‘Very well, thanks. It’s a comfy bed.’
‘I should hope so. It was a gift from the late master to his wife.’ She nodded to a portrait on the wall. ‘A fine-looking woman, wouldn’t you say?’
Lexi glanced over. ‘She’s beautiful.’ The painting depicted an elegant woman with long fair hair and piercing blue eyes, but there was an air of disapproval in her expression. She didn’t voice this. It wouldn’t be appropriate. ‘Any news on Louisa’s baby?’
‘False alarm, lassie. We’ll have to wait a while longer before the new bairn arrives.’ She placed the tray on the dressing table. ‘Now, you must be hungry.’
‘It’s kind of you to bring me breakfast, Mrs Jennings. But the family are employing my services, it doesn’t seem right to be waited on.’
‘Nonsense. You’re a guest and you need to eat. You cannae work on an empty stomach.’ She handed her a napkin. ‘And call me Gilly. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’ She gestured to the chair. ‘Don’t let it go cold.’
Lexi dutifully sat down.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. Leave the bed, I’ll make it later.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Jenn … err, Gilly. This looks delicious.’
‘My pleasure, lassie.’ She closed the door behind her.
Lexi couldn’t remember the last time she’d had scrambled eggs. They were heavenly. Creamy and light, served on thick white toast. By the time she’d finished off the huge mug of tea she was feeling quite serene. Tasha had been right. Coming here was good for the soul.
But then thoughts of cheating ex-husbands, investigating officers and stolen money flooded her brain, and her equilibrium faded. Not to mention the blue-eyed thief, who’d absconded with her hire car. That alone was enough to reignite her agitation.
She shook away the thought. No good would come from stressing.
She made the bed, unwilling to leave it rumpled, and went in search of the kitchen so she could return the tea tray. She didn’t want to be seen taking advantage. And besides, she was curious to explore. She hadn’t seen much of the place yesterday. By the time she’d been shown to the grand bedchamber, unpacked and eaten homemade Scotch broth, it was late afternoon. Exhausted from her long day, lack of sleep and a nerve-wracking mountain journey, she’d collapsed into bed. Where astonishingly she’d slept. She still couldn’t get over that.
She headed downwards, trying to locate the kitchen. The stone corridors were narrow. The spiral steps even tighter. Her elbows touched the walls as she carried the tea tray down.
She liked the eccentricity of the castle with its intriguing little niches and narrow wooden doorways, but she still couldn’t find the blessed kitchen. She ended up in the inner courtyard, gazing around feeling slightly overwhelmed. And then she heard someone calling her name.
She looked up to see Gilly waving from a window and pointing to a door below. Following her instructions, Lexi headed through a door labelled The Keep.
She was met by a panting Gilly, who took the tray from her. ‘You dinnae have to do that.’
‘It was the least I could do. Breakfast was amazing. Thank you.’
‘Och, you’re very welcome.’
If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, then it seemed the way to win over a housekeeper was by complimenting her cooking. The woman was positively beaming.
‘Can I look around?’
‘Of course, lassie.’ Gilly returned to her chores.
‘Is it unusual for the kitchen to be away from the main building?’
‘Not in a medieval castle. The kitchen would be separate in case of fire.’
‘Oh, right.’
The kitchen had been updated, probably in the 1930s judging by the décor. It had a large iron range, above which a selection of copper pots and pans hung. The flooring was wooden, as was the centre table and chairs. There was a coal fire and a dumbwaiter by the door. But the best bit was the scullery. Rows of shelving lined with bottles of pickled onions, cabbage and beetroot with labels dating back to the Thirties. She didn’t fancy consuming any of them, but they made for a fascinating feature. She spotted a deep ceramic sink next to a tall larder.
‘Is there electricity?’
‘Aye, the family had a generator installed back in the 1920s.’
The kitchen was quirky. A mixture of past and present. Lexi loved it.
Gilly was kneading bread dough. ‘Do you cook?’
‘I’m more of a baker. I have a terrible sweet tooth.’
Gilly laughed. ‘You’ll get on well with his lordship, then.’
‘His lordship?’ That was a surprise. She’d assumed he’d died. ‘Does he live here?’
‘At the moment.’ Gilly tutted, pummelling the dough. ‘Who knows when he’ll be off again?’ She sounded disapproving.
Intriguing. ‘Well, thanks for letting me look around. I’d better start work. Can you direct me to the south-west wing? I believe that’s where all the records are kept.’
Gilly wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron. ‘Head down to the inner courtyard and turn left past the gatehouse. You cannae miss it. And feel free to use the kitchen while you’re here, lassie. You’ll find plenty of baking produce in the larder. I always keep it well stocked.’
‘Thanks, Gilly. That’s really kind of you.’
Lexi headed outside. Away from the protection of the inner walls, the wind whipped around her, ruining her blow-dry. It was a struggle to walk against the force. She climbed up a set of steps onto the outer wall.
Below was a mass of passageways leading to different levels. It was an interesting array of shapes, circular turrets, square courtyards and curved pathways. To her left she could see the bridge leading to the mainland. It was quite a sight.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she searched for signs of her car being returned. She had no doubt the need to borrow her car had been genuine, but as to whether her car would be returned safely remained unknown. The jury was still out as to whether Olly was a ‘trustworthy guy’ as he claimed or a ‘charming rogue’ as she suspected.
She peered over the walkway, admiring the loch below.
As appealing as Olly was, she had to stay strong. If she was to achieve her goal of a drama-free life with no visits from enforcement officers or threats to her business, then she needed to resist her natural instincts and stay single. That or choose a nice ordinary, unexciting man who might not give her goose bumps, but who wouldn’t steal her life savings, either.
Excellent plan.
With renewed determination, she headed down the steps into the south-west wing, resolved to stop thinking about the blue-eyed thief. She was here to work.
It was an impressive room, built entirely of stone with a curved ceiling. The central focus was a fireplace, which wasn’t lit. In the middle of the room was a circular Chippendale table with matching antique dining chairs. The walls were bare apart from a set of duelling pistols mounted above the fireplace. Either side were two tall inlets crammed full of boxes.
She went over. It was a struggle to lift the top box without pulling the whole lot on top of her. She felt like Spiderman’s inept younger sister as she tried to climb up, her fingers slipping off the cardboard containers. Eventually, she managed to free one of the boxes and carried it over to the table. It was covered in dust, making her nose itch as she blew away the cobwebs. The label said Prelim Sketches in loopy handwriting. Perfect. Just what she needed.
It was a fascinating process scrutinising an artist’s early sketches. Usually one of two things happened: either the quality of the artist was confirmed, upholding her decision to consider exhibiting the work, or the preliminary drawings highlighted the artist’s weaknesses, in which case she’d politely decline representation. Mostly, she just listened to her gut. A painting either spoke to her, or it didn’t. It was as simple as that.
Throughout her studies she’d shown a natural talent for restoration, but running her own gallery had always been the dream. And s
he was bloody good at it. Her clients trusted her and her artists valued her judgement, which was why she’d been so determined not to let Marcus ruin it for her. His actions had dented her professional reputation, caused financial difficulty and lost her numerous clients. Was it any wonder she’d lost her ability to trust?
The sound of her phone ringing made her jump. The noise bounced off the stone walls, amplifying the sound. It was her sister.
‘Hey, Tash. How are things in Windsor?’
Her sister’s reply was indecipherable.
‘Hang on.’ Lexi headed outside, hoping for a better signal. ‘Can you hear me now?’
‘Where are you, in a dungeon?’
‘Kind of. The castle walls are incredibly thick. And the views! God, Tash, this place is amazing. I wish you could see it. Did you get my photos?’
‘I did. I’m glad you’re having fun.’ Tasha sounded sombre.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You sound flat. You might as well tell me, I’ll only keep asking.’
Tasha sighed. ‘You’ve had a letter from the official receiver’s office. It’s a final demand. Unless the debt is paid within twenty-eight days, it’ll be passed to the High Court enforcement team.’ Pause. ‘In other words, the bailiffs are coming.’
‘Oh, crumbs. That’s not good.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘Does it say anything about them investigating Marcus for forging my signature?’
‘Nope. Just that if you wish to contest liability for the debt you should seek specialist legal advice.’
‘Which I can’t afford.’ She switched ears, holding her hair away from her face as the wind blew. ‘So, in short, I’m stuffed.’
‘Unless you happen to have twenty-seven grand lying about.’
Lexi flinched. ‘As if.’ Her left eye immediately started twitching.
‘The way I see it you have four options. Find a way of raising the money, borrow the money, or let me physically extract the money coin by coin from your lying, cheating scumbag of an ex-husband.’
It was certainly tempting. ‘As much as I’d love Marcus to get his comeuppance, this is my mess, Tasha. Not yours. It’s not fair to drag you into it.’
‘You’re my sister. I’m in whether you like it or not. And let’s face it, when it comes to exacting revenge, I have a much better track record.’
This was true. Nobody messed with Tasha.
Lexi sat down on the stone steps. ‘I can’t borrow the money – my credit rating hasn’t recovered. And I don’t own anything of any real value to sell …’ That was a big, fat lie. But now wasn’t the time to mention the Woman at the Window. ‘Anyway, you said four options. What’s the fourth?’
‘Your last option is to persuade the Wentworths to let you authenticate the Spinelli so you can charge an obscene amount of commission on the sale.’
‘Slight snag.’
‘Which is?’
‘Something happened the other night I didn’t tell you about.’
‘Go on.’
She sucked in a breath. ‘A man snuck into the gallery and tried to take the Spinelli painting.’
It was a second before Tasha exploded. ‘What!?’
‘It’s okay. I stabbed him before he could take anything.’
Deathly silence followed.
In an odd way, she quite enjoyed shocking her sister. It was usually the other way around.
Tasha found her voice. ‘You stabbed him?’
‘It sounds worse than it is. I mean, I know he broke in, but he looked kind of vulnerable, with the most startling blue eyes and gorgeous smile …’ She trailed off when she realised how it sounded. ‘In a mean, brutish kind of way, of course. He was a real hooligan.’ Who was she trying to convince?
‘And did this vulnerable blue-eyed hooligan help himself to anything else while he was there?’
Her cheeks grew hot. ‘Just cake.’
‘Cake?’
Lexi stood up, holding on to the iron railing for support. ‘The point is, he said he was a member of the Wentworth family and that a painting had been sent to the gallery by mistake and they needed it back.’
‘I hope you told him where to go.’
‘I did. But it turns out he was telling the truth. The family don’t want it evaluated.’
‘Then you need to change their minds. Where’s the painting now?’
‘I brought it with me. Don’t worry, I won’t hand it over to the blue-eyed thief. I’ll wait until Louisa returns from hospital and give it to her.’
Another weighted pause.
‘The blue-eyed thief’s in Scotland?’
‘He … err … followed me up here.’
‘What?’
‘It’s okay. He said he wanted to make amends for scaring me the other night. He rescued me off the mountain road when my contact lens broke.’
‘Jesus! And I thought a trip to Scotland might do you good.’
‘Anyway, the problem is, he clearly doesn’t want me looking into the Spinelli.’
‘So don’t involve him. Target the sister. And in the meantime, I’ll try to hunt down Marcus. That man and I need to have words.’
Lexi almost felt sorry for Marcus. ‘Be careful, Tasha. Marcus can be devious.’
‘So can I.’
This was true. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Okay, but stay away from the blue-eyed hooligan. He sounds like trouble.’
Like she didn’t know. ‘Of course I will. I’m not stupid.’
She pocketed her phone and went back inside the south-west wing, Tasha’s words ringing in her ears.
At some point, she was going to have to come clean about the Woman at the Window. Maybe it would be simpler to admit defeat, sell the painting and pay off the official receiver. But, why should she? She hadn’t taken out the insurance policy, or cashed it in. She was innocent.
Except she wasn’t, was she? She might have thought the money was from the sale of her Franz Gerste collection, but it wasn’t. Now she knew the truth there was no getting away from it.
It was time to face reality. Marcus was never going to pay up, so it was up to her to sort this mess out. As soon as she returned to Windsor she’d arrange to sell the Woman at the Window and pay off the official receiver. It was the right thing to do. It was also the only way of avoiding High Court action and stopping the bailiffs. Plus, it would make telling Tasha about her crime a little easier. And she would tell Tasha. Just not yet. She needed to find the right time to confess.
Still, there was nothing she could do while she was in Scotland. She needed to focus on the job in hand and put her money worries to one side.
She eased off the tape sealing the first cardboard box and removed the lid. She was hit by the musty smell of charcoal and dried paint. She lifted out one of the drawings and studied the work, surprised by what she saw.
Far from the sketchings of an early family portrait, this was a copy of Rossetti’s Reverie. It was partially painted using traditional oils, mostly in reds and greys, capturing the essence of Rossetti’s distinctive style. The picture was signed Dazed & Confused, 2007.
For a moment, all she could do was stare. The image was almost as captivating as Rossetti’s original, the colours angry and harsh, the light hitting just the right accents, bringing the image to life. The inspiration for this picture had come from a dark place, the artist capturing something new and violent about the image. It was disturbing, and yet it was painted with exquisite beauty and finesse.
She had no idea who the artist was, but she was sure Eleanor Wentworth hadn’t painted it. Different style, different technique. Perhaps a shared talent for depicting raw human emotion, but other than that, no other similarity.
She unearthed a few more paintings along with chalk and pencil sketchings of works by Chagall, Vermeer and Cézanne. They were all beautifully crafted. There was no question, when she spoke to Louisa about her mother’s collection, she’d be quizzing her about t
his second unknown artist.
Because whoever Dazed & Confused were, they were someone she’d definitely like to meet.
Chapter Eight
Tuesday 5th June
Olly unloaded the paintings he’d acquired from a local junk shop and carried them through the portcullis. The bright June sunshine disappeared behind him like a candle being snuffed out. The grandeur of the thick stone walls and ancient architecture evoked awe from visitors, but for him it was a reminder of all the years he’d spent in a cold, soulless dwelling trying to earn the love of his parents and failing miserably.
Spending the last three days by Louisa’s hospital bedside had given him time to reflect. She’d spent most of the time drifting in and out of sleep, so when he hadn’t been playing cards with Harry or fending off calls from Sophie, he’d used the time to evaluate his life.
He didn’t need a therapist to tell him to stop dwelling on the past and focus on his future. The trouble was, he’d spent so long running from his demons that he had no idea what to do with himself now he no longer had to run. He was twenty-nine years old and he’d never had a proper career. Which was sad, embarrassing and infuriating in equal measure. The only thing he’d ever been passionate about was art. But, thanks to his parents’ fraudulent actions eleven years ago, his plan to pursue an art degree had been scuppered.
But maybe it was time to test the water and discover whether or not he still had any desire to paint. More significantly, whether or not he still had any talent.
Returning to Rubha Castle had proved useful, though. Not only because it enabled him to build bridges with his sisters, but the array of historic artwork on display had also reignited his desire to be creative.
He nudged open the door to the old library, which had been converted into an art studio for his mother. Apart from boarding school, it was the place where he’d spent most of his youth, watching his mother and learning from her techniques. At the time, he’d assumed she used to make him replicate famous paintings because of her love of the classics. She’d make him repeat the work until she was satisfied it was an exact copy, showing mild pleasure with him when he got it right, and severe displeasure when he went ‘rogue’ and gave Mona Lisa a tattoo.
Secret Things and Highland Flings Page 9