The Girl in the Picture

by Kerry Barrett

  Dad reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘You made the right choice,’ he said.

  I squeezed back. ‘I did. We did.’

  ‘I’m sorry about being so negative.’

  I gave his hand a little pat. ‘You said exactly what I was thinking,’ I said. ‘I was so worried about taking the risk but …’

  I gestured towards Ben and the boys, and the beach and the sea. ‘Look, Dad. How could this be wrong?’

  Dad nodded. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said.

  Embarrassed, I ducked my head and Dad chuckled.

  ‘How is your writing going?’

  I made a face. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’m sort of doing two things at once.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Dad said, his brow furrowed. ‘Don’t you have a deadline to meet and a contract to fulfil?’

  ‘Dad,’ I said, in a warning tone as Barb said: ‘James’ in the same tone. Dad smiled.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I just worry about you.’

  ‘Come and see,’ I said spontaneously. ‘Come and see what I’ve been working on.’

  I led him and Barb upstairs to the attic study, where Violet’s self-portrait was pinned to the middle of the whiteboard with lots of scribbled notes round the side.

  ‘This is Violet Hargreaves,’ I said. ‘She lived in our house about one hundred and fifty years ago and she went missing. No one knows what happened to her.’

  Barb’s eyes shone with interest. ‘And you’re trying to find out?’

  I nodded. ‘My new friend Priya is a detective,’ I said. ‘She’s found out a bit, and I’m going to the police archives in Lewes next week to read the crime reports from the time.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ Dad said. ‘Do you have any theories?’

  ‘A few,’ I said. ‘She was an artist, and someone else put their name to her work.’

  Briefly I explained about the painting in the club in London and how Edwin Forrest had signed it – and been murdered the same night Violet disappeared.

  ‘Priya says it gives Violet a motive,’ I said. ‘And it does, of course. But Forrest’s wife was beaten up the same night, and Priya also says it’s unusual for a woman to attack like that.’

  ‘Unusual,’ said Dad. ‘But it does happen.’

  ‘Spose,’ I said. ‘I can’t see Violet as the villain in this though. I just feel that she was the victim, somehow.’

  ‘But Forrest was the one who died,’ Dad pointed out.

  ‘True,’ I agreed. ‘And his poor wife was hurt too. Maybe Violet was the murderer, after all.’

  ‘You might get more information from the archives,’ Dad said. ‘Though did they keep detailed records in those days?’

  ‘Priya’s not sure,’ I said. ‘It was the very early days of the police in Sussex, so maybe not. She’s told the archivist what we want to look at, but it takes them a while to dig them out. They’re not all on computer, not yet. And they’re so old, they’re really delicate so they have to be careful.’

  ‘Are you going to write this?’ Barb said, looking at the notes piled on my desk. ‘It’s a great story.’

  I shrugged. ‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘I keep coming back to it, and I can’t seem to settle to Tessa. But it’s all just my imagination at the moment.’

  ‘What does your agent say?’

  I grimaced. ‘I’ve not mentioned it,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve sent her what I’ve done of Tessa so far, but I’ve not told her about this yet.’

  ‘I think you should tell her,’ Dad said. ‘See what she thinks.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, surprised at his interest.

  ‘Well, I’m intrigued,’ said Dad. ‘So I think your readers will be too. Now, take me through what you know again from the start.’

  Chapter 40

  1855

  Violet

  I sat on the attic floor and looked at my version of ‘Mariana’. I looked at it for a long time, studying the form and the colours, and the brushstrokes. Then I got up and collected together my other pictures and spread them out on the floor, sat back down, and looked at them too.

  ‘I’m a good artist,’ I said to myself. I knew that despite what Edwin had said, I had the talent and the determination to make a living from my art. After all, his club had said they would display my paintings – there was some comfort to be taken from that. I wondered if Edwin had perhaps said something wrong to Ruskin, something that had turned him against my work without seeing it properly. And he hadn’t mentioned Millais, who I wanted so badly to see my paintings.

  ‘If I could have gone with him,’ I murmured. ‘If I could have spoken with Millais …’

  ‘Why don’t you, then?’ said a voice in my head. ‘Go to London, speak to Millais yourself.’

  But that was a foolish idea. Foolish and dangerous. I had been to London with my father, many times, but I’d never been alone. I’d never been anywhere alone – I’d never even been to Brighton without one of my many governesses or Father by my side.

  ‘You know where to go,’ the voice in my head said. ‘You know where to stay and which train to get.’

  ‘Someone would surely stop me,’ I said aloud. ‘Someone would ask me what I was doing and stop me.’

  But what if they didn’t?

  With a burst of energy, I got up again and went to the cupboard in the corner where I kept all my cuttings. I leafed through my file until I found the piece I was thinking of. Last month, the Illustrated London News had published a detailed article about the PRB, written by a friend of the men. In it, he’d mentioned the places the artists went to enjoy their debates about the state of art in the modern world.

  I ran my finger down the piece and found the name of a pub, the White Hawk Tavern. It was in Bloomsbury. It was not a part of town I was familiar with, but I thought I would easily find it with the help of a cab …

  Money. I’d need money.

  I had none of my own, of course, but I knew where Father kept his. Funny how this idea had become a firm plan all of a sudden.

  I carefully rolled up my ‘Mariana’ and a couple of sketches and tied them with string, then I ran downstairs to my bedroom and packed a small overnight bag. It was almost eleven o’clock now and I knew there was a train to London at half past twelve. I’d need to hurry. I bustled into the dining room and took down the mirror that hung over the fireplace. Behind it was a safe. Without pausing for thought, I spun the dial – the combination was my birthday – and opened the stiff door. Inside was my mother’s jewellery, some documents, a bag of coins, and some piles of notes.

  ‘So now I’m a thief as well as a liar,’ I said. But I reached inside, took a handful of change from the bag, and a bundle of notes. I stuffed them into the side pocket of my bag and fastened it tightly. Then I shut the safe again and went to find Philips.

  ‘I need you to take me to Brighton urgently,’ I told him. ‘My old governess has been taken ill and she needs me.’

  More lies.

  Philips, who was pulling up carrots in the garden, raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Telegram,’ I said desperately. ‘I got a telegram.’

  Philips straightened up. ‘Are you in trouble, Violet?’ he said, staring right into my eyes. ‘Do you need help?’

  I caught his hand, which was muddy from his gardening.

  ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’m quite safe and I’m not in any trouble but I don’t want to tell you what I’m doing in case you get into trouble. It’s better that you don’t know.’

  Philips looked at me for so long I started to become uncomfortable and shifted from foot to foot in unease.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  ‘Brighton?’ Philips said.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, just Brighton,’ I said. ‘Not far.’

  More lies.

  ‘Fine,’ Philips said. ‘Be round the front in five minutes.’

  I nearly fell over with relief. If we left in five minutes, I’d make the train easily. And I did. I asked Philips to drop me off in a road near the sta
tion, saying that was where my governess lived – that wasn’t a lie, actually, I had once had a governess who’d lived in that road. Whether she was still there was another matter but I felt smug that I had told at least one truth.

  ‘I can collect you later,’ he said, as I clambered out of the trap.

  ‘No need,’ I said. ‘Miss Mason has arranged for me to stay the night, and she’ll make sure I get home tomorrow.’

  Philips looked like he was going to argue, but the horse was getting restless and instead he just nodded and drove away.

  I waited for him to turn at the end of the street, then I hoisted my bag up my arm, picked up my skirts, and ran to the station.

  Inside it was dim and smoky, but I had been here with Father enough times to feel confident that I knew what I was doing. I went straight to the ticket office.

  ‘A first class return to London, please,’ I said in a clear voice.

  Then I bit my lip waiting for the clerk to question why I was on my own, where I was going, what I was doing …

  Instead he handed over the ticket and took my money without a word.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Platform two,’ he said, without looking up. ‘You’d better hurry.’

  Obediently, I bustled along the platform to the first class carriage. The porter helped me up the step and lifted my small bag into the train for me.

  ‘There you go, Miss,’ he said.

  I smiled at him as though I travelled to London by myself every day.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said.

  The train was quiet and I was alone in the carriage, much to my relief. No sooner had I settled down than the train shuddered and began to pull out of the station.

  I watched the south downs out of the window, feeling a bit shaky and still not completely sure about what it was I was doing. But deep down I knew I was doing the right thing. My desire to be an artist burned so strong that I couldn’t ignore it any longer – and if Edwin couldn’t help me, then I’d just have to help myself.

  Chapter 41

  London Bridge station was crowded when I arrived but with my new-found determination and courage, I simply picked up my bags and negotiated my way through the people without any trouble.

  It was only once I got outside that my courage deserted me and for a minute I paused, thinking I might simply go back into the station and find the next train back to Brighton.

  A burst of laughter nearby made me look round. Two young women were walking past, arm in arm. They were both dressed in stiff skirts like Frances wore and both had their hair neatly rolled up at the back. But despite their respectable appearance, the women were beside themselves with giggles at some unheard joke. As I watched, one of them doubled over.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said to her friend. ‘Don’t make me laugh any more, I promise I shall be sick.’

  The other woman looked solemn. ‘That would never do,’ she said.

  There was a pause, then they both burst into chuckles again. I watched as they walked on, one dragging the other who was weak from laughing. They were a similar age to me, those girls, but how different their lives must be, to have the confidence to walk the streets of London, to be so happy, to wear such beautiful clothes – for a minute I wanted to throw myself on to the pavement and beat my fists on the ground and wail at the sheer injustice of it all. But as the women walked on, ignoring a vagrant who sat on a wall further along the road, I pulled myself together.

  ‘I am one of the fortunate ones,’ I whispered to myself. ‘I have money in my purse, and a hat on my head, and food in my belly.’

  I patted my bag where my paintings stayed safely tucked away. ‘And I have my talent.’

  Feeling more confident, I started walking. I had little idea of where to go, but I thought I would follow the river west, until I saw Westminster Bridge. That would take me in the right direction, I assumed.

  It was a warm day, and the sun shone defiantly through the smoke round the station. My back was soon damp with sweat and my legs ached as my bag bumped against them. But eventually, I crossed Westminster Bridge and then I was in a more familiar part of town.

  Finton’s hotel where I stayed when I was with Father was nearby – close to Piccadilly where the Royal Academy was – and I hoped I’d be able to stay there alone. It was known as a family hotel, and I had an idea it had women-only rooms, so I was quite confident it would be fine – but there was still that element of the unknown that made me nervous.

  As I approached Regent Street, my steps got quicker and I soon found myself at the hotel entrance. Without pausing – because that would give me time to change my mind – I climbed the steps and pushed open the door.

  The man behind the desk was someone I recognized – he had attended to me and my father many times. He smiled at me.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ he said. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

  I took a breath, marvelling again at how easily I lied nowadays. ‘I am so pleased to see you,’ I said. ‘I assume you received my father’s telegram?’

  The man looked apologetic. ‘I’m not aware of any telegram …’ he said.

  I gave a heavy sigh. ‘I feared this might happen,’ I lied. ‘My father is stuck in Manchester and needs me to deliver something for him here in London. He was supposed to telegram you and arrange for me to have a room for the night, but he obviously forgot. You know how distracted he can be.’

  My father could be nothing of the sort but I stared straight into the man’s kind face, daring him to argue.

  ‘Certainly, Miss,’ said the man, whose name I remembered now was Robert. He leafed through the large, leather-bound guest book, and smiled. ‘We do have a vacancy on our women-only floor though it’s not as large as your usual suite.’

  I dismissed his concerns with a careless sweep of my hands.

  ‘No matter,’ I said. ‘I will be busy this evening anyway.’

  Robert raised an eyebrow but he didn’t question my plans.

  I signed the book that he pushed towards me, told him to charge the room to my father’s account, and then followed the porter as he took my bag upstairs to my room. My legs were shaking so violently I thought I wouldn’t make it to the top of the stairs, but somehow I managed.

  As soon as the porter put my bag down, and left the room I locked the door behind him and began to strip off. I was dirty and sweaty from the journey and I was desperate for a wash. I poured water into the bowl and sponged myself all over. Then, still in my underwear, I collapsed on to the bed, my heart pounding. I’d done it. I was in London and I was going to find Millais and persuade him that I was worth his interest.

  I kicked my feet against the counterpane in excitement. Then I sat up, pulled my bag towards me, and carefully removed my rolled-up artwork, and my folder of cuttings about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

  I knew there was a chance they wouldn’t all be there, or indeed that none of them would be there. I knew Mr Ruskin definitely wouldn’t be there – he wasn’t the kind of man who went to those sorts of places (I dismissed the thought that I wasn’t the kind of woman who went to those sorts of places, either). But this was my only chance. I had to seize it.

  I dressed carefully in my favourite dress. It was white with a print of tiny sprigs of blue flowers. I’d had it made by the dressmaker in the village and I had given it a high neck, puffed sleeves, a nipped-in waist, and a long loose skirt. I never wore the crinolines that some women – Frances for example – trussed themselves up in.

  I unwound my hair and brushed it then let it flow across my shoulders. I pulled my bonnet on, picked up my gloves and my artwork, and I was ready.

  Robert was still behind the desk when I went downstairs.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ he said, standing up. ‘Can I help you?’

  I took a breath. ‘I have an appointment in Bloomsbury,’ I said. ‘Could you get me a cab?’

  ‘Certainly, Miss,’ he said.

  It was so easy, I thought. Why had I nev
er done this before?

  Robert went outside the hotel and I waited, clutching my gloves tightly until he poked his head back round the door and told me the cab was outside.

  He tipped his hat to me as I climbed into the carriage and I smiled. ‘Many thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Whereabouts in Bloomsbury are you going?’ the driver asked as the horse began to trip-trap up towards Piccadilly.

  ‘I am visiting a friend in Giles Street,’ I said. It wasn’t an out-and-out lie. The White Hawk Tavern was indeed in Giles Street. ‘Number three.’

  Surely all streets had a number three?

  The cabbie didn’t answer but drove the horse on. I sat back in the seat and watched London through the window, trying to contain my growing excitement.

  ‘Here we are, Miss,’ the cabbie said.

  I clambered out, less gracefully than I’d have liked, and handed over some money. To my relief the cabbie drove off immediately.

  I glanced round. I was indeed standing outside number three Giles Street, but just a little way down the road I could see the sign that swung outside the White Hawk Tavern.

  It was growing late now – after seven o’clock – but it was still light and there was still a lot of warmth in the day. I took a deep breath, tucked my artwork under my arm, and without hesitating, I walked down the road to the pub and pushed open the door.

  Chapter 42

  I wasn’t a drinker but I’d been past the Albion Inn in our village many times and knew what kind of men went there. Labourers, farm hands – Philips when he had a day off – until he’d got that in that fight and avoided it ever since. Not my father, and not Edwin.

  The White Hawk Tavern wasn’t like that – to my relief. It seemed to be a more upmarket establishment and its customers were generally well-dressed men – in the front of the inn at least. I heard some shouts from the area behind the bar that suggested perhaps it wasn’t quite so well heeled.

  The pub itself was clad in wood. The bar, in front of me, was dark, shining mahogany with gleaming brass fittings and the floor was tiled: black and white. Around me were wooden chairs and tables and the walls were clad in the same wood. It smelled of beeswax and cigar smoke and malt, which was unfamiliar to me but not unpleasant.