Local Artist

by Paul Trembling

  She forgave my sarcasm with a hug. “Don’t worry, we can fix this. But you’d better come and sleep at ours tonight. You can’t stay here with this mess.”

  “Thanks. I do appreciate that. But I’ve got other plans.”

  She gave me a suspicious look. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I’m going to treat myself. I’m going to a hotel tonight. Coren Hall Hotel.”

  *

  They’d moved the entrance to Coren Hall. The new route in was from the village, on the opposite side of the Hall from where I had been chased off on my visit. And it was a lot nicer too, in my opinion. No more rusty gates, crumbling stonework, and overgrown drives. Now there was a proper noticeboard which said “Welcome” and promised all sorts of comforts and luxuries. Over and above the meals and beds which you’d expect from a hotel, there was a spa including a sauna, a massage parlour and beauty parlour, a golf course, tennis courts, gymnasium, and (coming soon) a swimming pool.

  None of this was a surprise; I’d checked the website first. I’d also checked the prices and had nearly given up on the idea. They were almost as frightening as the dogs I’d met previously. But I’d already made up my mind – I was going back to Coren Hall and this time I wasn’t going to be put off.

  I drove through the entrance – flanked by very new looking granite pillars – and up a long, sweeping, and well-tarmacked drive. It continued to sweep, curving round to the west and back again to show the Hall from several angles. Perched on top of the hill, the square Georgian building looked suitably impressive. Especially as the lowering sun tinged the grey walls with ruddy gold.

  It had taken most of the day to get there. Contacting our insurance company and arranging for the door to be replaced had taken several hours by itself. Checking on Brodie, arranging for him to stay with Mrs Steel overnight, thanking neighbours, and assuring everyone that I was fine and Graham was going to be – that took up another considerable chunk of the day. Sorting through some clothing for him and for me took a while – nearly everything seemed to smell of smoke. Fortunately, my best jacket and skirt ensemble had been inside a suit bag, which seemed to have protected it. I was relieved to get out of the tracksuit and trainers, which were starting to hurt my eyes.

  I’d also fitted in a little research and contacted Coren Hall to book my room. It was late afternoon by the time I’d finished everything, tossed Graham’s things into one bag and my own into another, and headed for my car. Then headed back into the house for the painkillers I’d left behind, and for my laptop, in case I wanted to do some more research. Finally, to the hospital again, to see Graham and drop off the various items that I’d collected for him, before getting out of town.

  Now I was here, I wondered again why. I had to admit it was partly because I was being stubborn and bloody-minded and someone had tried to scare me off again. But this time, I wasn’t having it. So I was picking up the trail where I had left it the last time.

  I told myself that there was a certain logic in that. But my reasons went beyond logic. There was a conviction that somehow this was the next step. That there was a connection between events that ran through Coren Hall.

  And I did need somewhere to stay for the night.

  The drive finally brought me to a wide gravelled space, where I parked my Fiesta alongside a clutch of shiny luxury saloons and sleek, expensive sports cars, took my bag, and went up to the grand double doors. They opened smoothly at my approach, ushering me into the entrance hall: two storeys of marble columns and wood panelling, with reception desk to match.

  The woman behind the desk was so perfectly turned out that I thought she might have been installed along with the desk. However, she proved to be human, at least enough to look momentarily shocked at the sight of my face. She was quick to hide her reaction behind her professional mask but I wasn’t surprised by it. I’d felt the same way, looking in a mirror. The dressings were off, and I’d found a hat to cover my forehead, but my cheeks still looked like raw skin.

  Good thing I’d changed out of the pink and lime green tracksuit, I thought. That really would have been too much. I hoped my best Sunday wear was acceptable.

  “Sandra Deeson,” I announced. “I phoned earlier.” My voice, I thought, had a very husky tone to it. Small reward for the raging sore throat.

  “Certainly, ma’am. Just one moment, please.” The mannequin raised a perfectly poised arm and pressed buttons on her keyboard. “Ah, yes. Mrs Deeson. Room 34.” She passed over the key – actually a strip of plastic with the number on the outside and no doubt a small computer’s worth of electronics on the inside.

  “Thank you. And can I get something to eat? I haven’t managed any lunch today.”

  There had been endless cups of tea or coffee as I did the rounds of the neighbours, along with various selections of cake and/or biscuits, but I’d had nothing substantial since the hospital breakfast. I wasn’t sure how much I could actually swallow, given the way my throat felt, but my stomach insisted that I should try.

  “I’m afraid dinner isn’t available until after seven.” She sounded desperately sorry, in a very practised and professional way. “But they are still serving afternoon tea in the small dining room. I can have your bags… bag sent up for you if you want to go straight there?”

  “That would be fine.” I hoisted my battered black sports bag onto the polished wood of the reception desk, feeling as if I’d committed an act of desecration. “Which way, please?”

  In a beautifully choreographed movement, she pointed across the room. “Through the doorway, and straight along the corridor to the end. I do hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mrs Deeson.”

  I nodded and followed directions, repenting of my catty thoughts as I did so. She was probably a very nice person if you got to know her outside her job, and certainly wasn’t responsible for my poor temper. But then again, considering the sort of day I’d had, and how I felt, a bad temper was only reasonable, and at least I was only thinking things, not saying them.

  The corridor was a long one. Long and high, with polished wood panels, parquet flooring, large paintings (mostly reproductions of Constable or Turner, or knock-offs done in their style), and some uncomfortable-looking chairs here and there. I tried to imagine it as a school, with kids going to and from lessons. It wouldn’t have looked so grand then, with the floors scuffed and the panels scratched.

  I’d never been able to get a clear idea of how many pupils the school had had, or even of what sort of school it was. One version I’d heard was that it was a charitable institution for orphaned children, many of them from other countries. Another, that it was a special private school for the offspring of rich families who had – as we would now say – “special needs”. Or, less diplomatically, a place where family embarrassments could be hidden away. Whatever the real truth was had been kept hidden: Coren Hall School had been a shrouded place. Churchill’s phrase – “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma” – fitted it perfectly.

  Doors and corridors opened off the main passageway at regular intervals, most of them with discreet little brass plaques to assist guests: “Drawing Room” – “Games Room” – “Sauna and Massage Parlour” – “Orangery”. I peered hopefully down passages and around doors, not knowing what I was looking for but irrationally certain that there was something to be found.

  Irrational or not, I was right.

  The doors at the end of the corridor were open. As I came close enough to see through, I felt the hairs on the back of my head rising. They really did. And the air seemed to get thicker and harder to breathe, while the walls and side passages faded out of my vision so that I barely noticed the plaque announcing that this was the “Small Dining Room”. All my attention was focused on the space that opened up in front of me. A room I had never been in before, but which I recognized instantly.

  I stood in the doorway and tuned out the extraneous noise. The tables and chairs, the small group of people chatting over tea and cakes over by the windows, the
man on his own to my left, sipping daintily at a cup. The waiter coming towards me, his smile of welcome turning slightly bemused as I just stood there and ignored him.

  With those elements mentally deleted, it became clear. The proportions were the same, the tall bay window at the far end was the same.

  I had seen this room before. In the painting Sir Arthur had shown me.

  A discreet cough from the waiter brought me back to the present. “Will madam be taking afternoon tea?” he enquired.

  “Er – yes, madam will,” I confirmed. He showed me to a table, provided a menu, and after a few minutes of perusal, I ordered something that would be gentle on my throat and not too harsh on my bank account.

  The chattering group finished their tea and left. The solitary man was reading something on his mobile, while the waiter – having served me with commendable speed and efficiency – busied himself with clearing away the tea things. I was left to consider the room over a three-tier stack of crust-less sandwiches, cream cakes, and a pot of tea. Far too much for one person, but I was hungry and ready to make an effort.

  I had hoped to find something, expected it even. But actually doing so was still a surprise. I fumbled for my phone to check the pictures I had taken.

  The phone was wrong. The buttons weren’t where they should be. I stared at it blankly for a moment before realizing that I had Graham’s phone.

  I remembered the rush with which I’d packed a bag for him. I’d actually put it in the car before realizing that I’d got his charger, but not the phone. I’d gone back inside, found it, and put it in my handbag. Then, at the hospital, I’d forgotten to take it out again.

  So that meant I’d have to make another trip to the hospital! Well, I was going back to see him tomorrow anyway. It could wait until then. He probably wouldn’t be needing it overnight.

  I slipped it into a pocket, where I was less likely to forget it. Then I fumbled some more, found my own mobile, and scrolled through the photos.

  Yes, it was definitely the same room. In much better condition now than shown in the painting, but the same.

  I thought through the implications. The unknown artist had been here – here at Coren Hall! Probably when it was a school. And he had been at the farmhouse. He’d known both places: the link between them was established beyond all doubt. It was not so much a revelation as a confirmation. I’d always suspected it.

  And it also made a link between Coren Hall School and Sir Arthur, I realized. He may not have recognized the depiction in the painting, but it had been a long time ago – and he had admitted that it was familiar. Moreover, the artist clearly thought that Sir Arthur should know it. The note had talked about a trip down memory lane, hadn’t it?

  Well, actually (I corrected myself), it had said specifically “Memory Lane”. Which Sir Arthur had thought might be a reference to his first painting – something so far in the past and so obscure that very few people would know about it. Apart from Sir Arthur himself, of course.

  And, perhaps, anyone he had told about it?

  My head was spinning with the abundance of new thoughts and new possibilities. This could be crucial information, I realized, and David Macrae should know about it as soon as possible.

  I finished off a cream bun – the fresh cream did seem to be good for my throat – and called him.

  It went to voicemail. I considered calling June, she should probably be back at work by now – but then again, perhaps not. I smiled, remembering Rob and the ring. It might be that June had taken a little more time off to deal with personal matters. In any case, there was no need to bother either of them, it wasn’t that urgent.

  Instead I sent Macrae a text. “Re. painting sent to Sir A. Location is a room in Coren Hall! Interesting implications, call me when you can.”

  And returned to enjoying my afternoon tea.

  I was just using the last of the pot to wash down my next dose of painkillers, when my phone rang. Not David, June.

  “Hi, June – have you got any news to tell me, then?”

  “What? Yes. Yes I’ve got news.”

  She sounded grim. Not like someone about to announce their engagement. Had something gone disastrously wrong? But she was still speaking.

  “The DI got your text. Where are you now?”

  “At the hotel. Coren Hall Hotel, that is. Why? Where’s David?”

  “Who? Oh, Jimmy. He’s in a meeting. Listen, Sandra, you’ve got to get out of there!”

  “Get out? Why? I’ve only just got here and I need to look around a bit more…”

  “No! Don’t look around, don’t do anything! I’m sending a police car for you. Be ready!”

  “A police car?” I had a vision of being bundled down the steps into a marked-up vehicle, with blue lights flashing and guests watching. “No! No need for that. I’ve got my own car. I’ll leave immediately. But – what’s going on, June?”

  There was a brief pause. I could hear background noises – an office it sounded like. A very busy office. Frantically busy, even.

  “OK. Sandra, we found out today that the hotel, the village, the farmhouse – the entire estate in fact – is owned by Sir Arthur. Was owned by him, that is. Though Jonathan Carr seems to have been in charge and responsible for all the work done in recent years.”

  “Oh, I see. But surely that doesn’t mean I’m in danger, does it? I’m sure not from Sir Arthur, anyway, and even Carr wouldn’t do anything in a public place – would he?”

  Another long pause. One which to my mind had ominous tones.

  “Right. What I’m going to tell you – keep to yourself. Absolutely to yourself, you understand, Sandra? The press doesn’t know yet; we want to keep them out of it as long as possible. There’s going to be a media circus when it hits.”

  “When what hits? What are you talking about, June?”

  “Sir Arthur is dead.”

  I felt myself gaping.

  “What? How? I mean – was he ill? Or an accident?”

  “No. None of that. Sandra, he was murdered. Shot. Sometime last night, or early this morning.”

  “Shot – but who? Why?”

  “Obviously we’re working on that. But our immediate concern is that Jonathan Carr has disappeared. No trace of him anywhere. And in view of recent events, we’re very concerned for your safety. We’ve got a police officer at the hospital for your husband, but you’re in a very exposed position just now – that’s why you have to leave there immediately!”

  “OK. Right – I understand. I’m leaving. Ah – where to? The police station?”

  “Yes. Oh, on second thoughts, perhaps better not. It’s a madhouse here at the moment; you’d end up sitting in an interview room all night.”

  “Well, I can’t go home. There’s friends I could go to – but if Carr knows about them, I can’t put them at risk like that.” I thought of Yvonne, who would certainly take me in no matter what. But Sir Arthur had been shot! And perhaps by his own nephew. I couldn’t expose her to that danger. “Haven’t you got some sort of safe house?”

  “We’re the police, not MI5!” she retorted. “OK. I understand what you’re saying. You need somewhere that has no connection with your work or normal life at all.”

  “Yes.”

  “Right then. Go to 24 Northumberland Avenue. Near Eastgate. Have you got a satnav?”

  I confirmed that I had, and she added a postcode. “Go there and wait outside. Text me and I’ll come and meet you.”

  “I’ll do that. But whose house is it?”

  “Mine. Not a problem. I’ve got a history of taking in strays. Ask Rob. Got to go now.”

  She broke the connection.

  Mechanically, my mind numb, I put away the phone, picked up my handbag, and left the room. Back along the corridor to reception.

  The same girl was still at the desk. “Ah, Mrs Deeson – I’ve had your bag put in your room.”

  “Thank you. Can you get it back again, please?”

  She looked puzzled.
“I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid so. I’ve had to change my plans. I won’t be staying.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m afraid a cancellation at this stage…”

  “Yes, right, whatever. I’m sorry, but I must hurry. Please can I have the bill? And my bag?”

  She seemed to take it personally, but got over her upset and produced a bill which made afternoon tea the most expensive meal I’d ever had. My bag was returned, and I was back outside, in my car, and driving off again.

  It was dark. I concentrated on the road, and the satnav, especially as I got into an unfamiliar part of town. Especially as I was trying not to think about Sir Arthur. About that charming, enthusiastic, brilliant man. About his latest painting, his vision of past and future drawn together, which would never now be finished.

  My eyes were blurring. I had to pull over and wipe them before I could continue.

  Could Carr really have shot his uncle? I knew he was unpleasant, a bit of a bully. And I could even believe he’d committed the murder in the library. But his own uncle?

  And the answer was, yes, of course he could have. Why not? History is full of family members killing each other.

  I reached the address, a well-kept semi, and sent the text. June sent back that she was on her way, and sure enough, pulled up behind me ten minutes later.

  She gave me a long look as I got out of the car. “I hate to say this, Sandra, but frankly, you look like…”

  “Yes, I know!” I was getting good at interrupting people. “It’s been a rough week.” I glanced down at her hands, and sure enough, something glittered that I hadn’t seen before. Not on her finger, anyway. “Interesting week for you, though.”

  June looked at the ring with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher. Like she was thrilled by it, but wondering why she was. “Yes, certainly that. Can you believe Rob’s timing? Right in the middle of a murder investigation!”

  “If you want sensitivity, you’ll have to look further I’m afraid.”

  She grinned. “If I wanted sensitivity, I wouldn’t bother with men at all. Come on, let’s get you settled down inside. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you on your own for a while and get back to the station. The news has got out, the media are all over it, and we desperately need to get some traction on this. So far, there’s no sign of Carr and nothing useful from forensics.”