‘Five more minutes, kids,’ I said. ‘Then we can go for ice cream.’
Oscar didn’t look up from his book about dinosaurs. ‘Chocolate?’ he said.
‘And strawberry?’ asked Stan, who was lying on a beanbag, flicking the pages of a copy of The Gruffalo.
‘Yep,’ I said. I picked up another book and flipped to the index, scanning for the name Hargreaves. This time I struck gold. In yet another section on the expansion of the railways, was a mention of Marcus Hargreaves. Sitting up a bit straighter, I read about Marcus’s philanthropic nature and how the spread of the railways allowed him to travel round the country to his various businesses. Yawn. Then further down the page, something caught my eye.
Friends of Marcus Hargreaves at the time believed his devotion to doing good work stemmed from tragedy in his personal life. He lost his wife, Harriet, and his young daughter was brought up for a short while by relatives. Later, the same daughter was a victim of a violent crime and disappeared. She was never found.
I stared at the page in astonishment. Violet was sent away, I thought. Her father sent her away, just as mine had wanted to do with me. Poor, poor girl. Again I felt the pull towards this long-dead teenager because of the similarities between us. I had to find out what happened to her.
I wondered what Violet had been like and whether her father had been supportive of her art. Somehow I doubted it – I thought middle-class daughters of Victorian philanthropic industrialists would not have been expected to have a career as an artist. Maybe her dad was against her painting and she did it anyway. Perhaps she didn’t worry about him sending her away because he’d already done it. Or maybe she just didn’t care. I felt a flush of pride for Violet.
‘Well done, girl,’ I whispered under my breath. ‘Well done for doing it anyway.’
Oscar looked up and gave me a withering look.
‘One more book,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll go, I promise.’
I put the book with the mention of Marcus to one side to borrow, and picked up the final text I’d found. Again I turned to the index and looked for mentions of Hargreaves and again there was nothing. Ah well, it was time to give up anyway. I flicked through the pages of pictures in the centre of the book at random, looking for what I didn’t know, and stopped in astonishment as I came across Violet’s sketch of the handsome man. It was a slightly different pose, but he was wearing the same clothes and it had obviously been drawn at the same time.
‘Look, Oscar,’ I said, turning the page round so he could see.
With some effort he raised his eyes from a picture of a T-Rex and glanced at the book. ‘It’s the man from the picture of Daniel,’ he said, without interest.
I ruffled his hair and turned my attention back to the page, scanning the text until I found the section about the man, and began to read.
Sussex solicitor Edwin Forrest (pictured, artist unknown) was murdered in 1855. His pregnant wife, Frances, was also attacked and badly injured. A neighbour of the couple, Violet Hargreaves, who disappeared at the same time, is thought to have drowned, although no body was ever found and some people at the time believed she had also been murdered by the same attacker who was never caught.
So more pieces of the jigsaw fell into place. The mystery model’s name was Edwin Forrest. And he was the murdered neighbour. I felt a wave of sadness for poor Violet, consigned to history as an unknown artist. I was even more determined to find out what had happened to her. She was so young in 1855 – just a teenager. Had she drowned?
The sea near our house was unpredictable and rough as it crashed on to the rocks. I was sure there had been accidents there in the past. Or maybe she really had been murdered by the same attacker who killed this neighbour and his wife? I looked at the page again. No, his wife hadn’t died. She’d just been injured. How awful to be attacked when she was pregnant. Had she lost the baby? Probably, I thought with a shudder.
This was all fascinating and I was itching to write it all down. For the first time, I admitted to myself that Tessa’s next case might have to wait a while because Violet’s story had intrigued me so much I could no longer ignore it. I felt a strong connection to the girl who’d lived and died so long ago, and I knew it was because I thought we were similar – both having lost our mothers and grown up with our fathers, and now I knew she’d been sent away too I was even more drawn to her tale.
I looked at the picture in the book again, sure that finding out more about Edwin Forrest would be my next step. Then I tucked that book and the other one under my arm and scooped up my bag.
‘Right, boys,’ I said. ‘Who’s for ice cream?’
When we got home from the library, I phoned Priya, who was at the police station.
‘So now we’ve got a date to go with the names of the victims,’ I told her.
At the other end of the phone, Priya laughed. ‘You’re better at detective work than we are,’ she said. ‘I have found out, though, that it all happened too long ago to be in the archives at HQ – there’s a records archive in Lewes where everything is kept. If you like, I’ll email them and let them know you’re coming and what you want to see. I’ll give you a call when it’s sorted.’
‘That would be great,’ I said, gratefully. I told her the names of Violet, and Edwin and Frances Forrest, and she promised to be in touch as soon as she heard back from the archives.
Ben had taken the boys out to the shop to buy some milk – and stop Stan sleeping, poor boy – so the house was quiet and I felt restless. I knew I should be writing but I couldn’t settle to Tessa’s story when Violet was who I was really interested in. Instead I made myself a – black – coffee then wandered aimlessly into the garden.
I walked to the end of the lawn, then turned and looked back at the house. The small window in the attic looked at me blankly. It was above the boys’ bedroom as far as I could tell. The window was tiny, no more than one or two bricks wide, and lower down than the rest of the windows in the room. I went round the side of the house and looked up. There was nothing on that side. No clues about what the window was. It must just be for ventilation at the top of the house, like Ben said. It did get very hot up there, when the sun was shining.
I wandered back upstairs to the attic, feeling a bit guilty for wishing that the weather would cool off a fraction, and stared out of the windows at the garden, where I’d just been standing.
Opening the large window, I leaned out as far as I dared and twisted to look at the window that belonged to no room. It offered me no clues. It was really frustrating.
‘Ella,’ Ben – who I’d not heard come home, though now I could hear the boys shouting downstairs – had come up beside me unnoticed. ‘The boys said you went to the library? Did you find anything?’
‘I did,’ I said, triumphant in my discovery. I had put the sketches up on the whiteboard, alongside Violet’s self-portrait and the beautiful copy of ‘Mariana’. Now I pointed at one of the Daniel sketches.
‘This is Edwin Forrest,’ I said. ‘He’s the man who was murdered when Violet disappeared. He and his wife lived next door.’
Ben looked impressed. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘This is a proper mystery, isn’t it?’
I grinned. ‘Bloody well is. I want to find out what happened to Violet. So I need to find out more about this Edwin and his murder, I think. I’m going to go to the police archive and root around in the old records. Priya said she could set it up for me.’
Ben looked a bit shell-shocked. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think.’
‘And I’m going to email George,’ I told him. George was my art historian friend. ‘Use his expertise. He owes me anyway, after I sorted out the mess he’d made of his taxes.’
Ben smiled at me. ‘And Tessa?’
I shrugged. ‘She’ll still be there when I’ve found out more about Violet.’
‘Then do it,’ Ben said. ‘Because, I think you’ve found your next book.’
Chapter 22
1855
Violet
Edwin didn’t touch me for days and days after he’d kissed me on the beach during the storm. It was like the most delicious torture I had ever experienced because I saw him almost every day. I always began a painting with preparatory sketches and Edwin had volunteered to pose for those, too. I wanted to get to know him, to understand every part of his body – the golden downy hairs on his thick forearms, the thick wavy hair on his head that made him seem leonine and a perfect fit for Daniel, his broad shoulders, and narrow waist.
At first, we went back to the beach. With autumn around the corner, it was normally deserted and the few people who did saunter by kept to the firmer sand close to the waves, where it was easier to walk.
I set up my easel in the shade of an overhanging rock on the first day and sketched the scenery while I waited for Edwin to arrive. My stomach was knotted but whether it was anxiety or excitement or a mixture of both, I couldn’t tell. I tried to concentrate on my sketching, watching how the waves broke on the rocks at one end of the beach and trying to capture the movement with my pencil strokes. A stone skittering down the cliff path made me jump and I looked up to see Edwin coming towards me. He nodded at me and lifted his hat.
‘Miss Hargreaves,’ he said, formally, as though yesterday he had not pressed his lips to mine just yards from where we now stood.
‘Violet,’ I said. ‘Call me Violet.’
He smiled at me then, a smile that made my heart lift and my legs tingle. Was this love? I had no clue.
‘Shall we get on?’ Edwin said briskly. ‘I do have some work to do later.’
I realized I was staring at him. Flushing, I picked up my pencil. ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Could you sit on that rock?’ I gestured and Edwin sat down, looking out of place on the beach in his smart, dark suit.
‘If you could stay in that position for now,’ I said, beginning to move my pencil over the paper. ‘Try to relax.’
I worked quickly; I always did, but I’d never been so aware of my subject before. I exhaled every breath along with Edwin, and felt the weight of his gaze.
Eventually after an hour or so, Edwin stood up. ‘I must go,’ he said, brushing sand from his trousers. ‘Frances will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
I understood the unspoken assertion that Edwin didn’t want his wife to know where he’d been, something that thrilled and scared me equally.
I looked at Edwin over the top of my easel. ‘Can you come again tomorrow?’ I asked, astonished at my own bravery. ‘I’d like to sketch you some more.’
Edwin picked his hat up. ‘I shall try,’ he said. ‘Good day.’
I watched him go, wondering how I would get through the hours until I saw him again.
After that my days fell into a rhythm of sorts. Each day, after breakfast, I would struggle down to the beach and set up my equipment. I had hit a stumbling block with my sketches – so eager had I been to find a model for Daniel that I’d not considered the difficulty of painting a lion. So I watched the dogs that ran on the beach each day, chasing each other and barking at the surf.
Edwin had work, of course, so I knew I wouldn’t see him in the morning. But as the shadows lengthened and the sun began to sink behind the horizon, I looked hopefully at the path. When I saw him striding down towards me, my heart would thump.
The second day passed without him touching me, again. When he bade me goodbye that evening I was listless and confused. Had I dreamt our time in the cave? Had I imagined the feeling of his lips on mine?
The third day he didn’t come at all, and I thought I might stop breathing, so disappointed was I. Where was he? My whole body ached with longing. My skin was raw, my nerves tingling. All I thought about was Edwin. All I cared about was Edwin. He had overwhelmed me.
The next day Edwin appeared on the beach, just as I was beginning to think I’d never see him again. It was all I could do to stop myself dancing a little jig as I watched him carefully climb down the steep path.
‘Violet,’ he said. He took my hand and raised it to his lips, brushing my skin with the bristles on his face. I drew my breath in sharply. I was so aware of him – of his presence, his maleness – that I thought I might faint. Edwin was dressed more casually today, in a loose shirt. He looked relaxed and handsome. My pencil flew across the page, capturing him as he sat on the rock, gazing up at me with a slight smile on his pink lips.
Later, as I packed up my things, Edwin came to where I stood.
‘Can I see?’ he said, looking at the sketch clipped to my easel.
My hair blew in the sea breeze and whipped across my face. Edwin reached out and gently pushed the strand behind my ear. I froze, my whole body tingling in anticipation of his kiss. Edwin stroked my cheek, I tilted my face towards his … and then he smiled.
‘Goodbye, Violet,’ he said.
Chapter 23
I thought I was in love. It was the only explanation for the way I was feeling. I thought about Edwin all the time. I spent hours just lying on my bed, thinking about our life together. I wondered what illness Frances had and imagined it could kill her. Dreadful as it sounded, I hoped it would kill her. I felt a brief – very brief – flash of guilt as I imagined the funeral at the village church. It would be raining, I thought. A handful of mourners – not many. I didn’t think Frances had friends. Edwin, thin-lipped with sadness but stoic and brave.
I planned how I would comfort Edwin, the grieving widower, and then – after a respectable amount of time – we would go to Father together and tell him we’d developed feelings for one another and we could marry. I even imagined our children. Two boys, just like Edwin, and a little girl.
I didn’t really know much about what went on with men and women – though I wasn’t completely in the dark; I had grown up in the country, after all. I’d seen animals together, but somehow I couldn’t make that work with men and women in my head. I considered asking Mabel but the shame of that conversation, even in my imagination, made me shudder. Instead I trusted that Edwin would lead the way. He was married, after all. He would know what to do.
At night, when my room was dark, I allowed myself to think about our kiss. The feel of his lips on mine. His breath on my face. And the way my whole body reacted. I’d felt a tugging in my stomach, and a pulse beating between my legs, and a tingling in my chest. I found I could re-create that feeling, just by thinking about that moment, but that wasn’t enough. I wanted it again. I wanted more, even though I knew it was wrong.
In my more sensible moments, I respected Edwin’s distance from me. I understood he must have decided to obey his marriage vows until the time we could be together. But that didn’t make it easy – especially when we were spending so much time with each other and I was studying his body so closely.
One day, I walked into the village, just for something to do. I was walking past the greengrocer’s shop when I saw Edwin coming towards me. He was with Frances, much to my dismay, but as I watched them, Frances went into the butcher’s, and Edwin waited outside. And then he saw me. As our eyes met, I smiled widely – I couldn’t help it and Edwin smiled back.
It was fairly busy in the village with people strolling by, going into the shops, or chatting, so it wasn’t the same as when it was just him and me together on the beach. But I was so pleased to see him I didn’t mind too much.
As I approached him, he lifted his hat.
‘Miss Hargreaves,’ he said.
‘Good morning, Mr Forrest,’ I said. I was impressed by how normal my voice sounded, when my heart was pounding.
‘Running some errands?’ he asked.
‘Killing time,’ I admitted. ‘Father is away again and I am bored to death.’
Edwin looked sympathetic. ‘It’s hard for me to get away,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Frances is very demanding and insists on me being with her at all times.’
I glanced into the shop, where Frances was chatting with the butcher and laughing. She looked quite happy and relaxed to me, but Edwin wouldn’t lie. As I watched
, Frances handed over some money and the butcher gave her a wrapped parcel. Realizing she’d soon be coming out on to the street, I gave Edwin a brief smile.
‘I must go,’ I said, fixing Edwin with a meaningful stare. ‘Back to my empty house.’
Edwin raised his hat once more. ‘It was nice to see you,’ he said. ‘I hope we shall see each other soon.’
I turned and walked slowly back towards the house, wanting to scream with the frustration of it all. It was like talking in code. Still, Edwin knew Father was away again and I hoped he would call round. I wanted so desperately to be alone with him, in private.
Chapter 24
1855
Edwin
Edwin watched Violet go, a smile playing on his lips. He was reeling her in, he thought. It wouldn’t be long before she gave herself to him entirely.
His eyes followed her as she walked away from him, admiring her narrow waist and the curve of her breasts. She was like fresh snow, untouched by human hands. Until now. The thrill of being her first would be worth this elaborate chase. This hunt.
He would handle it better this time, he thought, remembering Beatrice. That had all gone horribly wrong though she was responsible for her own fate, ultimately. Edwin’s conscience was clear on that front.
As Frances came out of the butcher’s shop and they walked on, Edwin remembered the first time he’d seen Beatrice. She was a daughter of a valued client, Mr Sanderson. One of two daughters actually. He’d met them on several occasions, two girls with dark hair and flashing brown eyes. They were always together, whispering into each other’s ears and laughing.
He’d thought they were twins, at first. That thought had sustained his night-time fantasies for a while, imagining bedding them both at the same time, and then taking healthy amounts of money from their oblivious father at work the next day.
The Girl in the Picture Page 10