Slow work, boring work, but we stuck with it.
Eight
Mills
We didn’t stay at the station long; Sharp kicked us out as the day drew to a close. I dropped Thatcher at home, him muttering and chuntering about the case. I could only pick on a few words from him, but I got the gist. We had a very small list of suspects, and until we spoke to Richard Sandow and learnt more about this rift that had sprung up between the family, the butler remained at the top. Thatcher climbed out of the car, leaning in through the window.
“Do some research into this painting for me, Mills,” he ordered, looking distracted and tired. “Find out if it’s worth more than just what Lord Hocking thinks it to be.”
“Will do, sir.”
“I’ll see if I can find anything more about the family and their little falling out,” he muttered.
“The article was in the Post,” I reminded him. He was staring out across the street, and then he dropped his gaze back to mine, brows furrowed. “Jeannie could access the archives.”
“The last time we asked Jeannie for her help, her office was ransacked.” She hadn’t seemed to mind really once she got her all her anger out.
“We could ask someone else at the paper.”
He nodded but fixed me with a look that I understood well enough. If we asked somebody else at the paper for help, Jeannie would come crashing down on us like a ton of bricks.
“I could do it,” I added, to spare him the trouble.
He gave a short, dry laugh. “We’ll see what it comes to. For now, get to grips with the art world, Mills.” He tapped the roof of the car with his knuckles and strode up the steps to his house.
I didn’t know anything about art, nor did I really know where to begin with all that. Architecture, a little. Art from history, some things. Political cartoons, now those I knew well. But classic art? I’d have more luck trying to fix my car’s engine than understanding all of that. I did, however, I remembered gratefully as I pulled away from the curb, know somebody who did.
My parent’s house hadn’t changed in the near twelve years since I moved out from it. The garden grew wildly beside the neat lawns and flowers on either side; Mum claimed that it was better for the environment, biodiversity and all that. Dad didn’t have much of an opinion on it, and besides, once Mum dug her heels in, there was no moving her. I pulled into the drive, the garage door open, and spotted Dad inside, tinkering with an old piece of Second World War memorabilia from his collection. He looked up as I slammed the car door and frowned.
“Were we expecting you?” he called.
“No,” I strolled into the garage, hands in my pockets, “I came to see Mum. Want to borrow some of her books on art.”
Dad turned from his work and stared at me. “Is this for a case,” he asked, “or a girl?”
“A case. A painting’s been stolen.”
The furrow between his brows deepened. “Oh? So, your mother’s degree in Art History is about to pay off, then?”
I grinned. “Seems that way.”
“She’s inside.” He nodded to the door. “Kitchen.”
“Thanks,” I clapped him on the shoulder.
“You staying for dinner?”
“Not tonight,” I told him, though telling Mum that might be a challenge, “I’ve got some research to do.”
He nodded and returned his attention to what looked vaguely like a beaten up gas mask. I pushed the door open, wandering through the utility room and into the kitchen where Mum sat at the table, flicking through a magazine, a pot of something stewing on the stove.
“Hiya, mum,” I called, shutting the door.
“Isaac!” She abandoned her magazine and stood up, pulling in for a hug. “What’s this? You alright, my love?”
“I’m fine. Wondered if I could borrow a few books from you. Art history.”
“Of course.” She released me and walked me into the living room. “What for?”
“For a case.”
She shook off her surprise, diligently pulling out book after book, passing them to me until I had a large stack balanced in my hands.
“How’s art involved?” she asked as she scoured the shelves. “Someone died in a gallery or something?”
“No. A painting’s been stolen. Apparently a valuable one.”
“Oh?” She pulled another book off the shelf and whacked it atop the pile. “Who’s the artist?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t completely sure. It was in my notebook, of course, somewhere.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Mum turned and looked at me, her hands braced on her hips. “It certainly does. There’s a difference between stealing a modern piece and stealing a Monet, or something.”
“Not Monet,” I said quickly, “I know that much.”
She hummed and handed me one last book. “Well, if that lot could get me a degree, then they can teach you whatever it is you need to know.”
“Thanks, mum. If people were selling art,” I asked her, “where’s the best place to do that?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she answered.
“You studied art,” I replied, deadpan.
“Art history,” she corrected me, ushering back through the kitchen, “but I never really worked in the field, you know. Met your father in my last year at university and not two years later your brother came along.” She opened the door to the garage for me and followed me out to the car.
“Are you off?” Dad asked without looking up.
“I am.”
“You are?” Mum asked.
“You’re walking me to my car,” I pointed out.
“To put the books away! You’re not staying for dinner?”
I somehow managed to unlock the passenger door and stick the books on the seat, shutting it with one hand as she glared at me. “I can’t tonight. I’ve got work to do.”
The disapproving look on her face was enough for dad to sigh and abandon his work, hopping from his stool and wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
“He’ll be by soon, won’t you lad? Your brother’s birthday in a few weeks. He’ll be here for that.”
“Course I will,” I assured them both. I kissed mum on the cheek and received a stiff, one-armed hug from dad. “Thanks for the books.”
“Well, good luck,” she finally said, “and be careful.”
“I will,” I called, climbing into my car.
“And call me!” she shouted, a neighbour across the road looking up in surprise. I smiled and shook my head slightly, waving through the window as I reversed out and drove home.
I glanced at the books beside me, bouncing on the seat as I navigated speed bumps and roundabouts. The sight of them tired me, but there was enough there, mum was right, to tell me anything I needed to know.
I got home finally, throwing my coat on a chair and kicked my shoes off. I reheated some leftover pasta and opened a beer, lugging the books into the flat and dumping them on my coffee table. I wasn’t even sure where to begin. I sent Smith a quick text, asking her for the information on the market, to keep an eye on any new pieces being sold, and as I waited for her to reply, I tried to make some sense of the books. Mum had thrown in, thankfully, a book of local artists, which given the painting in question, seemed a decent place to start.
Digging out my notebook, I flicked through the last few pages, trying to find the name of the artist. It had been something slightly ridiculous, I knew that much. Artists always seemed to have slightly ridiculous names. Part of the image, I supposed, part of the trade. People remembered interesting names, or at least most people didn’t. I was slowly turning into Thatcher, barely remembering anyone’s names unless they told it to me three times.
Brynmor Ragsdale.
Well, if your parents named you that, what else would you be but an artist?
Eating my dinner with one hand, I opened the local book, flipping through the pages for any trace of the oddly named painter, and found him. From the early twentieth century,
he had sadly died during the first world war. A local chap, born on the village estate in fact, who painted landscapes of his local surroundings before he was conscripted, and then whilst he was there. Small sketches done in the trenches, only a few still around. Most of his paintings had been sold by him, to look after his mother and sisters, saving one piece of the Hocking Estate, which had been gifted to the Lord by Ragsdale’s sister after he expressed a ‘profound admiration for the image’. So, Lord Hocking hadn’t even paid for it. It had been a gift. I made a note of that, for Thatcher, and my phone flashed up. A text from Smith with the information I wanted.
I quickly ate the rest of my food and opened my laptop, swigging my beer as I waited for it to whir into life and headed to the websites she had listed. No new pieces came up, but a few pop-ups from my virus protection did. Apparently, these weren’t the safest of sites. A good place to sell really, unless it was being sold privately. But that was a market we wouldn’t be able to get into easily, not without help.
I considered, briefly, going to Jeannie without Thatcher, asking her if she knew anyone who could help. But I didn’t like the thought of what Thatcher would say about that, and now that the story was out in the media, I wouldn’t be surprised if she already involved herself. It seemed like the high profile, mildly dangerous thing she liked to wade into. No wonder they were friends, really.
Leaving the sites open, I carried on reading about the artist, but there wasn’t much. His was only a single page, a brief mention amongst the other artists that came from Yorkshire. He was well credited for his use of colour and natural light, pleasing brushstrokes, not that I knew very well what that meant. I did know that since there were few pieces of his remaining, that would make them more valuable, would it not? But mum was right about one thing. There was a difference between stealing this, an image of the local estate that very few people would recognise or even know about, and stealing a Monet or a Van Gogh.
I slumped back in my chair, loosening my collar and took another swig of beer. Reaching over suddenly, I dragged my laptop nearer and did a search for Brynmor Ragsdale, seeing if the internet had any more to offer. The first things that came up were the news article on the case. A photograph of the painting and of the Estate, Sharp’s professional, ironclad statement and few pleas for any information to come forward.
Scrolling down, I found an older piece from a fairly local antique auction. One of Ragsdale’s paintings had been sold, about five years ago, for a price that was neither really here nor there. A good amount of money, but the usual price tags and trails of zeroes you see on pieces of art, this was, inconsequential. I put my beer down and picked up my phone, calling Thatcher.
“Mills,” he answered on the second ring.
“Sir,” I replied, “I’ve found the artist. Brynmor Ragsdale.”
There was a cracking pause on his end, then his gruff voice saying, “Brynmor Ragsdale?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who names their child that?” he asked.
“Someone who wants a painter for a son?”
He chuckled faintly, his voice muffled. “Local chap?”
“Yes. Born in the Hocking Estate village, early twentieth century. Died during the first World War.”
“Born on the Estate?” he repeated.
“Well, the village, sir.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“The piece that Lord Hocking has was given to him a gift from Ragsdale’s younger sister after he expressed interest in it.”
“A gift?”
“Yes, sir,” I clarified.
“Alright,” he urged me to continue.
“One of Ragsdale’s pieces sold five years ago at an auction, made just under one and a half thousand pounds.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” I confirmed, sitting back in my chair.
“Thought it’d be worth more than that,” he muttered. I could picture him, standing wherever he was that was slightly echoey, dragging his hair back from his face, scowling into the middle distance. “Definitely a sentimental piece then.”
“Definitely,” I agreed, “both as a gift, and since it was of the estate itself, I can’t imagine anyone else paying much for it. Smaller than the one from the auction, too, if my measurements are right.” I double-checked the frame size from the auction site and my own note about the gap in the study. Yep, I confirmed, definitely smaller.
“Alright,” Thatcher said. “Good work, Mills. Get some rest now. You’ve done enough for today.”
He didn’t have to order me twice. I turned my laptop off and flipped the book closed. Still had more to learn about the art world, but that could wait for tomorrow now.
“Jeannie called,” he told me, his voice somewhat reluctant.
I knew it. I grinned, glad he couldn’t see. “She did?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Knows an art dealer who handles private sellings that we can meet.”
“That’s good news.”
“If our thief is going to sell,” he reminded me, “but if that’s the profit we’d be looking at, I don’t want to pin all our hopes and dreams on it.”
“What’s the next move then, sir?”
“Richard Sandow. If you wanted to piss off your brother, what would you steal from him?”
I knew exactly what I would steal from my brother. A model Spitfire that he spent about a year building. Kept it in his office, where his kids couldn’t reach.
“The one thing I know he’d probably break my nose for taking,” I told him. Another muffled laugh came down the line,
“We’ll cross the art dealer of the list, more for Sharp’s sake than anything else, but we focus on the brother and the butler. That’s where my suspicion lies right now.”
As did mine, I had to agree. I could never write my brother off, change my name and never see him again. Something bad had to have happened there. As for the butler, well, it seemed obvious, but so did blaming the staff that had come in for the night. And according to Smith, most of the guests seemed to be pushing for that particular narrative, too. Thatcher didn’t believe it, nor did I, but we’d bear it in mind, I could almost hear him say. Always bear it in mind. People didn’t harbour suspicions blindly. There was always something that pushed them in that direction, even if in this case, it would just be blatant class discrimination. Around a man like Thatcher, that was sure to go swimmingly.
“See you tomorrow then, sir,” I said goodbye.
“Tomorrow, Mills,” he replied in that same gruff voice. Courtesy of Jeannie, it seemed. I hung up, tossing my phone onto the sofa and slumped right down in my chair. It could all wait for tomorrow.
Nine
Thatcher
I didn’t stay at home long after Mills dropped me off; I paced the living room, looking at the boxes and piles of things I had salvaged from the coaching house. What Mills had said was stuck in my mind, the thought of taking yourself from your family, left rifts spread and deepen, growing into them. I was a hypocrite, not that he knew that. Crouching down by one of the boxes, I pulled out the photograph of my mother and me, rubbing my face tiredly. I’d hadn’t changed my name, but I’d done just about everything else.
Fed up, I pulled my coat back on and left the house, driving out of the city to my old village, where the coaching house sat shadowed in the slowly approaching night. I left the car and stood there for a while, my hands in my pockets, staring up at the place. It was getting there, slowly. The roof was patched up, the walls rebuilt where they had crumbled on the outside. Most of the plastering was about done, thankfully. I didn’t ever want to look at plaster again. But it would still be some time before it was back to normal, back to the vision my mother had of it all those years ago. Of flowers growing up the walls, the windows clean and bright, the walls painted and covered with pictures. Of the family inside, laughing around the fire as we used to. Only I was left now, of course, but Elsie would be there when it was done. Sally too.
; Instead, the place was surrounded by dead plants and weeds, trees that had yet to grow their leaves back leaning scraggly limbed over the roof. I think there was something nesting in the chimney as well and wouldn’t be all that surprised if I went into the back garden and found adders in the long grass. I hadn’t come out here with any one specific job in mind, no determination to see something nailed down or boarded up.
I unlocked the padlocked chain that was slung across the front door and headed in, for the first time not getting a face full of cobwebs as I did. Staying in the main room, I took the boards down from the window, letting the light stream in across the grubby floorboards, sending spirals of dust through the air and tossed the broken boards aside and turned to face the room. With the light coming in, it wasn’t too difficult to see what she saw. The memories of the place, me as a lad sitting on the bar as my grandfather worked, my grandmother pottering around, fluffing cushions and tossing logs cavalierly onto the fire. The walls needed painting. Green, mother had always said. She would paint them green.
I sat down on an ancient stool, leaning against the bar. Families are strange, and to write them off takes effort and pain. People don’t do it for no reason, don’t abandon their blood without cause. Whyever Richard Sandow had chosen to take his father’s name and leave his brother, there would be a reason behind it. Maybe not a very good one, in the light of a new day such decisions never seem as big, the reason never quite as bad as you first thought them to be. Mine certainly wasn’t. But then again, I had no disgruntled relatives breaking into my home to steal paintings, so maybe the rift between the family did come from somewhere dark.
I hadn’t been able to learn much more about the estranged brother. He seemed to keep himself to himself. He’d married and had a daughter and two grandchildren, but none of them seemed to have an inclination of returning to the Hocking estate, claiming themselves a spotlight as the relations of a Lord. The rift ran deep, and even if Richard Sandow himself wasn’t likely to act against his brother in such a way, it was just as likely that his daughter might, or his grandchildren. People do things for their parents, reckless, stupid things sometimes. They steal paintings, renovate decrepit old buildings, even go as far as murder, as I had seen over the years. Perhaps Mills would have better luck learning about the artist, though he didn’t strike me much as an art fan.
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 33