‘Can I help you?’ the man at the desk said.
I smiled at him. ‘Hello. My name is Ella Daniels and I’m here to see Scott Simpson. He was going to show me some of your art.’
The man looked at me disdainfully. ‘Are you alone?’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Are you here on your own?’
I was confused. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘My friend George Griffiths made the appointment but he’s been held up. So it’s just me for now.’
The man flashed me a quick smile. ‘I’m afraid we don’t allow unaccompanied women into the Jermyn Club, so if you’d care to make another appointment at a more convenient time …’
I stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’ I said.
‘We don’t allow unaccompanied women …’ he began again.
I shook my head. ‘I heard you,’ I said. ‘I just didn’t understand.’
‘It’s club policy.’
‘Could you get Mr Simpson?’ I asked. ‘I do have an appointment.’
‘I’m Mr Simpson,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you on this occasion.’
He turned his attention to his computer screen; obviously our conversation was over as far as he was concerned. But I wasn’t giving up.
‘Look,’ I said, putting my hands on the desk. ‘It’s really important that you show me this painting – “King Canute”. It’s research for a book.’
I paused as an elderly gentleman came through the glass door and handed Mr Simpson a key fob.
‘Thank you, Scott,’ he said.
Mr Simpson nodded. ‘See you next week, Mr Litten, sir.’
‘I’m a crime novelist,’ I said, desperately. ‘My name is Ella Daniels and I really, really need to see that painting …’
The elderly man had stopped by the door to put on his jacket. He turned to me. ‘Ella Daniels?’ he said. ‘As in E.J. Daniels?’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s me.’
‘I’m reading one of your books at the moment,’ he said. ‘My wife recommended it and I have to say, I’m enjoying it enormously.’
I grinned at him. I loved people telling me they’d read my books.
‘And is this research for your next novel?’ he said.
‘Kind of,’ I told him. ‘It’s actually a real-life mystery that I’m checking out. I’m supposed to be working on my new novel, but until I get to the bottom of this, I just can’t concentrate.’
The man nodded. ‘Scott,’ he said. ‘I’ll sign Ms Daniels in.’
Mr Simpson sighed, but he tapped the keys on his computer a few times. ‘Is it Mrs or Miss?’ he asked.
‘Ms is fine,’ I said, giving the older man an amused glance as he scrawled his name on a temporary membership card for me.
He winked at me. ‘It was very nice to meet you, Ms Daniels,’ he said, emphasizing the ‘Ms’.
‘You too, Mr Litten,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Aren’t you staying?’ Mr Simpson said, a look of horror on his face.
‘Oh I think Ms Daniels will be quite all right on her own, don’t you?’ said Mr Litten. ‘See you next week.’
I swallowed a giggle as Mr Simpson picked up the phone and asked a colleague to come and cover reception while he showed me round. How funny that Mr Litten, who had to be at least seventy, was the one to sign me in while young Mr Simpson was sticking to the old traditions.
‘This way, please,’ he said. He opened the glass doors and led me up the wide, curving stairs to a large, empty meeting room. At one end of the room, above the table, was Violet’s painting.
‘Oh,’ I said in surprise. ‘It’s our beach.’
The picture showed a handsome, quite rugged young man, wearing a rich, red robe and a golden crown. He was standing, ankle-deep in the waves that sucked at the shingle of the beach at the bottom of the cliff path from our house. He held his arms out at shoulder height, palms facing the horizon, and he looked noble and strong. It was a glorious painting. The colours were bright and glowing. The water swirled round the man’s ankles, and the clouds that gathered in the sky were so real I felt I could reach out and touch them.
And there, in the corner, was Edwin Forrest, written in a bold, flowing, blue ink.
‘Gorgeous,’ said a voice behind me.
‘George,’ I said, turning to hug him. ‘You made it.’
Mr Simpson breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘Please come to reception if you need anything.’
He turned and fled, leaving me giggling and George confused.
‘What on earth was all that about?’ he said.
I waved my hand. ‘It’s not important now,’ I said, eager to get to work. ‘Let’s compare these pictures.’
We unrolled all of Violet’s art that I’d found – the sketches of Edwin Forrest from the cupboard and the one I’d found in the book – artist unknown. I’d also brought the sketched self-portrait, and Violet’s copy of the John Everett Millais painting called ‘Mariana’. Carefully, we laid them out on the large meeting-room table, beneath the painting that hung on the wall.
George snapped into art historian mode. He studied each work carefully, scribbling notes on a moleskin notebook he produced from his bag. He peered closely at the sketches, then went right up to the painting hanging on the wall and peered at that, too.
I trailed around behind him trying to see what he was seeing. Actually, it wasn’t too hard. I was no art expert, but even I could see that the style in the sketches we’d found and this finished work was the same. The storytelling quality that was woven among them shone out of the ‘King Canute’ work. George had the finished ‘Daniel in the Lions’ Den’ on his iPad screen and he compared that with the sketches, too.
Eventually, he pushed his glasses up on top of his head, rubbed his nose, and gave me a wide smile.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I can’t prove it, of course, but I’m prepared to bet that the same artist drew all of these works.’
‘Violet,’ I said.
George shrugged. ‘Either Violet painted “Daniel” and “King Canute”, or Edwin made all these sketches,’ he said. ‘And given that the sketch titled “self-portrait” is of a young woman, I’d guess it was Violet.’
I hugged him. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I really appreciate your help and I will prove that Violet was the artist.’
‘How are you going to do that?’ George asked as we went back down the stairs in the club, to Mr Simpson’s obvious relief.
‘No idea,’ I said. ‘But I need to find out exactly what happened to Edwin and Violet first. I’ve made a new friend, called Priya. She’s a detective and she’s going to get me in to the police archives to see if I can read up about the crime.’
‘Good plan,’ said George. He looped his arm through mine.
‘Now, I think you owe me a drink …’
Chapter 36
1855
Violet
‘And so, my dear, I did everything I could.’
I stared into the sea and blinked back tears. Edwin was still talking, but I wasn’t listening. He’d destroyed all my hopes and dreams in just a couple of sentences. Ruskin didn’t like my work. He didn’t want to see more and he didn’t want to buy the paintings – or encourage anyone else to buy them. It was over.
‘It’s not over,’ Edwin said, and I realized I’d spoken aloud. ‘Not at all.’
He took my hand and pulled me down to sit on the sand next to him. We were in the shallow cave where we’d first kissed, hidden from the beach and the houses above.
‘My darling,’ Edwin said. ‘I am a member of a club. It’s not a fancy establishment, but it is frequented by artists, critics, writers, and so on.’
I wiped my eyes and gazed at him, willing him to have good news.
‘I am fortunate enough to be friends with a couple of the committee members.’
I stared out to sea again. I wasn’t interested in the politics of Edwin’s club.
‘Anyway,’ Edwin said quickly, obviously sensing he was losing my interest, ‘I persuaded Laurence, one of the committee, to hang your paintings in the dining room.’
I looked at him, a tiny bud of hope beginning to unfurl inside me.
‘That way everyone who dines at the club – and their guests – will see it,’ he said. ‘It will be like your own, personal exhibition. And Laurence said if you can paint more, he’d see they were displayed also. I believe this could be the beginning of your art career.’
I flung myself at him, winding my arms round his neck and covering his face with kisses.
‘Oh thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I cried. ‘Oh, Edwin, I love you.’
In horror, I realized I’d never said it before – though I’d thought it many times. But Edwin merely smiled.
‘I know,’ he said. Gently he kissed my skin where my dress ended, just above my breasts, and I shivered, half in pleasure and half in fear. I knew what he wanted. Slowly, I unbuttoned my dress and pulled it down to my waist. My skin was white in the bright sunlight, and dotted with freckles.
‘Go on,’ said Edwin. He stood up and pulled off his trousers. I averted my eyes. The sight of him still embarrassed me.
Closing my eyes, I unlaced my corset, exposing my breasts. I was ashamed of my actions but I felt more in control this way.
Edwin looked at me. I felt the heat of his gaze on my bare skin. Then he knelt down in between my legs.
‘Good girl,’ he said, as he pushed me backwards so I was lying on the sand. His hand was already burrowing up under my skirts. ‘Good girl.’
Afterwards, Edwin shook the sand out of his trousers and kissed me briefly on the lips. ‘Wait ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’
He left, without looking back, as I brushed my hair out with my fingertips and wound it up into a roll. Then I dressed slowly, noticing I had vivid bruises on my inner thighs. I judged it had been ten minutes since Edwin left, so I walked home, thinking all the time about my paintings.
The crushing disappointment I’d felt when Edwin told me Ruskin didn’t like them had abated a little but I still felt deflated and sad. I’d spent so long dreaming of being an artist, telling myself that if only Ruskin could see my work he’d be won over, that I wasn’t sure what to do next. But somewhere, deep inside myself, I felt the beginning of a plan. A burst of determination that, for the moment, I wasn’t sure how to handle. I would go and look at my work, I thought. That might help to focus my mind and help me decide what to do for the best.
Chapter 37
1855
Edwin
Edwin hadn’t unpacked his overnight bag yet, because he’d been eager to see Violet first and put the beginning of his plan into action. But now he dumped his clothes into the laundry hamper then reached into the side pocket of his bag and pulled out the money Laurence had given him. Sitting on the bed, he spread the notes out on the counterpane. In a burst of celebration he had bought drinks for everyone at the club and treated himself to a night at a very high-class brothel, but those expenses had barely made a dent in his windfall.
Frances, standing by the bedroom window, still and quiet as always, watched him.
‘I just don’t understand where it came from,’ she said. Edwin regarded her with disdain; she sucked the joy out of every situation with her seriousness.
‘It was a deal,’ he said. ‘A business deal. It’s too complicated to explain to you.’
Frances looked at him in the unsettling way she had. It made him feel she was looking right into his soul.
‘It’s nothing illegal, is it?’
Edwin thought, briefly, of himself signing his name to Violet’s paintings. The law, normally so black and white, was shades of grey when it came to ownership of art. He was fairly certain his actions, while perhaps not within the spirit of the law, were well within the letter.
He tutted at Frances’s questions. ‘Of course not illegal,’ he said. ‘It’s just the beginning of a new venture. Something big.’
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Edwin tutted again. ‘Are you expecting a caller?’ he asked Frances. She shook her head.
Agnes stomped halfway up the stairs.
‘Mr Forrest,’ she bellowed. ‘Someone to see you, sir. Fella from the village, wants help with a contract matter.’
Edwin grimaced at her rudeness. ‘We have to get rid of her,’ he said. He made for the door, waving at the money on the bed as he went. ‘Pick all that up and put it in the safe in my study, will you?’
Chapter 38
1855
Frances
Frances waited until he was downstairs, then sat on the bed and counted the notes. There was well over £500. She was astonished. What had he done to come by such riches? She was positive it wasn’t something he wanted her to know about. He often closed deals or won cases and couldn’t wait to boast about them, whether or not he thought she’d understand. Which, of course, she usually did.
She stacked the banknotes neatly and took them into the study to put them into the safe. There was a moneybag in there, with more cash inside. As she added the new notes to the haul, she paused. Glancing behind her to make sure Edwin hadn’t come upstairs without her hearing, she took a few notes, rolled them up and stuffed them up her sleeve. Then she took a few more and stuffed them up the other sleeve. She closed the safe and locked it, then went to her dressing room, shut the door, pulled a table in front of it, and lifted the loose floorboard.
Underneath was what she was beginning to think of as her ‘running away package’. Wrapped in a piece of cloth she had her diary – in it she poured her heart out, giving details of her marriage to Edwin that she’d never dare to speak of in real life, and practised her new signature. She planned her life as Florence Bennett, widow of Alfred.
She also had the book about Scotland, her railway timetable and route, the money of course, and her most recent acquisition: some clothes. She’d gone into Brighton and bought a plain black dress with a high neck, and a little bonnet that tied under her chin. It was miles away from her usual clothes and made her look both more lower class than she was and every inch a wife in mourning – absolutely her intention.
She was confident that if she timed her departure right, while Edwin was in London, and left her ‘Frances’ clothes on the beach at high tide, as though she’d drowned, no one would be looking for her on the train.
She stroked her swelling belly. She would have to act fast – she estimated she could only stay a couple more weeks. She had resolved to go the next time Edwin went up to London and now she’d made up her mind, she was eager to leave. She wanted to start her new life, away from Edwin, and get ready for the birth of her baby.
And then, she thought, she would be safe. Once more she pushed away her worries for Violet Hargreaves. She couldn’t save her, just like she couldn’t have saved poor, tragic Beatrice Sanderson.
‘It’s not your responsibility,’ she muttered to herself. ‘That girl is not your responsibility.’ But could she really leave, knowing how vicious Edwin could be? She would be safe, and her baby would be safe, but Violet would not be. Could Frances have that on her conscience?
Chapter 39
Present day
Ella
August slipped into September and the days at last began to cool off. Oscar started school and settled in straight away thanks in no small part to Amber. And Stanley toddled off to nursery without a backwards glance. Our days fell into a rhythm. Every morning I’d get the boys up and dressed and drop them at school – Ben sometimes came along too if he wasn’t starting work early. Then I’d go home, take a pot of coffee up to the attic and struggle through another few chapters of Tessa’s fake murder story.
It was finally coming together but I knew it wasn’t as good as it could have been if my mind had been completely on the job. At lunchtime, I’d collect Stan from nursery, then Margaret would arrive and take over and I’d head back to work.
In
the afternoons – if I’d hit my target number of words during the morning – I allowed myself to think about Violet Hargreaves. I had read reams about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and discovered that, as I suspected, women from nice families did not paint. There were a few women in their group but they were mostly models or shop girls turned artists like Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s wife, Elizabeth Siddal. I couldn’t imagine a girl from Violet’s background fitting in with the Victorian art world, no matter how talented she had clearly been.
I had an appointment at the police archives but infuriatingly it wasn’t for another week. Priya – who’d been signed off work altogether now and who was twitchy and restless – and I talked endlessly about the possible scenarios. Did Violet murder Edwin and attack his wife? Did the wife fake her injuries, kill her cheating husband and do away with poor Vi? We went round and round.
When Ben had a rare Saturday off because his team wasn’t playing that weekend, Dad and Barb came to stay. I fretted a lot before they arrived, worried that Dad wouldn’t like the house, that his worries about our move would be realized. But actually, and to my enormous relief, his visit went well.
We were sitting in the garden watching Ben playing football with the boys, and chatting.
‘Ben’s very happy here, isn’t he?’ Barb said.
I smiled. ‘So happy,’ I agreed. ‘He loves his job – it’s been his dream to work for a football club for so long and even the irregular hours don’t bother him.’
‘And you?’ Dad said, looking at me intently.
‘I’m really happy too,’ I said truthfully. ‘The boys are really settled, I’ve made a good friend, and the other mums at school seem nice too. The house is a bit old-fashioned but it’s gorgeous and I love the location. I feel lighter and more relaxed than I’ve felt for years.’
The Girl in the Picture Page 15