The Colours of Murder

by Ali Carter

  ‘And you don’t mind?’ Toby laughed.

  ‘Not at all, it makes a great story and if I let comments like this get to me it would change the way I work. My first lesson to self was: don’t let anyone’s opinion change your style. My style is all I have that’s true to me and I’m as brave as I have to be to share it with the rest of the world, it’s what makes my work mine. If viewers like it great and if they don’t I put it down to a difference in taste.’

  What I really wanted to say to Toby was if you’re willing to bare your soul and pour the honesty and truth of how you see and sense something into your work, then it will be as great a piece as you can possibly make it. But, I really didn’t want to spring an emotionally indulgent conversation on him right now.

  ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘I’ve always found Jack Vettriano’s paintings lack what it is you’ve put your finger on. It’s why Turner’s late paintings are such works of genius.’

  ‘Yes!’ I said, overexcited by his knowledge and sensitivity.

  I was pleased Toby had asked about my work – it boded well if we ever have a future together. It’s important for me that whoever I end up with fully understands what it is to be an artist. I need a partner who encourages me to believe in myself when the chips are down. Someone who hugs me tight when I’ve failed and keeps their distance when I’m standing in front of a canvas, midway through a picture, with tears of frustration streaming down my face. I’m well aware that my artistic temperament is selfish but I also know nothing great comes without indulging in oneself, one’s thoughts, one’s desires and one’s fears. This may mean I never find a partner for life but I’d one hundred per cent rather be married to my painting than married to someone who neither understands nor makes allowances for it.

  I took my foot off the accelerator as Toby and I drove into Fontaburn village, which much like the Hall was incredibly well kept. In fact, the whole place was so immaculately empty it was as if the refuse collectors had cleared up all the people and taken away its soul too. The pavements were separated from the road by a mound of mown grass and hanging from every old-fashioned street lamp right the way down the high street were baskets of flowers, red as they always are.

  Most of the buildings were redundant alms houses with a few remnants of Tudor architecture amongst them. Not that long ago this village would have been inhabited by the employees of Fontaburn Hall and their families, but its eerie atmosphere suggested most had moved on.

  I parked right outside the museum.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ asked Toby.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hey, look at that.’ Toby was pointing up at the museum’s sign – a great big shield dangling above us. ‘You can learn a lot about a family from their coat of arms, you know. Right away I can tell you the head of the family is a baron.’

  ‘But Archie’s father is a lord?’

  ‘Yes, barons are generally always called lord except when described in a formal document.’

  ‘I see, I think. And how do you know he’s a baron?’

  ‘That coronet of rank as they’re known – heraldic language is so elegant – has six large silver balls, only four of them showing in two dimensions. This symbolises the rank of baron.’

  ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘I did an extra module in heraldry at university. I told you I was interested in ancient families.’

  ‘You must be.’ I looked up at the shield. ‘So, the number of balls determines the rank?’

  ‘Yes. A viscount has sixteen.’

  ‘So, does an earl have thirty-two?’

  ‘No,’ Toby laughed. ‘They have eight balls on spikes.’

  ‘How confusing. What else can you tell from this coat of arms?’

  ‘The shape is an inverted Tudor arch, which means the barony was ennobled in the sixteenth century. The colour blue symbolises truth and loyalty. The boar’s head is a symbol of hospitality and I reckon the red rose in its mouth is for England.’ Toby was on fire. I think I’ve just uncovered his specialist subject. ‘The geraniums are a sign of true friendship and the pineapples of welcome. Scottish heralds on the other hand omit such fancies as ridiculous.’

  ‘What’s a pineapple doing on a sixteenth-century coat of arms?’

  ‘Good spot. In medieval England it was a pine cone, which was later misinterpreted as a pineapple.’

  ‘And the squirrels?’

  ‘I don’t know what they stand for.’

  ‘Red head, ginger nut?’

  ‘Very funny, but I don’t think so. I bet there will be a blazon inside. That’s a formal description of a coat of arms in Olde English.’ Toby reached for the door. ‘Let’s go in.’

  ‘Ah ha, visitors, are we?’ said a busty woman, planted on the other side, with feet so small they reminded me of the joke that nothing grows in the shade.

  ‘Hello,’ we exclaimed, but our excitement was quickly dampened by our new companion.

  ‘If you’re coming in please bear in mind that we like to maintain a quiet reflective atmosphere in here so best keep any conversation to a minimum.’

  ‘Talk about gloomy,’ whispered Toby in my ear.

  The museum was small, just one room with a chunky square desk in the centre where the curator had stationed herself. Three of the walls were cluttered with heavily protected photographs; newspaper clippings; correspondence; title deeds; and all sorts of things you’d expect in a museum of an ancient family’s history. The fourth wall had a colourful mass of porcelain in glass casing, and then, circumnavigating the whole room, was a bossy ‘keep back’ rail with scales of thick plastic-coated information boards welded to it.

  Toby had been right, Archie’s family’s fortune came from porcelain and, according to the text in front of me … it was the sixth Lord Norland (Archie’s great, great grandfather) who’d spotted the potential for exploring trade links with the Far East in 1842 when China and Britain signed the Treaty of Nanking. Chinese coastal ports engaged in foreign trade and Lord Norland, together with his business partner Mr William de Bynninge, sailed for Shanghai. Here they set up a new company, choosing – in keeping with local tradition – a Chinese name, Piào Liàng, meaning ‘elegant and bright’.

  On the wall above this board were photographs recording four generations of Wellinghams and de Bynninges in business together. The most recent strapline read: Wellingham Porcelain, trading as Piào Liàng. From left to right, The Honourable Archibald Barnabas Cooke Wellingham – Chief Executive Officer. Francis Archibald Lord Norland – Chairman.

  I turned to the curator. ‘It’s interesting,’ I said as I approached her desk, ‘that there’s no mention of the current generation of de Bynninge in partnership with Mr Wellingham.’

  ‘That would be right. Mr Wellingham has taken over as CEO and cut his ties with subsequent generations of de Bynninges.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ I asked as nicely as I possibly could – this woman was going to take some warming up.

  ‘Well,’ she said as her chest puffed up with pride and she squeezed out from behind the desk. ‘If you take a look at that dated picture there,’ her short arm was a perfectly adequate pointer in such a small room, ‘you’ll see that Mr de Bynninge and his wife, lovely looking isn’t she, have two daughters and we can only assume that without an heir he split his share in Wellingham Porcelain equally between his girls and resigned as a director.’

  Charlotte’s words, ‘I count myself as Archie’s oldest friend but if you widen the circle to professional relationships then I guess Primrose takes the title’, rang in my ears. Was Primrose in this picture?

  I turned to the curator. ‘It seems odd that partnership ties have been cut just because there wasn’t a de Bynninge son.’

  ‘Well, madam, it’s not a fitting role for an upper-class lady to become a director of a global porcelain empire.’

  Toby, clearly more interested in the porcelain than the photographs, caught my eye as if to say, ‘Now, now, Susie, don’t ev
en try to convince this woman otherwise.’

  I often long for the day a female aristocrat becomes prime minister, or a judge, or a CEO of a global conglomerate. It would do wonders for the rest of us attempting to be taken seriously despite our gender. It is after all the upper crust who get the best start in life with private education and nepotism served up on a plate. Come on ladies, get your suits on!

  ‘So, the de Bynninges,’ I said, ‘no longer have an active role in the running of the company?’

  ‘That’s correct. Although I happen to know Mr Wellingham often takes the elder Miss de Bynninge with him on factory visits.’

  Ah ha! This woman was clearly a bit of a gossip.

  ‘Factory visits?’ I asked hoping she would tell me more.

  ‘I’m led to believe Miss de Bynninge is now married – although her new name escapes me – and those of us who work here think it’s a little inappropriate that she continues to travel with Mr Wellingham.’

  ‘Doesn’t her husband go too?’

  ‘No, they go as a pair to a town nearby Shanghai.’

  ‘What’s the town called?’

  ‘Wujiang.’ Madam curator beamed as I was choked into silence… this was the exact place name Primrose had set Hailey straight on.

  ‘To be fair,’ she said, apologising at my reaction, ‘Miss de Bynninge’s not the only one to go on trips. Mr Wellingham has a charming friend he takes with him from time to time.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I’ll never forget it.’ She swelled with pride once more. ‘It’s Furr Egrant. Fancy being called that.’

  ‘How funny!’ I smiled at her. Little did she know what gold dust this conversation had been.

  I went to join Toby by the porcelain and as I stretched out my hand to point at a beautiful teapot with a string of colourful butterflies dancing around its waist a sharp voice came hurtling across the room, ‘No! No touching. Those pieces are of great value and break very easily.’

  I apologised, wondering how on earth this could possibly happen within a glass cabinet.

  Toby drew me away. ‘Have you seen the coat of arms? It’s here, painted on vellum.’

  ‘Wow.’ It was completely beautiful with colours so vivid it was hard to believe it had been done in 1539. Below it on a scroll was the blazon, written, as Toby had said, with such elegant language.

  Arms – Quarterly 1 and 4 Or a Geranium slipped leaves and flowering proper 2 and 3 Azure a Pineapple Argent Crest on a Helm with a torse Or and Azure A Boar’s Head erased proper holding in the mouth a Rose Gules. Supporters On either side a Squirrel proper above each Squirrel and sprig of acacia.

  I swung around and asked the curator if I could take a photograph.

  ‘Of course, madam. Most people who come here like to.’

  ‘Hey, Susie,’ beckoned Toby. ‘Come and look at this.’ He was pointing at an ancient family rhyme.

  Cloak of dagger, friend of note

  Stuck by the monarch’s side and turned his coat.

  Down with the Catholics, rid of the Romans

  Wellingham rises from the life of a lowman.

  Norlands of Norfolk, loyalty to the king

  Time will tell if it’s a punishable sin.

  ‘These jingles are great fun. Quite a few ancient families have one although no one knows who wrote them or when they date from.’

  ‘So, do you reckon Henry VIII ennobled the Wellinghams for their loyalty in converting from Catholic to Protestant?’

  ‘I doubt it. Anyone who didn’t want to get burnt alive renounced their Catholicism. It’s far more likely King Henry, with his wandering eye, took a shine to Archie’s great, great, great, great, great, great, great Granny and curried favour with her husband by giving him a title.’

  ‘Do you really think husbands accepted titles on these terms?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. It’s proven. And if that’s the case maybe the rose in the boar’s mouth actually symbolises love and desire, you never know.’

  I went back to the blazon. By its side was a table explaining the symbolism and, sure enough, the curly branches above the squirrels’ heads were acacia leaves, which illustrate eternal and affectionate remembrance.

  Toby’s head gave a quick told-you-so nod. ‘And,’ he said, ‘there you go, the squirrels express love of woods.’

  ‘Makes sense, there were wonderful trees at Fontaburn Hall.’

  ‘Hu-hmm,’ came from the curator’s desk. She was holding up a dangling keyring, ‘These have the family crest on them if you’d like to purchase one.’

  Out of politeness I moved towards her to take a look.

  ‘Nice,’ said Toby over my shoulder. The curator had gone to dust the porcelain cabinet.

  ‘Archie had this crest embroidered on his evening slippers.’

  ‘No surprise,’ said Toby. ‘Most toffs do. I bet he wore a signet ring too?’

  ‘He didn’t actually.’

  ‘How unusual.’

  Toby was right. Signet rings engraved with a family crest and worn on the little finger of a man’s left hand have become common eighteenth birthday presents from aristocratic fathers to their sons. Maybe Archie’s fingers had become plump with age.

  Neither Toby nor I were in the market for a keyring so leaving it on the counter we both said ‘thank you,’ and left, out onto the empty street.

  The thought of a soulless Fontaburn village pub put Toby and me back in my car with the cheerier thought of a drink on the bench outside Lucy’s. As I mastered the narrow turning out of the village, saving my wing mirrors from the slightest scratch, Toby launched into the rather boring topic of the sixteenth-century Wellingham family within the context of British nobility.

  I decided if I entertained him for a bit I’d get the best out of him when I introduced the juicier topic, as far as I’m concerned, of how the current generation’s actions may have led to Hailey’s death. So, when the opportunity arose I swung the conversation as far forward from the sixteenth century as I could and asked, ‘Why are you so down on the de Bynninges?’

  ‘Because, after four generations, William de Bynninge has cashed in and broken a history of business with the Wellinghams since 1842.’

  ‘But he doesn’t have a son so maybe he wanted the money to be split between his daughters?’

  ‘Everyone knows Wellingham Porcelain is a successful business and therefore the de Bynninge daughters would have got plenty of income from their shares without having to sell and let down the family’s legacy.’

  I liked that Toby had a firm opinion on the matter and it wasn’t that I was trying to provoke him when I asked, ‘Why do you mind so much that Mr de Bynninge is cashing in?’ I just didn’t fully understand what he was getting at.

  His voice took on a nostalgic tone, ‘I suppose I have some sort of instinctive affection for the way things used to be in business, and, oddly, it does bother me that this Mr de Bynninge just broke off what was obviously a long-standing partnership.’ Toby’s body tensed and now I could hear the aggression in his voice, ‘There used to be a real sense of responsibility in the way a proper family company worked. So different from faceless multinationals, where everything looks the same and everything’s done on the basis of pure profit and the lowest common denominator. A family company is supposed to be different – they can care for their workers and suppliers better than the others. They have duties and there’s a respect for history. Who knows, but it seems to me that de Bynninge is just throwing all that away. He’s taking the money and running …’

  I loved the fact Toby had such a social conscience, but I just couldn’t stop myself butting in ‘Listen,’ I said, grabbing his arm and trying to get back to the here and now, ‘I think Miss de Bynninge is Primrose Gerald.’

  ‘Do you now?’ Toby’s voice was inflected with a touch of contempt.

  ‘Yes, I do, because when I was at Fontaburn, Hailey implied she was going to Wujiang and Primrose firmly corrected her pronunciation. I also think Primro
se was jealous that Archie invited Hailey on a trip.’

  ‘But, according to the curator, Daniel also went on these trips.’

  ‘But Daniel’s a man so Primrose wouldn’t mind that.’

  ‘True, but, if Daniel fancies Archie, which I presume he does if he got into his bed, then he’d be just as jealous of Hailey.’

  ‘Hey Toby, maybe inviting Hailey on a trip to Wujiang was the beginning of something bigger?’

  ‘Nah, you would have picked up on it if it was that bad.’

  ‘But, I think I did. Remember Archie told me at dinner that the topic of porcelain had caused a rift between some of them?’

  Toby didn’t say anything and as I was driving I couldn’t look at him long enough to know if he was thinking about the effects of jealousy or not.

  ‘I reckon Daniel could have killed Hailey with the poisonous bean we looked up.’

  ‘But,’ Toby wasn’t buying it, ‘a high oxalate concentration in Hailey’s system is the only concrete evidence you have so far, and although it can come from eating plants, I’m absolutely sure you’d know by now if it was a plant that killed her.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

  ‘I am right,’ said Toby in that dogmatic way only a man can.

  His insistence didn’t ruffle me. In fact it made me very happy as it meant he was as invested in this mystery as I was and this inevitably brought us closer together.

  ‘I tell you something,’ he said lightening the atmosphere, ‘Archie better get on and have a son, he’s forty-one and not exactly hot stuff.’

  ‘He’s a nice guy though and probably wary of gold diggers.’

  ‘Or, I reckon Daniel was on to something jumping into his bed, those red trousers in the photographs surely don’t do it for the ladies.’

  ‘Na, red trousers or not I don’t think Archie’s gay. Anyway, he’s got plenty of time to have an heir, it’s not like there’s a clock ticking.’

  ‘Do you want children, Susie?’

  Crumbs, this was the most personal thing Toby had ever asked me. I was stuck for words. I wanted to say what he wanted to hear but in truth I’m not completely sure whether I do want children or not.