Christopher felt himself go cold. His stomach had turned over with fear. He stood up abruptly. ‘Are you accusing me of something, Inspector? Should I be calling my solicitor?’
‘I am not accusing you of anything, Mr Marston. Not yet.’ Bill Pulman smiled. ‘Ponting is not what you might call a reliable witness at the best of times, but his accusations regarding yourself are, shall we say, interesting and very specific. He claims that Mr Standish was on his way to visit Professor Solomon with a valuable painting in the back of his car. He claims that you paid him, through an intermediary, to make sure that the painting never reached the professor. He hasn’t gone so far as to say that you paid him to murder Laurence Standish; he says that the crash was a mistake and a genuine accident. He claims he was trying to force the car to stop so that he could remove the painting and get rid of it. The painting was by your grandmother, Evelyn Lucas.’
There was a long silence. Christopher was about to speak when the inspector went on. ‘You assumed I had come about your father, Mr Marston. Uninitiated as we might be in artistic matters in the force, it did occur to us that it might be more than a coincidence that your father recently died violently, that another of your grandmother’s paintings was damaged and that it had been removed from the house in London by you.’
He waited, his head cocked to one side. Christopher steadied his breathing. ‘You are barking up the wrong tree, Inspector. That is all nonsense! Complete nonsense. I don’t understand –’ He swallowed hard. ‘For one thing, my father didn’t die violently. He had a heart attack –’ He stopped abruptly as the inspector shook his head slowly.
‘The post mortem has revealed certain anomalies, Mr Marston. I am afraid your father’s death is now being treated as suspicious.’
Christopher shook his head violently. ‘No. No, it can’t be. No one would hurt my father. No one. Unless –’ He stopped again. ‘Have you questioned Lucy Standish? She had just seen my father that day. She had every reason to be angry with our family.’
‘Oh? Why exactly?’ The sergeant held his gaze. ‘Because she thought you had killed her husband, you mean?’
‘No! No, I do not mean that!’ Christopher stared icily from one man to the other. ‘This is all complete nonsense. How dare you suggest I had anything to do with any of this?’
Pulman stood up slowly and his colleague followed suit. ‘We are not suggesting anything beyond telling you what the driver of the car which killed Standish told us, sir,’ Pulman said slowly. ‘I am sure you have an alibi for the evening your father died, and I am sure we would find it very hard to prove that you were acquainted with Ponting, but we will be looking into both matters. We’ll leave you now, but I should warn you we will probably be talking to you again. Sir.’ The final Sir was emphasised just enough to make it chilling.
Christopher stood in the doorway watching as the two men climbed back into their car and turned it on the gravel before disappearing down the drive. It was several minutes before he went back into the silent house, closed the front door and, with a nervous glance up the staircase towards the rest of the empty house, proceeded to pour himself a large whisky.
Tuesday 17th September, night
Stashing the incriminating attaché case in a dark corner of the passageway just inside the front door, Mike quietly pushed open the door into his sitting room. The lamp on the table was lit and Charlotte was standing with her back to the fireplace, arms folded as she waited for him. He stared at her, shocked at the sight of her. Her hair was tangled, her face devoid of make-up, her jeans and shirt unironed.
‘You’ve been a long time,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t expecting anyone to be waiting for me.’ He kept his voice calm.
‘Where were you?’
‘I don’t think that is any of your business.’ He walked over to the bookcase and turned on another light. ‘Please, Charlotte. It’s late and I am tired. I don’t think there is any point in us going over things again, do you?’ He could see her hands shaking.
‘You love me, Michael,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘No, Charlotte, I don’t. You and I had a lovely time together but it didn’t work out. I am sorry. These things happen.’
‘You told me we were going to marry.’
‘No!’ His voice sharpened. ‘No, I never said that. I never gave marriage a thought, Charlotte. I am sorry. I am not ready to marry anyone.’
‘Except Lucy Standish.’
He shook his head in despair. ‘I don’t know where you have got this idea from. I have no intention of marrying Lucy. Or of having an affair with her. Or anything, as you would know if you paused to give it half a second’s thought. Charlotte, give this up, please, for both our sakes. You’re a lovely woman. You will find the right man. I am not marriage material, truly.’
‘But you are.’ There were tears running down her cheeks.
‘No. I’m not. And I don’t want to be. Now please. Go home.’
‘I bought some things for your house. I was going to make it nice for you.’
‘Charlotte, for God’s sake. You tried to burn the place down!’ Finally he was losing patience. ‘Go. Now.’
She gave a miserable little smile. ‘I could burn this down.’
‘Yes, and I could call the police. I want the key. Now please. I thought you had given it to me.’
She sat down abruptly on the arm of one of the chairs. ‘I had copies made. Lots of copies.’
‘Very well. I will have to have the locks changed. Please leave, Charlotte.’
‘You’ve got my key.’
He felt a twinge of guilt. ‘Yes, true, and I was going to post it back to you.’ He had the presence of mind not to pull it out of his pocket. ‘I’ll find it for you and then I want you to go.’ He walked over to the desk and pulled out one of the drawers.
‘It’s not in there. I looked.’ She shivered.
He scanned the desk hurriedly. ‘So, have you taken anything?’
‘Why would I?’
Because you are a manipulative, devious bitch. He managed to stop himself from saying it. ‘Why indeed?’
She staggered to her feet. ‘I could call the police. Tell them you have molested me, kept me here against my will.’
He laughed. ‘They would find that hard to believe, I suspect, when I beg them on my knees to take you away.’
For a moment he thought she was going to hit him. If she was she changed her mind. ‘I’m going, but don’t forget I know where Lucy lives. You will never be with her, Michael, I will see to that.’ She stood quite still for several seconds, her eyes locked on his face as though memorising every detail, then she walked out of the room.
For several seconds he was incapable of moving, chilled by her expression as much as her words, then he followed her. To his relief she had walked past the case without seeing it. She opened the door and went outside, staring up and down the street.
‘Shall I come with you and make sure you get a taxi?’ he said.
She glared at him. ‘I’ll walk.’
‘It’s late, Charlotte. You need to be careful.’
‘Why?’ She spun round. ‘If I was murdered it would get me out of your hair, wouldn’t it? But life is not that easy, Michael. I will never be out of your hair. Never.’ She walked away without looking back. He stood on the step watching her until she had turned the corner, then he stepped back inside and closed the door on the night. Even after drawing the bolts he didn’t feel safe.
Tuesday 17th September, late
Christopher was packing the smallest and most portable paintings into his car, carefully wedging them with blankets. He had had them secreted in a cupboard in one of the back bedrooms, a cupboard which his nosy daughter had not discovered. Frances had rung him from Scotland to say they had arrived safely and that she would be staying up there for the time being. He didn’t argue. To hell with school. If they never went back it wouldn’t matter. Let their grandparents organise something in Scotland. It suited him fine t
o have the house to himself. Or it had until the wretched police had turned up with their news about Lee Ponting. He had never heard of the man. For a while he had been completely confused until they had mentioned Laurence Standish and the car crash. The stupid, insane car crash. His hands shook at the thought of what had happened. A man had been killed, for God’s sake, and the stupid picture had escaped. Of all the incompetent, bungling idiots his contacts had had to pick this one. He pushed another picture into the car and saw a flake of soft blue oil paint scrape off and fall on the gravel. Stupid! Careful. He paused and tried to steady himself before carefully pushing the door shut.
There was room for a couple more on the passenger seat. He took the stairs two at a time and headed back down the passage. There were still several large paintings in the room. He would have to hire a van to move them, but at least he would have got the majority out of the house. For the time being he had hired a secure storage unit in Southampton. No one would find them there.
Behind him the door closed quietly in the draught from the hall downstairs. He swung round, his nerves on edge. A shadowy figure was standing near the bed looking down at the picture leaning against the wall.
Christopher froze, the hairs on the back of his neck and along his forearms standing on end. For a moment he was speechless, taking in the man’s shape, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He was paralysed with terror. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he gasped at last. His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Get out!’
The figure didn’t move. It was intent on looking at the painting. It was an oil entitled Christ Church, Church Row, Hampstead, dated 1956. The painting had never been finished; there was a small patch in the corner where the charcoal sketch beneath showed through, and the sky had not been filled in.
For several seconds nothing happened, then as the figure faded it turned towards him, the blank eyes appearing to look right through him, and he recognised the gaunt features of his grandfather, Eddie Marston.
Wednesday 18th September
Rosebank Cottage was shut tight when Lucy arrived. She took out her key and put it in the door. It didn’t turn, and now that she was looking properly she could see the lock had been changed. Her heart sank. She headed along the path in front of the window and round the corner to the lawn and the studio. That lock too was new. She stood for several seconds undecided what to do then slowly she turned back towards the road. Had he done this to keep her out? Had he changed his mind again about helping her? She had reached the gate when she saw a small figure hobbling down the lane towards her. It was Dolly.
‘Come in!’ Dolly was puffing by the time she reached the top of the steps. She opened the door and led the way indoors.
Lucy followed without a word.
Dolly stared round in disapproval. ‘Look what happens if I’m not here to keep an eye on things. Still, it won’t take me two ticks. Let me put the coffee on for you first. Have you been in the studio yet?’
Lucy looked at her in confusion. ‘Dolly, the locks have all been changed.’
‘Yes and a fine to-do I had getting that done …’ Dolly broke off suddenly. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
Lucy shook her head.
Dolly let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Silly man. I can’t believe it. Charlotte Thingy, the stupid woman, broke into his place in London. She threatened to set fire to it, and to this cottage. She told him she had made copies of all his keys so he rang me and told me I had to get back here and arrange to have all the locks changed. Can you believe it? What is it? Why are you smiling?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I thought he had changed them to keep me out.’
Dolly was stunned into silence for a moment. ‘Why should he do that?’
‘Because at one point not that long ago he said he didn’t want me to come here any more.’
Dolly turned to the sink to fill the kettle. For several seconds she didn’t say anything, then at last she turned to face Lucy. ‘It’s my opinion,’ she said slowly, ‘that Mr Michael is quite fond of you. He would never shut you out.’ She reached for coffee and mugs. ‘You know he is coming down this morning,’ she said after a moment.
‘No.’ Lucy felt a flutter of unease.
‘He said he had found Evie’s attaché case and he wanted you there when it was opened. He found it in Thingy’s flat.’
Lucy’s unease turned to suppressed excitement. ‘Of course. He told me about it.’
‘He stole it back from her.’ Dolly beamed approvingly. ‘Anyway, here you are. He will be here soon. You drink your coffee while I run round the cottage with a duster. He would be horrified if he saw the state it’s in. The lock man with his drills and things made dust everywhere.’ She left Lucy sitting in the kitchen.
In less than ten minutes the door opened and Mike looked in. ‘I tried to ring you at the vicarage but there was no reply and your mobile was off.’ He walked over to her, hesitated and then to her surprise reached out to kiss her cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. Dolly told me you thought I had changed the locks to keep you out. I am sorry. ‘
She suppressed a grin. ‘Easy mistake to make.’
‘Indeed.’ He gave her a rueful smile. ‘But I told you I had got the case. Come on through and we’ll open it. I don’t think there is a key so we may have to lever the locks back. I’ll just check with Dolly. If there is a key she would know.’
There wasn’t. Mike produced a screwdriver and they put the small case on the table. The two women watched while he inserted the blade under the catches. It only took a matter of seconds before the lid was open.
The case was full of papers and sealed envelopes.
1959
The solicitor looked at Evie with genuine sympathy as he showed her into his Chichester office and pulled out a chair for her. Outside the traffic in South Street was very busy.
‘I was so sorry to hear of your mother’s death. I knew your father and mother for many years, of course, and our firm has dealt with your father’s family for many generations.’ He smiled.
Evie nodded, fighting her tears. Her mother had been found lying on Ralph’s bed. She had looked, so she had been told, completely peaceful with a small smile on her lips. The doctor said it was a heart attack and that he had warned her that her heart was weak, but Evie wondered if that was true. Perhaps Rachel had just chosen to go to Ralph at last. It was what she would have wanted.
‘Of course, my job is to read you the will.’ The solicitor paused. ‘But I am sure you already know it. Your father left the farm to you and your brother.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Your late brother. Which means that on the death of your mother everything comes to you.’ He paused. ‘You are a married woman, I believe?’
Evie nodded.
‘Your husband is not with you?’
Evie shook her head. ‘I don’t want him to know about this. I want the farm sold and I want the money.’ She sat forward on the edge of her chair. ‘There must be a way to keep it from him. He won’t give me a divorce. I need that money to leave him. You must help me. I have to buy somewhere to live where he can’t find me. Ever.’
31
September 20th 1960
George arrived only four months after she and Johnny had settled in to Rosebank. ‘You can’t leave me with him, Mummy, you can’t.’ The boy, for all his fifteen years, had tears in his eyes. He was still in school uniform and had only a haversack with him. ‘Why did you go without me? I don’t understand.’
George had been away at school when Evie had finally plucked up courage to go. She doubted if Eddie would ever rest if his son went too. She took nothing from the house in Hampstead. She had all she needed from her parents’ home. The farm had sold quickly and only months later she had moved into Rosebank Cottage, using some of the extra money to build her studio, putting the rest into the bank. For the first time in what seemed a lifetime she was secure and happy, or she would have been, were it not for George. She missed him dreadfully. She felt guilty at leaving him
. She wrote to him at school and he wrote back begging her to let him come to her. His father, he said, was so angry he didn’t want to go home. Ever.
She should have known that if George came, Eddie would follow.
His fury and his spite were a shock after several months without seeing him.
He pushed the front door open so hard it slammed against the wall and looked into the sitting room. his face twisted with disdain. George stared at his father in terror and fled into the garden.
Evie straightened her shoulders. ‘How did you find us?’
‘I won’t even dignify that remark with an answer,’ he retorted. ‘I’m taking George back with me.’
Evie folded her arms. To her surprise after the initial shock she found she wasn’t afraid of him any more. ‘That is up to George,’ she said. ‘If he wishes to stay I am prepared to look after him. If you insist he goes with you I will have to tell him that I can’t fight for him through the courts because I am not his real mother. You never told him that, did you.’
Eddie froze. He held her gaze for several seconds before sitting on the sofa and slumping back against the cushions, visibly deflated. ‘That would destroy the boy.’
‘Yes, it would.’ She tightened her lips.
‘And Johnny?’ Eddie managed a sneer.
‘He is away at university.’
Eddie’s gaze sharpened. ‘And who is paying for that?’
‘My father paid for that,’ she said quietly, ‘in his will. Don’t worry. Johnny will never be a call on your purse again and neither will I. And now I would like you to leave.’
To her astonishment he went. Without another word he turned and walked out of the door, leaving it open behind him. She had no doubt he would be back or that at the very least she would hear from his solicitors but to her surprise there was no further word from him. George fitted seamlessly into the cottage and to her further surprise Johnny didn’t object when he found he was sharing his small bedroom. The boys would never be close, she realised, but at least for the time being they seemed to get on well, perhaps cemented in their relationship by their dislike of their father. She sent George to Lancing College and to her joy found she could paint again now she was embedded once more in her beloved Sussex countryside.
The Darkest Hour Page 50