by Nina Jon
“Don’t allow the people in this room to bully you into leaving,” she said. “The whole town isn’t represented by those in this room. Organise a campaign, get people on your side.”
Jane had no doubt she would have continued, had someone else not shouted out, “Oh do sit down and shut-up love.”
Councillor Duigan got to his feet again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We have heard your comments. We will now consider them. Thank you for your attendance.”
As people got to their feet, Lettice’s distinctive voice was the last to be heard: “We will chain ourselves to the counter, we will, rather than see our home demolished.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Neighbours Divided
Charity and Jack lived at End Cottage, Cuckoo Tree Lane, in the last of a row of eighteenth century labourers’ cottages. A wooden fence divided their property from Jane’s neighbouring cottage. With both their parents dead, Charity had assumed full parental responsibility for Jack.
“Those poor old ladies. Being kicked out of their home to make way for some new shop units. It’s just not right,” Charity said, while they walked home from the meeting.
Whilst his sister may have been completely opposed to the proposed redevelopment, Jack had different ideas and said so. “I don’t know. We could do with some more shops. I have to get the bus to Southstoft if I want to get anything decent. And we’ll get a skateboard park.”
“Whose side are you on, young man?”
“There’s nothing for young people to do in Failsham. A skateboard park would be wicked.”
“Wicked,” Charity mimicked.
“My point is a valid one,” Jack said bravely. “What might be an unpopular decision for the Bailey sisters, might be a very popular decision for others, me included.”
Charity ignored him.
“Galvanizing public opinion against the redevelopment might not be as easy as you think,” he continued, quoting something he’d heard someone else say.
“Haven’t you any homework to be getting on with?” Charity snapped as she unlocked the front door of their house.
“Only my history project,” he said, grimacing.
“We’ll get on with it then.”
“It’s got to be on something local, and I can’t think what,” Jack said, kicking the door.
“Do that again and I’ll buy a can of paint and stand over you when you repaint it.”
Sometime later, Jane pulled into her drive to find Jack on her doorstep. She got out of her car and walked over to him.
“All right?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Charity shouted at me and I can’t think what to do for my history project. It’s got to be about something local and I can think what.”
“What about writing something on the history of the old wool shop? Those old ladies have some lovely stories about Failsham and its former residents, which most definitely deserve to be recorded somewhere. It’s certainly topical.”
“What’s that mean?” Jack replied.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sailles
I
Jane awoke with two appointments ahead of her: the first at the Beech Hill Art Gallery with its owner, Lionel Scott, and the second with Graham Burslem in his gallery in Sailles.
Before she left for the first, she decided to carry out a few more checks, beginning with an on-line search against Mandy Tomas. She easily found the artist’s social networking page which confirmed she was a young artist local to the area. Mandy also used her website to sell her photographs.
Jane then carried out a search at the UK Land Registry to establish the legal ownership of the Beech Hill Art Gallery. The register gave its owner as a Lionel James Scott of the Beech Hill Art Gallery, 116 Beech Hill, Southstoft, Hoven.
Finally, with Roz’s case still in mind, she searched against the Church of St. Cuthberts, Greater Flyborough. Not surprisingly, given the years which had passed and the distance between the churches, none of the names on her Marlowe list matched any of the names on the St. Cuthbert’s website. She needed the names of those involved with St. Cuthberts back in the 1970s. Mirabella might be able to get hold of the Church of England’s records for the time, but they would only really tell her who was employed by the church back then. That might not be wide enough. There must have been volunteers who would not be included in those records, but who might be the culprit. She needed to speak to someone there at the time, in the hope they might point her in the right direction. She’d speak to the current vicar and take it from there. She telephoned the church and made an appointment to see him the next day.
II
She arrived at the Beech Hill Art Gallery to find it showing an exhibition of paper lanterns, handmade by a local art student, and coastal scenes painted by another local artist. Rather than go straight in, she went to the cafe next door and ordered a coffee. While the girl behind the counter prepared it, Jane asked, “I was hoping to have a look around the Mandy Tomas exhibition I thought was on at the art gallery next door, but it isn’t on any more, I must’ve missed it. It consisted entirely of photographs of the human eye apparently.”
“It did,” the waitress said. “I saw it through the window. Like you I meant to go in, then all of a sudden it wasn’t there anymore. Shame really. I should’ve known better, the exhibitions change all the time there. Two pounds please.”
Jane paid for the coffee, and took it with her to the hairdressers on the other side of the gallery. To her surprise a large Amanda Tomas photograph of a pair of eyes peering out from behind a long fringe, hung on its walls. The receptionist waited for her to speak.
“Did you get that from the art gallery next door?” Jane asked.
“We did. The manager quite liked it and bought it for the wall.”
“I was hoping to buy one as well, but it’s showing another exhibition.”
“The artist’s name’s Amanda something,” the receptionist said, walking over to study the photograph. “Amanda Tomas,” she read from a card at the right hand base of the frame, which gave Amanda’s name and web-address (the social networking site Jane had already visited). “I think there are more contact details on the back.” She turned the picture over and on its rear side was the web address and telephone number of the Sailles’ Art Gallery. Jane pretended to make a note of them.
“Did you want to make a hair appointment?” the receptionist asked.
“Maybe another day,” Jane said, hurriedly leaving.
When she eventually pulled open the door of the Beech Hill Art Gallery, the two artists whose work the gallery displayed, smiled at her then hesitated, wondering whether to approach her or let her wander around.
“Would either of you be the owner, Lionel Scott?” she asked. When both shook their heads, she continued, “I’m meant to be meeting him here.”
“Coming, coming,” a voice called out, as someone hurried downstairs.
Lionel Scott turned out to be young, and thought Jane, extremely good-looking. After introducing themselves, the two spent a few minutes discussing rates and the gallery’s availability.
“Three months time?” Jane said. “Well that at least gives me a date to aim for. Why don’t I have a think about it and get back to you?” adding casually, “it was Graham Burslem who suggested I exhibit here. Do you know the Graham Burslem I mean?”
“From Sailles?”
Jane nodded.
“Yes – I’ve known Graham for years. He shows different artists here almost every year.”
“I think he has an exhibition due to start next week, doesn’t he?” Jane asked.
“Last week actually. Finished a day or two ago.”
“That’s right, last week, silly me. Anyway, I’ll be in touch.”
Just before she left, she stopped in the doorway and said, “If I’m to hand over a deposit I’ll need some form of ID from you. It’s just my husband says in this day and age, I should never hand over money without being certa
in who I’m handing it to.” She tried to sound embarrassed at asking.
“Your husband is a sensible man,” Lionel Scott said, taking out his wallet and removing his photo-card driving licence from it. He it held out for Jane to read. All details matched.
III
When Jane eventually arrived at the fishing port and beach resort of Sailles, on the north Hoven Coast, she still had enough time to pay a discreet visit to Graham Burslem’s home, before her arranged rendezvous with him at the gallery.
Graham Burslem lived in a large, old house, on the outskirts of town, set back from the road, with a sweeping carriage drive leading to a garage, and a large front garden. A tall hedge shielded the property and the garden from the road. A car was parked in the drive. Jane parked on the other side of the road before returning on foot to peer through the hedge. It wasn’t long before a woman emerged from the house and got into the car. Jane wondered if she was Jenny Burslem, as she’d be about the right age to be Graham Burslem’s wife.
Jane reached her own car, just as the woman drove away. The postman arrived moments later, giving her the opportunity to use an idea she’d read about on the blog of another private detective. As soon as the postman left the property and disappeared down the neighbour’s drive, she drove down the driveway and parked outside the house, hidden from view by the hedge. From her boot she removed a long pole with a device to pick up rubbish at its end. A quick peek through the letterbox revealed three letters lying on the doormat. She pushed the pole through the letterbox, and after a couple of attempts, picked up the letters. This was about as underhand as she got. The first of the letters was addressed to a Mr and Mrs G. Burslem; the second to Mrs Jenny Burslem, and the last to a Mr Graham and Mrs Jenny Burslem. She pushed the unopened letters back through the letterbox, and returned to her car. She drove to the other side of the road and parked there. After some time, the woman she’d seen leave earlier, returned to the property. Jane gave it a few minutes before telephoning the house. A woman answered.
“Am I speaking to a Mrs Jenny Burslem?” Jane asked.
“You are, yes. How can I help you?”
“I wondered if you’d be interested in taking part in a blind tasting of…”
Mrs Burslem interrupted her. “I’m terribly sorry but no.”
“What about your husband?” Jane said hurriedly.
“No, I don’t think so, I’m sorry,” and the call ended.
From there Jane drove to the town centre. She parked at the top of the narrow high street and walked down hill to Sailles’ picturesque pebble beach, glad she’d wrapped up warmly against the cold.
Jane didn’t wonder Graham Burslem closed his gallery for the winter months. Sailles was a summer resort, no one came to it in February. Hardly anyone was around, and fewer still on the promenade, where the gallery was situated. The biting wind seemed to have even kept most locals at home, although Jane did notice a hardy family at the end of the promenade attaching bacon fat to a crabbing line. The wind blew stronger and she turned her collar up, just as a siren rang out, alerting anyone on the sand dunes to the rapidly approaching high tide.
As she reached the gallery, a large wave hit the concrete promenade, showering her with sea spray. She looked over to the family. They’d escaped the wave, but their bucket hadn’t and rolled along the promenade, chased after by all five of them.
Jane peered inside the empty gallery. Graham hadn’t arrived yet. A few coastal scenes hung on its walls, but little else. The till had been removed. A notice on the door declared it closed until the end of April. In a framed newspaper clipping, displayed in the gallery’s window, Graham Burslem – described as the owner of the Sailles’ Art Gallery – held an award for his work in promoting new artists. She studied the newspaper clipping closely. Although only captured from the waist up, the man in it was the man she’d met at the Beech Hill Art Gallery. Jane couldn’t help noticing he’d picked exactly the same tie to wear the day she met him as he wore in the photograph. She laughed.
While waiting for him to arrive, Jane crossed the promenade and watched the crabbing boats return with the high tide, ready to unload their snapping cargos. Even though the waves crashed noisily against the promenade and the pebble beach, she could still hear the revolving blades of the windfarm (said to be the largest on the planet) far out to sea, where once stood gas rigs. She turned to watch the family. They’d retrieved their bucket, and whilst their mother filled it with sea water, the shrieking children hurled their baited crabbing lines into the sea, assisted by their father. Jane smiled remembering similar days out when she’d been a young mother.
“Jane,” she heard someone call out. She looked around and saw Graham Burslem hurrying down the promenade. She returned to the gallery at the same time as he reached it. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, unlocking the gallery door as he spoke.
She tried to follow him inside, but he raised a hand to stop her. “Have to turn the burglar alarm off first,” he said, pressing a keyboard above the gallery’s door. “All clear,” he said, motioning to her to join him.
“I saw you. At my house,” he said, “helping yourself to my post.”
“You were there?”
“I was watching you from an upstairs window. I’m glad my wife didn’t catch you,” he laughed.
“So am I. I must give you your passport back,” she said, taking it out of her handbag alongside the bill, and passing both to him. “They and you both check out.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“As far as I’m concerned if Fonebies authenticate the sketches then I’m prepared to sell them on your behalf.”
He offered her his handshake. “They will,” he said. As he spoke, his eyes turned to rest on a small oil painting of Sailles’ beach. He crossed the room, removed the picture from the wall and returned to hand it to Jane.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she said.
“Please,” he said. “I want you to have it. You can’t imagine what a weight this is off my mind. All this sneaking around behind people’s backs isn’t doing my ulcer any good.”
Jane took the picture and thanked him, leaving a few minutes later with the wrapped picture under her arm.
On the way back to her car, she called into a delicatessen she’d passed on the high street and bought herself a Sailles’ crab quiche for her supper.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Time to put aside Childish Things
Whilst Jack could see the logic of choosing the history of the Failsham wool shop as the subject of his local history project, he was worried he might end up the butt of everyone’s jokes if he turned up at school and announced his history project was about a wool shop run by three old ladies who, in the eyes of his school friends, were probably as old as the shop itself.
Then there was the skateboard park. If Failsham couldn’t have the wool shop and the skateboard park, he knew which he preferred. There was also Polly to think of. Polly was a girl in his class he quite liked. She was pretty and popular. He thought she quite liked him, but he wasn’t sure enough to pluck up the courage to ask her out. What would she think about his choice of project? She might want a skateboard park and think he didn’t. Also, wool shops weren’t very macho, and he didn’t want Polly thinking he was a dork. But then local history wasn’t very macho, unless it was about wars, and he didn’t think Polly would be interested in wars, not that he could think of any wars involving Failsham other than the world wars, which they’d already studied.
He was running out of time. If he didn’t pick a subject quickly, he wouldn’t have anything to hand in at all. If he didn’t hand something in, he’d fail history. Polly didn’t fail anything. Polly was a grade ‘A’ student. Her project was probably well in hand. What was worse, he thought. Polly thinking he was a geek, or one away from being a dropout? The indecision was killing him, and the more he thought about it, the worse it was getting. He’d learned all about hormones at school, and what they did to the body, but this was worse than anyth
ing he’d been warned about.
He wondered what Johnny would have to say on the subject. Johnny was Charity’s ex-boyfriend. They’d split up, after he’d decided to go travelling around the South Atlantic on the spur of the moment. Charity had cried for weeks after he’d left, as had Jack, but unlike Charity, his crying had been done in private. Once, Jane had found him crying at the end of the garden. She’d sat beside him, and explained that Johnny acted the way he did because he’d suffered a dislocated and unsettled childhood. His behaviour didn’t mean he didn’t love or care for Jack and Charity, but sometimes damaged people took their anger out on other people, without meaning to. She’d said something about him being wary about making attachments. Jack was sure Jane was right, but (as Charity said) knowing that didn’t help a great deal. Jack missed Johnny at moments like this more than at any other. He wondered if he should call him. Johnny’d said he could: “Despite this thing with your sister, I’m still here for you, mate. You ever want advice, or just a chat, get in touch.”
Johnny would be more use to him than his sister, for sure. Since the split, her advice on involvement with the opposite sex began and ended with the words: “Don’t do it unless you want your heart put through a mincer, that is.”
He sent Johnny a text. Johnny replied immediately. ‘I think your choice of subject matter shows your sensitive side. Girls like that. Go for it, mate!’
That did it. The history of the Failsham wool shop would be the subject of his local history project.
Jack called in at the wool shop on his way to school, to run the idea past the three old ladies. They were carrying newly delivered Shetland wool, two balls at the time, from the shop’s counter to the cubicles. The old ladies simply loved Jack’s idea.
“Is it okay, if I pop back after school and ask you some questions and maybe take some pictures?” he asked. “You can tell me everything you know about the shop and its history. Afterwards, I’ll go to the library and see what else I can find out, maybe fill in any gaps and stuff. We’ll see how far back we can take it, if you like,” he said.