The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  Robin drew in a deep breath. ‘I don’t like the sound of any of this, Luce.’ He glanced at the studio door. ‘I think you ought to be keeping that picture under lock and key.’

  ‘The gallery is alarmed, Robin. No one can get in here.’

  ‘Except by walking through the front door, coming upstairs and going into the studio. If this guy is a friend of yours what more natural than that you invite him up to the flat?’

  Lucy was silent. ‘It’s his cousin, Christopher. Somehow he’s found out the picture exists.’

  ‘Or existed. Michael seems to think it was destroyed in the crash.’

  ‘So he must have known it was being taken to London for examination by David Solomon.’ Lucy went on thoughtfully.

  Robin nodded. ‘Friends in the art world?’

  ‘But not such close friends that they knew Solomon was ill and had postponed the meeting,’ she mused. She walked over to the fridge, took out a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. She held one out to Robin. ‘Of course there is an awful lot of gossip in the art world, but even so, I thought this would stay under wraps until Solomon had seen it. He hasn’t rung me and I assumed he was being tactful Originally you told him we would get in touch when we were ready, didn’t you?’

  Robin nodded. He sipped his wine. ‘What are you going to say to Michael when he comes back?’

  ‘I’m not inviting him upstairs.’ She glanced at the studio door. ‘There isn’t a lock.’

  ‘That can be sorted fairly swiftly, but not quick enough for today.’

  ‘Shall I deny it?’

  ‘You don’t want to show him the picture?’

  She hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think I do. Not yet.’

  ‘The longer you leave it the harder it will be to tell him in the end.’ Robin eyed her shrewdly.

  Lucy exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know what to do for the best. He will find out in the end but I don’t want him to see it yet. I just don’t. There is a mystery there, Robin. I think Christopher knows what it is and I think he wants to make sure I don’t find out.’

  Robin grinned. ‘What a mistake! He is obviously not an expert on the female mind otherwise he would realise that mysteries have to be solved.’

  She gave him a gentle punch on the arm. ‘As if you would know.’

  He chuckled to himself as he leaned against the wall, arms folded. ‘Shall I nip out and pick up a padlock?’

  She shook her head. ‘A padlock will immediately draw attention to the fact that there is something there we don’t want people to see. Let’s put a proper lock on the door – that will be less obvious. For now, I won’t let Mike come upstairs. Simple as that. Besides, he’s hardly likely to barge upstairs uninvited. He doesn’t know that is, was, Larry’s studio.’

  ‘You think he will feel the same as his brother about the painting?’

  ‘It’s not his brother. Christopher is his cousin. I don’t know what Mike will think, Robin. I just want time to think about it myself. I didn’t mean to keep it from him. I’ve nearly told him on several occasions, but the time wasn’t quite right, and now I’ve messed up. I know I have. I would have told him in the end, obviously, but the fact that Christopher is so against me makes me suspicious. Larry always used to say I had a suspicious mind.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘But there was usually a good reason.’

  Robin pushed himself away from the wall and headed for the staircase. ‘QED,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ll let you know when he arrives.’

  Lucy walked across to the sink and putting her hands on the cool rim leaned forward to look out of the window. She had blown it. One way or another she had completely blown it. If she confessed to owning the painting Mike would never trust her again. If she kept quiet about it she would never be able to mention it at all. But obviously someone knew Larry had bought it. Who? How did they know? It had been described in the catalogue as ‘artist unknown’. The only person who could have told Christopher was Professor Solomon. It had to be him, and thinking about it, there was no reason why he should not have mentioned it. Larry was unlikely to have sworn him to secrecy. But then Larry was going to see him in order to confirm the identity of the painting. Surely the professor wouldn’t have said anything without seeing it first?

  Turning away from the window she sat down with a sigh at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands, her mind a turmoil. Solomon was one of the world authorities on British war artists, specialising in the Second World War. Perhaps this painting had been listed somewhere. Perhaps it had been stolen at some point. Had Larry sent him a photo of it? Perhaps Larry’s description had been enough to alert the art world to its existence. And had he told the professor of his suspicions about the overpainting? Overpainting she should never have touched. Tampering with a painting as a total amateur as she had done was the worst possible crime. She might have done irreparable damage.

  She heard what sounded like the creak of a floorboard from the studio and she looked up. ‘Who’s there?’ Surely Mike could not have got in there? She pushed back her chair and stood up, feeling a sudden chill in the hot still air of the kitchen. She swallowed hard. If not Mike, then who? She tiptoed towards the door and stood, her ear pressed against it, listening. ‘Ralph?’ she whispered. ‘Is that you?’ She put her hand on the door knob and realised that she was shivering. Moving her hand away silently, without opening the door she took two steps back then she turned away. She couldn’t face opening it. Not now, not with Mike even now perhaps heading up the stairs.

  October 20th 1940

  Scrabbling on the table in her studio for a penknife Evie paused for a moment, gazing across the room at the painting she had done of herself sitting on the gate with Tony behind her. Propped against the wall, it was usually hidden behind a pile of other canvasses but somehow it had been exposed the night before as she rummaged through some of her older works. She frowned. She should hide it again before Eddie saw it. Walking over to it she pulled it free, holding it at arm’s length and studying it. Originally she had planned to send it to Tony’s mother but now she wasn’t even sure if she was going to keep it. She could overpaint it and reuse the canvas. She touched Tony’s face gently with a fingertip. The thought of him made her ache with longing. It was a good likeness. She had captured his carefree, joyous spirit. Her eye travelled down to her own face and she scowled. Why had she painted herself looking so cross? Perhaps even then she had known their relationship was doomed. With a sigh she turned the painting over and stacked it face to the wall, pulling some cardboard portfolios in front of it.

  She had come upstairs to sharpen some pencils and collect her sketching things. More pictures were wanted apparently of gentle idyllic pre-war farm life, sentimental dreams for people sickened by war and pain. Grabbing the basket that contained her chalks and sketchbooks she ran down to the yard.

  The old horse, Bella, was staring out over the stable door. Evie’s father must have brought her in from the field to harness her. Evie walked over and rubbed the animal’s nose fondly. She let herself into the loose box and groped on one of the beams behind the door to find a stiff body brush she usually left there. Giving the horse a brush before she started drawing would give Bella pleasure and be an outlet for some of her own frustration.

  As she stooped to work on the animal’s legs, brushing the thick white feathering until it was immaculate she heard the sound of a plane overhead. She straightened her back, listening. There had been a dogfight that morning over the farm, and later she had seen in the distance a mass formation of aircraft heading west. The sound of explosions had reached them from far away but whatever was going on it was somewhere out over the sea. This plane was low and very close. She pushed open the loose box door and stepped out into the yard, shading her eyes as she looked up. It was a Spitfire, making straight for them. It flew directly over the farmhouse and as it passed it waggled its wings once, then it was gone, soaring up over the hills and veering round back towards the south. She smiled. Was it Ralph, telling her h
e was all right, reassuring her he had survived yet another skirmish? Or was it Tony? It was the sort of thing he might do, but then why would he if he no longer loved her?

  She was distracted by a nudge in the small of her back. The horse had pushed her way through the open door of her box and wandered out into the yard, wondering what had happened to her grooming. Evie turned and fondled her. ‘That was Rafie, telling us he was OK,’ she whispered in the horse’s ear. ‘I’m sure it was Rafie.’

  Sunday 11th August

  It was one forty-five. Lost in thought Lucy almost failed to register the soft slithering sound from behind the studio door. The noise came again and this time she turned to look round. Easing herself out of the chair she held her breath, listening. As she stood there, the silence was broken by a further sliding noise and then a sharp bang as though something had fallen to the floor. For a moment she couldn’t move, paralysed with terror. For several seconds she stared at the door, hardly daring to breathe until at last she forced herself to move. Not giving herself any more time to think she walked over to the door and this time, she pulled it open.

  The painting had fallen from the easel and was lying at its foot. A deep scratch had been scored across the corner of the sky.

  Lucy gasped. She stared round apprehensively. The room was still and empty, the skylights tightly closed. There was no draught to catch the canvas and blow it from its place on the easel. It was a large picture. It had been clamped in place. It could not have slipped. ‘Robin?’ she whispered. ‘Are you in here? Mike?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Ralph?’ Her voice wavered slightly. ‘Ralph, did you do that?’

  Stooping she lifted the picture off the floor and propped it upright, leaning it against the legs of the easel. She could feel him she realised suddenly. There was someone there, in the room with her, someone waiting and watching. She stared round, searching every corner, every shadow. There was no one there. Cold sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. There is nothing to be afraid of, she whispered to herself. This was Ralph, Evie’s brother. He was trying to tell her something. She had no need to be afraid of him, no need at all. ‘Ralph?’ she whispered again. Her voice was dry and husky and her hands had started to shake. ‘Ralph, is that you? Please. Speak to me.’

  Nothing.

  The room was very still, unnaturally so. She forced herself to stand her ground though every instinct was telling her to run. ‘Ralph!’ she murmured. ‘Please.’ She stepped away from the painting. ‘Ralph!’

  It was only when she slammed the studio door behind her and found herself leaning, hands on the edge of the table in the kitchen, panting, that she realised she had completely panicked. With a sob she ran towards the stairs and sped down to the gallery. ‘Robin!’ she called. She skidded to a halt. Mike was standing near the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Lucy?’ Mike reached out in concern. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Robin was standing next to him and the two men had been engaged in conversation.

  Lucy subsided onto the bottom step, wrapping her arms round her knees. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  The two men glanced at each other. Robin stepped forward and put his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Lucy,’ he said softly. ‘I was just explaining to Mike that you hadn’t been feeling well. Come over here and sit down and I’ll fetch you a glass of water.’ He took her elbow and lifted her to her feet, guiding her towards the office area where he firmly pushed her into the armchair.

  Her teeth were chattering and for a moment she found it impossible to focus. She heard the sound of Robin’s feet on the stairs as he ran up to the kitchen. There was a pause as he found the glass and filled it then she heard him returning. It was only as he pressed it into her hand and folded her fingers round it that she raised her eyes and saw Mike sitting in the office chair opposite her. His eyes were fixed on her face.

  ‘Are you all right, Luce?’ Robin was standing over her.

  She nodded imperceptibly.

  ‘Perhaps, it would be better if you and Lucy discussed your queries at another time.’ Robin turned to Mike. ‘As you can see she is not herself today.’

  Lucy saw the hesitation on Mike’s face and managed a feeble smile. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ He stood up. ‘I am so sorry you’re not well. We’ll talk next time you come over. I’m back in London tonight, but I will see you soon. Take care, OK?’ He stepped away from the desk and for a moment she thought he was going to bend down and kiss her cheek. If he was, he thought better of it. He nodded towards Robin and headed across the gallery towards the door.

  As it closed behind him Robin took his place on the chair by the desk and leaned forward. ‘What happened?’

  She looked at him wearily. ‘The painting fell off the easel.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Fell off?’

  ‘I was in the kitchen. I heard it fall.’

  ‘I see.’ For a moment he fell silent. ‘Was it damaged?’

  She nodded. ‘A scratch. A deep one.’ She took a sip from the glass. ‘At first I thought you or Mike must have done it.’ She raised her hand as he opened his mouth to protest. ‘I knew it wasn’t you, of course I did. Then I wondered if Ralph had done it. I could sense someone there.’

  ‘And that frightened you?’

  ‘Of course it did. It terrified me!’ She nodded again. ‘Then suddenly I found myself thinking, this isn’t like Ralph. It’s someone else, and it was then I completely panicked.’ There was a long pause, then she went on, ‘I didn’t realise Mike had arrived.’

  ‘He seems to be a nice man.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘But you still don’t want to tell him about the picture?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’ She shook her head violently. For several seconds she said nothing. He waited patiently until she looked up again. ‘There is something going on in the family, Robin. Perhaps when I have read all the diaries I’ll understand better. They’re hiding something, I’m sure they are. And if I am going to be a good biographer, an investigative biographer, I need to try and find out what it is.’ She gave a tired smile.

  Robin nodded slowly. ‘Are you sure, Lucy? You’re not getting just the tiniest bit obsessed? Do you really need to know all this?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Of course I do. It’s about Evie. I need to know everything about Evie. About her family, about the men in her life, about the motivation for her painting. And I need to know why Ralph wants to tell me something.’

  ‘But you just said you didn’t think this was Ralph.’

  Her shoulders slumped and she sighed. ‘No.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  She gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. ‘I don’t know, Robin. I just don’t know. Are there two of them? Two ghosts in the picture? Am I imagining it? Am I going mad? I don’t know what to do. I just want to get on quietly with my research. I want to write. I want to go to museums and galleries and record offices. I don’t want to be too frightened to walk into my own kitchen!’

  There was a long silence. Trying desperately to steady herself she picked up the glass and took a sip of water. ‘I might ring Huw Redwood.’

  Robin gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘He doesn’t seem to have done much good so far.’

  ‘No.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘I know you’re not keen on the Church, Robin, any more than I am, but this is their job. They know about things like this. Huw is a nice man. And he is at least someone I can talk to.’

  ‘And you can’t talk to me? I suppose you still think I did it!’

  She hesitated. Could he have done it? Could he be trying to drive her insane?

  She smiled. The idea was ridiculous. ‘Of course I can talk to you. I am talking to you at this moment. But ghosts are not your job, Robin. You don’t believe in them.’

  ‘From what you told me they are not his job either,’ he retorted. ‘Didn’t you say he’s supposed to go and ask his bishop?’

/>   ‘I think he is, but this is something he has studied. He knows what to do. We are not talking about some fearsome possession by an evil spirit. We are talking about an unhappy young man who died when he was twenty-one years old, for God’s sake. Or at least …’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Or at least you were before, but now you think there is someone else there?’ Robin prompted.

  ‘Put it this way, now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘And he, it, whoever, frightened you,’ Robin said.

  ‘Yes. This was different. It was threatening.’ She looked up at him again helplessly. ‘Ralph’s presence is uneasy and anxious. Rachel’s was full of the most terrible grief but this –’ Unable to finish the sentence she gestured helplessly with her hands. ‘I have never felt such fear. One minute I was fine. I was chatting to Ralph as Huw said I should, about to examine the easel to see if any paint had scraped off on it to show where the picture had fallen, to understand how it got damaged, then I was overwhelmed by this complete stifling terror. I knew without a shadow of doubt that someone, he, it, was out to get me! I moved without knowing I was doing it. I was out of the studio before I could think. It was –’ again the gesture – ‘completely overwhelming.’

  Robin was silent for a moment. ‘Do you want to go up again now?’ he asked at last. ‘With me. We’ll look at the painting and see how badly it’s damaged.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She replied so quickly it surprised them both.

  ‘Shall I go on my own? The door to the studio was shut when I went up to get the water. Did you shut it when you ran out of the room?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I must have.’

  ‘OK. I’ll go on my own.’ She saw a moment of brief hesitation then his usual cheery grin was back.