“There was a feature on the news about him last night,” I remembered. “Wasn’t his father a farm labourer?”
“They were quick off the mark,” June commented. “But they got that bit right. Only John Waterhouse didn’t stay on the farm. When the war started he joined up. The army sent him out to Egypt, and he was killed at El Alamein. Which was bad enough for his wife and kid, but their home was a farm cottage. After he died, they had to move out. So she came here, looking for work, and got a job at Templeton Engineering. Seems she caught the boss’s eye. James Templeton was a widower, with two children – Nigel and Mary. They got married in 1948, when Arthur was eleven. At that time Nigel would have been fifteen, Mary fourteen.”
“Good move for Arthur and his mum,” I said.
“Aye, it was,” Macrae agreed. “It seems like Templeton Engineering had done well out of the war, and young Arthur got his first taste of the good things in life. Big house, better food and clothes, good schooling – he was on his way.”
“James was quite a bit older than his wife, though,” June continued. “He died in 1955, with no further children. The business wasn’t doing too well by then, once all the war contracts had finished, so it was sold off, and the family went their various ways. Nigel went into education, and was teaching at a fairly prestigious private school. Mary married an Aussie and moved over there with him. She became Mary Carr, and they had one son – Jonathan.”
“Ah, so he really is Sir Arthur’s nephew. I had wondered about that.”
“Yes, it’s genuine,” Macrae confirmed. “But there’s more. Nigel Templeton also married, but it didn’t work out well. The marriage broke down within a couple of years, with one son, Geraint, who seems to have been passed backwards and forwards between the two of them for a while, before his mother disappeared off the scene entirely. Nigel wasn’t doing well in other areas either. He lost his job at the private school – we don’t know why – and was in some difficulties. Fortunately for them, Arthur’s painting really began to take off about then, and that may have given Nigel an opportunity.”
He sorted through the file and pulled out a black-and-white photograph. “This was taken in the sixties. You’ll recognize Sir Arthur, unveiling one o’ his paintings at some big society event. But do you see the man standing next to him? That’s Nigel Templeton.”
I peered at the heavily built figure. “I think I know him! I saw him once – at Coren Hall! He chased me off, threatened to set the dogs on me!”
“Coren Hall, you say?” Macrae caught June’s eye. “Well, now that’s interesting. You know that the Hall and the entire estate was owned by Sir Arthur?”
“Yes, June told me.”
“Right. Well, his name was hidden behind a wall of paperwork, but some of our bright lads and lasses managed to dig through and get the story. The way it happened, we think, was that sometime in the late sixties, while Sir Arthur – just Arthur then, of course – was still a rising star, he came into ownership. It may have been in payment of a debt for one of his portraits; we don’t know. But if that was the case, he got a bad deal, because the Hall was in a poor state. Hadn’t been lived in for some years, it seems.
“But then a school opened up in the old building. It was set up as a charity for orphans, but though all the paperwork is complete, there isn’t much real information to find. Arthur Templeton’s on the Board of Trustees, and there’s a headmaster named –”
“Nigel Templeton?” I suggested, but Macrae shook his head. “There’s not a sniff of Nigel anywhere in the paperwork. The head is named as a Marcus Sowerby, who apparently was once a teacher in the state system, but none of the other names seem to have any history at all.”
“I spoke to someone called Hargrove? Called himself deputy head?”
“Aye, I remember you mentioning it. The name does appear in the paperwork somewhere, but no other details.”
“What about the son? Geraint, did you say his name was? There were two people there when I was chased off – Nigel, I presume, and a younger man who looked a bit like him.”
“I haven’t seen him mentioned. Have you, June?”
She shook her head. “No. As far as we can make out, the only definitely real person associated with Coren Hall School is Sir Arthur. And there’s no other information anywhere. No staff lists, no pupil lists – nothing. If they ever existed, they were removed long ago. Or doctored into uselessness. We suspected that Nigel might have been involved in the school, and probably Geraint as well, but you’ve just given us the first confirmation of that.”
I remembered my discovery of last night. “Have the initials T-N come up anywhere? Only I think I may have found a signature on those paintings.” I explained my thinking, and showed the relevant section of the painting on my phone. “I’ll have a closer look on my painting as soon as I can. Any chance of getting a look at Sir Arthur’s?”
“Probably not,” said June. “Because we’ve not been able to find it yet. There seems to have been an attempt to make it look like a burglary – windows smashed, stuff thrown about – but nothing appears to be missing. Except for that painting.”
“Well, that’s interesting in itself,” I mused. “You know, I got the impression that Sir Arthur had been keeping it hidden. Hidden from his nephew, perhaps? It may be that Jonathan didn’t know about it until my visit.”
“Aye, that’s possible. Something else to be thinking about.” Macrae looked into his cup, found it empty, and put it aside. “Well then, we know there was some sort of school running there: there were a few mentions of it in the newspapers, in regards to Sir Arthur’s involvement in charitable work. According to some articles, he regularly went there to teach painting to the pupils. He’s quoted as saying that there was some real talent to be found amongst them. What we think was happening is that Nigel was the person running it, but he was keeping a very low profile, which suggests that something was going on there which he didn’t want to be connected with.”
“And Sir Arthur? How much did he know?”
“Well, that’s the question I would have liked to ask him. But from the fact that he was the only person publicly and legally associated with it, I’d guess not much. He had too much to lose if he was linked to something criminal or even just unsavoury. I’m thinking that they used him as a figurehead, but kept him away from whatever it was that they were really doing there.”
A mobile rang. Macrae fished in his pocket, took out his phone, and looked at the screen. “DCI,” he said to June. “Sorry, Sandra. I have to take this. June’ll tell you the rest.”
He left the room, and June took over the pile of paper.
“So that brings us up to 1985,” she said, and pulled out an A4 sheet. It was, I saw, a computer printout of the original news story. “Body Found Hanging in Abandoned Farmhouse” the headline screamed at me. I hid a slight shudder.
“I know about 1985,” I assured her.
“Yes, but it’s interesting to look at this again in the light of our new information. See this for example…”
Another newspaper article. “Sir Arthur Templeton Cancels!” ran the headline. I quickly scanned the text.
“Britain’s best-known portraitist, Sir Arthur Templeton, has unexpectedly cancelled the exhibition he was due to hold in London. The event was intended to showcase some of his most famous works from the past two decades, as well as a number of new pieces. However, it will not now be taking place. Sir Arthur has given no reason for this, and cannot be contacted for a statement. It is believed that he may be travelling abroad.”
Those were the facts; the rest of the article was just padding in the form of speculation and quotes from people who didn’t know anything.
“Of course! I hadn’t made the connection before – but that wasn’t long after I found the body!”
“There was no reason to make a connection if you didn’t know that Sir Arthur owned all that land – which was information well hidden. And that was the last anyone saw of him for nearl
y thirty years.” June produced a further printout, this time from a website.
“The Northdene Art Club is proud to announce that Sir Arthur Templeton, one of the greatest artists of the past century, has agreed to become the new Patron of the Art Club. Sir Arthur has recently returned to this country after many years of travelling abroad, and has expressed a desire to become involved in local art and with local artists. We will therefore be changing our name to the Templeton Art Club, and we are delighted to be honoured in this way. We also welcome his nephew, Mr Jonathan Carr, who has agreed to take on the role of Club Secretary.”
There was a bit more, mostly about Sir Arthur’s past triumphs. It had been posted by the club chairman, Claude Ferrers-Manton, about two years previously.
“Yes, I remember this. There was a bit of a stir in the media about Sir Arthur coming back, but he didn’t do anything publicly, so they soon lost interest.”
“Right. Though apparently there’s been talk of him putting on an exhibition soon. He may have been intending to announce it at the library.” June closed the file and sat back. “What we think may have happened is that Sir Arthur, in his travels, finally washed up in Australia and dropped in to see his family. Now his brotherin-law, Carr Senior, started out as a builder, and did quite well for himself. Had his own firm, was involved in some fair-sized projects. Jonathan is following in the family business, and when they found out that Sir Arthur still owned a chunk of real estate over here, what could be more natural than to suggest to the old man that Jonathan should come over and make a bit of money out of it? Apparently he entered the country about three years ago, and got things moving, investing some funds to get the Hall and the farmhouse renovated, and started building the village. When things were well under way, Sir Arthur followed on and settled in.”
“And now…” I felt tears pricking at my eyes, and stopped, choked. “Sorry. It’s just sinking in. I only just met him, and he was such a charming, friendly… such a vivid person…”
June leaned across and held my hand. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
“Sorry. With all you see, you must get hardened to it.”
“Yes. That’s the danger.”
Macrae came back in. “We’ve got to go, June. Briefing in thirty minutes, and the DCI wants us to go in with him to bring the Command Team up to speed. So we’re away! I’ll catch you later, Sandra. Come in my car, June; there’s a couple of things to go over before we get there.” He was gathering up his map and papers as he spoke, and was out of the door.
June stood up to follow him. “There’s a spare key in the cupboard next to the front door. Come and go as you need to, but stay safe. I think Carr is long gone, but keep your eyes open and call me or Jimmy if you see anything dodgy, OK?”
Then she was gone as well, leaving me alone in the house, with not even Brodie to give comfort.
No use moping. I’d see Brodie later – after I’d been to see Graham. Which reminded me to give him a call. Or at least, give his ward a call.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t available. “With the doctor just now,” the nurse said. “I’m afraid he had an uncomfortable night. He had difficulty breathing and his air passages seem to be inflamed. Nothing to worry about, but we’re trying to get him more comfortable. They’ll be taking him down for more scans as soon as the doctor’s finished with him, and we’ll know more then.”
He gently but firmly discouraged me from rushing straight over there. “You won’t be able to go in with him anyway. And we’re trying to keep him from talking as much as possible. Why don’t you call back about midday?”
With my plans for the morning ruined, I rummaged through June’s cupboards for some breakfast, and found porridge. Good comfort food, especially as it was looking like a cold, damp, and generally grey day. No matter, the porridge warmed me through and the tracksuit provided more than enough colour.
I went back to working my way through the messages on my phone, which included three from Yvonne, deleting the spam, and sending back general reassurances to the others. That took up an hour or so. I washed up, sat back, and twiddled my thumbs.
I’d meant to ask June or David if they’d made any progress on finding the dead artist’s studio, but things had been too rushed. At the moment, their priority was obviously finding Jonathan Carr – if they could ask him some questions, it might solve a lot of problems.
Still, it would be useful to find that studio: the place where my painting and Sir Arthur’s had probably both come from. And perhaps there would be copies or prints of the missing exhibition paintings. If there was a reason for taking them apart from their monetary value, then a visit to the studio might reveal that. Finding the place might not be a priority, but it could only help the investigation.
Of course, several days of intensive police searching hadn’t found it, so how would I?
I did have a few clues. My pictures of the paintings for a start – but I had gone over them till my head ached. And there was the note to me – also well studied. A pity Sir Arthur hadn’t kept his note to compare with it. What had it said?
I struggled to remember the exact words. Something like “Enjoy your trip down memory lane.” Only it was “Memory Lane” in capitals, referring to Sir Arthur’s first painting. First painting to be sold, that is. And there had been an invitation to “Come and visit”.
But visit where?
Whoever had sent that note – and I was thinking that it must have been Emily, probably on behalf of the artist – wanted Sir Arthur to come and see them. But only Sir Arthur. The invitation was deliberately obscure. A clue that only he would understand. Something in the reference to Memory Lane.
Of course, it couldn’t be as obvious as an actual “Memory Lane”, could it?
I pulled out my laptop, found June’s router and Wi-Fi key, and got onto the internet. A quick search confirmed that although there were plenty of songs, bands, companies, and websites called “Memory Lane”, there was no actual street of that name. Not in the UK, anyway.
So what street had Sir Arthur actually painted, then? “The street where I lived,” he’d said.
His first home would have been the farm labourer’s cottage. He would only have been a few years old when he and his mother left there, but perhaps he’d gone back for a visit. Where had it been, though?
Back to the internet.
There was a lot about Sir Arthur online. Most of the more recent posts were, of course, concerned with his death. Others were critical evaluations of his work. But at least one had a lot of details about his life, including reams of salacious gossip from his glory days. A skim read of all his supposed exploits left me wondering how he’d ever found time to paint – but of course, it was just gossip.
Some real facts were included. Such as that he had been born in March 1937 in the village of Sharnham Cross.
But Sharnham Cross was gone. It had been obliterated by new housing back in the sixties. All that was left of the old village was the church and the pub – both listed buildings. No farms, no labourer’s cottages, no trace of Sir Arthur’s past.
What about when he and his mother moved into the town?
No details on that. One researcher said that they had “lived in the poorest and meanest area”, but that didn’t narrow it down much.
There was a lot more information about the latter part of Arthur’s youth, after he’d become a Templeton. Even a picture of the large detached house they had moved into. “The Limes.” Not very original, but accurate enough, from the picture attached. It seemed that the house still stood, and was still surrounded by lime trees. But it didn’t fit in with Sir Arthur’s description of “Memory Lane” as “rows of terraced houses”.
Dead end. I went and got a cup of coffee.
Arthur’s mother had found work at Templeton Engineering. Ordinary people didn’t do long commutes in those days, so she probably lived nearby. A bus ride, perhaps – or even within walking distance? Where had Templeton had his premises, I wondered?
Back to the laptop, and more research, this time on local history sites. The name Templeton came up in a few places, mostly to do with Sir Arthur himself. But Templeton Engineering appeared on a list of businesses that had operated in the old Delford Mills buildings.
There was a lot of local history connected with Delford Mills.
Back in the early Victorian era, Sir Martin Delford had poured all his money into constructing a vast industrial complex. And, since he also needed workers for his mills, he built streets and streets and streets of slums. Back-to-back houses, they were called. Whole families crammed into a few rooms, whole blocks with a shared toilet.
Keen to recoup his money, Sir Martin skimped as much as possible on the building work, paid as little as possible in wages, and made as much as possible in profits. And the strategy worked – he became very rich indeed, while his workers suffered in conditions that were appalling even by the standards of Victorian England.
He also became seriously obese, suffered badly from gout, and – with ironic justice – died from his overindulgence at the age of forty-five, while many of his employees were struggling to feed their families on his miserable wages.
Delford Mills, however, continued, with some gradual improvements in wages and conditions. In the 1920s a major programme of slum clearance and rebuilding began, replacing the worst of the buildings with more modern terraced housing – including such luxuries as a toilet for each house!
The original business, however, didn’t survive the Depression, and various parts of the old factory were sold or rented out to new enterprises. Such as Templeton Engineering.
I found a map of the Delford Mills area from the late forties. Templeton Engineering was right on the northern edge of the site. Very close to some of the worst of the old slum areas. Some streets still had the back-to-back housing – the money had run out before those areas could be rebuilt. They’d had to settle for “renovations”.
I felt my excitement building. This fitted perfectly with what I’d already found out.
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