impression at the board meeting but, as you know, it’s practically impossible to get a consensus of the trustees. If you are up for it, they are willing to delay the recruitment process for the curatorship for a few months. This will save the House a bit of money in the short term. In the unlikely event that you can land a major donor or secure a substantial grant in that time, the job will be yours and everyone’s happy.

  ‘Personally, I think this is a completely unreasonable proposal. Money is too scarce right now and it’s setting you up for a fall. I was obliged to let you know of the offer, but I don’t want to see you miserable because you fail to achieve the impossible.’

  ‘Don’t say anything more. I want to try,’ Julia said.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Don’t argue. I’ll only regret it if I don’t take the chance, but I’ll need more autonomy from the trustees. Now let me enjoy this excellent meal and tell me who on the board is supporting me and who is opposed.’

  Hugh looked troubled, but impressed. ‘And you told me you couldn’t handle office politics.’

  ‘It looks like that’s another skill I will have to learn.’ Julia spoke with more confidence than she felt but, buoyed up with Sancerre and Coquilles Saint Jacques, she could bluff it shamelessly. Was a little late-flowering ambition so unusual?