A Trick of the Light

by Ali Carter

  I grabbed my mobile and turned off the 2.30am alarm. I’ve been absolutely fast asleep. This week has worn me out. But I must get up, put some socks on. A jumper too and a spare one under my arm.

  I turned on the torch and crept down the dark corridor – I cannot wake anyone up. I made it to the door of the Landseer wing without a sound and very carefully pushed the frame of the closest painting. The whole thing hinged open. I typed the number I’d seen Zoe put in and the box dropped open. Here was the key. I took it, closed everything back up and unlocked the door. Then I slipped into the room and locked it from inside.

  I bent down and stuffed my spare jumper in the crack beneath the door. At a flick of a switch the picture lights came on and I turned my torch off. Alone and alert the stale smell hit me. A lack of air circulation – clearly the Muchtons never open the windows.

  I went to touch the drawn curtains, to prove my point. Behind a fold of velvet, the blackout lining was speckled with mould. Already my eye is being drawn to things that don’t fit.

  I looked down at my feet as I walked across the room. If there’s something on the floor I want to find it. I then craned my neck back and circled the ceiling. Rings of damp appeared where painted plaster had peeled. This neglected wing could do with a good blast of ventilation. Zoe really needs to read up on caring for an old house. Or let Mhàiri in here once in a while.

  The pictures were stunning under the mounted lights. Far sharper than they were in natural light. I went to the first one, Early Morning Stags on the Moor. Oliver thinks this is genuine. Perhaps I should too. I need a prototype to start from.

  My eye was drawn to the heather again and you know what, on second thoughts, to use it as a background for the Auchen Laggan Tosh Painting Residency website is a bit of a cliché. I laughed at myself agreeing with Zoe and Louis now. I guess I’d been jealous at the time of my Louis siding with Zoe.

  The next painting, Rutting Stags, could be a copy. Though it looks a pretty brilliant piece of painting to me. The foreshortening of the deer, I wish I could do that. Oliver thinks it’s been hung a little low, so I bent down to test his point.

  The buff, virile beast burst out the canvas. Oliver’s right. The picture came alive from this angle.

  I looked up at the hanging chain. There’s plenty of space between it and the light; this painting could so easily be higher. Hang on a sec, look at that, perfectly obvious in artificial light, there’s a strip of faded silk above the frame. It’s very similar to the green patches in the drawing room downstairs. Rupert drew attention to them on the orientation tour and Zoe said they’d recently moved the pictures to some of the spare rooms. How long does silk take to fade? I reckon a year or two. But with the curtains closed in here, it would be even more. Nevertheless, Rutting Stags at some point must have been re-hung, the s-hook joined fractionally too low down the chain. I quickly checked above the other paintings. There was no more faded silk.

  Is Rutting Stags a copy? Oliver left a crack open for the real expert but I’m now thinking he’s right. I mean, art fraud – it’s as if the stars are aligning to get me on board. Giving me permission to play amateur detective again.

  I touched the frame, dust came off on my fingers. It wouldn’t take long for it to settle in this room but it does mean the painting’s been on the wall a while.

  I went back to the first picture. There was even more dust on its frame. The third, Horses at Bay, was dusty too. The last, Dogs in the Moonlight, had a little bit on the frame but as I moved my fingers along the bottom ledge there were obvious patches where no dust lay. Slightly bigger than the palm of my hand. It’s as if someone’s been clutching it recently.

  I looked up at this painting of two spaniels, a greyhound and a terrier of sorts. They’re gathered on a clump of grass next to the stump of a felled tree. Oliver suspects this one’s a copy too. He’d banged on about the brush strokes but if I want to prove it, I have to find some firm evidence tonight.

  I leant my body up against the wall and pulled the picture out a little. It swung ever so gently on the chains. I didn’t want to pull it away too much. So I shone my torch behind it to see. There weren’t any cobwebs but this doesn’t exactly tell me much. If Oliver were here I wonder if he’d notice something unusual about the stretchers? Me, I have no clue. The wood is pine to avoid warping. It’s what I use.

  I released the picture carefully back against the wall and stood in front of it, scanning the brush strokes. I’m still struggling to work out exactly what it is I’m looking for. But if this picture is a copy I must have something in my armoury to winkle out the truth. Well, modesty aside I do have a keen eye and a bit of a knack for thinking laterally.

  The dogs’ fur is perfectly depicted. Each hair an individual stroke. So delicately painted. If only my drawings could be as subtle as this.

  My eyes moved on to the stump of the tree. I counted the rings; this oak was some age. Landseer has picked out every wrinkle in the bark. His attention to detail is phenomenal. I can even see where he’s painted a knot. The cracks are interwoven in a natural pattern. I’ve learnt a lot about trees this week. Giles is an authority and Fergus an enthusiast. Maybe I should think of planting some at home. I don’t have an enormous garden but space for a maple at least or an outdoor Christmas tree, that would be nice. I’ve always found woods difficult to paint. I guess Landseer can teach me a thing or two. I stared at the colours. He’d used far more sienna yellow than I ever do. I must remember that. The knot on the stump is even lighter. I bet it’s mixed with zinc white. But how did he get the balance with the cracks so right? What colour are those cracks? Hang on a minute…this is very odd. Two letters are forming. I can see an E and an H within the pattern. Very subtle, but I can definitely see them. E… H… Are they initials? Landseer’s? No, he’d be E L H, Edwin Landseer Harris, or E L at least.

  E… H… E… H…E… H…

  My lips wobbled as I mouthed the words Ewen, Ewen, Ewen Hewson.

  I rushed along the wall to Rutting Stags. My whole body was trembly and overexcited. Are there initials hidden in this painting too?

  My eyes darted all over the canvas. A subtle E H must be in here somewhere. I crouched down. I bet you they’re hidden on the chief stag. Ewen, leaving his mark on the supreme being.

  Its front hoof was poised on a rock and the misty bands of keratin covering were carefully depicted, stretching across the cloven foot. There it is. I can see it now. An E and an H in the strokes. The cross-bars of the letters in black, the stems in off white, each one slotted within the layers of the coffin bone hoof. Ewen Hewson, you’ve done it again. I’ve got you now. Caught in the act.

  Suddenly my breathing quickened, I could feel my heart beating in my chest. The fear of being caught grasped me; how would I begin to explain what I’m up to? I must get out.

  I scooted across the floor in my socks, turned off the lights and picked up my jumper. Then in the glow of my mobile I unlocked the door and with a shaking hand locked it from the other side. I popped the key back in the safe place and, desperately trying to get to grips with my breathing, I very quickly tiptoed to my room. Creak went the door as I shut it behind me. But it doesn’t matter, I’m now safely back where I belong.

  Rupert marched into breakfast brimming with news. ‘Major breakthrough by the Tories,’ he said. ‘They’ve halted the spread of wind farms. Passed a bill last night putting a bar on onshore wind farm subsidies.’

  Minty had told me her father was in the House of Lords this week trying to pass a bill before Easter. I wonder if it has anything to do with this?

  ‘Angel,’ said Zoe sharply down the table. ‘Had you heard that?’

  ‘No, I hadn’t. Hmmm. On the news this morning I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, just caught it on the box. I’ve been rather interested in the build-up and I had an inkling this would be the result.’

  ‘You knew it was happening?’ said Felicity. ‘Why didn’t you mention it the other day?’

  ‘Win
d energy’s a controversial subject and, you never know, a debate on the matter could have divided us.’

  ‘How sensitive of you.’ Felicity missed the sarcasm in Rupert’s voice, and when Giles asked, ‘What’s your opinion of them, Fergus?’ she visibly cowered in her seat.

  ‘I’m not against wind farms per se, they have a place both in the landscape and in our changing energy needs. However, where they are placed has to be chosen with the greatest possible care.’

  ‘I was right, wasn’t I,’ said Giles. ‘You have an application mast up, don’t you?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Fergus’s eyes twitched.

  ‘Told you so.’ Giles searched the table. ‘Hey? Minty. Where’s Minty?’

  ‘She’s left,’ said Zoe. ‘Her mother turned up just after six to collect her. If it wasn’t for Haggis’s barking I would never have known.’

  ‘Six o’clock this morning?’ said Giles.

  He’s very surprised and so am I.

  ‘Thereabouts. Didn’t hang around. It was a last-minute decision due to the weather.’

  ‘All the way from Cumbria?’ I said.

  ‘No, she spent last night with friends nearby.’

  Quite nearby, I said to myself…these estates are enormous.

  ‘Minty wanted me to pass on her goodbyes to you all,’ smiled Zoe.

  ‘Doubt I’ll see Araminta Froglan-Home-Mybridge again,’ said Shane with flawless timing, and all of us began to laugh.

  ‘Froglan-Home-Mybridge?’ Rupert was astounded. ‘How could I have forgotten? It was her relation I saw on telly.’

  ‘This morning?’ snapped Zoe.

  ‘Yes. It was an old clip of him banging on about wind farms blighting the landscape, damaging property prices and harming the local economy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a Tory peer and it was footage from a previous moratorium on wind farm developments.’

  ‘Minty’s father?’ said Fergus, not quite getting it.

  ‘I should hope not. The man I saw is now under arrest.’

  ‘Under arrest?’ I said and Felicity tut-tutted.

  ‘Quite unbelievable. Whoever it was, was up to all sorts of shenanigans.’

  ‘Minty’s relative?’ asked Lianne.

  ‘On second thoughts I doubt it was.’

  I really hoped it wasn’t, for Minty’s sake. But it’s hard to believe there’d be multiple people in the House of Lords with that name.

  ‘What was he accused of?’ said Zoe, staring fearfully at Fergus.

  ‘Capturing water voles without a licence,’ Rupert hooted and a crumb of toast shot straight out his mouth.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Felicity.

  ‘They’re protected,’ gloated Giles.

  ‘Who cares?’ grunted Shane.

  ‘Wind farm surveys do. An application can fail based on an otter and water vole survey.’

  ‘Was he releasing them then?’ said Felicity, catching on.

  Giles nodded at Fergus. ‘Bad luck, for you.’

  ‘Whoa, hang on a minute,’ said Rupert. ‘You’re jumping the gun; the clip I saw said he was breeding them not releasing them.’

  ‘Maybe it is Minty’s dad,’ said Lianne, terribly overexcited by the notion.

  ‘Very clever to choose a water vole,’ said Giles. ‘All sorts of birds of prey feed off them. If released, the application would fail the ornithological survey too.’

  ‘Angel,’ said Zoe, ‘I think you should give Stuart a call.’

  Fergus took the order and marched out of the room.

  ‘The ravens,’ I whispered in Louis’ ear.

  ‘What about them?’ He hadn’t made the connection – these birds feed off voles.

  ‘Nothing,’ I shook my head. No point telling him my theory: water voles had been released here, they’d attracted the ravens and it’s all happened at about the same time the art residency began. Mhàiri’s husband Donald saw a light down by the river the night we arrived. The very evening Minty’s father dropped her off.

  Rupert changed the subject. ‘That was a two-dog night if ever I’ve had one.’

  ‘Such a marvellous saying,’ giggled Felicity. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means it was so cold you need a dog either side of you to keep warm.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Zoe.

  ‘Not at all, I was exaggerating.’

  Haggis rushed into the room; Fergus was back.

  ‘Poor doggy,’ said Felicity, stroking him at her feet, ‘he’s got icicles clinging to his fur.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a very, very cold morning. Donald’s outside with the bus so chop chop, everyone, it’s time to get moving. Fifteen minutes and you’ll be off.’

  There was a rush for the door. ‘Jane, Felicity,’ said Fergus, ‘if you’re all packed I’ll get Donald to come in and carry your bags down.’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ said Felicity nodding and Jane, without breaking her morning’s silence, nodded too.

  Rupert began to stack the plates. ‘Don’t bother to clear,’ said Zoe. ‘Mhàiri’s here and you must get going.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just nip into the kitchen and say a big thank you.’

  Rupert rustled his right hand in his right trouser pocket and pushed open the swing door. I knew: he was off to tip the cook. A sterling note stuck to his palm, all ready to transfer over to Mhàiri with a firm handshake. It made me smile to think how happy she’ll be – and rather surprised, this isn’t a standard move made by a paying guest. Rupert, dear Rupert’s become overfamiliar to a fault.

  I was last out of the dining room and raced upstairs, snatching some time to Google the news clip, before the goodbyes.

  ‘For some time now the controversy of onshore wind farms has been a political issue with the Tories claiming many wind farms are blighting the landscape,’ said the short, clean-shaven man on my mobile’s screen. ‘A bill has passed to end subsidies to onshore wind farms from 1 October this year, a year earlier than set out in the previous coalition party agreement.’ On he went, this spokesman from the Department of Energy and Climate Change, his hands clasped over his belt buckle. ‘The change in timetable will not mean the Government can’t meet its target for renewable energy. There are enough decisions in the pipeline to ensure targets are met.’ Oozing confidence on this matter he added one final statement: ‘There will be a grace period for projects that already have planning permission.’

  The Energy Secretary then joined him to discuss the implications of the announcement, how it would affect investors as well as an agreement to press ahead with the intensification of offshore wind farms: ‘The deal will look to seize on opportunities presented by the UK’s seven thousand miles of coastline.’

  Tagged on at the end was what I’d been waiting for, the short clip of Lord Froglan-Home-Mybridge, a tall lanky man with a big nose, grumbling away. He had a cleft chin, an inherited trait, the very same as Minty. He must be a relation.

  The broadcast was preceded by a repeat of News at Ten’s coverage of his arrest. Not only had this man bred water voles (they were careful to mention there’s no proof of releasing them) but he had paid Alec Ronaldsay, under the counter so to speak, a substantial amount of money to release several of his captive ravens into the wild.

  Quote from a fellow peer: ‘My associate and friend is not a malicious person. His actions were solely driven by his concern for the future of our beautiful island and the creatures that inhabit it. The excessive lengths he was willing to go to were driven by his commitment to the cause, not a means to target specific individuals. He was standing up for his principles; only in doing so was he breaking the law.’

  A formal apology from the Conservative Party on behalf of their colleague was then read out, with the add-on, ‘It is thought Lord Froglan-Home-Mybridge’s good work as a member of the Lords will considerably reduce his sentence when the court makes its decision.’

  Cor, what a story. So many things made sense now from beginning to
end: the shrill in the dark sky when I first arrived; Stuart wanting to talk to Zoe urgently; the lights down by the river; I bet it was a captive bird flying into the kitchen window; Zoe’s stolen bracelet; the explosion of ravens; Stuart’s gruff manner when I met him in the wood. All from one man’s conspiracy to stop the Auchen Laggan Tosh Moor wind farm. Or was Zoe behind it too? Had she teamed up with Ewen, the artist with a sensitivity for beautiful views, to terminate Fergus’s application? The art residency would be the perfect opportunity to accept a Tory peer’s daughter on the course and grant him access. Zoe even sent Stuart away that day – ‘yous sent me to pick up a roll of tweed fer the mill’.

  ‘Susie?’ I heard Zoe shout along the corridor. ‘Grab a coat and we’ll go and wave goodbye.’

  Whoops, I’d lost track of the time.

  Almost everyone was in the hall and one after the other they were showering Zoe with appreciative thank yous and now I was here they moved on to me.

  Lianne and Shane offered up a hug. ‘Thank you so much, Susie.’

  I smiled. I was sad to see them go.

  Giles and Felicity both shook my hand. Then Rupert, having kissed Zoe on both cheeks, planted two on mine.

  I reached to open the front door. Louis was on the other side.

  ‘There you both are,’ he said and welcomed Zoe’s kiss. I took a few steps back at the sight but soon gloated when he gave me four. Credit to the French.

  ‘Give me a text when you get to London,’ he whispered as he stuffed a note in my hand. I smiled. All three of us stepped outside and no sooner was Louis down the steps than I thought, hang on a minute you arrogant so and so – surely you should be contacting me?

  Zoe and I stood side by side.

  ‘Have you all said goodbye to Fergus?’ she called out.

  Louis turned his head. ‘Yes, he was here a moment ago.’

  Then Zoe, suddenly remembering one other person, yelped, ‘Where’s Jane?’

  Felicity stuck her head out the bus. ‘She’s already in here.’

  ‘Wish her goodbye,’ said Zoe.

  ‘From me too,’ I added.