Framed

by Shaun Baines

  "Can I help you?" he asked.

  Holly and Callum returned to the doorstep.

  Behind the man, Mrs Tweddle scuttled through a door.

  "We just wanted to have a chat with your…mother?" Holly said.

  "And how did that work out for you?" When the man smiled, it was forced and showed teeth stained with nicotine. "But she's not my mother. Mrs Tweddle has no relatives, at least none that can tolerate her attitude. I'm Norman. I'm her carer. I'm here to keep her company. Take care of her post. Clean the house etcetera."

  Holly looked again at the soiled doilies.

  "I recognise you," Norman continued. "You're the journalist from the Little Belton Herald. Are you investigating a case?"

  "Possibly," Holly said, feeling like a celebrity. "Do you know if Mrs Tweddle has any connection to Bartholomew Guteridge?"

  "The painter?" Norman asked. "She's never mentioned it."

  "You've heard of him then?" Callum asked.

  Norman's eyes swivelled in Callum's direction as if noticing him for the first time.

  "I'm a fan of him myself," Norman said.

  "Someone linked to this cottage laid flowers on Guteridge's grave," Holly said.

  Mrs Tweddle's face appeared in one of the panes of the bay window, drawing Holly's attention.

  "That was me," Norman said. "I also gave it a tidy, but I don't suppose you noticed."

  Holly forced a smile. "We did. It looks lovely, but why?"

  "Did you know one of his paintings was recently auctioned for over nine hundred pounds?" Norman asked. "It's my dream to own one, but on my wages, I'll be asleep for a long time before that happens. The flowers were my small token of appreciation. Like I say, I'm a fan."

  Mrs Tweddle tapped on the window and Norman shot her a withering look.

  "I went to art school myself," he added, lifting his nose in the air.

  "In which case, you might be able to help us with something," Holly said. "Have you heard of one of his paintings ever being defaced?"

  "Who would do such a thing?" Norman asked.

  "Someone who doesn't mind a bit of burglary thrown into the bargain," Callum said. "Black Rock Manor received an unwelcome and light-fingered visitor."

  "I always thought it was poorly guarded," Norman said with a sideways glance at Callum. "It was only a matter of time."

  Mrs Tweddle tapped the window so hard she threatened to remove the glass.

  Norman looked to his elderly employer and then back to Holly and Callum.

  "You better go," he said. "Don't be fooled. The old dragon has a temper like a hurricane."

  Norman shrank into the hallway, closing the door as he went.

  "We could do with your expertise," Holly shouted after him.

  "I already have a job, thank you."

  Callum braced his hand against the door, halting its progress.

  There was a hiss of frustration and Norman's arm snaked through the remaining gap, his hand grappling with Callum's wrist.

  "How dare you," he shouted.

  "We only want to talk," Callum said.

  "Stop it, you two," Holly said and Callum withdrew his arm.

  Norman tumbled into the door. It slammed shut and they heard a bump.

  "I hope that was his head," Callum said.

  "What's that on your arm?" Holly asked.

  Callum yanked down his jacket sleeve, exposing his forearm. A smear of blue circled his wrist like a bracelet.

  "It's paint," he said.

  "Maybe Norman has been decorating," Holly said.

  "A man willing to wallow in that level of filth," Callum said, examining his new tattoo, "has no business decorating. He needs to find a wash rag before he picks up a paintbrush."

  The image of the grimy hallway flashed through Holly's mind. If the entrance was like that, she'd be willing to gamble the rest of the house followed suit.

  "He didn't like Mrs Tweddle much, did he?" Holly asked, looking to the bay window.

  Mrs Tweddle had disappeared, her wrinkled face replaced by the grey pallor of Norman and his accusing eyes.

  "We aren't going to find anymore answers here," Holly said.

  They stumbled toward the Defender and Holly felt Norman's gaze burrowing into the back of her head.

  "What are we going to do now?" Callum asked.

  Norman's uniform was surprisingly clean considering the state of the house and the paint on his hands. Had he been wearing another set of clothes before he answered the door?

  The question was immaterial, thought Holly. She was pleased his uniform wasn't hidden behind stains or paint. It meant she could see the logo on his breast pocket and now she knew who his real boss was.

  ***

  The telephone reception in Little Belton was patchy. Anything could affect it. Wind. Rain. Cloud cover. Holly was once arranging car insurance when a flock of geese flying overhead ended her call mid-sentence. She had searched the village for weeks, desperately seeking a site for the perfect phone signal.

  In a field overlooking the churchyard, Holly straddled a fence wobbling uncertainly between her legs.

  "Is that the Home Care Angels Agency?" she asked, grasping the fence with one hand.

  Holly heard the clacking of a computer keyboard on the other side of the phone line. "Do you have a friend, relative or neighbour in need of a Home Care Angel?"

  The voice was female with the monotone drawl of someone unengaged with their work.

  "Actually, I'm a journalist with the Little Belton Herald," Holly said. "I'm running a story on local carers and wondered if you'd care to contribute."

  "We're going to be in a newspaper?" the voice asked, suddenly more animated.

  "Yes, but in particular I'd like to chat about one of your agency staff," Holly said. "He's highly regarded, apparently. A pillar of the community. Can you tell me a little about Norman at Cobalt Cottage?"

  There was an intake of breath, followed by more clacking. "All of our carers are fully professional human beings," the voice said. "There's Sandra. She's an interesting person. Used to make her own soaps, you know? Or there's Alvin. Now, he may be as old as the people he home care angel's for, but he once won a prize in the local fete for his Irish stew. How about you speak to one of them?"

  "Is there a problem with Norman?"

  A gust of wind rocked the fence and Holly hung on, like a cowboy on a bucking bronco.

  "Of course, there's no problem," the voice said, returning to its original drawl. "No problem at all, but you'll have to speak to Mr Waylard, the supervisor."

  Before Holly could ask why, her phone was filled with hold music and she was forced to suffer through a panpipe medley before the line came alive again.

  "This is Mr Waylard. I gather you'd like some information on one of our Home Care Angels?"

  His voice was a rich baritone, almost syrupy in its delivery. Holly pictured Mr Waylard as a tubby man with a waxed moustache.

  "I'm writing a feature on the unspoken benefits of the carer community," Holly said.

  "And you've chosen Norman?" Mr Waylard asked. "I suppose he's a bit of a mystery, but I don't want to paint a negative picture. What I can say is that Norman has worked for us for over a decade. He was well loved."

  "Was?" Holly said, surprised by the past tense.

  "Absolutely. Not just by our clients, but by their relatives."

  With one leg hanging over a muddy track and the other in a muddy field, Holly tried to reconcile what she was being told about Norman with what she'd encountered.

  "He seems like the kind of angel I need to know more about," Holly said.

  "Ah, I'm afraid that won't be possible," Mr Waylard said.

  There was a thudding noise and Holly imagined Mr Waylard tapping his fingers on a desk.

  "It will only be a few questions," she said.

  "Such as?"

  Holly adjusted her position on the fence. "Like, where does h
e live?"

  Mr Waylard snorted. "That's privileged information."

  Not everyone was as pliable as Mr Winnow, thought Holly.

  "How about some general background information then?" she asked.

  A flock of geese flew V-shaped above her head and Holly shielded her phone.

  "Norman is a private person," Mr Waylard said. "I'm starting to think this is a bad idea."

  "But what about his clients or the relatives that loved him? Surely, they'd like to see a glowing write-up in the newspaper?"

  Mr Waylard sighed down the line. "I doubt it. He doesn't see them anymore. Six months ago, he received a number of complaints about his behaviour. There wasn't anything specific. More rumours than anything, but we had to cut back his roster. He was very disappointed. Norman only works with one client now."

  "Mrs Tweddle," Holly said to herself.

  "Wait a minute," Mr Waylard said. "You know poor Mrs Tweddle?"

  "I've met her."

  "You must know Norman then. What's this really about?"

  "If Norman only has one client," Holly asked, "how could he make a living -?"

  But the line went dead before Holly finished her question and she was left sitting on the fence.

  ***

  Crouched behind one of the garden's sprawling hydrangea bushes, Holly and Callum watched the windows of Cobalt Cottage.

  "Is he still inside?" Holly asked.

  Callum shuffled into a better position. "I can't see. Those windows are filthy."

  "I think Mrs Tweddle is scared of Norman," Holly said. "We need to get her alone."

  "How? She never leaves the house."

  An insect buzzed around the hydrangea flowers, interrupting Holly's thoughts.

  "What if we knock on the door and bundle her into the Defender?" she asked.

  "I parked over a mile away so we wouldn't be seen," Callum said, rubbing his chin, "and even though I'm not a lawyer, that sounds like kidnapping."

  Batting the insect aside, Holly looked to the horizon. The sun was sinking, brushing the sky with streaks of pink. She didn't want to be squatting behind a bush all night. They needed to make a decision.

  A light went on in an upstairs window.

  "Maybe that's Norman," Holly whispered. "Maybe we can speak to Mrs Tweddle without him knowing."

  "Or maybe it's Mrs Tweddle going to bed and Norman is downstairs, wearing one of her dresses and carrying a kitchen knife."

  "He's not a psycho," Holly said, her mouth drying as she remembered the film. "Either way, my legs are going to sleep. We can't stay here."

  Callum crept to the cottage door. Holly scurried after him, hovering at his shoulder as he tapped on the door.

  They waited, holding their breath.

  "Do you think they heard us?" Holly asked quietly.

  The door swung open in answer and Mrs Tweddle appeared like a spectre. She retained her woolly hat and gloves, but her skin was pale and her lips were tinged with blue.

  "You can't be here," she said.

  Holly pushed in front of Callum.

  "Where is he?" she asked. "Where is Norman?"

  Mrs Tweddle pointed upstairs. "He spends hours up there. He knows I can't climb the stairs because of my legs."

  Callum rolled his head around his shoulders, his neck cracking like a machine gun.

  "We just want to talk," he said. "We want to know you're safe."

  Mrs Tweddle cast her eyes to the ceiling. "If I let you in, will you promise me this will be your last visit? I don't know what he'll do if I keep getting guests."

  The old woman's distress was like oil in Holly's stomach. It made her feel queasy.

  "We promise," Holly said through gritted teeth.

  They followed Mrs Tweddle through the dirty hallway into a sitting room where they were met with the scent of must. Newspapers were stacked in piles, threatening to topple at the slightest disturbance. The bay window's sill was speckled with dead blue bottle flies. A collection of china harlequin masks, nailed to the wall, were streaked in grime.

  The open grate fireplace was the cleanest part of the room. There was no ash and no evidence it had ever been lit.

  Holly blew into her cooling hands. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine, love." Mrs Tweddle dropped into an armchair, sending up a cloud of dust. "Please be quick."

  "How do you live like this?"

  It was a question Holly didn't expect to ask, but it tumbled out of her. How did someone find themselves trapped inside their own home? With a troll living above them?

  Mrs Tweddle shifted in her chair. "Where else would I be? This is my house. It's my whole life."

  Which was on full display, Holly thought. The vases, the figurines and masks. Mrs Tweddle's mementos were in view from every aspect. Stepping into her house was like stepping into her mind.

  Holly worried it was being corrupted by Norman.

  She crouched by Mrs Tweddle's armchair and looked up at her face. "Were you telling the truth? About not knowing Bartholomew Guteridge?"

  "I wasn't supposed to say." Mrs Tweddle rubbed her hands together, her gloves wrinkling under her touch. "When I was young, I was a maid at Black Rock Manor. Oh, it was magnificent then. All those important people, love. All the parties. It was so busy and no-one noticed a young maid neglecting her duties. Whenever I had a spare moment, I'd study the paintings. I liked Guteridge the best. He loved the manor almost as much as I did and it showed."

  Callum drew his wax jacket to his chest. "You neglected your duties?"

  "Terrible, isn't it? But I didn't fit in. The other maids were so dedicated and the house matron was a tyrant. She hated me from the start. I always knew I was better than my job so I got another one. With Guteridge."

  Holly frowned. "But he died in nineteen-fifty-one."

  "He had a daughter. Isabella Guteridge. She was an artist, too. A failed one, as it happens, but she took me under her wing and I learned a lot."

  The ceiling above them creaked as Norman moved around, showering them in dust.

  "Why don't I put the fire on?" Callum asked. "You can tell us all about it."

  Mrs Tweddle brushed dust from her woolly hat. "He likes the house to be cool."

  "We don't need to worry about that now," Callum said. "This house is freezing. I'll build a fire to keep us warm. You can always blame me."

  He picked up a newspaper, his eyes straying to the headline, his lips moving while he read. He stopped and looked to the window.

  "What's that in the garden?" he asked, glancing at Holly.

  Mrs Tweddle swivelled in her chair, peering through the glass.

  Holly watched Callum stuff the newspaper down the back of his trousers, quickly snatching another from a nearby pile.

  "I can't see anything," Mrs Tweddle said, "and I have the eyes of a twenty-year-old."

  "My mistake," Callum said, crunching the second newspaper in his hands and placing it in the fireplace. "I'll start this fire now."

  "Actually, I need to use the bathroom," Holly said.

  Mrs Tweddle's eyes widened. "You can't. He'll see you."

  "I'll be quiet," Holly said, already on her way to the door.

  "No, this is my house," Mrs Tweddle said. "You need to stay where you are."

  Callum lit a match, watching Holly through its heat haze as she disappeared through the door. He tossed the flame into the fireplace where the ancient newspapers quickly ignited. The fire danced while Callum threw on some coal.

  "Why don't you tell me about your time with Isabella Guteridge?" he asked.

  ***

  Holly left Callum clumsily distracting their host in conversation. She quickly checked the lower rooms, finding nothing but clutter and grime. Standing at the base of the stairs, she clung to the bannister, forcing her legs upward. Norman was up there and each step creaked louder than the last. She chewed her lip until she reached the second floor.

  The lan
ding was spotless. There were track marks in the carpet where it had recently been hoovered. There was no clutter. No film of dirt. A three-legged table sat in the corner with a ceramic peacock perched on top.

  There was a bump from behind a closed door to her right and Holly crept forward. She held the handle too long. The metal warmed under her hand. Slowly, she turned it, praying it had been oiled. It made no sound. Holly pressed down, but the door refused to open.

  She cursed under her breath.

  "How did you get up here?" a voice said from beyond the door.

  The lock rattled as it was undone.

  Holly looked to the staircase.

  The door swung open and Norman stepped lightly out of the room.

  "I thought it was Mrs Tweddle," he said on seeing Holly.

  Frozen in to the freshly hoovered carpet, Holly stared at him, unable to speak. His carer's uniform had been replaced with a pair of paint spattered overalls. It hung from his thin frame, barely touching his body. Norman's teeth were bared in a show of yellowed nicotine.

  "Just wondering if you were available to decorate my house," Holly said.

  Norman's eyes thinned into slits and he grabbed her by the arm. "It's time for you to say goodbye."

  ***

  Callum stood over the fireplace, watching proudly as the fire blazed. The heat warmed his legs and he unbuttoned his shirt collar, sweat trickling down his spine.

  Unused to the heat, Mrs Tweddle twisted in her chair, fanning her red face with a hand.

  "It's too much," she said. "I'm too warm."

  She wrenched the woolly hat from her head, using it to wipe her brow.

  "The fire," Mrs Tweddle said. "Turn the fire down."

  Callum fiddled with the fireplace, closing the vent, forcing the flames into a dull roar.

  "What did you learn from Isabella Guteridge?" he asked.

  They were interrupted by the sound of feet hurtling down the stairs. Norman threw Holly into the room and she ran to Callum's side.

  Callum stepped in front of her, protecting her with his body.

  "What's going on here?" he asked with a snarl.