by Lily Ashton
“We were looking for a quiet place outside the city and a colleague suggested we look out this way. We came for a drive one Sunday afternoon and stumbled on Great Wheaton. We decided right there and then, we wanted to live here. And we settled in real fine.”
Mr ‘Call me Eli’ Avery puffed his broad chest and opened his expansive arms.
“We’ve been very happy here. You people made us feel right at home.”
“I came from London myself,” said Alice, “and I’ve found people really friendly. It’s only been a year, but I already feel like I’ve been here for ages.” Alice glanced at the artworks in the living room. “Did you bring these paintings with you from the States?”
“Yes, but they’re just the ones I inherited from my family,” said Mrs ‘Call me Betty’ Avery. “I couldn’t leave those behind. But Eli and I wanted to start a new collection, so we gave the rest to our children. We’ve enjoyed building up another stock of works here. We were going to lend you one of our American artists, but we’d be happy to consider anything else you prefer.”
“There are no American artists in the exhibition, so that sounds perfect – and thank you for your generosity.”
“Well, see what you make of the painting,” said Eli. “We dug out a couple of photos from when we first saw it in the window of a second-hand shop in Tallahassee. If you like it, you can have those for your catalogue.”
Eli Avery related the story of how they had bought the piece because they liked it, paying only a few dollars. But after a thorough examination at home, Eli was convinced the unsigned painting was the work of an established twentieth-century American artist. An art historian agreed, so Mr and Mrs Avery started their enviable art collection with an important painting and a lucky find.
“It’s in the hall. We’ll start there,” said Eli.
When Alice saw the painting, it was love at first sight. It was of a nondescript red barn in a clearing, but the light, and the subtlety of the palette, were exquisite.
“It turned out to be a Rockwell,” said Eli. “We couldn’t believe our luck.”
Alice made notes whilst Eli talked, working out a story around the photographs.
“We’ll do a tour of the rest now. Let’s start in the dining room.”
They were as interesting and tasteful as Alice imagined they would be. They were also beautifully framed and hung; the Averys were certainly prepared to put their money into their hobby. Alice thought of the Peonies painting from the council’s art collection, with its clunky frame. She resolved to convince Duncan to have it reframed if Beach didn’t turn up.
“We bought this piece locally, saw it at someone’s house and loved it.”
Alice sighed at an exquisite watercolour of Japanese cherry blossom hanging over a bridge.
“We took it straight off their wall,” said Betty. “Put it in the car right there and then.”
“Whose painting was it?”
“Walker Hampton’s. You must know him, I guess.”
“Yes, I know Walker, he has a fabulous collection.”
“We were only at his house by chance, would you believe. We were picking up a friend and while she was admiring the garden, we bought this terrific piece.”
“Have you bought any other paintings from Walker?”
“No, just this one.”
“So where did you go for the rest of your collection? Do you use a local dealer?”
Eli was climbing the stairs.
“No, we don’t, though we did buy another painting later on from someone else around here. Someone we met at a dinner party, I can’t recall the name. Betty, do you remember who sold us the Remy Blanchard?”
“Gee, Eli, you know how hopeless I am with names. I can barely remember what our grandchildren are called.”
“It’ll come to me.” Eli led Alice into the main bedroom. “We keep our favourite paintings in here.”
Alice immediately thought of Walker Hampton.
“We made it real comfy. We often spend the cold evenings tucked up in bed reading and enjoying our artworks.” It sounded as if Betty wished it could be winter all the time. If the room’s stifling air was anything to go by, it would be toasty in winter.
“Such a beautiful view too, right over the river.”
“Sure, it’s a great spot. Good for boating.”
The three reminisced about sunny summer days lazing about on the water.
As they reached the front door after finishing the tour, Eli Avery remembered who had sold them the Remy Blanchard painting.
Alice dropped her bag on Daisy’s deck and took Roddy’s proffered glass of wine. The sun was dropping, and the temperature with it, as the two friends clinked glasses.
“While you were hobnobbing with the Averys, I had to endure the Bradman vexation. Unfortunately, I ran into him on Sam’s Lane and I couldn’t get rid of him. I hope you’re suitably grateful.”
“I am, thank you, but what was Martin doing here?”
“He brought this over for you.” Roddy picked up an envelope from the table beside him. “Said he promised you some photos for the exhibition catalogue.”
“He did too. It was sweet of him to bring them over.”
“I don’t suppose he has much else on, this not being the season for cross-dressing madams.”
Alice took the envelope and noticed a bunch of carnations behind the sun lounger. “Did he bring the flowers too?”
“Oh, I forgot. No, they were dropped off by some brusque little man with a Barry Gibb voice. He interrogated me to within an inch of my life, before he was persuaded I would give you the flowers.”
Alice fished out a card from amongst the blooms. It read, ‘I hope you and the Defender have recovered.’
“They’re from Victor, the man who changed my tyre yesterday. How thoughtful of him.”
Roddy snorted.
“What are they like, Martin’s photos?” said Alice. “Have you seen them?”
“No. I left them for you.”
She opened the envelope and took out the photos. The first one featured Martin Bradman, resplendent in full mayoral regalia of tricorn hat and long black gown, over a shirt with lacy white cuffs. Next was Martin dressed in full Widow Twanky costume from a Christmas 1997 production of Aladdin. Alice passed them to Roddy.
“I always wondered why people wanted to be mayors,” he said, “but it’s obviously so they can dress up.” He stood up and slipped on his flip-flops. “I think I need a lie down after that alarming sight. Before I go, do you need me for anything?”
“I’m going to pull all the exhibition catalogue material together, so have you got anything else to go in?”
“No, you have everything.”
“Dare I ask how your own painting is coming along? Shall I leave a page free?”
“You may dare, but it comes at your own risk.” Roddy picked up his straw hat from the lounger and threw it at Alice. “If I finish it you can have it for the exhibition; if I don’t, then you can’t. Now don’t ask me again.”
Alice handed the hat back to Roddy, by way of sealing the deal.
She scanned through the rest of Martin Bradman’s photos, all featuring him posing at a variety of mayoral functions. The last photo captured a row of people dressed in similar hats and gowns. The mayors stared into the camera with forced expressions of civic rectitude.
Martin Bradman was in the centre of the group and Alice did not recognise the two people immediately flanking him. But she did know the two at either end of the row. One of them was Vivien Taylor and the other was the person who had sold a painting to Eli and Betty Avery.
Chapter 44
Two missing artworks, one dead man, one shooting, one close encounter in the woods.
Only a couple of weeks before, Alice had wished that her life was more adventurous. She wanted to
be senior curator and she would have pushed Jenna Farling over a cliff to get her job. Now that she had it, with all that had happened her chances of keeping the job or getting another one in the art world were diminishing by the day. Things could hardly have gone any worse.
But now she could make up for it. She knew where the missing pieces were. She was not going to wait for the police or their art specialist – she would take matters into her own hands and recover them herself. All she had to do was go and get them.
Alice checked the clock on the kitchen wall. It was nearly midnight and time to go. She changed into black leggings and a black sweatshirt, plaited her hair and pulled on a dark grey beanie. Tossing a few items into a small black backpack, she slipped into a pair of charcoal runners. She slipped out through the hatch door, and was locking up when she heard Livvie’s voice on the gangway.
“I’ve just finished up and I thought I’d come over for a nightcap.” Livvie jumped down onto the deck. “Hey, are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, sorry, Livvie, we’ll have to chat another time.” Alice swung the backpack onto her shoulder.
“In that get up? You look like a burglar. You’re not planning to rob a bank are you?”
“Not a bank,” said Alice with a wry smile.
“I was joking, but I’m not sure you are. Alice, where are you going and what are you going to do when you get there?”
“Steal back my career.” Alice walked over the gangway and onto Sam’s Lane.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever it is, Alice Haydon, stop it right now.”
“Don’t worry Livvie, I know what I’m doing.” Alice walked back to her friend and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”
“So, you think stealing something back, if that’s what you’re planning, is going to make things right?” Livvie’s voice spiked.
“I don’t expect you to understand, but I have to do this my own way.”
“Wait, I’ll come with you. Just give me a minute to get changed.”
“Thanks, but you can’t. I mean, there’s no need. Look, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
Alice turned away and jogged along the path to the far side of Roddy’s barge, where a small rubber dinghy lay on the water. Alice eased into the boat and tucked her backpack under the seat. She adjusted the choke and yanked the pull cord. The motor jerked into life and Alice let it run while she untied the rope. She pushed away from the bank and headed upriver.
A thin wedge of moon and scattered stars provided scant light, but Alice knew the way. The motor ran sweetly, so she urged the boat faster along the empty river.
Up ahead, a wooden jetty jutted out into the river. Alice slowed the boat, killed the engine and glided into the bank. She tied the boat to one of the jetty’s uprights and clambered onto land. Taking a moment to adjust to solid ground, she secured the backpack over both shoulders and followed a path along the water’s edge.
After a few minutes, she veered off the path and into woodland. Tall, dense trees rose up around her, sucking up the natural light. Something touched her shoulder and she jumped. Just the tip of a branch and she smacked it away. A quick smile did nothing to block a pang of panic, but she was not stopping now.
She shook off her fear and pressed on through the woodland, finding a foot-worn path that tracked up a long slope. The path meandered around the trees and when the incline evened out, she walked on.
A sharp crack shot through the air. Alice froze, only her eyes moving from side to side. Nothing in front. Slowly, she turned her head to look behind. Her ears strained, and she heard the whisper of leaves breaking underfoot. On the path ahead. Coming towards her.
She backed away, but the footsteps grew faster and closer. Seeking a hiding place, she stepped off the path and into knee-high undergrowth. She waded through, but thorns tugged at her ankles, slowing her down.
The footsteps were almost upon her. Her heart raced. Though enveloped in darkness, she still feared she would be spotted. There was no time to move any further, so she crouched down, curling herself into a tight ball under the foliage, and waited.
Silence. No more rustling, no footsteps. All was still.
Sweat soaked into Alice’s beanie. They must know she was there. Her heartbeat hammered through her body and she thought it must be audible on the other side of the world.
More rustling. Very close now. She fumbled around the ground, found a broken branch and picked it up. The rustling intensified.
Carefully, she parted the leaves and peered out. There was nobody visible, but there was rustling coming from her left. She widened the gap in the bushes and saw a round rump.
She stood up, took a step forward, raised her arm and prepared to strike. As her arm swung through the air, a startled muntjac threw her a frightened glance and bounded off down the path.
Alice leant against a tree, waiting for her beating heart to settle. The branch slipped out of her sweaty hands. She took a deep breath, slipped back onto the path and made her way into a clearing. In the open space beyond the fence at the far side, lay the target.
Chapter 45
The building lay in near darkness, but Alice fumbled her way around it to the back door. She tried the handle on the off chance it had been left unlocked, but no luck. She looked around for a likely hiding place for a spare key, running her hand along the top of the door frame, prising up a stone flag on the ground, but found nothing.
Around the other side of the building, Alice discovered a small window slightly ajar. Reaching inside, she eased up the metal window latch and unfastened the window. Standing on an upturned flowerpot, she pulled it fully open.
Alice pulled her head and shoulders through and after a determined wriggle, the rest of her body followed. She dropped down onto a ceramic sink and then the ground. The cloakroom was also home to a tabby cat, startled awake by the intruder. Alice crouched down to stroke it but it ignored her, stretching out its front paws before closing its eyes again.
Alice opened her backpack and fished out a small torch. She pointed it at the floor, turned it on and followed the light to the door. She opened it a crack and listened. Hearing only the sound of her own heart beating, she opened the door a little more. Judging it to be safe, she squeezed through.
She played the torch from side to side until the beam picked out a stack of canvases, and she made her way across the room. Wedging the torch between a couple of empty jars on a shelf, she flicked through the artworks until she came to a painting wrapped in brown paper. She lifted it out and laid it on the floor, removing the paper and loosening the bubble wrap underneath.
And there it was. Beach.
But it was not what she expected. The image was a crude attempt to capture the sea lapping a beach, something like the work of a child using a painting by numbers kit.
She turned the painting over and ran a finger between the backing board and the frame. They were joined together by framer’s tape, which gave slightly to her touch. She placed the painting face down on the floor and took a scalpel from her backpack. With the tip of the knife, she cut down the centre line of the tape along each of the four sides.
Alice eased the backing away from the frame, and between the board and the painting she found a second work; one painting hidden behind another. She swept the torch over the canvas. Even in the that imperfect light, the azure blue of a Mallorcan sea flashed fresh and bright. A fishing village rimming a protected bay, as seen from a restaurant balcony. Alice could almost smell the sea.
It was a humdinger.
“So, you worked it out then,” came a voice from behind and above. “Clever girl.”
Alice froze and gripped the frame. She looked up and just beyond the pantry door she made out the hazy outline of Marjorie Cavendish.
“I tried to warn you off, but even when your tyre was shot you didn’t take any
notice.” Marjorie’s glasses glinted as she moved her head into a shaft of torch light. “Now, put that painting down and move away.”
Alice froze to the spot.
“I said move. Now.”
“It’s not yours, you stole it from the council’s collection. And lots more too.”
“Yada, yada, nobody’s listening. Now move away before I get really annoyed.”
Alice put one knee on the ground and straightened up.
“Look Marjorie, we can work something out. I’ll take Beach back and say it’s all been a misunderstanding. I’ll say it was my fault. I won’t mention your name. Then you can go off and buy other paintings, better ones than this.”
“Nobody even noticed the paintings were missing, did they? Besides I replaced that stag one, didn’t I?”
“Yes, with a fake.”
“Oh, don’t be such a snob! There are thousands of fake paintings floating around. One in five artworks in sniffy art galleries like yours is a forgery. But nobody understands that they are works of art in themselves.” Marjorie shuffled towards the door. “Besides, people put prints on their walls that are not even produced by hand.”
The woman stood firm, legs apart.
“Why Beach, anyway? What’s so special about this painting?” said Alice.
“Ahh, so you’re not as clever as you think you are. I assumed you knew it’s by Elisabeth Moreno, Roddy’s girlfriend. I discovered her when I visited him in Mallorca. She was such a talented artist and I bought one of her beautiful paintings, selling it on for a hefty profit. So, I bought more over time, finding keen buyers with more cash.”
“In other words, you created a secondary market for Elisabeth’s work and artificially pushed up the price. Very clever.”
In the fuzzy light, Marjorie’s body appeared to have spread across the doorway.
“I spent my evenings sucking up to Roger’s boorish acquaintances, talking up Elisabeth’s work and getting them to pay top money. Despite her being an almost unknown artist. I created a market for her work. She was nobody until I made her.”