by Amy M. Reade
“Beannachd Dia dhuit!”
“Greer,” Seamus said in his lilting voice, “I expect you to join us when Ellie’s back with you!”
“I will,” I promised, then laughed. “Seamus, I’d stopped crying and now you’re making me start again!”
He joined in with hearty laughter, and James beamed at us. “I’ve got to get to work early tomorrow morning, so I’m going to head home. Still have some work to do before I can turn in.” He took my face in his hands, and Seamus made his exit. “You’ve had a long day. I want you to get a good night’s sleep so you’re ready for whatever tomorrow brings. Maybe it won’t bring anything, but maybe it will. We’re close, Greer. I know we are. Just keep your chin up.” He kissed me, making my stomach flutter. Feeling the flutters was better than feeling the twisting nerves. He finally pulled away from me and touched my nose. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I fell asleep quickly that night, feeling warm and hopeful.
* * *
Sylvie was up when I went into the kitchen the next morning. She looked unfocused and confused.
“Sylvie? What’s wrong?”
She turned and looked at me like she didn’t know who I was. Keeping my eyes on her, I went to the kitchen door and called softly for Seamus. He came out of the bedroom, toweling his hair.
“What’s the matter?”
“Sylvie’s acting funny,” I whispered. He set down the towel and went into the kitchen, where Sylvie was standing by the sink, staring out the window.
“How are you feeling, love?” he asked.
She turned to him, her eyes devoid of expression. “My head hurts.”
He took her hand and led her into the living room. “Sit down. Greer, can you get her a cup of tea? I’ll stay in here with her.”
I put on the kettle and stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Seamus and Sylvie. She said nothing, just stared straight ahead. Seamus was stroking the back of her hand. She appeared calm, but without warning she cried out and a look of horror crossed her face.
“Sylvie, what is it?” I asked, reaching her side in a few steps. Seamus tightened his hold on her hand.
She shook her head several times, as if to rid herself of an ugly thought. “Don’t do that, Sylvie,” Seamus said. “You’ll make the concussion worse.”
Her breathing became fast, erratic. I glanced at Seamus, who was staring at her. “Lie down, Sylvie,” I told her. Seamus guided her shoulders onto the sofa.
“I see him! He’s behind the door!” she cried.
I looked up. There was no one in the room other than the three of us. “There’s no one here, Sylvie. It’s just us.”
“No, he’s there!”
I looked again. I was spooked, and I think Seamus was, too.
“Sylvie, close your eyes and try to rest. Getting upset isn’t good for you. Seamus and I will protect you. No one will hurt you. I promise.”
“You couldn’t protect me before,” she moaned.
Her words hit me like a fist. She was right. Seamus must have seen my distress, because he responded for me. “Sylvie, she couldn’t protect you because she wasn’t here. But now she’s here, and I am too, and we’re going to make sure you don’t get hurt again.”
I had a thought. “Sylvie, what did the man look like?”
She shook her head. “Brown hair, I think. A beard. I can’t see his face.”
Seamus motioned for me to take his place on the sofa. He went into the bathroom and brought back the bottle of pills Sylvie had received from hospital. He shook two into his big hand.
“Take these.” He tipped them into her hand and gave her a glass of water from the coffee table. She swallowed them and lay back on the pillow, closing her eyes. Seamus and I sat watching her. It didn’t take her long to fall asleep. We tiptoed back into the kitchen.
“She’s remembering something,” he said.
“It doesn’t sound like there’s much to remember,” I noted, “if she didn’t see the man’s face. Lots of men have brown hair and beards.”
“Maybe she’ll think of something that will help.”
Seamus stayed with Sylvie that afternoon, and I returned to Georgian House. I wanted to tour it a second time, this time focusing on the artwork. I still had a restless feeling that something wasn’t right. I took a brisk walk to Charlotte Square in the sharp afternoon brightness. The trees waved in the wind and the passersby barely looked up, bundled against the cold.
I took my time meandering through Georgian House, even more so than I had the previous day. I took notes on my tablet, preparing for a series of lectures I hoped to give next semester about the artistry of furnishings and textiles. I was in the elegant dining room, examining the paintings up close, when I heard someone sneeze in the next room.
That’s when it hit me.
CHAPTER 19
The paintings in Georgian House were clearly given meticulous care. Both the canvases and their gilt frames were in perfect condition, clean, free of dust, streaks, fingerprints, or visible dirt. That’s how it should be with all artwork. All artists know how important it is for a viewer to look at a piece of art without the distraction of imperfection.
My mind stretched back to the time I was imprisoned in the third-floor bedroom at the end of Candlewick Lane.
I was looking at the McTaggart. I reached out to touch the canvas, to feel the brushstrokes, to close my eyes and see the ridges of paint, the swirls of color. When I drew my hand away I rubbed my fingers together as if I could still feel the paint. They were covered with dust—in fact, Ellie had sneezed from all the dust. I was dismayed. How could the Gramercys mistreat such a masterpiece? Then I thought about seeing the painting more recently, over the mantel in the living room when I went to see Janet and Alistair. The painting had been clean, free of dirt, but the frame—the plain wooden frame—was languishing under a thick layer of dust. And there were fingerprints in the dust. I don’t know why it took me so long to remember.
Why would the painting be clean when the frame was covered in dust and fingerprints?
Because someone had taken out one painting and replaced it with another, not bothering to clean the frame. And it had been done shortly before my recent visit to the Gramercy house, because the fingerprints looked fresh. There had been no dust on them.
The McTaggart was a fake.
Someone had replaced the dirty original with a perfectly clean fake.
I spun around, snapping my laptop shut, and made my way to the front door of Georgian House. I ran from Charlotte Square straight to the police station. When I arrived, I was still panting. I asked to see Officer Dunbar right away. It was important, I told the desk clerk.
It didn’t take her long to come for me. I followed her to her office and before I could sit down, I told her my suspicion that the McTaggart hanging over the mantel was a fake.
“If I’m right, I think this is key to finding Ellie and Neill.”
She looked at me doubtfully. “What makes you think that? And what’s a McTaggart, anyway?”
I had to remind myself that not everyone was well-versed in the history of Scottish impressionists. “McTaggart was a famous Scot painter. Janet and Alistair always bragged about the original McTaggart they had. They never displayed it in any of the public rooms of the house because they were afraid someone would waltz in and steal it. So they kept it in that third-floor bedroom where only the family could enjoy it. Now it’s in the living room. That in itself is surprising, but that’s not the only strange thing. The painting itself is in perfect condition, like new, while the frame that houses it is dusty and dirty. And there are new fingerprints on the frame.”
“It’s quite a stretch,” she said.
“I know, but I’m telling you there’s something about that painting that’s not right.”
She sighed. “All right. I’ll ask the officers who searched the house to go back and question Janet and Alistair about the painting.”
<
br /> “Thank you.” I left the police station feeling hopeful.
I spent the evening online, researching various auctions of McTaggart’s artwork. Some of his paintings had sold for large sums of money. They were usually sold through reputable auction houses, but there were a few articles about private sales of the paintings, too. It was very late when I fell asleep that night, finally feeling like I was doing something to help locate Ellie.
I woke up the following morning to thunder, lightning, and a heavy downpour. The raindrops sliding down our kitchen window gave the neighboring flats a softened appearance, their stone facades smudged gray and dark brown. I thought about Ellie as I always did, wondering what she was doing on this rainy day. I hoped Neill had thought to buy her a thick, warm raincoat and boots. Just the thought of venturing outside chilled me, but I wanted to stop by the police station to gently remind them I was still waiting for news.
I slipped on my heavy raincoat and pulled on my tall Wellies. Grabbing an umbrella from the stand by the front door, I was startled to see the lock already undone. I walked quietly to Sylvie and Seamus’s bedroom door and knocked. Sylvie’s voice answered.
“I’m awake.”
“Is Seamus here?”
“No. Why?” I opened the door a crack.
“Just checking. Uh, I was going to ask him if he needs me to pick up anything for dinner.” I didn’t want to mention that the lock was unlatched and it had given me a fright.
“I’m sure he’ll get whatever he needs. You going out?”
“Yes. Be back in a bit.”
“Should you be going out alone?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
I hurried to the police station, enjoying the sound of the rain falling, but not particularly enjoying the cold. Officer Dunbar was in when I got there, and I waited for her in the vestibule.
“No news,” she said in greeting. My shoulders sank.
“Is there anything I can do to help or speed things along?”
“No.” She used her authoritative police-officer voice. “We always advise people to be patient and let the police do their jobs.”
“I know. I’m trying.”
She softened, smiling at me. “I told you—we’re getting closer. Believe me, you’ll be the first to know the minute we find anything useful.”
“Thanks.” I went back outside, where the rain was coming down harder. I debated whether to spend the day at a museum, gathering research ideas, or going home to read. I settled on the latter.
I picked my way around puddles and rivulets of rainwater coursing through the streets alongside the curbs. At one busy corner I glanced up and was startled to see Seamus standing across the street. An umbrella hid his face, but I recognized him right away. His sheer size and red beard gave him away. I was just about to call out to him to wait for me when another man walked up to him and slapped him on the back.
I didn’t want to interfere, so I crossed the street a short distance from them. The other man didn’t have an umbrella, so I could see his face—swarthy, pockmarked, with a short black moustache and beard. He had an enormous tattoo on his neck, similar to the one Seamus had. He kept wiping rain from his eyes as he talked to Seamus. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he expected trouble from any direction at any moment. He made me nervous.
I wondered briefly if the man knew Seamus from prison. Maybe those tattoos were a sort of prison fraternity symbol. I had heard about such things in books and on television crime shows. I chided myself for thinking such prejudicial thoughts about Seamus and his acquaintance.
I stood under the eaves of a pub nearby and watched them. I didn’t like what I saw.
Seamus kept his face hidden under the umbrella while the other man pulled something out of his coat pocket, something wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. I pulled my hat lower over my forehead so neither man would recognize me if either turned in my direction.
It looked like the men were arguing. I couldn’t hear their voices over the noise from the rain and the traffic, but their bodies tensed, they leaned into each other, and they both gesticulated vehemently.
What was going on?
I didn’t want to see any more. My desire to know what was happening battled with my desire to get away from the street corner, but I couldn’t risk being seen by Seamus and his mysterious companion. I hastened away and walked home using lesser-traveled side streets so I wouldn’t run into Seamus if he decided to go back to the flat, too.
When I finally got home, I was soaked to the skin, despite my rain gear. When I took off my coat, water poured onto the floor. Sylvie was lying on the couch. She rubbed her eyes.
“Sorry if I woke you,” I said.
“That’s all right,” she said with a yawn. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”
I sat down across from her. “Why not? Has your head been hurting?”
“Well, yes. A bit. And Seamus has been so restless. He fidgets about and it’s hard for me to get a good rest.”
“Is everything all right with him?”
She lifted her shoulders and let them fall again with a sigh. “He hasn’t said anything is wrong. He acts normally enough during the day. It’s just at night he can’t seem to sleep.”
I wondered if his restlessness had anything to do with the meeting I had seen.
Thunder shook the flat, and I looked at Sylvie with concern. “Does the thunder bother you?”
She chuckled. “Greer, you seem to think that noise will break me in half. It’s okay. The thunder doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I rather like it. I feel like something is coming to life, even if I can’t yet. I wonder how much longer I’ll be stuck on this couch, in this flat, not reading or looking at the box or being on the phone or on the computer. I’m so bored.”
“You can talk on the phone. You just can’t text.”
She picked up the phone from the floor next to her. “I’ll call Seamus. Maybe he’ll paint this afternoon. I like to watch him paint and that shouldn’t bother my doctor at all.” She rolled her eyes.
Seamus came crashing through the front door, water dripping from his beard and his clothes. He snarled as his fingers slipped as he tried to undo his coat. The plastic bag was nowhere in sight.
“What’s the matter?” Sylvie asked.
“Och, nothing.” He stormed into the bedroom.
Sylvie turned to me and made a face. “Wonder what’s gotten into him.”
“Should you go see?”
“No. He gets like this sometimes. He’ll get over it, but until then he needs time to himself. He’ll be his cheerful self before too long.”
She closed her eyes and folded her hands over her chest. I hoped she would be able to get some sleep. I went to my room and tried reading a book, but all I could think about was Seamus.
Should I tell him I saw him on the street? Should I ask who he was talking to? No, I decided. It’s none of my business.
But it may be Sylvie’s business, and if he causes her stress, that’s not good for her.
I didn’t know what to do, so I called James. Just hearing his voice calmed my nerves and I decided to wait to approach Seamus. James still didn’t know Seamus’s secret, as far as I knew, so I didn’t want to mention my suspicions to him. He invited me to a cocktail party at the museum later that evening and I accepted. It seemed wrong somehow to be going to parties with Ellie still missing, but I supposed it was better to be with other people than to sit in my flat and worry myself sick.
That evening I skipped dinner with Sylvie and Seamus and dressed up in a black dress. I hired a car to take me to the Artists’ Museum, where James was waiting for me, looking dandy as usual in a suit and bow tie. He offered me his arm, and we went into the gallery together for drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
There was already a large group of people in the gallery, chatting quietly together in small groups. James introduced me to several of his co-workers, and they were intrigued
by my job as an art history professor. I felt at home among them discussing art and architecture, and the time sped by quickly.
I was stuck talking to a dreadful man from a museum in Glasgow when James was called away. The man was trying to decide which canapé to take from the tray of hors d’oeuvres. I shuddered, making a mental note to stay away from the canapés.
The man insisted on telling me his life story, pausing only once or twice to wipe some kind of sauce from his tie. James stood across the room, half a head taller than anyone around him. He glanced up and I caught his eye. He winked at me and gave me a broad smile. I felt a flutter of something intense. Was it love? I walked over to join him, grateful for an excuse to leave the boorish man muttering to himself.
James held my hand as we made the rounds to other colleagues at the party. I felt a wee bit heady from a combination of the wine, the music, and the twinkling lights. And for a brief time, a very brief time, I was able to feel a happiness I hadn’t felt since Ellie disappeared. I had felt hope, but not happiness. Then, almost immediately, pangs of guilt settled in my mind and my heart. I glanced at James. He had seen the change come over my face.
“What’s the matter?” he whispered, leaning close to my ear.
I squeezed his hand harder. “I was just thinking about something.”
“Whatever it was, it went from good to bad very quickly.”
“You’re right,” I said with a smile. “Don’t worry about it. We can talk later when we’re alone.”
“I’m ready to leave anytime you are,” he said. We retrieved our coats from his office and left by a back door to avoid running into more people on our way out. We went to our now-favorite pub and sat in a booth in the back. We each ordered a dram and when the waiter left, James sat back and let out a sigh.
“Now tell me what you were thinking back at the party.”
I was silent for a moment. How did I tell him how I was feeling? I figured the best way to say it was to just plow through it and hope he understood and was feeling the same way.