Sins of the Father (Bloody Marytown Book 1)

by Mansell, Lucie J.

  ‘Enchanting, isn’t it?’ a deep, masculine voice spoke from somewhere over Martha’s shoulder, causing her to startle. Spinning around, almost on instinct, she prepared to confront the flagrant intruder but momentarily found herself dumbstruck.

  The man behind her was exceedingly handsome, wearing smart charcoal trousers and a matching fitted waistcoat over a pressed white shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. The sleeves were pushed up a pair of strong, tanned forearms and the open collar revealed a hint of a solid chest which sported stubble that was as dark as the short crop of wavy hair atop his head. Similar stubble decorated a defined jaw, masking a slight dimple in his chin. His full lips curled into a smile that seemed genuine but felt curiously wicked at the same time, matching the hint of darkness in his smoky grey eyes. He spoke softly, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ Martha quickly retorted, frowning deeply.

  The man appeared to stifle a small, masculine chuckle of amusement at her expense, an act that was, she supposed, a pleasantry but annoyed the hell out of her. Holding her narrowed stare for a moment longer than was probably necessary, he said, ‘I apologise.’

  With a disinterested shrug, she turned her back on him and returned her attention to the display case that she had been browsing. She did not want to be rude but this was not the time for polite, unsolicited conversation with complete strangers. No matter how good-looking they might be. The man didn’t seem perturbed. Looking past her, he also gazed into the glass cabinet and commented, ‘It’s so easy, getting lost in these exhibits. At least, I often find myself inexplicably drawn to them. Small fragments of history, each piece holds more memories than any of us mere mortals could possibly uncover. Incredible…’ He glanced at her side on. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘I think that it is just stuff. Old and some of it very pretty. But stuff nonetheless.’

  He raised an eyebrow, giving her cynicism a consideration that was part doubtful, part intrigued. He pressed on, seemingly deciding to pursue the uninvited conversation, ‘Well, all of the pretty, old stuff that you can see on display in this particular room were donated to the gallery from the Blackthorn Private Collection. It represents the personal taste of the man who founded Marytown and contains personal items that once belonged to him and his family.’

  Martha did not say anything. In spite of herself, she found her eyes lingering over the old, pretty things that were on show. It was remarkable to think that they had once been utilised by people in their everyday lives, weird to think that they were, some two-hundred years later, considered antique. In her mind, it was similar to the somewhat amusing image of display cases full of hairdryers and flat-screen televisions in another two hundred years. Small fragments of history, donated to posterity from a private billionaires collection. Ooh, incredible.

  ‘There are similar rooms to this one along both the east and west wings,’ the man carried on talking. ‘All exhibiting more pieces from the Blackthorn Collection. Edward Blackthorn, as well as being a renowned industrialist and philanthropist, was quite the collector. He absolutely adored British art, having one of the greatest collections of Wedgwood earthenware in the world, but he was also fascinated by French Revolutionary art, the sculptures of the Romans and the ancient Greeks. And he was not simply a collector. The room adjacent to this one boasts original artwork created by Edward himself and in collaboration with his mother, Louisa Stanley.’

  Martha politely nodded, silently urging him to continue though she was unsure why. As the daughter of an art dealer, none of what she was being told was news to her but hearing it all over again, whilst stood surrounded by the physical remnants being marvelled over, she couldn’t help but feel an allure that had long escaped her. None of this mattered. She certainly hadn’t visited the gallery to browse. However, it was hard not be drawn in.

  ‘By the time of his death,’ the stranger continued, ‘Edward Blackthorn’s collection had become infamous, boasting over 25,000 pieces from all over the world. A lot of it was snapped up by other art lovers and it was very difficult to track it down…’ He let out a small sigh of what sounded like despondency. ‘There are some pieces that have been lost or perhaps even damaged over time but it has been a personal mission of the gallery to restore the collection to its former glory, under one roof, right back in its rightful home. I think it’s getting there.’

  Again, Martha shrugged, though this time it was not as apathetic.

  ‘Right.’ The man nodded to himself, lips somewhat pursed. ‘I forgot that it is all simply old, yet occasionally very pretty, stuff to you.’

  Martha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you mocking me?’

  ‘Mocking, no,’ he asserted with a small shake of the head. ‘I am somewhat used to conversing with people who have a limited knowledge when it comes to the art that they are browsing. I do not think that you are as ignorant as you would have me believe though.’

  ‘I don’t think I care what you believe.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose that you do,’ he retorted, folding his arms across his chest, a gesture that any body language expert might have considered defensive only it did not match the subtle hint of defiance in his dark eyes. ‘The gallery is closing shortly. Is there anything else you would like to express no other discerning opinion about before it does?’

  Momentarily taken aback, she asked, ‘You work here?’

  ‘You could say that.’ He grinned. ‘I am the curator and owner. The gallery is mine.’

  Martha frowned, thinking back to her enforced childhood visits. ‘What happened to Mr. Hesketh, the previous owner?’

  ‘He retired six years ago. I purchased the gallery from him and have been running it ever since.’ He cocked his head slightly to the side, as if curious. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Not really.’

  The curator stared at her for a long moment, again a little longer than was comfortable. Martha understood the silence, an opening offering her to expand upon her short, perfunctory answers. Of course, she wouldn’t. It was no longer in her nature to share and she had no intentions of opening up to a complete stranger, no matter how intently his charcoal eyes held her at her clear and deliberate rebuttal. Especially now. The most he was likely to get was a tirade of annoyed expletives that, so far, he had done nothing to deserve.

  Thankfully she was quickly granted a reprieve from the impasse. The young greeter that had welcomed her into the building was back, waiting in the doorway. And he wasn’t alone.

  ‘Amanda.’

  The young woman who stood, only yards away, was a decade older than the little girl that Martha remembered but there was no mistaking her identity. As blonde as her estranged sibling was dark, Amanda had always been the golden girl and it was evident that she had blossomed into a daughter that both of their parents would have been proud of. Her hair was pulled into a loose, high ponytail that was long enough to curl in soft waves over her shoulder with a long, side-sweeping fringe. Her eyes, the same shape and shade of their mother’s, were brimming with emotion that she was barely able to keep contained, lips were pursed into a tight line.

  Once again, Martha did not know what to say. She had been telling herself that once she could lay eyes upon her little sister, ensure that she was alright, then she would be able to leave and return to the life that she had made, far away from Marytown. But then she had returned, learned of the tragedy that had befallen her family, seen her mother. Now she was dumbstruck, the bonds that she had tried so hard to forget holding her in place as if there were superglue on the soles of her feet and the hard lump within her throat was a prison, trapping everything she should say.

  It was the man beside her that broke the silence, ‘You know this woman, Amanda?’

  The sound of his voice broke the illusion that had gripped Martha to her core. She turned her head towards him, noted the confusion on his handsome brow. This man was a stranger. She had never met him before this night and he had interrupted her, mocked her and now
interjected himself into her private affairs. For a flash moment, she impulsively despised him. She wished that he would saunter off to whatever corner of his fancy gallery that he had emerged from and leave her and her sister the hell alone.

  It was irrational, of course. The tenderness in his dark eyes as he gazed across the blue exhibition room at Amanda implied that he genuinely cared for the young artist in his employ and he was astute enough to grasp that this reunion was not only unplanned but awkward, deeply and personally. He asked the question because he cared, not because he was an encroaching, inconsiderate bastard. At least, not as far as she was aware.

  ‘She’s my sister,’ Amanda replied, a tenderness in her voice.

  The suave gallery owner only just managed to mask the surprise in his eyes as he turned his head to look between them, once, twice and then once again. Martha wondered if he was scanning for similarities. There weren’t many of them. Not anymore. Whatever he was doing or thinking, he set it aside and nodded compassionately, asking his young artist, ‘Is there anything I can get for either of you?’

  Martha cast her eyes back upon her younger sister, who was still standing there in the open doorway beside her even more awkwardly composed male co-worker. It was clear by the way that her arms were nervously hanging by her sides that she too was unsure of what she was supposed to do. There was an energy twitching beneath her surface. Happiness. Excitement. It was there, mixed in with the surprise and whatever other emotions were conflicting her in that moment. Martha tried her best not to feel them as if they were her own but she couldn’t help it. The whole situation was beyond tense and it was not getting any easier.

  ‘I think that we need to talk,’ Martha spoke directly to her sister.

  Amanda smiled softly, nodded immediately. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘In private.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Chapter 5

  The studio in which Amanda worked was located in the basement level of the Marytown Art Gallery, spacious and open, crammed fit to burst with canvasses and supplies. Some of the tall, wide frames were swathed in huge dust sheets, hiding the canvas beneath while others lay bare, yet to be decorated. The few artworks that were on open display were so breathtaking that Martha stopped and stared, mouth slightly open as she took them in. One in particular caught her eye; a large landscape of a surreal autumnal hillside, with luscious fields of fading yellow grass in the background. A bare tree stood to the right hand side of the vista, stretching branches like arms across to the other trees that were sparsely adorned with red and orange leaves as if it craved their vitality. Around the tree were pushes of pink, white and green. Beautiful.

  ‘These are yours?’ Martha asked her younger blonde sister, who had moved nervously into the workspace. She nodded in response, biting her lower lip as if there was a lot hinging upon the response. ‘They’re beautiful. You’re very talented.’

  ‘That one was meant to be a gift for… someone. I haven’t finished it.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll love it.’

  Amanda glanced down at her feet, then wrapped her slender arms around her body. In her form-fitting, paint-splattered t-shirt and faded, ripped jeans, she looked much younger than her nineteen years. Young and very vulnerable. Martha wished that there was something that she could do or say that could make it better but yet again she was at a loss. She didn’t want to have to keep trying to make small talk but she needed to say something, fill the void.

  ‘Amanda…’ She started, not really knowing how to continue, let alone finish.

  ‘I’m glad that you came. I was really hoping that you would.’

  ‘Of course I came.’

  ‘I hoped so,’ she repeated. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would… get my message. Mum always said that if I needed you and I wished really hard for it that you would hear me and if you could, you would come back. I wished for it so hard some times. Many times. I… I needed you.’

  Martha did not know what to say to that, the hard lump of regret forming in her throat, then settling heavy in her stomach when she swallowed it down. If there was anybody that she wished she could open up to, explain to, it was Amanda but it was impossible to put into words all that she had experienced since they had last shared a room. Thirteen years. Amanda had been just a child, barely in school and definitely still in pigtails. Now she was independent, creative and going through hell. There were no placations that could possibly be enough.

  Instead, she assured, ‘I’m here now.’

  As if she had been waiting for an opening, Amanda launched herself across the cluttered studio and almost knocked her older sibling off her feet in a hug that was as unexpected as it was earnest. The abrupt physical contact was shocking and lasted for far too long, Martha could not for the life of her think of how she was supposed react. It was unnerving.

  Seemingly sensing her discomfort, Amanda stepped back sheepishly. As she raised her eyes to look upon her sister’s face, she hesitated as if noticing something that surprised her.

  ‘What?’ Martha asked, nervously.

  ‘You look just like Mum. I mean, how she used to look. When she was young.’

  She laughed softly, ‘I’ve been told that.’

  ‘Really?’ Amanda raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘By who?’

  ‘I… Um…’ Martha hesitated, sighed heavily. ‘I wish I knew how to answer that. How to explain so many things to you about my life since I… left here.’

  ‘It’s alright.’

  No, it wasn’t but Martha was not sure how she could make it right without opening up a vortex of complication that she would never be able to again close. She smiled softly. Then took a deep breath in, then back out. ‘I went home. Spoke to Esther… I saw Mum.’

  Amanda frowned deeply. It did not suit her soft delicate features and Martha felt like an evil witch for dropping in unannounced and intruding upon her, in what was undoubtedly her place of sanctuary, where she could temporarily get away from the tragedy that had befallen her at home. While the heartache should have been as deeply personal for Martha herself, she simply had not been there. The burden of grief had been thrust upon the shoulders of her sibling and it was so very unfair. She should have been enjoying the independence that her early adulthood granted her and it had been snatched cruelly away. Something that Martha could empathise with.

  ‘I’m sorry about what’s happened,’ she said earnestly though she still could not muster up any personal grief for the man who had died. It was the people left behind that concerned her, for it was them that carried the hardship and their lives that went on, forever changed.

  The tears that had been threatening to spring from Amanda’s eyes since they reunited up in the main gallery spilled over, tumbling unfettered down her cheeks. That got Martha, right in the gut. In spite of herself, she reached forward and embraced her sister, pulling her in close. As sobs racked the girl’s small, feminine frame, she suspected that they had been some time coming, buried within so that she could handle the strain that had befallen her. She had been waiting for a chance to break down and while so much about the circumstances that Martha had returned to made her flounder, she felt like this was something she could do. Be stoic. Be a rock.

  Martha embraced her sister until the crying eased. She did not know how long they stood there for but time was irrelevant. Amanda so desperately needed to stop being strong, at least for a while. She simply focused upon keeping her own emotions locked down, so that she could stay in control of the sensitivity of her own internal makeup. Raw emotions were tough to be around, even though she had worked so very hard to bolster her empathic defences. She did not need to feel Amanda’s pain when it was so visible, when it cut so very deep. She wanted to help and would do whatever it took to ease her sibling’s angst but she needed to protect herself too. It was basic survival and if she had become adept at anything it was making it through the worst circumstances and most dangerous situations intact.

  She had known that she was going to nee
d all of her strengths if she was going to survive here. And that was before Amanda’s next, emotionally murmured, words registered.

  ‘He didn’t just die. He was murdered.’

  Martha pulled back enough to look her sister in the tear-streaked face, searching for… something. Though she was clearly still trapped in the early stages of her grief there seemed to be no indications that she was in denial. She truly believed what she had said.

  ‘Esther didn’t mention that,’ Martha said. ‘She told me that he fell.’

  Amanda shook his head, adamant. ‘He didn’t. They got it wrong.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The police.’

  Martha raised an eyebrow. ‘The police are still involved?’

  ‘No,’ her sister said, equal parts of sadness and frustration in her voice. ‘They ruled it as accidental, even though there were some thoughts that he did it deliberately. But it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t an accident. He was killed, Martha.’

  ‘Suicide was considered?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘One of the detectives thought that he jumped.’ Amanda all but rolled her eyes. ‘There was some debate over it. But they didn’t know him. He would never do that.’

  ‘No, I doubt that too.’

  ‘He was…’ Her narrow shoulders slumped. ‘Look, I don’t really remember what it was like when you were still here. There are some things, memories that I have but you were a lot older. And different. We were never that close.’

  ‘No, we were,’ Martha disagreed. ‘You were just too young to remember.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Amanda shrugged, somewhat stubbornly. ‘The point that I was trying to make was that even though I was little, I know that the two of you didn’t get along. I’m not surprised that you don’t seem to be upset that he’s gone. But he was our father and he did what he could for us. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened.’