A Trace of Deceit

by Karen Odden

  There was only one more person connected to Edwin whom I wanted to see.

  I SPENT THE morning at my easel, but at midday I set out. The sky was a cornflower blue and the breeze warmer than usual for early October. I found a cab in Charing Cross and took it north on Tottenham Court Road far enough for it to change names to Hampstead. Just after we crossed over a pair of railway tracks, the driver turned right and we continued on until he let me out at a church with the name engraved on a square wooden plaque out front: ST. PANCRAS.

  I liked it on sight, and I could understand why Edwin would. It had neither the lofty, elaborate steeple of St. Martin’s nor the flying buttresses of Westminster. Instead, it was reassuringly compact, solid, and low to the ground. Made of light brown stone, the entrance was a sturdy arch with a rose window above. The square bell tower bore clocks on each face, as if welcoming people from all directions. Rather than a typical rigid wrought-iron fence, low boxwood hedges separated the churchyard from the street, and the branches of trees arched over the church’s roof, lending it grace. To the right of the door was a niche, with the carved figure of the saint, a young boy, his right hand turned palm up and fingers slightly curved, as if around a ball that the sculptor neglected to include. Below the figure was a stone bearing the inscription: To the sacred memory of St. Pancras of Rome. He who holds everything. Martyred 303 A.D.

  I pushed at the heavy wooden door. Inside I found a narrow and unadorned room with one aisle down the middle and wooden pews on either side. The altar was plain but neat, with a white cloth draped over it. The room held a faint but not unpleasant scent of burnt candles. In the wall a stone bore a carving. At first glance, I thought it said A.D. 1625. But as I drew closer, I saw there was no numeral one before the six. My fingertips traced the digits. If this date was accurate, there had been a church of some sort here for over a thousand years.

  I walked down the aisle, looking for a door that might lead to the vestry. When I found it, I knocked, and a young deacon opened the door.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for the vicar, Mr. Pascoe. Is he here?”

  “Yes, miss.” He pointed to a door opposite. “You’ll find him in the garden. He’s usually outside on a day like this.”

  I thanked him and went out into the churchyard. The afternoon shadows had begun to fall across the grass, and the tree limbs shifted above, but the sun wouldn’t set for several more hours, and the air was still pleasant.

  I followed a gravel path around to the back and although I didn’t see Mr. Pascoe, I saw black vestments hanging on a low branch and flapping gently in the breeze. I headed toward them and rounding a hedge, I caught sight of the vicar. He was in plain black trousers and shirt, kneeling on a bit of carpet and weeding at the edge of a large square bed. I continued along the path, past several headstones: Paul Bannister, I read. 1811–1851. A beloved father, taken too soon. Ellen Bannister, 1819–1854. A treasured wife, a tender mother, and a devoted sister. Joseph Bannister, 1834–1855. Killed in Crimea. His soul was equal parts bravery, honour, and faith.

  “Hello, Miss Rowe.”

  I turned to see Mr. Pascoe, still kneeling but with his hands resting on his thighs, smiling as if he’d half expected me. Perhaps in his profession, very little surprised him. He set aside his trowel and brushed his hands on his trousers preparatory to rising.

  “Please don’t get up, Vicar,” I said hurriedly. “If you don’t mind I’d rather stay out here. I could help you. As a child, I’d help my mother with our garden, once I learned the difference between penstemon and the weeds.”

  He nodded cheerfully and I sensed that he understood it would be easier for me to talk if I had something to occupy my hands. “Very well.” He picked up his trowel. “With all the rain, I’m afraid the weeds have run riot. I’m trying to pull them out before I put in the spring bulbs.” He rummaged in the wheelbarrow beside him and handed me a trowel and then, after a look at my skirts, he found a rough sack. “That should do to save your clothes.”

  “Thank you.” I folded the sack over twice, knelt on top of it, and began to turn over the dirt, taking care to pull the weeds down to the root. He’d brought a bucket to collect them, and he nudged it closer to me.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Fairly well.”

  “I’m glad to see you.” He paused. “Has your inspector made any progress?”

  I dug my trowel down farther into the soil. “Yes. Things have been mostly sorted.” I paused. “Mainly because Edwin left a letter for me.”

  “Did he?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

  I nodded. “The painting will be sent to the LeMarc family in Paris, where it belongs. And a man named Sam Boulter confessed to killing Edwin and trying to sell the painting illicitly.”

  I watched him closely as I said the name, but he gave no sign of recognition. The sigh he heaved shifted the cloth over his chest. “I suppose I should be pleased at a resolution, but what a wretched, terrible thing.”

  We weeded in silence for a minute or two, and having finished with his half of the plot, he dug a hole approximately four inches deep. He reached into a sack, removed a bulb, and placed it carefully before covering it with dirt.

  “What sort of flower?” I asked.

  “Daffodil,” he said. “I’ve crocus bulbs, too, but I’ll put them over that way.” He waved his trowel.

  I worked away at a fibrous root as I gathered my courage to say, “Sam Boulter went to Tennersley with Edwin.”

  “Oh?”

  I couldn’t read much meaning in that monosyllable, but one look at the vicar’s face, and I knew I could ask. My trowel rested immobile on the dirt. “You knew, didn’t you? What Sam Boulter’s father did to Edwin.”

  His eyes were cast down, watching his fingers press the soil into place. “Was he Edwin’s art master?”

  “Yes.”

  “He never told me the man’s name. But yes, I gathered he’d experienced something . . . heinous.” He shook his head and his eyes met mine. “When I first met him, your brother was in terrible distress. Pain like that seeps from a deep wound. An act of cruelty or betrayal, or both, by someone we love.” He paused. “You asked about the sketchbook that was missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “It told me what he couldn’t bring himself to say.” He swallowed hard. “And he asked me to destroy it.”

  “Did you?”

  He nodded.

  “Why? Did he want to pretend it hadn’t happened?”

  “No. I think he wanted to believe the events from that time weren’t going to determine his life going forward.”

  “But they did.” My voice grew brittle. “He was killed because Sam Boulter saw him on the street, and when he tried to make Edwin say he’d lied about what Mr. Boulter had done, Edwin wouldn’t do it.”

  The vicar sucked in his breath, his eyes widened, and his hands went still as he took this in. In the silence, I heard the leaves rustling overhead and the bustle of the world beyond the boxwood.

  “And now you’re angry, aren’t you?” he asked gently. “You think Edwin should have lied.”

  “Why couldn’t he? Just to stay alive?” I pleaded. “If Edwin had told me the truth, I’d have believed him. What did it matter if he had to deceive someone like Sam Boulter?”

  His eyes held a world of compassion. “You know the answer to that, don’t you?”

  I was silent for several minutes, and at last, reluctantly, I voiced my thoughts: “I suppose it’s because he was tired of concealing it. He’d lived with the secret for so long.” I hesitated. “And—given that he vowed to start living differently—he wouldn’t want to take the smallest step back toward lies and pretending.”

  He picked up his trowel, though it lay motionless in his hand. “He’d have been repulsed by the idea.”

  A leaf dropped onto my skirt, and I brushed it away. “Do you think he was right to feel so strongly?”

  “I couldn’t say,�
� he replied. “I know that sometimes people are so broken they cannot mend enough. But he preserved his integrity, what I might even call his soul”—he spread his hands—“at the expense of his body.” He shook his head. “I can’t fault him for that.”

  “No.” I gave a heavy sigh. “But it’s terribly sad . . . for me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  The misery swamped me. “It’s just . . . I wish I’d been able to tell him I believed him. But he never really gave me a chance! I wish I’d been more of an ally to him after he got out of prison. Felix was, and you were. But I wasn’t.”

  He did me the favor of not offering insincere reassurances. “Well, it was complicated,” he admitted. “I do believe as we grow older, it’s our responsibility to serve as an ally when someone needs us, if we can.” He took up another of the bulbs, placed it in a hole, and covered it. “There are advantages sometimes to our being observers, holding ourselves out of the fray. But that isn’t truly living, is it?”

  “No,” I owned, and he smiled beatifically, as if the most important matter had been resolved. Yet I had one remaining question. “Vicar, in his last letter Edwin asked me to do something for him—something important. So I know he trusted me to behave responsibly. But . . . did he ever tell you . . . well, do you think he knew I loved him?” I heard the wistfulness in my voice.

  His head tipped, he surveyed me thoughtfully before he replied, “Yes, I believe he did.” I waited, holding my breath and hoping he could offer me something less equivocal. After a moment, he continued, “In my experience, love looks different to everyone. Edwin told me about your Tuesday visits, and several times he made a point of saying you’d never missed one. Never even been late. Not once.”

  “That’s true,” I said.

  “I think particularly for Edwin steadiness and reliability were very important signs of love. Instinctively or not, you gave them to him, and so”—his smile was warmly reassuring—“yes, I’d say he knew.”

  I felt a wave of relief. “Thank you.”

  The sun had dropped behind the church, sending long, cool shadows over this part of the garden. He peered up at the clock and then down at his sack of bulbs. “The rest of these must wait, I’m afraid.”

  Together we stood and brushed off our clothes. He disentangled his robes from the branches of the tree, draped them over his shoulder, and grasped the handles of a nearby wheelbarrow. We started down a flagstone path toward the vestry. “Watch yourself on that stone,” he said. “The tree roots have pushed it up.”

  What a good man he is, I thought as I stepped over the uneven edge. And while I was not in the habit of praying, here amid the gardens I felt it fitting to send up a few words of thanks for this man who had given Edwin back some peace and faith.

  As we started down the path I asked, “Father, how many people do you visit in prison every month?”

  “Seventy or eighty.”

  I shook my head. “I imagine some of them are difficult to influence. Even Edwin took weeks. How is it you’re so patient?”

  He gave a look that was equal parts rueful and humorous. “By remembering my own mistakes. There are plenty to choose from.”

  I smiled by way of reply.

  We reached a wooden door, and he said, “Will you come inside? I have something for you.”

  He set down the wheelbarrow and as we stepped into the vestry, I smelled a faint trace of wine and bread. He led me to a separate room and opened a wardrobe. Inside were black robes hanging from hooks, and on a pair of shelves were hats and other items for cold weather. From the top shelf he took a scarf and held it out to me. “He gave this to me, but I think you should have it.”

  I put up a hand to refuse. “No. No, he meant it for you.”

  “You can always return it, but perhaps for a while, you could have it with you. Something fine and beautiful, to remind you of all the good that was in him.” He fumbled with the edge of the scarf and turned it so I could see a small silver disk. “Do you see? Here’s a medal sewn in, of Saint Catherine of Bologna.”

  I looked at him questioningly.

  “She’s the patron saint of art,” he said with a smile and offered the scarf draped between his open palms. “So you see, it’s more suitable for you.”

  A lump rose in my throat, and I was about to refuse again when I saw the eagerness in his expression. I recalled how he’d offered Edwin food and books, comforts in tangible forms, and how regretful he’d been that Edwin refused them at first. So I took it.

  The scarf was made of lovely wool, soft and dyed in shades of blue and purple that might have found their sources in pulverized lapis lazuli and murex shells from the eastern Mediterranean. I had nowhere to carry it, so I unfolded it and draped it around my shoulders, then I offered him my hand. “Thank you, Vicar, for everything you did for him,” I said and hoped he could hear how sincerely I meant it. “And for me.”

  To my surprise, he ignored my hand. Instead he put his hands to my temples and bent forward to kiss my forehead. “God bless and keep you, my dear.”

  As I left the church I took a deep breath in and smelled the boxwood, a dusty, acrid smell that could never be mistaken for anything else. With a feeling of newfound grace, I secured the scarf around my shoulders and walked away from my shadow toward the dropping sun.

  Chapter 27

  I had a particular reason for going to the Slade the following afternoon. A painting had been taking shape in my mind for several days and I felt a growing but pleasant sense of urgency about committing it to canvas. As I entered the studio, my nose stung with the familiar smells of linseed oil and turpentine, scents that would fade in a moment. Two other students—Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Stephenson—were at their easels; they glanced up and nodded, but they were absorbed and I let them alone. I hung my coat on the hook near the door, took my paint box and brushes out of my drawer, set them down on the stool near my usual easel, and went to the stack of blank canvases. I looked several over, rejecting two for imperfections, before choosing one approximately one and a half feet by two. Then I set it on the easel, tied on my apron, and began.

  Over the years I learned to understand the connection between my mind and my brush, to balance intention and play, to abstain from both arrogance and timidity. With daily work, a more certain connection had formed between what was in my mind’s eye and what my fingers could accomplish. That day, I only needed to hold the image still inside my head for the shapes to appear on the blank canvas in front of me. The outlines emerged easily and almost full-blown, without struggle or frustration. The finer particulars might come later, I knew, along with revisions—but for now, the brush did as I bade.

  I painted for several hours, until the light began to dim, and I looked up to find that my two fellow students were cleaning their brushes at the sink, talking in low tones. I studied my canvas with a critical eye but was pleased with it so far. I wasn’t tired in the least, but I tightened the caps on my pigments and brought my brushes to the sink.

  “Hello,” I said.

  They glanced at each other before replying. “Are you all right?” Mr. Wolfe asked cautiously. “We were wondering when you might come back.”

  I offered the simplest version of the truth. “I’ve been taking care of my brother’s affairs.”

  They both winced. “We’re very sorry,” Mr. Wolfe said, and he reached a hand for my brushes. “I’ll take care of those if you like.”

  I thanked him and returned to my easel, just to take one last look. I was far enough along that I’d have time to finish it before Matthew returned.

  “We were going to find some dinner. Do you want to come along?” Mr. Wolfe asked.

  “Perhaps another time. I have a few things to do tonight.”

  They nodded amiably, and we parted at the door. I headed for Edwin’s flat, letting myself in with the key.

  I’d sorted through most of his things over the past few days, discarding some of his old art supplies and packing up his few box
es of clothes and books. I’d moved all his original paintings to my rooms, except for the last few on his walls. One of these was mine—the girl, the father, and the woman at the market. I took it down and studied it. It really wasn’t very good. The expressions were drawn too sharply, as if I didn’t trust my viewer to see them; the lighting was too stark in some places and too yellow in others. Edwin had been in the room at our parents’ house when I had been painting it. It was he who had helped me with the shadows near the edges. I turned it over to wrap it in a section of old sheet I’d kept aside for the purpose. On the back, on the part of the canvas that wrapped the stretcher, Edwin had scrawled: Annabel, Feb 1867.

  The sight stopped me, for I thought I’d been younger. That month, I had just turned fourteen, and he’d been seventeen.

  I laid my fingertips on top of the letters, feeling the faint indentation made by the nub of his pencil. My throat tightened and I swallowed down the lump. By fourteen, I had given up hope that my father would take an interest in my painting. But apparently Edwin had been paying attention, even during that troubled period when he’d been home so irregularly. He’d kept my work and noted the date perhaps so that he—and I—could see my progress. He’d expected me to keep on.

  And it occurred to me, as I closed the door to his rooms for the last time, that Edwin would always be behind my painting, in one way or another.

  BY STAYING LATE at the Slade every day, I’d nearly finished the painting I wanted to give to Matthew. On Saturday afternoon, when I put on the finishing touches, Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Stephenson, and Miss Stokes were at the studio as well, hard at work, and this time when Mr. Wolfe asked if I wanted to have supper with them, I said yes. The four of us together made a cheerful group, and I went home satisfied with how I’d spent my day.

  On Monday evening, the paint was dry enough. I wrapped my painting in brown paper, tying it closed with string, and took a cab to Matthew’s house. I knocked, and Peggy invited me inside.