by Roz Goldie
The service was taken by a man of the cloth, who had never met the godless professor and who was none the wiser after speaking to her parents. Assuming that he was in the presence of highly educated and scholarly people, he pitched his sermon on humility directly at them.
“Pride is a great sin. We are all equal in the eyes of God!” His voice rose and fell in a manner that singularly failed to impress the modest congregation.
He continued for some 15 minutes on the importance of simple faith – quoting parables, often mistakenly, and drawing conclusions about the nature of humanity and the superficiality of the modern world.
Relieved that his droning harangue had come to an end, none of the supposed mourners sang Abide with Me with any enthusiasm. Gary and Stacey Taunter did not stay to shake hands with any of the people they assumed to be mourners. Departing for the car park, no one could miss the final indignity for Eliza Taunter. While one could justify her leaving this world in the cheapest coffin available on the market, it was difficult to defend the choice of the sole floral tribute. A tiny bunch of violets in a white china vase was all that to be seen – begging the conjecture that Eliza’s miserliness was inherited from her parents, genetically or otherwise.
Out in the fresh air, Veronica lit a cigarette as soon as was decently possible. She hated funerals. They created a profound turmoil when they were for someone for whom she had cared and a profound disgust on the rare occasions when she was attending out of a sense of obligation.
Jack had been silent for the duration of the ceremony. He’d watched Veronica, closely noticing her discomfort. Now, he cleared his throat, “Why did you come? It obviously annoys the hell out of you.”
“It’s the God-botherers as much as anything. Can’t stand all the cant and humbug! I suppose I felt sorry for the parents – at least until I met them. Aren’t they just horrible?”
“Maybe they are in shock. Who knows?”
“You sound like a police counsellor now, Jack!” she laughed. “Anyway, I’m starving. Fancy a bite to eat?”
In the distance, they saw Gary and Stacey Taunter getting into a taxi with their luggage, presumably going to the airport.
No one grieved for Eliza Taunter.
* * *
Chapter Five
The SOCOs had found very little evidence at the murder scene, other than fingerprints, and the foul smell remaining after Eliza’s body had been removed. Her phone records showed no proof of visitors, expected or otherwise. There were no signs of a break in. The only indications of violence were in the kitchen, where there had been a struggle and the victim had been stabbed – by her own kitchen knife by all appearances. It was difficult to determine the exact time of death because of the heat of the kitchen, where the oven had been on at a high temperature and the door had been left open. The approximate time was late evening.
Veronica’s statement was the only confirmation that anyone other than Eliza had been there – apart from the obvious fact that someone had killed Eliza Taunter. All the evidence was carefully stored, but none of it gave detectives any clue as to who might have perpetrated the crime.
The case was a complete mystery without leads of any kind. DI Emily Brown was certain that it was some kind of domestic, but would have to admit defeat when they turned up no leads to follow.
* * *
Lady Margaret Beightin arrived at the Stewart Gallery with the same friend as before, Frederick Stewart noticed. He wondered why someone who had the resources to buy a le Brocquy did not appear expensively dressed, and sported nothing resembling costly jewellery – even though bling and mink were not the usual dress for his clients – and she came on foot. He greeted the lady warmly, having calculated his commission with mercenary anticipation.
“Good evening, Lady Beightin!” he spoke with careful diplomacy. “I have the works ready for you.”
“Thank you, Mr Stewart.” Margaret really disliked this sort of obsequiousness and responded in a curt tone of voice. “I am looking forward to the viewing.”
Veronica kept silent, as they were ushered into a large room off the main gallery space. Walls, ceiling and floor were painted a pristine white. The light was artificial, but modulated rather than intense. Stewart pressed button, and there was a faint whirring noise as one of the walls slid gently back, revealing the le Brocquy.
Margaret gasped in admiration, and Stewart smiled indulgently – she was showing a real art lover’s interest! The core of the picture was no more than 40 centimetres by 30, set against a background of white, with a subtle but faint rainbow of detectable colours among the thick impasto. It was the face of a middle-aged woman, with magnetic eyes, a round, soft mouth and an abundance of black hair tied in the French knot.
Stewart knew better than to utter a sound. A client seeing a great work of art for the first time, which they wanted to purchase, was like the intense gaze between two lovers – and not to be interrupted. He rubbed his carefully manicured hands.
“It is a work of great affection and respect. Who is the sitter?” Margaret was mesmerised. The painting seemed to be alive – just as in the best of le Brocquy’s work.
“It is Hortense – the woman who was the le Brocquy family’s housekeeper and child-minder. She was with the family for some years and cared for the sons.” He stepped back from Margaret to allow her to keep her fixed gaze on the painting.
“I have never seen it catalogued among his works,” Margaret spoke more in curiosity than accusation. “Where did it come from?”
“Hortense died early this year, and one of her children sold it to a buyer in France. I understand that she had needed medical care and had agreed that it should be sold to meet some substantial bills.”
Margaret thought that this was plausible, although she suspected Frederick Stewart would not be above accepting something that was of doubtful provenance.
Seeing Lady Margaret had disengaged herself from the thrall that had captivated her, Stewart nodded. “I can assure you, Lady Beightin, that I have full documentation and a photograph of Hortense with the le Brocquy family. This was one of his portraits of heads – like those better known of Joyce, WB Yeats and Francis Bacon.”
“I have to say it is a remarkable painting. However, I think you might also arrange an authentication from the National Gallery.” Margaret knew that there had been a woman called Hortense, who was almost part of the le Brocquy family and felt sure the picture was genuine. “Now, I believe you have some other works.”
“Indeed, I do!” Stewart almost bowed. They stepped back from the recessed space. He pressed the button and the white wall resumed its original position, covering all traces of the le Brocquy. He showed the two women into a smaller room, where five paintings were displayed against a linen-covered wall.
“This is a John Luke – very typical.” He cut himself short, fearful of seeming to patronise Lady Beightin. He stood back.
She examined the carefully constructed work, detailed in the same vein as a Luke, but her instinct told her this was a forgery. “Interesting.”
She was clearly not in awe of this as she had been with the le Brocquy. Stewart cleared his throat and gestured to the adjoining walls.
“These are by William Conor. Full of the richness of rural Ireland.” Again, he restrained himself from his customary patter.
“Ah, these are very good!” Margaret turned to Veronica, who had not spoken a word. “What do you think, my dear?”
“They are really well-executed, but I’d go for a Tom Carr sooner than a Conor.” Veronica had remembered her briefing – though she took Margaret’s word for it that what she was saying made sense.
“We have very different tastes, Mr Stewart, but my good friend has an expert eye.” She smiled condescendingly at the art dealer. “She is fond of watercolourists – rather like dear old Clive.” She hesitated and seeing Stewart was not reacting, added, “You and Clive Heedon are twins in that respect!”
“Ah, you know Clive Heedon?” This got S
tewart’s full attention.
“We have met socially,” Margaret said in a neutral tone. “I gather he owns a number of Carr pictures.”
“I shall have to see to it that I find some of Tom’s work for your friend – he was such a lovely man,” Stewart gushed. “And you might also appreciate David Evans’ work?”
“Oh, yes indeed. I think he shows a painterly eye and an exceptional perspective.” Veronica was spot on, but running out of scripted lines.
“Well, Mr Stewart. This has been the most interesting evening’s viewing. If you could obtain authentication, I would be interested in the le Brocquy. And I will give some serious thought to the John Luke – though not for myself – I have a nephew, who would give his eye teeth for a good John Luke!” There was a twinkle in her eye and a mischievous pitch in her voice that Veronica detected immediately. She struggled to suppress a laugh. Margaret was at her most dazzling in performances such as this.
Margaret and Veronica left the Stewart Gallery without any contract being agreed, but still managing to convince the art dealer that he had at least one sale on his hands.
* * *
Details of Eliza Taunter’s funeral spread among the clientele of the Golden Palace. Sandy Hughes whistled the tune of Ding dong, the witch is dead, as he swept the floor of Curl up and Dye – and although Desmond reproached him with a mocking. “Now steady on, pet,” he joined in.
News of Nico’s good fortune created much greater interest in the hairdressing salon, not least, as Sandy knew Doctor Tebaldi would make a formidable academic adversary, but a fair-minded one.
Veronica sat listening to the chat, sipping a gin and tonic, indulgently.
“That’s one of the great advantages of living in town – you don’t have to drive,” Desmond said, as he teased her hair.
“This is heaven.” Veronica surrendered herself to the magic of Desmond’s talent, happy that he could reduce at least some of the signs of ageing.
As if reading her mind, he whispered, “And don’t do Botox, my dear. The sad thing is that it only works for people who have no real wrinkles. I’d try it myself, but I have seen the results – ugh! Not pretty.”
“Ah, you mean Sammy at the Golden Palace!”
“Well, honestly, doesn’t he look a sight now? And with that hair dyed blonde! A diseased daffodil! That’s what they call him, behind his back.”
“How? Can you read minds?” she asked, wondering if Desmond really did have the psychic powers that he was rumoured to possess.
“Not psychic, Veronica. I see it all the time – here and at the Golden Palace. One bad day in the company of young lovelies and the most grounded of people start to panic. Now, you are steeped in the mire of enforced youth at the Beeb, so it is bound to get to you sometimes.”
“Ha–ha!” she laughed, feeling reassured if a spot embarrassed.
Ageing was an unpleasant reality for Veronica. She could detect the increase in the number and thickness of tiny hairs on her chin, and what might be euphemistically called laughter lines. She had investigated cosmetics for the mature skin on the internet, which was a rather depressing search.
“Anyway, you won’t believe this. Nico is looking at Eliza’s house. It’s up for sale, and he is looking for a place of his own.”
“Eliza’s house? Isn’t that a bit soon? It was a crime scene a week ago!” Veronica felt there was something just too insensitive about Eliza’s parents leaving her home and office in the hands of complete strangers. “Didn’t her parents even want to take something small to remember her?”
“Apparently not. The lead partner in Sells and Company is handling it all – but having real problems.”
Desmond told Veronica that there were all kinds of rumours on social media about the house, and even hard-nosed speculators felt it would prove hard to let out – and expensive to get into decent shape.
“Of course, she bought from Mrs Stock – a great chum of my mother back in the day. Eliza got it for a good price and did nothing except remove the grab rails from the front of the house. It needs a huge amount of work done,” Desmond exhaled through his teeth, quietly expressing a degree of disgust. “Eliza took all the contents, some of which were valuable but gave her a pittance, and Mrs Stock was old and confused and knew no better.”
“I should think that’s the last place Nico would want to live in!” Veronica recalled the young man’s plaintive singing of Panis Angelicus and the traumatic state he was in when they had retrieved him from the basement.
“I think he has plans, but he is being rather tight-lipped about it. He said he wants his grandfather to look at it when he comes to visit.” Desmond gave a conspiratorial wink, adding, “And Nico wants them to meet you – the heroine who saved his bacon!”
* * *
Jack Summers had returned to duty after a short period of compassionate leave. Although he had not been away from Donaghdubh Station for more than a couple of weeks, it felt as if he had been living in another world for the intervening time. Detective Chief Inspector Bill Adams greeted him, as the most senior officer and his boss.
“Sorry to hear about your father, Summers. It is always a shock no matter how elderly a person is when a loved one leaves us.” Bill Adams was genuinely sympathetic, and typically unable to articulate an appropriate condolence with ease.
Jack nodded and said ‘thanks’. He went to his desk, eager to get into investigating whatever criminal business lay there waiting. He felt unsettled and uncomfortable with the environment.
Discussion of the murder of Eliza Taunter would inevitably come up, although the crime was not on their patch – which meant that mention of Veronica Pilchard was inescapable. Jack knew DI Adams was far from a fan of Veronica – believing her to have put Lady Margaret Beightin in danger in her previous escapades as an amateur sleuth and a malign influence on a vulnerable lady. He could not understand how she was susceptible to trusting that shrew!
Jack had not met Margaret since she and Veronica had solved the murders of Matilda and Walter Muckle – and uncovered a paedophile ring that included a very senior member of his own police force – so he did not know that DCI Bill Adams was seeing her. Margaret was a fine woman whom he admired, but much more worldly and self-sufficient than the DI supposed.
When the subject arose, Jack announced that he’d heard a rumour that Veronica Pilchard was returning to Glenbannock. “Lady Beightin is renting her a cottage, so she will be safely out of the circulation and unlikely to be sleuthing in Belfast.” As he spoke, Jack was suddenly absolutely convinced that Veronica Pilchard and Margaret Beightin would most certainly be at the centre of amateur investigations.
* * *
Marianne Kelly was not a woman who was easily intimidated, but she knew that directly challenging property magnates brought the risk of reprisal, if not actual danger. She was, therefore, suspicious when a second dead rat appeared at her front door.
Fortunately, Marianne was usually the first person up in the morning. With the exception of Veronica Pilchard, her guests rarely rose before 8:00 in the morning. Taking the offending item to the communal bin in the Alley, she spotted Thaddeus talking to Desmond, Adam and Steve. She took the opportunity of asking them if they had discovered dead rats around their homes or gardens.
“Oh, my God, no!” Desmond squealed.
Steve shook his head. “We’ve had nothing like that at all.”
Thaddeus was an early riser and often used his attic for painting in the silence of dawn. He looked at Marianne and asked, “Where did you find it?”
“On the front doorstep.” She winced with disgust, holding the plastic bag at a distance and tipping it into the bin.
“I saw Councillor Cobbles on the road this morning.” He raised his eyebrows.
“That bastard!” Marianne cried out in anger. “I will put up a webcam and catch him if he does that again!” The knuckles in her tightened fists were white, and her jaw was clenched.
“That would be advisable – a
nd evidence,” Thaddeus spoke with gravity. “I think we need the environmental health people out, don’t we?”
“And look, the solar lights have been stolen!” Adam chipped in.
The four stood nodding as one. Open hostilities would be more easily dealt with than behind the scenes’ briefings and stirring up distrust among the residents’ group.
* * *
Veronica wanted to move out of Marianne Kelly’s home, but she was not going to live in Margaret’s cottage in Glenbannock. It was perfect, but it was not her property and she would be beholden to – much less bullied by – Lady Beightin. She was shaken by the arrogant treatment, rankled that Margaret would try to browbeat her into changing her behaviour and her lifestyle. In fact, it had come as an unpleasant surprise that Margaret had spoken to her in that manner at all. Veronica was beginning to doubt herself – she’d never imagined Margaret would turn her sharp tongue on her. Weren’t they good friends?
Shocked at this unwarranted attempt to control her, and offended by Margaret’s suddenly changed attitude, she had watched her carefully in the Stewart Gallery – wondering if she might be the next person to be subject to this high-handed routine. Saddened, but determined to avoid unnecessarily falling out with one of the very few friends she had, Veronica had spent the rest of the night trawling through rental sites until she found a couple of possibilities. By 11 o’clock the next morning, she would have viewed both and decided.
Thinking about the options of town versus country, she was not sure she preferred rural life. However, what had started as an exciting change from Glenbannock, and a clean break from her marital home and estranged husband, was now wearisome. She missed the wide, open skies of the countryside and found living in the university area when students returned constricting. She also acknowledged that she did not enjoy the simple life, with few possessions. Indeed, as she packed her possessions – anticipating that she was going to buy or rent within days – she discovered her two suitcases were woefully inadequate to the task of carrying all the things she had accumulated in the space of less than a month. At the same time, Veronica had become so involved in Wild Fern Alley and her new romance that she settled for trying to rent a small apartment there.