by P A Latter
The first of her predictions came true. The applicant requested a week to consider and then wrote a very polite refusal, citing a decision to stay in her current role. She must have been using them to wangle a promotion or pay rise from her employer.
~
Hugh and Colin Harper had evidently felt the need to justify their second choice to the other trustees before making an offer. Julia had a phone call from Mary Bedford.
‘What do you think about this youngster, Julia? Jennifer has been wittering about diversity and feminism, but is the Neville girl any good? I don’t trust Colin Harper to see beyond her breasts. Hugh’s usually got more sense, but did she turn his head too?’
‘Well, she is an attractive young woman, but she’s already in a responsible role.’ Julia hoped she sounded fair. She told herself that her own prejudice was merely the resentment of a grammar-school girl who hadn’t aspired to the right career choices until it was too late.
Fathon House was her passion. It would be a mere stepping-stone for Cassandra Neville. But that didn’t mean the young woman wouldn’t deliver what the museum needed.
Mary Bedford’s voice cut through as if hearing her thoughts. ‘Yes. Blah, blah. But is she right for Fathon House?’
‘She’s ambitious, so she’s unlikely to stay for long and she’d definitely have a different approach from John Carmichael.’ Julia chose her words with care.
‘That may be what the House needs.’
‘The other candidate…’ Julia tried for balance.
‘Sounded like a dead bore.’
‘He wasn’t the most dynamic.’
‘OK. We’ll go with the bimbo. Let’s see what she can do.’
~
Shortly afterwards Julia had notification from Hugh that Cassandra Neville had accepted and would be starting at Fathon House after completing her notice period.
Julia let all the volunteers know the appointment had been made and began to wonder how they would all react to their youthful new curator.
She would have liked to discuss it with Hugh, but his recent abruptness kept her silent.
Chapter 18
They had closed the Specials gallery to take down the last selection that John Carmichael had chosen for display and replace it with the works that would provide a backdrop for the international trade delegation soirée.
Because of the political sensitivity, Julia was sworn to secrecy over the nature of the event. She was therefore ill-equipped to deal with the grumbles from volunteers who felt the current display should be kept as some kind of memorial, at least until the new curator was installed.
Hugh had accepted many of her suggestions but he had made numerous substitutions which had surprised her. Julia was still worried that Hugh’s behaviour was subtly changed.
She had tried raising the subject obliquely with others, but no-one else seemed to be aware of a difference. It fuelled her misgivings when he insisted the Assassin remained in place, despite the “British Art” theme of the display.
She had been working from sparse descriptions in their inventory and couldn’t remember having actually seen all of the paintings before, so she supposed Hugh had made his choices from personal knowledge. It was difficult to get any sense of a piece from a factual description, before it emerged from its storage crate.
He had loaned her the services of two brawny but careful workmen to carry crates up and down the stairs, so Julia and a pair of volunteers who had been willing to give up a couple of evenings had only to unwrap and re-pack the paintings.
Julia was determined not to dither over the arrangement of the individual pieces around the gallery, as John Carmichael had done to her endless frustration.
But faced with the array of different work which could be grouped to highlight similarities or contrasts in so many different ways, she began to comprehend his dilemma and the thought he had put into giving coherence to chaos.
No pictures of the Seckfield family were included, unless they had been - unidentified - sitters for the ethereal figures of the more whimsical subjects.
ulia couldn’t spot any family likenesses amongst these pre-raphaelite imitators that John had despised, but Hugh evidently felt were suitable for the occasion.
Most of the other works were landscapes and architectural-style studies of recognisable grand buildings. There was nothing with a close affiliation to the Seckfields - presumably just works which had caught the eye of a family member from time to time.
Julia could see why: she had been taught to evaluate quality of artistry, but viewed with a naive eye, all of the paintings had a superficial prettiness. It was the sort of art that sold. The gallery looked like a sales room.
When she had all the pictures hung and the packing cases had been returned to the store room, Julia sent the men and her volunteers home. She returned to the gallery, to try to view the display afresh.
As ever, the Assassin dominated the room. That night, she could fancy that he was judging the new paintings and assigning a price to each. Where had that thought come from?
What if the person assigning a price was Hugh? It jumped into her head that Hugh was arranging a private viewing for potential buyers.
The suspicion that he might be plotting to sell off part of the collection came to her unwillingly, but he was as conscious as any of the trustees of the need to raise money.
As a private trust, Fathon House was accountable only to the Charity Commissioners for the management of the museum. A few sales from the collection - if works of minor significance - could be justified to keep the museum open to the public.
But did Hugh think that was the best solution to their financial woes? And would the prospect of instant cash persuade the other trustees to accept such a proposal?
Once the suspicion had taken root, it couldn’t be shaken loose. She had the renewed sensation that the presence of the Assassin was guiding her mind to consider ideas that were utterly alien to her.
She told herself she was imagining things - that Hugh hadn’t given her any reason to think he might consider so extreme a step - and in such an underhand manner. It was only under the changeable but always cold gaze of the Assassin that she thought the worst of someone. It bent her mind to suspicion, intrigue and double-dealing.
Hugh remained elusive. She had sent an email and then a text inviting him to review the new display before they finalised and printed out the leaflet guide to the paintings and reopened the gallery.
In the meantime, visitors were asking about “the painting of the hands”. The merchandise branded with the detail from the Assassin continued to sell well, but customers were disappointed that they couldn’t see the original.
When she arranged the works from storage, Julia had intended to relocate the Assassin and hang it temporarily in the main gallery in place of the portrait of Emma Seckfield, still being held by the police.
However, the Arts and Antiquities Unit had contacted her that week to say they would be able to release the picture by Romney as soon as the museum could arrange to collect it.
The news was welcome, but necessitated a flurry of activity - calls to their insurers and arrangements for secure transit.
If Hugh wanted domestic art on display for the reception, it would make sense to put Artemis - the best example the museum possessed - in the Specials gallery for the evening, in the Assassin’s place.
But when she proposed this to Hugh, he was adamant that the Assassin should remain where it was. It seemed even more anachronistic than it had before and did nothing to lessen her suspicions about Hugh’s motives.
He eventually put in an appearance, to give his blessing to the arrangement of the pieces. He tried to justify his decisions regarding the siting of Assassin and the Romney portrait, but to Julia’s ears, his reasons sounded like excuses. But now she doubted her own judgement.
If Hugh had been planning sales from the collection, it was such a drastic measure, she was sure he would have discussed it with her.
>
Of course the plan could already have been considered among the trustees and an agreement reached.
They were not obliged to tell her - especially now that the new curator would take her place so soon. But even before Julia became acting curator, Hugh had trusted her with confidential information about the museum. That trust had always been deeper than their emotional involvement.
If she challenged him about possible sales and he denied it, the friendship that she had come to depend on could be undermined, but she couldn’t let go of the idea.
‘Has the board made any decision about the café scheme?’ She asked him. It was a Trojan Horse question to carry finance into the conversation.
‘God. Don’t get me started. Your paper made a good case to go ahead, but it created a shitstorm of emails and calls.’
‘I’d hoped you might have got them to a consensus.’
‘If we secured a bit of initial capital investment, a coffee shop could supplement our income nicely.’ Hugh smiled at her. She read pity into the look. ‘The trustees have been arguing with each other for so long, they can’t operate in any other way.’
‘Surely they can see beyond their squabbles when it’s a matter of survival for the museum. As far as I can tell, we will reach the end of current grant funding soon and unless something drastic is done, we’ll be facing closure.’ Julia was momentarily diverted from her pursuit of Hugh’s intentions by her concern for the museum’s future.
‘That would require a degree of rational thought beyond their fixed patterns of behaviour.’
Julia was genuinely exasperated, but her next question was sly. ‘Can’t you do something, without their agreement?’
‘Well, I told them I’d act unilaterally and sell off half a dozen of the lesser works in the collection if they didn’t start acting sensibly.’
Julia stared at him, horrified he would admit to it, without apology.
‘The loss of a handful of second-rate paintings that are in storage ninety five percent of the time anyway. Who would really miss them? Add a few more and it might pay for renovation to increase the gallery space,’ he said.
‘Fine. If we then have anything left to put on display.’
Hugh grinned ‘Your face! It hasn’t come to that quite yet, but I did make the threat to the other trustees - if not quite in those words. You’re right that they need shaking up.’
‘When I looked at the choices you’d made to exhibit for the reception… they’re all… pretty. Things that sell to people who want a nice picture on their wall, not serious collectors.’
‘And you leapt to the conclusion that I’d set up a sales offering for the politicos? What Machiavellian ideas you have these days.’
‘It does look like a dealer’s showroom.’ Julia knew she sounded defensive.
‘To be honest, I did want to test the water. Get some idea of interest and value, if we eventually have no option but to sell.’
‘Is that all? Just informal valuation?’
‘I have a lot riding on this reception. It will affect my business massively. The FCO wants the guests to see domestic British art. I want to keep the FCO sweet.’
Was this honesty? Or just back-covering when he had seen how appalled she was at the prospect of the collection being broken up? She felt she could no longer trust her instincts to interpret his words or behaviour.
After so brief a respite, she was again beset by uncertainty. She laid the blame entirely on the Assassin.
~
One morning, shortly before they opened to the public, Penny put a call through to Julia in the curator’s office.
‘I don’t know if you want to take this - the woman didn’t want to give her name.’
‘Odd. Perhaps she wants to be an anonymous donor. Put her through.’ Julia heard Penny snort in derision before the line connected to the external caller.
‘Julia Bailey here. How can I help you?’
‘Ms Bailey. Please don’t hang up. It’s Harriet Fairfax.’
‘I’m not going to hang up, Ms Fairfax. Where are you?’
‘I’m sure you must hate me, but no more than I hate myself.’
‘Everyone is worried about you. You disappeared. Are you all right?’
Fairfax made a sound somewhat like Penny’s snort. ‘Am I all right? That’s a matter of opinion. Sorry. No more self-pity. Ms Bailey, would you meet me, please? I need to talk to you.’
‘We’re talking now. If you tell me where you are, there are other people more qualified to help you, if that’s what you need.’
‘I don’t want your help. I’m sure you know what this is about.’
‘I’m not certain that I do.’ Julia began to wonder if the woman was still playing her ridiculous games.
‘You have no reason to trust or believe me, God knows, but I’ve changed. Meet me tomorrow at 4PM and I’ll explain - or try, at least. Please.’
‘Ms Fairfax, let me contact someone who can see you. A professional.’
‘No, it must be you. Please give me a chance to atone.’
Appealing to Julia’s sense of justice, made the plea impossible to ignore. Fairfax gave a West London address and ended the call.
Julia related the whole to Penny, still undecided as to whether to take the woman seriously. Fairfax had sounded desperately earnest - a strong contrast to her alternating supercilious manner and frivolousness when visiting Fathon House.
Julia declared that she was too curious to not go to the meeting. Penny googled the address, but it only appeared to be a large residential property a little way off Kensington High Street.
They debated whether they should notify anyone about the contact, but Julia decided that however obnoxious the woman had been, she was entitled to her privacy.
Julia knew from Buxton-Pryce that she had no immediate family worrying over her disappearance, and felt another day wouldn’t make a significant difference for anyone else.
When Julia reached the address, the following afternoon, she found an austere building shrouded by closely clipped evergreens. A discreet plaque next to the front door named it as Saint Catherine’s Hospital, with a buzzer and speaker panel.
Julia checked her watch. She was five minutes early. She leaned towards the microphone. ‘Julia Bailey to see Harriet Fairfax.’
‘One moment, please.’
The door lock clicked and yielded to her push. The hallway was tiled and smelled faintly of pine disinfectant. A woman approached her wearing a severe uniform - some kind of nun.
‘Ms Bailey, our guests come to us as a refuge from the outside world. We don’t encourage them to have visitors.’
She led Julia to a panelled door and opened it without knocking. It revealed a square room sparsely furnished with a plain table and two chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by Harriet Fairfax, who rose as the door opened. She was dressed in a skirt and blouse, scarcely less severe than the nun’s.
She motioned Julia to the other chair. ‘Thank you for coming. I know it was a lot to ask.’
‘I was curious.’
‘I hope you have an open mind, because I am afraid this will sound a little far-fetched.’
‘Let me guess. You were possessed by the spirit of a Venetian Assassin.’
Fairfax stared at Julia blankly. ‘Are you making fun of me? I suppose I can’t expect anything better after how I behaved.’
‘Perhaps you should just say whatever it is you want me to hear.’
‘The day after I visited Fathon House with Gerard, I had a very odd experience. I found myself back at the museum. I can’t remember how I got there, but when I was in the gallery, I started thinking about how mean I had been. My eyes were opened to my wickedness. I saw that I had been dead in spirit.
‘Ms Fairfax, are you trying to say you experienced some kind of religious conversion?’
‘Please don’t sneer, but yes I did. I really regret how I behaved and I wanted to apologise to you in person. The sisters have been kind enough to
let me stay until I feel I am sufficiently strong to resist worldly temptations and face the future. It is the holy spirit which has possessed me.
‘I’m pleased that something has stirred your conscience, but perhaps you might think about your employer and let your friends know that you are alive and safe.’
‘I hoped my apology would bring ease to your own troubled spirit.
Julia didn’t want to hear pious platitudes and continued over her. ‘And the police. You have been wasting police time because they think you’re missing. Your assistant insisted you must have been abducted or even murdered.’
‘You are right, of course. I am still being very selfish. I will make amends.’
There was a moment’s silence before Julia’s curiosity won out. ‘Can you remember what you did before returning to Fathon House?’
‘Ms Bailey... Julia… please believe me. I can’t remember anything between leaving you and finding myself back in the gallery.’
Julia had heard enough. ‘I need to get back home.’ She stood and turned to leave.
Fairfax gripped Julia’s wrist to stop her. ‘I pray for forgiveness, but the dreams keep coming. You know what they are. The snake is always there. We are all caught in the web. And he wields the whip.’
Julia pulled her arm away and opened the door to leave. Fairfax remained seated, but with her arm outstretched. She kept repeating “The snake is rising to bite. It will bite again.”
If it hadn’t been for those final words, Julia would have attributed the bizarre behaviour to more weird game-playing, but she hadn’t spoken about her own dreams to anyone.
Montagu Family Archive:
Unattributed Document
My Dearest Cousin,
This interminable exile is intolerable. I feign indifference to the many English who flock here, but I am become a Raree-show - another of the Sights to be seen on the Tour.
Until there is a change of Government, nobody will plead my cause to the King, and the present incumbents are as firmly fixed as leeches. I cannot wait until they have sated themselves on the blood extracted by their Jobbery, and fall of their own accord.