I spent all afternoon in Lewes. I read the doctor’s report on Edwin Forrest and William Philips. The doctor wrote that Edwin died due to a blow to the head, at the bottom of the stairs. His wife, Frances, was found at the top of the stairs so he concluded the pair had fled their attacker, Edwin had tried to stop his wife from being hurt, and become a victim himself. William Philips had been found unconscious outside the house and died, the doctor thought, from bleeding on his brain.
‘From the bruises around his jaw,’ he wrote. ‘I surmised he had been struck violently, throwing his head back and knocking him unconscious. His brain, no doubt, continued to swell until he expired.’ But there was still no mention of Violet – until I logged on to the newspaper archive.
‘So there was just no trace of her?’ Ben asked later, spreading the printouts I had made across the table.
‘They found her hat,’ I said. ‘Near the beach. So they thought she might have drowned. But they didn’t find anything else.’
I picked up one page that Lainey had printed out for me and handed it to him. ‘The paper went really big on it. Look, here they’re asking for local people to report any sightings of her.’
‘Sussex woman missing after violent attack,’ Ben read aloud.
‘Sussex woman still missing,’ I read from another page. ‘That’s a week later.’
Ben picked up another story and scanned it. ‘Ah so her dad was away when it happened,’ he said. ‘Look, here it says he’s returned and is organizing search parties. That’s so sad.’
‘It is sad,’ I agreed with a shudder. ‘Imagine always looking for your child and never finding her.’
‘How long did he look for?’ Ben asked.
‘Months, I think,’ I said. ‘Years, even. But he moved to Brighton and did it all from there. I read somewhere that he closed the house up as soon as he returned and found Violet gone.’
I imagined Violet’s father, alone in this big family house, his footsteps echoing through the empty rooms where his wife and daughter had once been, and decided I didn’t blame him one bit for leaving.
‘What about Frances?’ Ben said suddenly. ‘She was the only one who survived. Did she know anything?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I showed him the notes I’d made from Frances’s witness statement and he looked deflated.
‘Annoying,’ he said. He got up and went to the fridge.
‘More?’ he asked, waving the wine bottle at me.
I nodded but I didn’t look up. Him mentioning Frances had given me another idea. I leafed through my notes again until I found the doctor’s report.
‘Ah ha,’ I said. ‘Frances was pregnant!’
Ben looked interested. He topped up my glass and sat down again. ‘Frances was pregnant?’ he repeated. ‘So what happened? Did she come back here to have the baby?’
I shrugged. ‘It didn’t say. But …’
‘If she had a baby, then perhaps she’s got relatives,’ Ben finished for me. ‘Relatives you can find.’
‘Exactly.’
I grinned at him. ‘So I thought I’ll phone Barb,’ I said. ‘She works in probate – she’s always tracing people.’
Ben chinked his glass against mine. ‘We’re getting somewhere,’ he said.
***
‘It’s not really me you need to speak to,’ Barb said the next day when I called her at her office.
‘Is there a colleague of yours who could help?’ I asked.
Barb’s laughter pealed down the line. ‘No, darling,’ she said. ‘Ring your dad. Once you know if this Frances has any living relatives I can find them, for sure, but for now it’s your dad who can help.’
I was genuinely flummoxed. ‘Dad?’
‘He’s been doing his family tree, hasn’t he? He loves all that Who Do You Think You Are stuff.’
‘He does?’
‘Yes, he’s got quite far back – you know all this. He told you.’
I vaguely remembered my dad waffling on about something that had happened during the First World War, and me ignoring him. I felt guilty suddenly.
‘I’ll call him,’ I told Barb.
‘Please do, sweetheart,’ Barb said. ‘He would love to help.’
‘I will,’ I said.
I ended the call and dialled my dad’s number. He sounded so pleased to hear from me I grinned.
I told him all about what I learned at the archives and he asked a lot of questions.
‘Funny how one doesn’t imagine such terrible crimes happening back then,’ he said as I outlined the facts of the case. ‘Ridiculous really.’ He paused. ‘So what can I do to help?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘the woman from next door – Frances – she was married to Edwin, the guy who was killed. Frances was hurt but she didn’t die. And she was pregnant.’
‘Ah,’ said Dad. ‘Brilliant. Family. No wonder you’re intrigued. Hold on, let me get some paper.’
I heard the phone being put down, and my dad rummaging through his desk. Then he came back on the line.
‘Fire away,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything you know about her.’
Chapter 45
1855
Violet
The next day, invigorated by my new-found friendship with John (John Everett Millais likes my work, I kept saying to myself. My work.), a good night’s sleep, and a hearty breakfast, I left the hotel intending to head straight to London Bridge and the train back to Sussex.
I knew I could pick up a cab at Piccadilly Circus so I started to walk the short distance from the hotel, but as I crossed Jermyn Street I paused. This was where Edwin’s club was. The club where he’d said my pictures could hang.
‘He lied about knowing John,’ a nagging voice in my head said. ‘He lied about meeting Ruskin …’
But then again he hadn’t lied altogether, had he? John knew Edwin – albeit only slightly – and even he had conceded Edwin could have spoken to Ruskin. I was no longer sure what to think or what to believe.
‘Go and see,’ the voice in my head said. ‘Go and see if your paintings are in the club.’
I stood on the corner of Jermyn Street for a moment, wondering if I should listen to the voice, or to trust Edwin. Then I slowly but deliberately, began walking away from Piccadilly Circus, down Jermyn Street.
I found the club without too much trouble at all. It was a tall, white building with two stone pillars. Without pausing to think about what I was doing, I climbed the stairs and pushed open the heavy door.
Inside, a man sat at a large wooden table, writing in a ledger. He looked up when I entered.
‘Miss?’ he said, questioning my very presence in this cathedral of men.
I pulled off my bonnet. ‘Good day,’ I said, assuming my fake confidence once more. ‘My name is Violet Hargreaves. I am the daughter of Marcus Hargreaves.’
Vague recognition glimmered in the man’s eyes but he said nothing.
‘My father and I are close friends of Edwin Forrest, who I believe you count among your members.’
Now there was proper recognition in the man’s face, but still he didn’t speak.
‘Mr Forrest tells me he has recently gifted some paintings to this club,’ I said. I smiled a little. ‘Wonderful paintings.’
The man nodded.
Encouraged, I went on. ‘I wondered if I may see them?’
‘You?’ the man said.
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
I thought about how my father behaved when someone told him something wasn’t possible. I fixed the man with a steely glare.
‘No?’
‘No.’
The man picked up his pen again and began writing in the ledger once more. I was irritated by his disdain.
‘I’m afraid you have misunderstood me,’ I said, speaking slowly and clearly as though I were talking to a child. ‘My friend Edwin Forrest recently gifted some paintings to this club. These paintings are especially close to my heart because they were created by …’
>
‘One painting,’ said a voice behind me. I turned round to see an elderly gentleman with fluffy white mutton chops. ‘Well, there were two originally, but the other one has been packaged up now and …’ He pulled a pocket watch out and peered at it. ‘It’s well on its way to Manchester.’
I blinked at him in surprise.
‘Laurence Cole,’ he said, offering his hand to be shaken. ‘I know all about the paintings.’
‘You do?’
‘Indeed I do,’ he said, nodding. ‘Don’t mind Mr Trevor here. Some of the members are a bit odd about the presence of women – he’s just looking out for their interests.’
I snorted. ‘Well he doesn’t have to be so rude while he’s doing so,’ I said.
The man, Laurence, chuckled. ‘You have spirit, Miss …’
‘Hargreaves,’ I said. ‘Violet Hargreaves.’
Laurence regarded me. ‘Related to Marcus?’ he asked.
I hesitated for a second, wondering if he would tell Father he’d met me, then I nodded. ‘He’s my father.’
Laurence smiled. ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Wonderful. Marcus Hargreaves is a great man.’
I smiled back, wishing he’d get to the point.
‘And Edwin?’ he said. ‘How do you know Edwin?’
Just the mention of his name made colour rush to my cheeks. ‘He’s our neighbour in Sussex,’ I said. ‘And a friend.’
‘Another fine man,’ said Laurence. ‘And so talented.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, not remotely interested in Edwin’s skills as a lawyer.
‘His paintings are quite remarkable,’ Laurence went on. ‘Immature, of course, but he shows great promise.’
His paintings? Edwin hadn’t mentioned showing his own work to anyone. He’d never even shown me anything he’d drawn. I stared at Laurence.
‘I’ll show you,’ he said.
He looked past me to where the man still wrote in the ledger.
‘I am accompanying Miss Hargreaves to the boardroom,’ he said. ‘We will be a quarter of an hour – no longer. No need to panic.’
The man didn’t look up. ‘I will come to find you if you’re not back here by half past,’ he warned.
‘Very well,’ said Laurence, making a face at me and making me smile. ‘Come along, Miss Hargreaves. Come and see Edwin’s painting.’
Laurence offered me his arm and together we walked up the wide sweeping staircase to the second floor of the club and into a long room with a large table. On the wall at one end was King Canute turning back the tide.
I gasped. ‘But …’ I said, in shock. It was my painting. Mine. Why did this man believe Edwin had painted it?
‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ said Laurence. ‘Edwin is very modest. He told me he’d only put his name to this work on the train on his way into town.’
‘On the train,’ I repeated softly. My mind was racing. I walked closer to the painting and saw Edwin’s signature etched on to the canvas at the bottom.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. I sank on to a chair and gazed up at the painting, noting with a mixture of dismay and pride that it looked wonderful framed and hanging in a room.
Laurence smiled at me. ‘You didn’t realize Edwin was so accomplished, I gather,’ he said. ‘I was taken aback too, I must confess.’
He sat down next to me. ‘He was reluctant to show me his work at first,’ he said. ‘But I talked him into it. And when he discovered I could sell it, well, he was very surprised.’
‘I’m sure,’ I muttered.
‘I sold one to a contact in Manchester, an industrialist called Hughes. He’s planning to hang it in his office at his factory.’
The name was familiar to me as someone my father occasionally worked with. I couldn’t comprehend that perhaps Father would see my painting hanging in an office and not know his daughter was the artist.
‘And this one?’ I asked. ‘Edwin gifted this one to the club?’
Laurence chuckled again.
‘Good heavens, no,’ he said. ‘I bought this one – at a reduced rate of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘I have lent this to the club. They’re making a small plaque to say that it’s from my collection and Edwin has promised to let me see his next work.’
I looked at my painting and then at Laurence. ‘You believe you could sell more?’ I stuttered. ‘More of these paintings?’
‘Certainly,’ Laurence said with a smile. ‘Talent as great as Edwin’s will have its rewards. I believe I can sell everything he can create. These paintings are going to make him very wealthy.’
I stood up suddenly. ‘I must go,’ I said. ‘I have a train to catch.’
I picked up my bag and, watched by a startled Laurence, I fled down the stairs and back out into the street.
It was only when I was in a cab, speeding through the streets towards London Bridge, that I realized I hadn’t asked how much the paintings had sold for.
Chapter 46
The train journey back to Brighton was hot and uncomfortable. I tried to doze but my slumbers were interrupted by the whirlwind of my thoughts. I kept picturing Millais saying I should keep in touch, Laurence admiring the painting, then Edwin telling me – lying to me – that he’d arranged for my work to be exhibited at the club, and the shock of seeing his name at the bottom of my art.
By the time I reached Sussex, I was hot, tired, and absolutely furious. I came out of the station and thought for a moment. I was desperate to see Edwin, to find out what he was thinking when he put his name to my artwork but I knew he wouldn’t be home. It was a weekday so Edwin would be at work – in Brighton. I knew where his office was – well, I knew the name of the road at least. Would it be madness to go and see him there?
Before I’d even made up mind fully, my legs were carrying me down the hill towards the sea and the street where I knew Edwin worked.
It wasn’t hard to find. It was a white, double-fronted building with a brass plaque bearing his name. I pushed open the door, marvelling at how bold I’d become in the last two days, and went inside.
‘I have an appointment with Edwin Forrest,’ I told the clerk at the desk. He went to open the leather-bound book in front of him and I stopped him by placing my hand on his.
‘Just tell him Violet Hargreaves is here,’ I said.
The man glanced at me. Then he nodded in what seemed to be recognition though I had never met him before. He stood up and disappeared into a nearby room. I was amazed at how he had done exactly what I’d asked him to do.
Then he reappeared and gestured to me to go into the room he’d just come from. ‘He’s in there,’ he said.
I took a breath and went into the office. Edwin was standing by the door and as soon as I entered, he shut it behind me and grabbed hold of my wrist.
‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. ‘How dare you come to my office and risk my livelihood.’
I pulled my wrist away and glared at him. ‘Your livelihood?’ I said, not bothering to lower my voice. ‘What about mine? How much money have you made from my paintings, Edwin? How much?’
Edwin paled. ‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ I repeated.
With a sigh, Edwin went to his desk and sat down. ‘Sit,’ he said.
Obediently, I did so.
Edwin rubbed his forehead and sighed again.
‘How did you find out?’ he asked.
‘I met your friend Laurence,’ I said. ‘He showed me my painting – with your name at the bottom. And he told me you’d sold them both.’
‘But he didn’t tell you how much?’ Edwin asked.
I shook my head. ‘He said you were going to be rich,’ I said, spitting out the words.
Edwin smiled. ‘Not me, my darling. You. You’re going to be rich.’
I felt the same disconcerting confusion I’d felt when I’d seen the painting. I stared at Edwin.
He opened his desk drawer and took out a bundle of papers tied with a blue cord. ‘I was
going to wait to tell you until I’d drawn up all the contracts,’ he said. He waved the papers in my face. ‘I’m only halfway through.’
I didn’t speak.
‘When I arrived in London, I got the paintings out in my room,’ Edwin said. ‘I spread them out on the bed, just as Lawrence knocked on my door – he’d seen my signature in the guest book and had come to say hello.’
‘Go on,’ I said coldly.
‘He assumed the paintings were mine and I didn’t correct him fast enough,’ Edwin said. ‘Almost straight away he said how good they were and how he thought he could sell them. I couldn’t shut him up, he was so excited.’
‘And?’
‘Then the next day he said he had a buyer. I thought of what that money could do for you – and how important it was that this all happened. And I thought about how he would react if I said a young girl from Sussex was the artist …’
I stared right at him.
‘And I lied,’ Edwin said. ‘And when he asked me to sign them, I did. But I did it for you, Violet. I thought we could do a deal – you paint and I’ll be the face of your art. Then, when you’re established, you can show yourself and we’ll tell the art world the truth. You’ll have made enough money by then to support yourself.’
He waved the papers again. ‘I was going to draw up a contract,’ he said. ‘Make it all legal. Make sure you knew I was acting in your best interests.’
‘Laurence said you signed the paintings on the train,’ I said, remembering his story. ‘Before you’d even got to London.’
Edwin smiled. ‘Laurence is fond of a drink,’ he said. ‘He must have misunderstood.’
I felt myself softening. ‘You think I could make enough money to support myself?’ I said.
‘I know so,’ said Edwin.
‘How much were my paintings sold for?’
Edwin paused.
‘I understand money, Edwin,’ I said, his hesitation annoying me. ‘I’m not some stupid little girl, whatever you might think.’
‘One hundred,’ Edwin said. ‘They sold for £100.’
I gasped. ‘Altogether?’
Edwin’s eyes flickered slightly, then he smiled.
The Girl in the Picture Page 18