by P A Latter
She cast around for something conciliatory. ‘I’m sure we’ll sell the remaining stock in no time. And you’ll be able to introduce an appropriate brand identity properly. Subject to available funding, of course.’
‘Thank you for reminding me of the need to improve the financial situation, which is, of course, a priority. Along with addressing the almost total lack of online presence. And raising Fathon House’s accessibility to a diverse community.’
‘I can see you have a lot to get to grips with. Unless there’s anything else, I’ll return to my post in the gallery.’
‘Yes. Thank you for volunteering, Julia. I know you understand how valuable that is to the museum.’ Cassie stood and held the office door.
Julia was reminded of how she had been dismissed from her headmistress’s office, when she was a misbehaving teenager.
It was true that visitors constantly asked who the Assassin was. Julia increasingly felt his anonymity added to his aura - was possibly even key to the power he still seemed to exert.
If she could identify who the Venetian nobleman had been, Julia felt she would really have broken the curse. But she knew she was back in the land of fairy tales.
She stalked into the Specials room and mouthed Rumpelstiltskin sourly, at the portrait. Her abrupt entry startled Terry, a retired teacher and one of their few male volunteers, who was curious to meet the new curator and had come in for an additional shift.
Cassie had followed Julia into the room. ‘Oh good. You’re both here. Julia, would you be good enough to keep an eye on the temporary display while I have my little chat with Terry?’
Julia noticed Cassie’s glance - it looked involuntary - towards the Assassin, as she left the room. She wondered if Cassie had inherited the sensation that the Assassin was watching her, along with the curatorship.
The only visitors in the gallery followed Cassie and Terry out, leaving Julia alone in the room. Alone with the Assassin, but now - perversely - she found it disquieting that the presence, which had so often disturbed her equanimity, was now more of an absence.
Perhaps his focus was elsewhere, now that she was just one of a team of volunteers once more. She had to stop projecting thoughts and motives on to an inanimate object.
The dead eyes no longer commanded her attention. She was free to study the rest of the painting, but if there were further details to be found, they were concealed by the muted lighting and centuries’ accumulation of grime. John Carmichael had said he thought the painting had been completed hastily, but Julia saw urgency rather than haste in the efficiency of brushstrokes depicting varying textures: wooden shelves, satin-silk jacket, linen shirt.
Later in the day, she persuaded Penny to join her for a quick drink after work, feeling slightly guilty that she hadn’t proposed a social outing for weeks and she had only suggested it that night because she wanted to bitch about Cassie.
Penny obliged by lending a supportive ear - she was sympathetic to Julia’s position, but she was still inclined to withhold judgement and give Cassie some time to find her feet.
However, she did disclose that Cassie’s reception amongst the other volunteers was mixed, with some suspicious of Cassie’s youth and inexperience, some impressed by her qualifications and some concerned that her priorities for Fathon House would change the character of a beloved institution.
~
Julia tried to ignore all her frustrations at the museum and focus on getting back up to speed with her work at the wealth management consultancy.
A very few days were sufficient to re-familiarise herself with the role and new client files. One or two of the new people were already known to Julia as recently-signed-up Friends of the museum.
The reception she had organised had been highly successful for both organisations.
Her time at Fathon House as Acting Curator had made her think differently about her work. She itched to act on her own initiative: to make suggestions; to call clients as if she had direct management of their investments herself.
Mike Latimer was the first to notice her restlessness, before even another week had passed. He encouraged her to consider how she might take on more responsibility, but warned her of the need to study for financial qualifications if she really wanted to step up to a new role in the business.
That definitely gave her something else to think about and when she next walked into Fathon House for her Friday session, she already felt she had distanced herself from the management of the museum and could direct her energies elsewhere. She would be comfortable in her simple supporting role as a gallery steward.
Later that morning she was chatting to a group of visitors who had asked about the Seckfield family portraits. She shared the Fathon House lore that a picture of the youngest, prettiest daughter of George and Emma Seckfield hung in the Wallace Collection.
‘Thomas Lawrence’s Portrait of a Lady is generally thought to be Sally Siddons, the daughter of the actress, but the attribution is uncertain.’
The visitors promised to look for family resemblances if they went to the London Gallery.
Cassie walked into the room, deep in conversation with Hugh. When Julia finished her story and the visitors moved on, Hugh walked over, which forced Cassie to follow, if she wished to continue their discussion.
‘Hi, Julia. I just dropped by to see how our new curator was settling in. She’s been telling me about all her great ideas for the future.’ He directed his smile towards Cassie and then Julia, but neither of them took up the conversation. ‘We’ve been talking about funding, too. I told Cassie about the excellent paper you prepared for the trustees, to evaluate the café scheme.’
‘I’d be happy to talk you through the details that didn’t make it into the final paper, if it would be helpful,’ Julia said.
‘Thank you, but I don’t think that will be necessary. I have a few ideas of my own about how we might better use the temporary exhibition space.’
Hugh looked a little abashed by Cassie’s casual dismissal of Julia’s offer, but Cassie had now turned her back on the pair of them, to leave the gallery, trusting Hugh to follow.
He shrugged. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’ And he hurried after Cassie.
Julia couldn’t help but feel hurt - both by Cassie’s attitude and by Hugh - for failing to support her. She shrugged in imitation of Hugh, at their departing backs. This was the new regime. She had to adjust to it, if she wanted to continue as a volunteer.
In the afternoon, just as she was thinking about taking a tea break, Cassie stuck her head around the door and beckoned Julia over.
‘Would you join me in my office for a moment, please?’
‘Yes, of course.’ As Julia walked past Penny’s desk, her friend flashed her a conspiratorial grin.
Once they were in the inner office, Cassie closed the door and motioned Julia to sit. ‘We might have got off somewhat on the wrong foot last week. And earlier today.’
Julia tilted her head in a non-committal gesture of acknowledgement.
‘I have a project… actually it was Penny that suggested it. She thought you might be interested to take on the cataloguing of all the material that was at Dr Carmichael’s house.
Julia recognised an olive branch. ‘Yes, I would like to do that.’
Julia had stacked all of the boxes in the top floor storeroom, after she collected them from Felicity. With the distractions of Cassie’s arrival and returning to work at MJL, there had been no time to think about them.
There was just about enough room for her to set up a desk for a laptop and work her way through the papers without taking up space downstairs with Penny. Julia felt that would be in rather too close proximity to the curator’s office.
She would be able to work on the papers whenever there was another volunteer available to man the galleries. Her sustained programme of talks to local groups, in the past weeks, had done little to attract donors, but had revitalised the volunteer workforce. She was now frequently superfluous
in the galleries.
Her mind was racing ahead to consider how best to catalogue the papers in a way that would be compatible with the existing, meagre Fathon House archive.
Cassie called her back to the present. ‘There is something else I wanted to ask you about.’
‘Happy to help, if I can.’ The offer of the new project, even if it had been Penny’s idea and probably as a means of reconciling them, made Julia feel a little more forgiving.
‘I knew about the deaths and heard the stories about the curse before I arrived, of course. But can you tell me what really happened with the security guard?’
‘Have you asked Sam about it?’
‘She said she didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘That’s not surprising, since she walked into the Specials gallery and found Aaron dead on the floor.’
Cassie fidgeted with her scarf, before saying. ‘It can’t have been connected to the museum - to that painting, can it? Him murdering his wife? Nobody here wants to say anything.’
Julia didn’t feel sufficiently conciliatory to help her out. ‘If it was unconnected, then there is nothing to say.’
‘But you don’t believe in the curse, do you?’
Julia looked her in the eye. ‘Do you?’
Chapter 21
It was probably a bit theatrical for Julia to walk out of the curator’s office, after turning Cassie’s questions about the Assassin’s Curse back on her. It was, however, immensely satisfying.
It wasn’t until she was out of the building that she could bring herself to acknowledge that it was a reticence to discuss the painting as much as a desire to discomfort Cassie that had made her answer as she had.
The Assassin created an atmosphere that made her evade queries. The bogeyman comes when you call him: it was best to remain silent. She berated herself for childish fears and resolutely closed her mind to supernatural threats from long-dead noblemen.
She had a new project to divert her attention. The opportunity to explore a possible treasure trove of undiscovered information about the Seckfield family was more than sufficient for her to forget vague anxieties.
If she was being realistic, she knew it was highly unlikely that she would find anything of substance in the dusty boxes, but the flights of fancy persisted that she might stumble upon a document, which would transform their understanding of the family’s history.
She asked Penny to ensure that her Friday gallery sessions could be covered by other volunteers whenever possible and set up her new workstation. She began methodically cataloguing each paper in sequence, carefully keeping them all in the order she found them, even though they seemed utterly jumbled together, with no grouping by date or type of document.
After the novelty of the task wore off, it quickly became tedious. It took time to decipher handwritten sheets and most of the pages were just household bills, if they were Seckfield-related at all.
After two boxes, she abandoned the measured approach and lifted a bundle from the next box to leaf through.
She justified her casual riffling as a reward for her earlier diligence and decided she would rummage - without disturbing the order - until she found something more interesting and once she did, she would “pay” for her find with an hour of proper cataloguing.
The random search eventually yielded treasure and she marked the place, between bills for vegetable seeds and riding boots, with a yellow sticky note. Her find was a family letter dated 1785.
Dear George
I write, so that you may confirm to my mother, that Mackenzie and I have arrived in Venice, without having been beset by wild beasts, or succumbing to foreign Contagions. We are both in capital good health and Mackenzie has secured us excellent lodgings, although everywhere is so noisy I cannot imagine I will sleep at all.
We have but this day arrived, so this will not be a long letter and our Grand Tour starts in earnest on the morrow. I know you would say you are happiest at home, helping to manage the estate, but you could not help but be amazed by the architectural Splendours, besides, it must be said, the squalor of this City.
I have decided that, rather than trust to the uncertainty - and cost - of posting lengthy letters, I will keep a diary account of my travels and adventures, along with the Sights that I am here to experience.
I must ensure that I undertake some improving activities, so that my father will not feel he has wasted his money, in so generously permitting me this opportunity to see the World, and so that my journal may include material suitable to read to my mother. However, I will also record activities that I trust will be more entertaining to you. From what I have seen already, it will not be difficult to pursue such adventures.
I include my direction, in case you have need to contact me, but I trust in Providence to keep you and all of the family safe. Pray kiss my mother and send my gratitude and respect to my father.
Your brother
Edmond Seckfield
Julia instantly forgot her self-promise to return to methodical cataloguing. If the diary was also in the auction lot, it could be a fascinating narrative: first-hand experience of a young 18th century gentleman exploring the delights of the sophisticated European cities.
She carefully leafed through every other paper in the box that the letter had come from, but could find nothing like a diary. The other documents appeared to be a random assortment, thrown together.
They weren’t even all from the same decade - some from the nineteenth century looked like they might be worth exploring, if the handwriting could be deciphered, but it was the letter that had caught her imagination.
She looked again at the date: 1785. With growing excitement, she opened a new window on her computer to check on the Wikipedia entry for Bernadino Castelli: As she remembered, the painter was believed to have gone to Venice in 1782 and joined the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia.
So in 1785, he was quite likely to have had students assisting his portraiture business. The “School of…” attribution of the Assassin could easily date from this period.
It was entirely possible that Edmond had purchased the painting as a Grand Tour souvenir. If only she could find the diary, it might give positive proof.
It might hold the answer to the identity of the Venetian nobleman. Edmond might have bought the painting merely because it appealed to him, but there was the tantalising possibility that he had met the sitter or even known him well. Perhaps tracing the name of the Assassin wasn’t a complete fantasy.
Julia checked the Seckfield family tree - one of the few items that the museum had online. The web page only gave the direct line of descent, so it confirmed for her that George, the recipient of the letter, was first son of the George whose watch had just come to light and Emma - whose portrait hung in the main gallery.
Julia would have to look elsewhere for details of the younger brother, Edmond. George would inherit the family properties and continue the Seckfield line in the next century.
Julia was wondering whether to search through the remaining boxes when Sam stuck her head around the door to suggest a coffee break. Julia showed her the letter and bemoaned the absence of the promised diary.
‘But they weren’t likely to be in the same place,’ said Sam.
‘Of course, you’re right. This was posted to George before the diary was ever written, but Edmond would have kept the diary with him - assuming he actually wrote one - and when he got back home, would have just shown or lent it to his brother.’
‘Then you haven’t checked the archive to see if the museum already has the diary?’
‘I’d be amazed if we do. The records are so meagre, a family diary would count as a significant item.’
‘Well, I’m dying for a coffee and the archive index is downstairs in the main office, so let’s take a look, just in case, after refuelling.’
~
Julia had been dismayed to discover that records of Seckfield documents had never progressed to a database. It was another task t
hat they had never had the manpower to undertake, and in any case, John Carmichael had been reluctant to let a volunteer near the archive or even the index.
However, Sam was effectively a staff member, and when they told Penny what they were looking for, she saw no reason for them to seek Cassie’s permission.
The index was a box file of cards listing archive contents in chronological order. The terse notes identifying each document were clearly intended merely as a prompt for the old curator’s memory - the details had been catalogued only in John’s brain.
Julia combed through 1785 and then every record for the next three years, having no idea of how long Edmond might have travelled. There was nothing in the cards that could possibly have referred to the diary. Disappointed, she returned to the dull task of cataloguing the newly-acquired papers.
In earlier times, she would have talked to Hugh about the diary. But the only occasion that Julia had spoken to him in the last few weeks was when he came into the gallery with Cassie.
Even before that, the easy understanding she had felt with him, regardless of previous emotional involvement, was gone.
She needed another break and went to stare at the Assassin in the hope that the painting would offer up clues to his identity. His expression was enigmatic. The taunt that she imagined in his eyes was just that - her imagination. The Venetian was giving nothing away.
There was a vanishingly small possibility that the diary might turn up in one of the other boxes. If it did and provided a backstory for the Assassin, Julia wondered if it would be a satisfying revelation or an anti-climax.
Although Sam remained convinced of the Assassin’s power, Julia had never been certain if the other volunteers felt similarly. Her own avoidance of the subject - whether stemming from a reluctance to appear a superstitious fool or to give substance to unnamed fears - had sometimes made it seem as if he held them all in thrall.
Julia tried to think how else a connection between Edmond Seckfield and the painting could be found, but standing in the gallery, but her mind was a fog. She collected her jacket and bag from the kitchen and walked out into the street to get some fresh air.