“Time was when ‘young lady’ would have been an accurate description,” I answered. “Thank you for seeing me, Sir Arthur.”
“It’s all relative,” he said ruefully. “From my point of view, every lady is a young one. There’s no one left whom I could call an old lady!”
He chuckled, and I joined in with him. Slightly to my surprise, I found myself liking Arthur Templeton. He had a natural charm that made that easy.
“And please drop that ‘Sir’,” he continued. “It’s very useful on occasion, but to be honest, I’ve never really felt comfortable with it. Just ‘Arthur’ will do.”
“OK, but then I’m Sandra.”
We were standing in a semicircular hall, polished tiles reflecting ornate plasterwork in keeping with the exterior. A rather grand staircase circled the room, sweeping up to the next floor from left to right. Directly ahead of us, on the wall above the staircase, was a large portrait: a young man, dark haired and incredibly handsome, half sitting and half leaning against the bonnet of a silver sports car, backdropped by some stately home that I didn’t recognize.
I stared at it for a moment before recognition clicked in. “That’s you!”
“Oh, good. I’m glad that there are still traces of the original underneath this worn old canvas!” He looked up at it with a smile. “A little narcissistic to keep it up there, perhaps, but it’s a reminder of other times and places. And it’s the only one of my early paintings that I still have.”
“Really? You must have painted hundreds of portraits.” I continued to stare up at the young Arthur Templeton, a man with all of life before him. With those looks and that natural charm – not to mention his talent – it was no wonder that he was such a social success.
“Almost all on commission, and the rest were sold when I went travelling.” I glanced at him but he carried on without looking at me. “I painted that as a way of advertising what I could do – worked quite well, too! Put it into storage for a long while, but now I seem to be finally settled here, I thought it was time to get it out again.”
“It’s very impressive.” I meant it. The painting wasn’t just technically good, it conveyed a strong sense of the person who was both subject and artist. There was confidence, a certain amount of arrogance perhaps, in the careless way he reclined on the expensive vehicle. A challenge in the direct gaze. And something in the smile that took the edge off it; that said, “This is fun, don’t take it too seriously!”
“Well, thank you.” Sir Arthur inclined his head. “Would you like to come and see my studio?”
He said it with a coy little wink, but at the same time there was something in his face which I couldn’t quite identify. A sort of shy hopefulness that seemed out of place for someone as rich and famous as him.
“What girl could resist that line?” I smiled. He laughed and led the way through a door and down a long corridor towards the rear of the house.
“I was sorry to have missed my visit to your library, Sandra. Terrible, terrible tragedy, of course. But apart from that, I was looking forward to seeing the place again.”
“You know the library? Bromwell Street?” I’d known he was a local man, but the connection still came as a surprise.
“Oh, yes. Or at least I used to. When I was a lad I spent more time in there than I did at home! I dare say it’s changed a bit since then, though.”
“There’s probably a lot you’d recognize,” I told him, thinking of all the original Victorian architecture. “Possibly even some of the same books!”
He chuckled. “This place, on the other hand, is brand new.” He waved a hand at the corridor, which was in keeping with the entrance hall – spotless and beautifully decorated along its length – but it had an empty feeling. It didn’t feel like somewhere that people lived. “Paint’s barely dry… I would have preferred something with a bit more character, and perhaps a bit smaller. Ridiculous, just the two of us rattling around in here. But Jonathan, my nephew, wanted something a bit more…” He flapped a hand around to indicate the “bit more”.
“Plenty of room for guests, though?” I suggested.
“Guests? Oh, I suppose so.” We’d come to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. “But it does have other advantages – such as…”
He pushed the doors open.
Beyond them was a conservatory – quite a large one; probably as big as the entire ground floor of my house. Walls and a ceiling of glass filled the space with light, even though it was a dull day. But instead of housing comfortable furniture and pot plants – which is what I would have had in a conservatory – the room had become an artist’s studio.
There were at least half a dozen easels scattered around the room. Some had sketches, some had photographs pinned to corkboard, some were occupied by paintings in various stages of completion. More canvases were stacked against the walls, and a large table in the middle of the room was cluttered with rags, pencils, paints, brushes, sheets of paper, mugs, plates, and a sleeping cat.
I stepped into the room and sniffed, inhaling at full strength the same odours that had clung faintly to the envelope.
“Distinctive, isn’t it?” Sir Arthur stepped in behind me. “I love that smell! Though I’m so used to it that I hardly notice it now.”
“I thought you’d given up painting.”
He shook his head. “Never! No, I never gave up. I did put things on hold for a while. But that was always only a temporary thing.” He led the way into the room and gestured at the easels. “I’ve given up on portraits, though. Gone back to my roots, as it were.”
I took a longer look at the various photographs, sketches and paintings, and saw a common theme. They were all buildings, streets, factories and shops and warehouses. The people in them were there as part of the whole, not distinctive subjects in themselves.
“Not many people remember that I started with industrial landscapes, and that was where my real interest was.” Sir Arthur peered critically at one of the paintings. “Portraits turned out to be where the money was, though, so that’s what I mostly did, until I… decided to leave it all behind for a bit. But what really interests me isn’t so much individuals, but the things we humans do together. Recognize that?” He tapped the canvas he had been looking at. A large one, at least five feet long and four high.
It was nearly completed, I saw, and it did look familiar: a towering edifice to industry, red brick and grey slate. “Hmm… is it the Arkwright Mill?”
“Masson Mill, in Derbyshire. One of Arkwright’s mills. Built in 1783 to harness the power of the River Derwent. Still impressive now, isn’t it? But can you imagine how it must have appeared to people back then? How stunning, how exciting it must have been?”
He was laughing, thrilled with his vision – and relishing the chance to share it with someone else. It wasn’t hard to play along with him, the enthusiasm was contagious.
“And that’s what you’re trying to capture?”
“Oh, it’s more than that. Look closer! Look at the people!”
I turned back to the painting and followed his instructions. It wasn’t easy to make out details, for whereas the building itself was sharp and clear, with fine detail brought out in the brickwork and windows, the people entering and leaving and passing by were slightly blurry, insubstantial even. It took me a moment to realize that they were shown in the clothing of different periods. Long skirts, full skirts, short skirts, and minis; coats with tails, double-breasted coats, anoraks, and parkas; top hats, wide hats, bowler hats, and hoodies… all mingled, all busily about their ephemeral business in their different times, while behind them the great mill stood solid and unchanging through the years.
“We build these places, but then they outlast us – we create them, but then they come to define and control us. We fit our lives in and around what we have built.” He shook his head. “I first saw that mill when I was a boy, and was fascinated by the thought of all that history, all those people whose lives have touched it. Or b
een touched by it. I’ve wanted to paint it ever since. I’m working from photographs now, getting too old for wandering around with an easel! But I’m realizing a dream at last. Saying something I’ve always wanted to say.”
He touched the painting again, almost caressed it.
“That’s wonderful,” I said, in all sincerity.
“Thank you. Very good of you to say so. But I’m waffling on about all this, and you wanted to show me something?” He raised an eyebrow and nodded at the envelope I was carrying.
“Oh, yes.”
I opened the envelope and took out the painting. The vivid colour of sunlight on the flower, its contrast to the grey death all around it, made me catch my breath all over again.
“Oh, my. That’s rather powerful, isn’t it? May I?” Sir Arthur took it from my hands and held it out at arm’s length, examining it intently. “How did you come by this?”
“It was a gift.” I hesitated, unsure of how much to tell him. “I was wondering what you could tell me about it.”
“Well, it’s obviously mixed media, and clearly the intention with that was to emphasize the difference between the living flower – which has the light – and the dead ones.” He took it over to an easel and put it in place, covering some assorted sketches of Masson Mill. “Quite good work. A little raw, perhaps – some of it could have been more subtly executed, but the artist is clearly very talented. Do you know who did it?”
I shook my head. “It’s anonymous.”
“That’s a pity. But also very curious. Because as it happens I also had an anonymous gift recently – and… well, see for yourself.”
He went over to a stack of canvases leaned up against the wall, and pulled out a mounted picture from behind them. It was about the same size as mine. Sir Arthur took it to another easel, which he then moved until the two paintings were next to each other.
My jaw dropped.
Both mixed media. Both featuring a dramatic pool of colour in a room of black and grey. Side by side, the similarities were obvious – and stunning.
The subject matter, however, was different. Sir Arthur’s painting was set in a large room, which might even have been called grand – except that strips of wallpaper hung loosely, and plaster had fallen from the ceiling to form dreary piles on the bare and dirty floorboards. Such furniture as there was appeared worn and shabby, with cushions torn and legs broken. All this meticulously executed in pencil. Not as dark as my painting – there was even a large bay window in the background with no curtains, so the room should have been well lit – but it still had the same atmosphere of gloom. Nothing outside the window could be seen; anything beyond was obscured in a heavy mist.
In the centre of the room was an easel. And on the easel a painting glowed in brilliant colour.
The painting in the painting was of the same room. The same layout, the same furniture, the same bay window. But light flooded through this window and filled the whole space. A golden-hued wallpaper, clean and intact, accentuated the sunshine, the plaster was intact, the furniture immaculate, and bright rugs lay over polished floorboards. Beyond the window could be seen trees and fields stretching off into the distance.
“Of course, it’s all about the contrast, in both pictures. Not a hugely original idea, but very well executed.” Sir Arthur looked from one to the other, comparing. “I would say that the contrasts in the paintings are meant to represent another contrast – something in the artist’s mind, in their life perhaps?”
“Do you think they’re by the same person, then?”
He shrugged. “I’d have to study them more closely. But given the coincidence of style and timing, it would seem very likely. How did you receive yours?”
“It was left for me in the library.”
“Oh? Mine was left at our cleaning lady’s house. She says that she found it propped up against her door one morning when she was leaving to come here. With my name on, so she brought it straight to me. No clue as to who left it.”
“Was there a note or something like that?” I was thinking of the little Post-it that had accompanied mine.
“Yes. Quite interesting, actually, though it only deepened the mystery. It said, ‘Hope you enjoy a trip down memory lane. Come for a visit soon!’”
“Handwritten?”
“Yes, on one of those little yellow stick-note things. But I didn’t recognize the writing, if that’s what you were thinking.”
“Can I see it, perhaps?”
“Sorry, I threw it away. Didn’t seem that important. Though there was something curious about the message itself. ‘Memory Lane’ was capitalized, like a title. And the thing is, the first painting I ever sold was one I called ‘Memory Lane’.” He smiled, half to himself. “Not bad for a twelve-year-old boy. It was of the street where I lived – just rows of terraced houses. I didn’t start from privilege! I put it into a little art competition that was running in the church hall. Didn’t win any prizes, which was a disappointment, but then someone offered me five pounds for it, which I was thrilled with!” He grinned. “Five pounds was a lot of money in those days – especially for a kid.”
I grinned back. “A fortune, in fact!”
We laughed together, and in one of those incredible moments of connectivity that happen so rarely between people, I knew we were sharing the same thought. That five pounds was nothing compared to what his portraits had sold for. But no amount of money could have matched the thrill of that first experience. Because it wasn’t about the money at all: it was knowing that you had done something which had value.
But I needed to get back on track. “When did you get the painting, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not at all… Let me see, it was just before the exhibition was supposed to happen. About six or seven days ago, I think? I’m afraid I don’t keep track of time as well as I might, holed up here on my own!”
I stood next to him, looking at the paintings. “They’re saying something, aren’t they? There’s a message in each one, something about the exhibition.” I took out my mobile. “Can I get a picture of your painting?”
“Of course.”
I went to the camera app and started taking photos. Different angles, to get different light: long shots and close-ups. “Do you recognize the place at all, Sir Arthur?”
“Please. Just plain ‘Arthur’ is quite sufficient for informal occasions! Actually, I have thought that there’s something familiar about it, but I’m not sure what. Somewhere I visited a long time ago, perhaps?”
Thirty years ago? I wondered, but didn’t say it. I hesitated over telling him what I knew about my painting. Would it help things along or not? It depended on whether he knew about the farmhouse – and what had happened there.
As I was putting my phone away, it buzzed. A text – from Macrae.
“Carr has left the station, in a hurry, presumed on his way back. Finish up and leave.”
Something inside me turned icy cold. I glanced at my watch. How long would Carr take to get here? Not long, in that Porsche, especially if he ignored the speed limits. Of course, he might get stuck in the traffic as we had – but more than likely he knew his way around and would avoid the worst bottlenecks. And I didn’t know how long ago he’d left the station. I might have ten minutes. Or perhaps only five.
“Urgent message?” asked Sir Arthur.
I nodded. “Someone’s waiting for me. I’ll have to go.”
“Oh, that’s a pity. This is a fascinating little puzzle we have here. As you say, there is a message here. Or two messages, perhaps. Of course, art always has a message if it’s of any value at all. If you know how to look at it, that is. Often it says as much about the artist as the subject, but sometimes you have to know something about that artist to understand where he or she is coming from. I don’t suppose you have any clue at all as to who painted these?”
I shook my head. “No. There isn’t even a signature – at least, not on mine, and I don’t see one on yours either. Of course, yo
u didn’t sign your paintings either.”
He chuckled. “I did have that reputation.” He peered at my painting again.
Another buzz on my phone, which I still held in my hand. Another text from Macrae.
“Get out NOW!!!”
“I’m sorry, er, Arthur, but I really have to go…”
Sir Arthur wasn’t looking at me. He was still staring at my painting, but his face was pale, and the expression on his face was of utter shock.
“Sir Arthur?”
He ignored me, turned his attention to the other picture. He put his hand to his head in a gesture which would have seemed theatrical if he’d shown the slightest awareness of my presence, but for the moment I was forgotten. He said something, but not to me. Low and under his breath.
It was a bad time to be going, but with Jonathan Carr about to come up the drive at any moment, it was a worse time to be staying.
“I’m really sorry to rush out like this, but I do have to go. I’ll see myself out.” I snatched the painting off the easel, picked up the envelope, and headed for the door.
“And thank you!” I called out from the corridor.
He made no reply. He was still staring at the picture, and wiping his eyes with his hand.
I broke into a run down the corridor, wondering what I’d do if the front door was locked, but whatever other security mechanisms it might have had, it was held only by a Yale, and I was outside in a moment, and starting down the drive. Still running.
My phone buzzed yet again, and at the same time I heard a high-powered engine approaching at speed.
No time to answer the phone. I could guess what it said, anyway.
I veered off the drive, running flat out across the lawn, heading for the trees.
The engine noise was very loud, then there was a screech of brakes just outside the gates, and I knew I wasn’t going to make the trees.
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