by Cathy Ace
‘I’m working on a case, dear.’
‘A case that concerns dead women?’ Now he was alarmed.
‘Not exactly. It’s art.’
‘Mother, explain yourself.’ Henry was feeling decidedly cross.
‘My dear boy, I don’t feel the necessity to explain myself to you. I am working on a case. It is a professional matter. That’s all you need to know. The woman in question is dead.’
‘Dead? Dead and there’s blood?’ Henry panicked. ‘Shouldn’t you telephone the police?’
He heard his mother sigh. ‘My dear child, you shouldn’t worry so. Now why did you telephone me? I assume you had a reason?’
Henry was torn; he needed his mother’s help with Nurse Thomas, but also felt he should try to find out what his mother was mixed up in. Making a quick decision he said, ‘Nurse Thomas has resigned. I wondered if you might be able to talk to her with a view to getting her to change her mind.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line, then he heard his mother talking to someone while she had what he assumed was her hand over the mouthpiece.
‘Henry?’
‘Mother.’
‘Mavis and I will come to the hall in Mavis’s car. I don’t want to have to walk among the visitors. I’ll go directly to Clementine’s apartments. I shall meet you there in thirty minutes.’ His mother hung up.
Henry collapsed onto the chair beside the desk. His watch told him it was eleven thirty. He couldn’t believe it was still morning.
EIGHT
Sunday 22nd June
Christine Wilson-Smythe was enjoying being driven by Alexander Bright through south London while she listened to Mavis on the telephone, bringing her up to date with their investigation. Hanging up she explained to her companion, ‘Well that’s a bit of a puzzle. Carol can’t find anything at all about a woman named Daisy Dickens. It seems she doesn’t exist.’
‘Is that the name on those books Carol saw?’
‘Yes. And we know there was at least one such real person, at one time, because Althea knew a Daisy Dickens.’
‘Carol’s usually pretty good at that sort of thing, isn’t she?’
‘Absolutely. I’m sure if there’s anything to find, she’ll manage it. Meanwhile, here’s hoping Fliss can help.’
‘This is the contact you’ve conjured up?’
‘Yes, we were at school together. She lives out in Richmond now, which is why I said we’d eat with her at the White Cross, on the river.’
Alexander beamed. ‘I haven’t been there for a couple of years. As I recall, it’s sometimes in the river, not just beside it; it’s the one that floods with the high tides, right?’ Christine agreed. ‘I used to watch a lot of rugby there. It’s so close to Twickenham, you get the real atmosphere. Good pub grub. Just what I fancy.’
‘I’m a bit peckish too,’ said Christine with a grin that lit up her face.
‘And Fliss is …?’
‘Exceptionally knowledgeable about art. Always was, even at school.’
‘This would be the sinfully expensive public school every young woman of good breeding attends down near the coast?’
‘But of course.’ Christine giggled.
‘The old school tie working for the girls, not the boys this time.’
‘We used to wrap our ties around our waists to hold up our skirts which we felt were far too long to be alluring to the local lads. So, yes, those ties could tell some tales, and I see nothing wrong with using good contacts.’
‘No argument from me,’ agreed Alexander as he pressed the accelerator as much as he dared.
Parking was a nightmare, with the result the couple walked into the little walled beer garden just in time to see a tall, willowy blonde nab the last table.
‘Fliss,’ called Christine and the blonde’s head spun round. The woman spotted Christine, that much was clear, but she stared round-eyed at Alexander, then smiled broadly. Or was it wickedly?
‘Alex!’ called Fliss.
Christine didn’t like the feeling in the pit of her stomach when she saw her old schoolfriend’s arm curl around Alexander’s shoulder as she kissed him on the cheek.
Alexander pulled back from the woman and turned to face Christine who’d managed to slap a smile on her face just in time. ‘I was about to say Felicity Hathaway, meet Alexander Bright, but it seems you’re already past requiring introductions.’ She hoped she’d managed to keep any annoyance from creeping into her voice.
Fliss hugged her old chum and smiled. ‘Alex and I met at a few parties given by the Thompson twins, didn’t we Alex? I haven’t seen you since last year’s boat race. Been keeping well?’ Christine noticed how Fliss’s eyes sparkled when she spoke to Alexander, and she further noted that Alexander’s latte-toned skin seemed unusually pink.
Trying to get away from small talk and on with the business at hand, Christine showed Fliss the photocopies she wanted her to examine. She spread a few of them on the small table, and watched as Fliss leafed through the sheets.
‘Will you be eating?’ A strong Irish brogue, a head of copper hair, and more freckles than one would have thought it possible to fit on the human body, accompanied the arrival of ‘Siobhan, Server,’ as her badge announced.
Alexander deferred to Fliss who replied, ‘Fizzy water – ice, no fruit – the fish of the day, no starches, green salad, no dressing,’ without taking her eyes off the photocopies of the miniatures.
Christine looked up at the server, flashed her widest smile and asked in her natural Irish accent, ‘What would be your pie of the day today then?’
The server smiled wickedly. ‘It’s our Guinness and steak pie with our famous giant chips on the side. Guinness gravy in a boat too, if you want.’
Christine licked her lips. ‘Is the gravy good?’
The girl leaned further forward. ‘Got a good lot of Guinness in it, if that’s what you mean. Will you have that and a pint to go with it?’
‘How’s the black stuff?’
The girl winked. ‘They do a good job of it here, so they do. Good pipes. I drink it meself. Not from the cold tap, though.’
‘Me neither. So the pie with chips and gravy for me, and a warm pint, please, Siobhan.’
Alexander added, ‘I’ll have the pie and all the trimmings too, but a half of Youngs’ IPA for me, thanks.’
With the matter of refreshments sorted out, the trio returned to the photocopies.
Fliss began, ‘These drawings were made by a hand experienced in creating miniatures.’
‘Does the name Daisy Dickens mean anything in the art world?’ asked Christine, wondering if a connection might emerge.
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Fliss shaking her head. She looked across the table at Christine, with warmth in her eyes. ‘I know a lot, but I don’t know everything. However, I think I can point you in the right direction regarding these pieces.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Christine, allowing her voice to relax a little. ‘Does that mean this style, this technique, is ringing bells?’
Fliss sat upright – as well as she could on the backless stool – and wrinkled her forehead. She looked heavenward and she chewed her lip. ‘I can’t be sure, but I think they might be by Lizzie Llewellyn.’
‘If they are by her, would they be valuable?’ asked Christine. Fliss’s steely expression encouraged her to add, ‘I’m acting on behalf of a client, and they’d like to know.’
Fliss replied, ‘First of all, I can’t say if they are in fact by the hand of Lizzie Llewellyn. They aren’t signed, as you can see, and I’m not even looking at originals here. But what I can do is suggest a line for further enquiry.’ She fiddled with her phone. ‘I’ve texted you the details of a chap with a gallery just off Bond Street. Jeremy Edgerton. He’s your best bet. Knows Llewellyn’s work pretty well. Put together a small exhibition of her work about three years ago. Thing is, even he’d be unlikely to say what he thinks by just looking at photocopies. He’d want to see the originals.’
‘They were discovered in some books with this Daisy Dickens’ name in them,’ said Christine.
‘Well maybe following that lead would help too. The provenance can be critical in the attribution of unsigned pieces.’
‘So I understand.’
‘Lizzie was from Swansea originally, studied in London, worked in France and Italy, then moved back to the Welsh coast where she lived with her brother for a time, before heading back to London again. Maybe she met this Daisy Dickens somewhere on her travels,’ suggested Fliss.
‘A Daisy Dickens one of my colleagues once knew was Welsh, and the drawings were in books that have photographs of Swansea through the ages in them, but that’s all we know at the moment,’ replied Christine glumly. Perking up she added, ‘But you’ve given me a lead for my enquiries, so thanks for that. I wonder if the gallery will be open on a Sunday. I’ll at least give him a ring and do what I can to arrange a meeting as soon as possible.’ She raised her head just as Siobhan arrived with one small, and two massive platters of food, and the copies had to be placed back into their folder to allow for luncheon to be eaten.
Staring at the two plates bearing puff-pastry-topped pies Alexander rolled his eyes. ‘I think the fish might have been a better choice.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Christine, noticing the slightly smug look on Fliss’s face, ‘this’ll keep us going for the rest of the day – until we have supper, in fact.’ She allowed herself to stare deeply into Alexander’s eyes as she made her implied point. Fliss stabbed at her fish with unnecessary vigor.
NINE
Carol woke from her nap before her infant son did, and took the chance to Skype with her absent husband. Relieved that his mother was making good progress – to the point she was insisting he returned to Anwen-by-Wye sooner than originally planned – Carol sat down at her desk, the baby monitor at her elbow, a more cheerful person than she’d been half an hour earlier.
Bunty strolled in from the kitchen, flicked her tail a few times, then jumped up and curled herself into a ball on the newspaper Carol had discarded at the far side of her desk. Poor Bunty, thought Carol, knowing better than to pet her now-settled calico cat. She was pleased her companion of almost a decade had adapted to Albert’s arrival so well, but was concerned that she still largely avoided him, preferring to spend more time than usual in the kitchen, and less and less at Carol’s side when Albert was in her lap – Bunty’s old haunt.
Carol felt she’d had an unproductive day, particularly annoyed she couldn’t locate any records, anywhere, for a Daisy Dickens, and was wondering what she could do next. A text from Mavis told her she’d have a busy time ahead, because Bryn Jenkins had given the go-ahead for the WISE women to set up a surveillance operation at his shop.
Carol attacked her keyboard and, despite the fact it was a Sunday, within a couple of hours she’d secured the loan of enough expensive equipment to keep watch on the Crown Jewels. She relayed her news to Mavis via text, who phoned her a few moments later.
‘Do you think this’ll be practical?’ were Mavis’s first words.
Carol knew what she meant. ‘It’s a lot of equipment, but the advantage is it’s all small, light, wireless and a doddle to put in place. Those are its selling points, and that’s what the manufacturer is looking for us to test in action. They’re going to send installers too, and it’ll all come in well within budget. It’s almost free. We just need Bryn to allow us onto his premises for one night to set it all up. While they are there doing that, I’ll monitor the output here, make sure everything’s in order – and then we’re off.’
Carol could sense Mavis’s apprehension at the other end of the line. ‘It all sounds too good to be true, which, I fear—’
‘Usually means it is. I know. But it’s not. There’s a chance the system won’t live up to the sales pitch, of course, but if it doesn’t work, we’ll know within a couple of days and we can go back to doing it the old-fashioned way.’
Mavis still hesitated. ‘Will you phone Bryn to make the arrangements?’
‘I’ll do it now. I’ll text you. Because they’re in the security business the company I’m talking to operates 24/7. I’ll see if we can get it done tonight.’
‘Aye, well, go on with you then. Let’s give it a go. But make sure it’s all in writing, and that everything is properly dealt with in terms of liabilities for damage and so forth. We don’t want to end up with anyone chasing us down because something costing thousands of pounds has been knocked about on site.’
Carol tried hard to keep the chuckle out of her voice when she replied, ‘I’ve got all the paperwork here. And I’ve been through it with a fine-tooth comb. You won’t have to sell your lovely Mini to pay for any damages, Mavis.’
‘Ach!’ said Mavis, then she was gone.
Carol got on with her tasks, and was finished by the time Albert woke. It was all arranged: the installers would arrive at Crooks & Cooks at closing time that day, and she’d be ready to begin her observation when the shop opened on Monday morning.
TEN
Monday 23rd June
Alexander drove along the narrow, winding lanes of the Gower peninsular with great caution. Tall hedges blocked any useful views of the road ahead and on several occasions he was taken by surprise when a vehicle raced toward him on a tight corner.
Christine recognized he was out of his element, and wished she was behind the wheel; she’d learned to drive at an illegally tender age in the lanes of rural Ireland, and would have felt much more confident in their current circumstances than the Londoner did. After what seemed like hours, they found the turning that promised to lead them to the Llewellyn cottage; a small, rather amateurish sign – hanging onto its post by one nail – announced its location. The Aston didn’t enjoy the bumpy climb up the hillside, but they finally stepped out of the car in front of a whitewashed stone building with black-painted woodwork trim. They were treated to a magnificent view down to Oxwich Bay, a wonder of nature if ever there was one, with its arcing sandy beach and a picturesque church perched on its prominent headland.
‘Reminds me of parts of the coast back home, so it does,’ said Christine quietly.
‘Nothing like Brixton,’ replied Alexander. ‘Thank goodness.’
A sign pronounced the place was OPEN, so the couple went in. As they entered, a narrow staircase as steep as a ladder rose before them. To the left was a sitting room, to the right, a kitchen.
‘I’m in here,’ called a voice from the kitchen, so Christine stuck her head into the room. A massive fireplace kitted out with a blackened iron hearth, boasting two oven fronts, was set up with a kettle and a fake pig on a spit above what would have been an open fire. A small, white-haired woman sat in the shadows at the back of the room. As the couple entered she raised herself off the spindle-backed wooden chair upon which she was seated and beckoned them to the rectangular scrubbed-oak table. ‘There’s lovely to see someone on such a pretty afternoon. Thought everyone would be down the bays on a day like this, I did. But no, see, some have the sense to come and enjoy art instead of all that sand. I’m Gwen Llewellyn. Welcome to the place where my children created artworks of such beauty they shame Nature herself. Have a sit down by here, will you?’
Christine and Alexander took the seats she indicated. The cottage was cool, and there was a hint of fresh baking in the air. Christine felt suddenly hungry. Taking charge, she made the introductions and explained why they were there. When she’d finished telling the elderly woman about the miniatures and what they’d been told in London by the expert Fliss had suggested they contact, who’d grudgingly agreed to meet with Christine the previous evening, the three of them sat quietly for a moment.
Eventually the woman said, ‘Have you got them with you then? Let’s have a look.’
Christine was pleased the woman wanted to get right to it, but she wasn’t prepared for her almost immediate reaction when she laid the photocopies on the tabletop; Gwen Llewellyn began to cry. Tears r
olled down her wrinkled cheeks; she didn’t sob at all, it just looked as though someone had turned on a tap in her eyes.
Gwen pulled a tissue from a pocket somewhere in her voluminous floral skirt and mopped at her face. She turned the sheets with what Christine judged to be reverence. Other than her silent tears, there were no reactions but awe and concentration for at least five minutes.
Finally looking across the table at the couple Gwen said, ‘These are lovely, aren’t they?’
‘Are they by Lizzie?’ asked Christine, convinced the woman’s reaction meant they were.
Gwen looked at the pair with teary eyes. ‘I’m as sure as I can be. Yes, these are my daughter’s work. Well, well. And you say these just showed up in a book at a shop in Hay?’ Christine nodded. ‘All I can say is the person who gave them away must have been blind – because anyone can see how beautiful they are – and stupid, because they’ll be worth a good few bob, these will.’
Christine’s excitement rose. ‘How can you be so sure they are by your late daughter?’
Gwen’s face creased into a smile. ‘I understand. I’m an old woman and maybe a bit sentimental about the work of my own children, but I know it as well as I know the lines on the face I see in the mirror, I do. I wasn’t one of those parents who constantly fuss over their children, but I was so proud of what they both did I made sure I saw everything I could of their work.’
Feeling she had to acknowledge the impact of what she was asking the woman to do, Christine leaned forward and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry this is so upsetting for you, Mrs Llewellyn, but I’d be pleased to hear anything you can tell me about your daughter’s work. There might be something that could place these somewhere in her background, so we could be more sure they were created by her.’
Gwen replied, ‘Don’t mind my tears. Can’t stop them. Can’t help them. Every day I cry. Bound to. You’d think, being here where they used to live with rooms full of their work in the gallery upstairs, I’d get used to the idea that she’s gone forever, and he’s in prison. That’s why I did it – opened up the cottage. I thought it would help, but it seems it doesn’t.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘This used to be such a happy place. A lot of people don’t know that Lizzie and Nathaniel used to get on like a house on fire. None of that came up at the trial, see. All they talked about in the court was how they hated each other. But it wasn’t always like that. They shared this place in the early days, right after Lizzie came back from France. Lived and worked together they did, back then. That was the time when his stuff got bigger and hers got smaller. Funny that. But they said it meant they weren’t competing with each other, see? Then Nathaniel won that big competition, and he started to get lots of money for his jobs, and poor Lizzie? Well, miniatures aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but she said she wanted to use them to do something no one had done with them before – show modern life.’