‘Arnie?’ A bell rang in Melissa’s brain. ‘I wonder … yes, that could explain it. Gloria was telling me yesterday about an autistic boy she knew from school. She said he never spoke, but could draw and paint. His name was Arnie Barron.’

  ‘You reckon it’s him?’ Iris jerked her head towards the figure at the easel.

  ‘It might be. He’s about the right age.’

  ‘He works fast,’ Iris commented. ‘See how much he’s done since we came in? Almost finished.’

  The door opened and Eloise Dampier entered, carrying a new canvas on its stretcher. She put it carefully on a table in the corner and went over to speak to the artist.

  ‘Very good, Arnie,’ she said. ‘That’s ready, isn’t it? Shall I take it?’

  She made a movement as if to remove the picture from the easel, but he put out an arm to protect it.

  ‘Not done yet,’ he said urgently. It was the first time he had spoken with any sign of emotion. ‘Wait.’

  ‘I think it’s lovely, just as it is,’ said Eloise. They were coaxing words, but spoken with an undercurrent of steel. ‘I’ve brought you a nice new canvas. I want you to paint a very special picture on it.’ She swung round as she spoke, with the evident intention of fetching the blank canvas, just as Iris picked it up and began idly examining it.

  ‘Kindly give that to me!’ barked Eloise. ‘Didn’t you see the notice?’

  In an unhurried manner, Iris turned to face her. ‘What’s your problem?’ she asked, with an unusually aggressive expression on her sharp features and making no attempt to relinquish the canvas. ‘Only looking. For your information, I’m an artist myself. Merely wondered where you get your supplies.’ She was turning it over as she spoke. ‘Good quality stuff,’ she went on. ‘What d’you pay for it?’

  ‘I really have no idea,’ snapped Eloise. ‘Let me have it, please. We particularly ask visitors not to touch anything.’

  With exaggerated care, Iris complied. Then she grabbed Melissa by the arm. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

  ‘No, wait. Watch what Arnie’s doing.’

  With rapid strokes he was adding a figure to his composition. It was a woman’s figure. A small, slight woman with snow-white hair, wearing a long grey dress and holding an oblong shape in her hands. He sat back and regarded his handiwork with his head on one side.

  ‘Finished now,’ he announced.

  Melissa drew a sharp breath. ‘Arnie, is that the writing lady?’ she asked.

  He did not appear to have heard the question. With his eyes still on the canvas, he gave a faint, mysterious smile.

  ‘Give me the picture, Arnie,’ said Eloise sharply.

  ‘It is the writing lady, isn’t it?’ Melissa persisted, ignoring the woman’s impatient gesture.

  Slowly, Arnie nodded. ‘The writing lady,’ he said, almost under his breath. ‘She liked the picture so I gave it to her.’

  Thirteen

  ‘What was so special about that canvas, Iris?’ asked Bruce as he fastened his seat belt and turned the key in the ignition.

  ‘Who said it was special?’ countered Iris. She was making a great to-do about settling herself, her bulky shoulder bag and the thick folds of her coat in the back seat of the Escort while Melissa got in the front.

  ‘You were looking at it pretty closely,’ Bruce pointed out.

  ‘Wanted to annoy Eloise.’ Melissa, attempting to tidy her windblown hair and peering into the vanity mirror over the front passenger seat as she did so, saw the glint of mischief in her friend’s eye and wondered if she was up to something. ‘Officious cow,’ Iris added genially.

  Bruce gave an appreciative chuckle. ‘She did get hot under the collar,’ he agreed. For a few moments he drove in silence, then said, ‘I think I’ll see what I can turn up about Arnie. You said Gloria knows his background, Melissa?’

  ‘If he’s the Arnie Barron she was telling me about, he was transferred to a special school for autistics. You might be able to check on him that way, but I don’t see how it would help.’

  ‘You never know. As Iris says, he has an unusual talent. What do they charge for his pictures, Iris?’

  ‘Didn’t ask.’

  ‘I thought you were thinking of buying one.’

  ‘Changed my mind when Eloise cut up rough over the canvas.’

  ‘Whatever his work sells for, it wouldn’t surprise me if he only picks up a fraction of it,’ said Bruce thoughtfully. ‘A chap with his limitations is wide open to exploitation by opportunists like Gerard and Eloise. I’ll certainly try to find out a bit more about him. Any idea where the special school is, Melissa?’

  ‘In the Bristol area, I imagine – that’s where Gloria hails from. I’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘Will you do that? If she wants to know what it’s about, tell her I’m researching a feature on idiots savants.’

  There was a sardonic cackle from the back seat. ‘That’d be right over her fluffy head. Have to think of something simpler,’ Iris predicted.

  ‘I don’t want the real reason to get around,’ explained Bruce. ‘Didn’t you once tell me that she’s a blabbermouth, Mel?’

  ‘She enjoys a gossip, yes, but there’s no harm in her.’ Melissa found herself resenting this pejorative reference to a woman who, to her knowledge, had not a trace of malice in her makeup. And she didn’t remember giving him permission to use the shortened version of her name.

  ‘I’m not saying there is,’ replied Bruce. ‘I’m just asking you to be diplomatic.’

  ‘You mean like you, when you were pumping Damian?’

  He turned his head and grinned at her, unabashed. ‘All part of a journalist’s technique.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Anything for a story.’ She glanced at his profile as he steered the car through the sweeping, downhill bends of the road leading back to the city. There was a determined set to his chin and a resolute look in his eye that told her his mind was busy sifting possibilities. She knew that look of old; he believed he was on the track of something newsworthy and, like a terrier with a bone, he would worry away at it until he had cracked it open and got at the marrow. Okay, she thought, let him get on with it. Despite certain intriguing questions their visit had raised, she had to face the reality of a fast approaching deadline. Normally, she would have been only too keen to know the answers; as it was, she felt obliged to concentrate on the demanding task she had undertaken.

  Her tone must have betrayed her mood. Bruce took his eyes briefly from the road to give her a searching look.

  ‘I thought you were keen to unravel this mystery,’ he said. ‘You seemed so positive there was something fishy going on – don’t tell me you’re losing interest.’

  Melissa leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She felt inexplicably jaded and dispirited. ‘I am, I mean, I’m not … oh, I don’t know what I mean,’ she said wearily. ‘I wish I’d never got involved … and I promised myself a break from work and now I find myself lumbered with an urgent commission that’s riddled with complications.’

  ‘Forget the complications. Finish the book as it stands,’ advised Iris.

  ‘I intend to.’

  ‘What about the “load of twaddle” you got from Hood, and the picture Arnie says he gave to “the writing lady”?’ Bruce persisted. ‘How do you suppose that came about?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe he only imagined it – or perhaps he took a fancy to Leonora and gave her a picture on impulse. She probably pretended to accept it and handed it back later. She must have realised he isn’t quite normal. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with the novel, so I’m not interested. I haven’t got the time to be interested.’ With that, Melissa fell silent until they reached the end of their journey.

  In the car park behind the offices of the Gazette, Bruce pulled up beside Melissa’s Golf, got out and opened the doors for the two women to alight.

  ‘Want me to keep you posted?’ he asked Melissa.

  ‘If you like,’ she said, ‘and thanks for the lift.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He gave a gallant little bow and his most bewitching smile. Despite her irritation, she could not help smiling back.

  When they reached home, Melissa offered Iris a coffee and sandwich lunch which she declined, saying tersely, ‘Another time, thanks. Things to do now.’ She had seemed preoccupied during the drive from Gloucester, but Melissa, busy with her own thoughts, had paid little attention. She put her car in the garage and went indoors. Within minutes, the telephone rang.

  ‘Is that Ms Mel Craig?’ It was a young woman’s voice, nervous and hesitant.

  ‘Speaking. Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s Carole – Carole Prescot from Rathbone and Semple. You may remember very kindly signing some books for me.’ The words came tumbling out in a great hurry; Melissa suspected that she was making an unauthorised call from the office and was fearful of being overheard.

  ‘Of course I remember,’ she said reassuringly.

  ‘Ms Craig, I want to ask your advice.’

  Melissa rolled her eyes to the ceiling and suppressed a groan. Another amateur crime writer in a tangle over a plot! In the creative writing class which she ran at a local college, she was happy to share her expertise … but not out of the blue, and not over the telephone.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked, trying not to sound discouraging.

  ‘I can’t explain now … is it possible to meet you?’

  ‘Is it about your writing?’ asked Melissa, more gently. The girl sounded really jumpy, almost agitated.

  ‘Oh, no! I’m not a writer. No, it’s something … I think it might be important, but I’m not sure. I didn’t know who to talk to, and I thought you …’

  ‘Can’t you tell me a little more?’ Melissa broke in impatiently. ‘I really am very busy.’

  ‘Not on the phone,’ Carole insisted. ‘You come to Cheltenham quite often, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes … but like I said, I’m very busy just now. Can’t you at least give me some idea of what this is about?’

  ‘N … no, I’d much rather not …’

  ‘All right,’ said Melissa with a sigh. ‘Next time I come into town, I’ll let you know and we can arrange to meet.’

  ‘Oh, that would be …’

  In the background a man’s voice broke in, ‘Carole, I thought I told you those letters were urgent,’ and the girl replied, ‘I’ll do them right away, Mr Semple.’ With a hasty, ‘Thank you Ms Craig, goodbye,’ spoken almost in a whisper, she rang off.

  Melissa took her coffee and sandwich upstairs to her study, opened her file on Deadly Legacy and re-read the three final chapters of Leonora’s plot outline while she ate. She finished her coffee, put down the script, set the empty mug on the window-sill with a thump and exclaimed aloud, ‘That’s a perfectly sound ending, so what’s the problem? Get on with it as it is, Mel Craig!’

  She set up her word processor and got to work without delay. She felt revitalised; the adrenalin was pumping round her system and the text leapt on to the screen as her ideas flowed. Suddenly and inexplicably she felt as if Leonora’s creative spirit had taken charge of her own and she worked steadily until she was interrupted by a call from Joe Martin, seeking a progress report.

  ‘Fingers crossed, but it’s going okay at the moment,’ she told him. ‘I think I’ve got the hang of Leonora’s style.’

  ‘That’s great. When you’ve drafted a complete chapter, will you let me have a copy for her editor to see?’

  ‘Sure. By the way, Joe, did Leonora ever mention that she might be changing the ending of Deadly Legacy?’

  ‘Not to me. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered …’

  ‘Mel, if you’ve got some notion of putting in a new twist, forget it. Time is of the essence, remember?’

  ‘Okay, I only asked.’

  ‘Keep up the good work. I’ll be in touch. Bye for now.’

  It was time to take a break. She got up from her chair and went to the window, flexing her back and stretching her arms. It was almost four o’clock and the light was rapidly fading. During the past hour or so, the clouds had begun to scatter to give brief glimpses of the sun, which was just about to sink below the crest of the hills on the far side of the valley. Deep shadows were already reaching out towards a flock of sheep on the lower slopes; in half an hour they would be enfolded in darkness. Thinking of the long winter evenings ahead, she decided that, after all, it was not a bad idea to have something fresh to occupy her mind.

  With only a short break for a hasty meal, she worked on through the evening; by ten o’clock she had produced a working draft. It would need further re-writing and polishing of course, and no doubt Leonora’s editor would hack it around some more when she got her hands on it, but it was a start. Feeling encouraged, she put it away for the night and got ready for bed.

  She slept soundly and awoke refreshed, happy to see that, in contrast to yesterday’s mist and drizzle, the morning was clear and sunny, with a light breeze. She was just finishing her breakfast coffee and toast when Iris phoned.

  ‘Are we walking this morning?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes, all right.’ Unwinding in a hot bath the previous evening, Melissa had resolved, now that she had made a breakthrough, to follow her normal working routine, in which exercise and fresh air played an important part whenever the weather allowed. Gardening at this time of year was out of the question, so walking it was.

  ‘Say eleven o’clock,’ said Iris. After a brief pause, she added, ‘Got something to tell you.’

  Melissa experienced a momentary stab of foreboding. ‘It’s not bad news is it?’

  ‘Not bad. Interesting.’ Without giving her the chance to ask further questions, Iris put down the phone.

  Melissa knew better than to start probing the minute they set out. When Iris had something to say, she said it in her own time. This morning, instead of following her normal habit of commenting on whatever caught her eye – leafless trees outlined against the sky, an unusual cloud formation, the odd sighting of a rabbit, a deer or a pheasant – she strode along in silence for several minutes, hardly lifting her eyes from the path.

  At last, she said, ‘Been doing a spot of detective work.’

  ‘Detective work? You?’ Melissa glanced at her friend in astonishment and caught a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary gleam in her eyes.

  ‘You’re not the only sleuth round here,’ Iris said loftily. ‘Want to hear about it?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Remember that prepared canvas?’

  ‘The one Eloise got so ratty about? What … ?’

  ‘Something odd about it,’ said Iris mysteriously.

  ‘I don’t understand. You distinctly told Bruce …’

  ‘Didn’t want him poking his nose in. Not his line.’

  ‘Anything that smacks of a story is his line. Never mind him, though. What was odd about that canvas?’

  ‘The weave on the top was different from underneath. Looked newer as well.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Went to see Sam Deacon. Found out he supplies Gerard Hood with materials … canvas, paints and so forth.’

  ‘I could have told you that. I saw him there.’

  There was a short silence before Iris continued. ‘Sam told you Hood restores paintings, right?’

  ‘Yes, but Hood denied it. He said he didn’t know what gave Deacon the idea.’

  ‘I can tell you.’ Iris looked positively smug. ‘He uses mulberry tissue.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A special, very fine paper used by restorers when working on old, fragile paintings. Before taking a canvas off its stretcher, they apply a sheet of mulberry tissue with a special adhesive. It protects the painting while it’s being handled. Once the restorer is ready to start work, the tissue’s removed with solvent.’

  ‘It sounds like the technique archaeologists use for lifting Roman mosaics,’ Melissa remarked. ‘I don’t see what you’re driving at, though.’

  ‘Leonora was asking Sam about mulberry tissue – when the technique was first used, that sort of thing. He didn’t know.’

  ‘So he referred her to Gerard Hood, because he uses the stuff.’

  ‘Right. But Hood doesn’t do restorations, so what does he want with it?’ Iris assumed the expression of one possessed of superior knowledge and playing it for all it was worth.

  ‘I know you’re dying to tell me,’ said Melissa patiently.

  ‘Think about it,’ said Iris. ‘He doesn’t buy prepared canvas, he buys it by the roll and mounts it on stretchers himself.’

  ‘It’s probably cheaper, if he uses a lot. The rate Arnie works …’

  ‘Not being very bright, are you? The prepared canvas I picked up felt heavier than I’d have expected …’

  ‘And the back looked different!’ Melissa exclaimed as she at last tumbled to what Iris was driving at. ‘You’re suggesting there was another picture underneath!’

  ‘Protected by mulberry tissue.’ Iris beamed in triumph. ‘Clever, don’t you think?’

  It was unclear whether Iris’s admiration was for whoever had devised the scheme, or herself for detecting it. In any case, that was of secondary importance. ‘This could account for all the VIP comings and goings that Damian was telling Bruce about,’ Melissa said excitedly, her mind racing ahead. ‘Paintings worth thousands, almost certainly stolen, disguised as Arnie Barron originals worth only a few pounds, taken out of the country without a licence, without attracting a second glance …’

  ‘Damian, yes. Mustn’t forget him,’ Iris broke in. ‘Had a word with him as well. Very revealing.’

  ‘You went back to Blackwater Hall? When?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon, after talking to Sam Deacon.’

  ‘What else did you find out?’

  They had come to a stile. With one foot on the step, Iris counted off on her gloved fingers. ‘Point one. There was a great to-do on the day of Leonora’s visit …’

  ‘When was that, by the way?’

 

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