by Lily Ashton
Julian de Havilland and George Shaker certainly had the appearance of being socially acceptable – a far cry from gangland criminals. Claudia had implied that somebody had snitched on them to the authorities, and she had brushed off George Shaker’s behaviour. But the man had form. Being struck off as a director presumably meant he was hardly Mr Innocent.
Perhaps Claudia was protecting him. But from whom? Someone in Great Wheaton who wanted to dump a prominent councillor and a successful businessman into trouble and didn’t worry about the consequences.
Chapter 11
Alice had a lot on her mind; not least, whether she was ever going to see Joe again. He had still not contacted her and when she tried to ring him, his phone went straight to voicemail. After a sleepless night, Alice arrived at the office barely able to string two thoughts together.
She gazed out of the boardroom window, watching someone making tea in the office opposite, while Rosie Knight recounted an incident at a party she’d been to.
Rosie broke off as Duncan stepped into the room and took a seat at the head of the table.
“Okay everyone, let’s get going. We’re all busy, so we’ll keep this week’s catch-up brief.” He opened a sketchpad to a clean page and pinched a pencil between his fingers. “So, you all now know about Jenna’s accident. She’s broken her hip and pelvis, so she’ll need surgery, followed by an extended period of recovery. Alice will continue in the role of interim senior curator for the time being. It’s a big job, so we all need to pitch in and help her where we can.”
Tommy Norton nodded and set off a Mexican wave of nods around the table.
“Rosie, I’ve just had a difficult conversation with Jasmine Khan, complaining about this week’s Courier article on her exhibition. She says the criticism is about the curation rather than the artwork.”
So, Alice thought, she wasn’t the only person who thought the sainted Jenna Farling’s work was overrated.
“I’ll speak to you about that and the other issues she raised, after this meeting. To mitigate any other complaints from Jasmine, I’ll take ownership of taking down her exhibition when it finishes next month. Tommy,” Duncan said to the technician, “you and I need to talk about that, book a time in my diary please.”
Duncan looked at his pad and tapped dots on the page. “That will free Alice up to concentrate on the centenary exhibition. I’m not going to give another pep talk on how important this show is for us – I hope that’s ingrained by now – just a reminder that we need to continue to give this our very best efforts.”
At first glance, it looked as if Duncan had randomly sprayed the page with dots, but as he started joining them up, they formed the outline of a dog.
As Alice watched him, Duncan looked up. “How are you getting on with gathering in the paintings?”
“Okay. I’ve picked up a couple already, they’re downstairs along with Vivien’s drawing, which arrived earlier. There’s a dozen more works coming over the next couple of weeks.” She meant to meet Duncan’s gaze, but looked at Rosie Knight instead. “I went to a lender’s home yesterday and found some beautiful figurines. They’re original pieces, absolutely delightful, they would bring a different dimension to the exhibition. So I thought—”
“Wait a minute, Alice. I don’t want any changes to Jenna’s list. Can we just stick to the script please?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want. But these are very special pieces and you did say you wanted our best efforts on this exhibition.” Alice looked at the top of Duncan’s head, as he finished the house that had joined the dog on his pad. “It won’t be any trouble, we could use a plinth left from the Martha Bergman show. I’ll bring in some of the figurines, so you can see how special they are.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you, Duncan, you won’t be disappointed.” Alice rocked back on her chair and shot Rosie a triumphant look. “It’ll make an excellent media story. I took some pictures yesterday, I’ll send them over to you.”
“I said I would think about it,” Duncan said. “That’s not a yes. Hold fire, Alice, until I’ve made a final decision. In any event, the Augustus John will be the main attraction. John is a well-known name and we’ll centre our publicity around that image.”
“Augustus John is a big name, absolutely, but we had a couple of his paintings here a few years ago, so he’s not a new name to the gallery.”
Alice’s chest tightened. She couldn’t let Duncan promote the drawing until she knew for sure it was genuine.
“I’m hoping to get a new work from another well-known artist and someone we haven’t featured here before. That could be the star of the exhibition?”
Duncan moved his pencil over the house doodle, then went back to the beginning. The lines grew darker, along with his expression.
“Just. Stick. To. The. List, Alice. Don’t make me say it again. Augustus John is the biggest name we have in this show. And even if he isn’t, which he is, I want to use Vivien’s drawing to sell the exhibition. The council is our biggest funder and I need to keep her happy. Now.” He looked around the table. “Is there anything else?”
“There’s also the council’s painting. They sent the wrong one, so I’m trying to track down the original work, to get it back in time for the opening.”
“What’s wrong with the painting we have?” said Duncan. “Peonies, isn’t it? Why can’t we use that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s not the one on Jenna’s list.”
“Nobody else knows that. The visitors will just see a painting lent by the council.” He looked at Rosie for support. “We’ll use Peonies.”
“I thought you said we should stick to the script,” said Alice. “Jenna picked out Beach because it’s so good. I want to make sure I carry out her instructions and get the painting here for the opening.”
Duncan’s face and neck flushed. He looked at the ceiling before turning his gaze on Alice.
“You’re not spending your time tracking down anything, Alice, you’re not a detective. Just concentrate on your own job. Please.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” Her voice grew louder. “You said stick to the list. Peonies is not on the list and Beach is.”
Duncan threw down his pen. “We’ll use the painting we have and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
“But—”
“Just do what I tell you, damn it.” Duncan spat out the words, sprung to his feet and sprinted for the door, leaving the staff staring after him.
Rosie gathered her things and shot Alice a pointed glare.
“Duncan was only trying to support you. I would have thought you’d be grateful; after all, you haven’t done this job before and you need a lot of help.” She swept out the door, leaving Alice and Tommy at the table.
“If you keep your mouth shut, you might make it to the end of the day without being fired,” Tommy said. “But it would be more fun if you didn’t!”
“It’s not funny, Tommy. Oh, what was I thinking?” Alice threw out her arms. “I should apologise to Duncan. Should I apologise to Duncan?”
“I’ll leave you to decide. In the meantime, we need to talk about layouts for the exhibition and whether you want the wall in the Ann Gregory room taken down. I’ll have to book the technicians by Friday.”
“I think the wall will have to stay, I even wonder if we’ll have to build another one to fit everything in. Let me know what you think.”
“I’ll book Paul and Keith anyway, how about that.” Tommy tucked his notes into a folder and pushed his chair under the table.
“Also, Tommy, would you mind digging out the plinth you made for the Martha Bergman exhibition? I think it’ll be big enough for the figurines I want to show.”
“Sure. By the way, you are going to get all this signed off by Duncan, aren’t you?”
&nbs
p; “I’ll see him now and get his go-ahead. We’ll catch up early next week.”
Tommy disappeared, leaving Alice alone. She stretched her legs out in front of her and leaned her head against the back of the chair. She knew she should not have argued with Duncan in front of the others, but she needed him to know how much she wanted to make the exhibition succeed.
With the Augustus John drawing in doubt, she needed other star attractions in the exhibition as back-up. At least Roddy’s new painting was genuine, as were Nicholas Waites’s figurines. And regardless of what Duncan said, she was going to get Beach.
Chapter 12
Augustus John’s girl was on Alice’s mind as she walked back to Daisy Dawn. The girl had been with her ever since she saw her at Vivien’s house, following her every move and shadowing her thoughts.
In her cabin, Alice opened the wardrobe and took out an old shoe box. She sat on the edge of her bed and rummaged through birthday cards, photographs and letters until she found her father’s postcard. Holding it up, she studied the face she knew intimately. The girl looked back at her.
“Hello my friend, good to see you again. You should know, you’ve got a doppelgänger out there. She looks very similar to you, but she’s not exactly the same. You look serious, but Vivien’s girl has a sad, even a troubled face. Did your master draw both of you, or did some clever forger produce Vivien’s version?”
Alice needed a definitive opinion and from someone who could not be disputed. And she knew just the man.
She found the number for Stefan Erickson, a noted authority on Augustus John and his era. She called his number and held her breath. Yes, he said, he would be delighted to examine the drawing and if she did not mind making it late, he was free that evening.
There had been no response from Monica Streatham, the officer in charge of the council’s art collection, so she dialled the number again. Expecting to reach Monica’s voicemail, Alice started her message, but was cut off.
“Alice, stop! It’s Helen Yardley here. I’m a real person …”
“Oh, Helen! I’m sorry, I was expecting Monica’s voicemail. Have I dialled the wrong number?”
“No, this is Monica’s phone, I’ve answered it as she’s not here. Can I help you?”
Getting Helen instead of Monica might be more useful, as she didn’t know much about the collection.
“I wanted to arrange an appointment to see the art collection and also to ask Monica some questions about Beach. Is that something you can help me with?”
“Maybe. What do you want to know?”
“I’d like to speak to the benefactor who has Beach now and get it back in time for my exhibition opening. Would you give me their name and number please?”
“I thought Councillor Taylor told you the painting wasn’t available. She offered you something else, didn’t she? Why don’t you leave it at that?”
Alice hesitated.
“I should speak to the person who has it first. I’m just looking for a compromise, so that everyone gets a bit of what they want.”
Helen sighed. “I’m not sure. That’s not what Councillor Taylor agreed.”
“Well that’s true, but my problem, Helen, is that my boss will be furious if I don’t make a good effort to get this special work. The first thing she’ll ask me is whether I spoke to the borrower myself.”
She looked out of Daisy’s window, as the swan family, mother, father and three cygnets, residents of the reed bed on the opposite bank, fluffed their feathers and set off in single file up the river.
“If you want the borrower’s details, you’ll have to ask Councillor Taylor. I can’t give them out without her authority.”
“But Monica said it would be okay when I spoke to her before. She was going to send the details through. I don’t know, she must have forgotten.”
Alice grimaced. Lies were not her usual stock in trade.
“I don’t know. Perhaps you should wait until she’s back from holiday, then she can send it to you herself.”
“She’s gone already, has she?” Alice pushed on. “That’s a real pain as she promised she’d do it before she left. I can’t wait until she’s back, the exhibition is opening soon.”
The lies were tripping off Alice’s tongue easily now; she was shocked and amused in equal measure.
“I suppose two weeks is a long time. Well, if Monica said you can have the details, I’ll send them over. I’m sure she will have told you that the information is confidential, but I’ll remind you not to share these personal details with anyone else.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep them to myself. Thank you, Helen.”
She cut a couple of slices from a sourdough loaf she’d bought at the market earlier and went up the companionway. “Over here!” she called to the swan family, now pecking around Roddy’s barge. They turned and glided over the glistening water towards her. She pulled herself far enough under the bottom rail to dangle her legs over the side. Mrs Swan unfurled her elegant neck as Alice dropped a piece of bread into her mouth. She threw a bread shower into the river and the cygnets crowded in, gobbling the food as their mother watched over.
Mr and Mrs Swan had come into her life one cold, bright January morning. She was on Daisy’s deck, hugging a mug of hot chocolate, when she noticed the swans fretting around a jumble of wood in the water on the opposite bank. The birds had been using an old section of jetty as a base for their nest and it had rotted away, evicting them from their home. Joe found some odd pieces of wood, and together they rebuilt the platform. The swans constructed a new nest, which became the family home when their brood arrived.
“That’s it for today, the rest is my lunch,” Alice told Mrs Swan when she tapped on Daisy’s side with her beak. “You’ll have to try somewhere else.”
Alice plopped into a deckchair just as Helen Yardley’s email popped up. It had an attachment entitled ‘Great Wheaton District Council Art Collection, List of Borrowers’.
The document had three columns. The first gave dates when paintings had been borrowed and subsequently returned, the next column listed titles of paintings alongside their credited artists. Lastly, borrowers’ names were recorded along with their contact details.
Alice read through the list. Edward Bawden, Jenny Saville, Gwen John …
Alice skipped to the end and read the last entry: ‘7 June 2019; Beach by Anonymous; Borrower: HSD.’ Just last week. Nothing more. No phone number or address.
She ran her finger down the list a second time. The initials ‘HSD’ appeared many more times, going right back to the beginning of the list in 2002, but there were no contact details. And yet there was Claudia Rowan’s name, a recent borrower, along with her phone number and email address. And Councillor Julian de Havilland, his phone number too. Why no details for HSD?
Another set of initials was also preying on her mind – ‘JM’. It could not be a coincidence that Beach was unavailable the very same day Alice received the mysterious note. But why did Jason want to meet her? And why was he dead before he had the chance to tell her?
Chapter 13
Julia and Alistair Marsh were members of almost every club and society in the town. They knew practically everyone, so surely they would know HSD? Alice pressed Julia during their phone call, but she was adamant. She could not think of anyone with those initials.
Alice was sanguine. She and Roddy were on their way to dinner with Marjorie Cavendish, and as Marjorie had lived in the area “since dinosaurs roamed the earth” according to Roddy, she was bound to have bumped into HSD at some point.
In the meantime, there was still no word from Joe. Uncle Patrick’s birthday had been a big family event, with cousins and grandparents that Joe had not seen for years. There would have been music and dancing until the early hours, followed by a hearty lunch.
Caught up with the birthday celebrations, Joe w
ould have left his phone at the bottom of his rucksack and forgotten about it. There was no point sending another message now – he would be on his way to catch the late night ferry. Sanguinity remained intact.
Marjorie Cavendish’s dinner was delicious. Alice scraped her plate, licking the last traces of chocolate from the fork. She took off her sunglasses, setting them on the tablecloth, and breathed in the pungent lemon-scented air of Marjorie’s garden. Shadows from a lowering sun spread across the grass; bees hummed as they cruised foxgloves searching for a nightcap.
“That was scrumptious, Marjorie, thank you.”
“Have another slice if you want, there’s plenty more.”
“Well, I would.” Alice leaned forward, one elbow on the table. “But three slices of cheesecake would be embarrassingly greedy.”
“Dear girl, do not let embarrassment get in the way of your appetite. I’m sure Marjorie and I have seen more ignominious things at the dinner table.”
“I know I have.” Marjorie laughed. “And it has usually involved you, Roddy. Do you remember Roger’s birthday at that Italian restaurant in Charlotte Street, when Roger got the people on the next table to blow out the candles on his cake?”
“And he pushed their faces into it.” Roddy howled. “I laughed so much, I split my trousers.”
“And yesterday,” said Alice. “Roddy proved he was not the world’s best guest, when he suggested that Vivien Taylor’s prized artwork was a fake.”
Marjorie dipped her head and peered at Alice over half-moon spectacles. As if unsure that Alice’s words could be true, she turned to Roddy. “Is Vivien’s drawing a fake?”
Roddy twiddled a tuft of his beard. “It didn’t look like I thought it should do.”
“Roddy, you’re incorrigible! It looked a perfectly good drawing to me. What’s your view, Alice?”
“I must admit I also had doubts. I saw the drawing when I was a child, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something slightly off about it. The girl doesn’t speak to me the way she did before.”