The Trust, page 8
A man emerged and turned to lock the door behind him, mid-twenties at the most. He had cropped sandy hair that was shorn in a perfect straight line at the back of his neck. His movements were quick and precise – as if he were hurrying to get to something more important. Door shut. Key in pocket. Turn on heels. ‘Who are you?’ he said without emotion.
‘Who are you?’ she threw back at him.
He ignored her. ‘Are you on holiday?’
‘No, I’m here on business.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘None-of-your-business.’
He stood his ground. There was no room to squeeze past him. ‘You mind letting me through?’
‘Not yet. I’m Sergeant Harper. Dorset Crime Division.’
Her heart sank a little. Although she wasn’t sure why. After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong. ‘Isn’t this the bit where you bring out a wallet with a gold badge on it?’
‘If that would cheer you up.’ He dipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. Sure enough, there was a gold shield inside it.
‘Well, there you go. I’ve always wondered about that,’ she said. ‘Okay – I’m Astrid Kisner. I work as an art conservator at Sherborne Hall.’
‘Astrid Kisner?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good – that saves me a trip. I need to get a statement from you.’
Harper led her towards a bench just inside the church graveyard. They were the only people there – alive at least. There was a small field of weathered headstones in front of the church. Over time some had tilted and sunk. Others were laid flat, face up in the uncut grass. They reached the bench and Harper sat down. He had his notebook open before she’d sat down next to him.
‘So, you’re an art conservator.’ There was a flicker of a smile. ‘I’m not sure if I know what that is?’
‘I restore paintings. Clean them. Repair them. That kind of thing.’
‘What a fascinating job.’ The smile dissolved. It seemed like the ‘good cop’ part of the interview was now over. ‘When you found the body, did you make a note of the time?’
‘It was 4.29.’
‘So… 4.29.’ Harper wrote it down, a gold signet ring glinting on his little finger. It was the only thing on him that was showy. Everything he was wearing was clean and tidy. The dark trousers with the sharp crease, the matt-black boots. If you’re not smart, at least look smart. That’s what they say, don’t they?
‘Not many people would check the time.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes – most people who find a dead body are shocked. They’d run for help.’
Astrid shifted on the bench. ‘Well, I thought it might be important later.’
‘Did you?’ He wrote on his notepad again. Astrid peered over to see what he’d written, but his handwriting was too small and spidery. He had other questions, and she was ready for all of them. She paused before calmly answering. No, she hadn’t seen anyone leaving or near the icehouse before she found the body. No, she hadn’t touched or removed anything. Yes, she had gone straight to report the matter to Cressida.
He snapped his notebook shut and stood up. ‘There’s one more question.’ He pursed his lips, as if a thought had surprised him.
Really? Anyone who’d seen a few TV detective shows would know that the trick question was coming up next. Astrid suspected Harper had watched more than most.
‘Did you know the deceased?’
‘No.’
‘But you were at his shop – DeVine’s Antiques. So how did you know the dead man was Gerald DeVine?’
The shadow of the church spire had ever so slowly scythed round to the bench. There was a chill in the air now.
‘Local gossip. It travels quickly around here.’
‘But I’m the only one who knows his name, from items on his person. And I’ve not been gossiping.’ Harper clasped his hands together in front of him and smirked.
Astrid rarely felt this annoyed with herself. How could she have made this mistake? Of course, nobody would have known the man was DeVine unless they’d rifled through his pockets.
‘Astrid, is there anything else you’ve forgotten to tell me?’
‘I’ve told you everything I know.’
‘Then I should remind you, it’s an offence to interfere with a crime scene.’
‘That’s what you think this was? A crime, not an accident?’ She held back a smirk of her own.
‘Well, that is a possibility.’ He rubbed his chin. Another mannerism he’d no doubt practised in the mirror. ‘So what motive would there be to kill a friendly local shop owner?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t.’ He leant over her. She noticed he had a shaving rash under his jawline. A cheap razor. Probably a dry shave in the office before he came out. ‘So why don’t you leave the investigating to the experts.’
‘I will… and when will they be arriving?’
He laughed in short strangled bursts. ‘Very good, yes… very good.’ He brought out a small card from his top pocket. ‘Don’t forget. If you remember something you should have told me… don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
‘Of course.’ She took the card and watched him leave. When he reached the alleyway, she slipped the card into her wallet.
Astrid took a path that took a wide arc around the town – just to make sure she didn't bump into Harper again. She was pleased to have got the better of him in the end. Apart from that one slip-up, he’d revealed more than she had. Of course, she should have told him about the wet footsteps on the path. But she didn’t trust him. To use another phrase of her mother’s, he was as shifty as a one-eyed cat. Why had he been skulking around the antiques shop on his own… and in the dark? What was he looking for? Maybe it was all innocent enough. He was just a young police officer making a hash of his first real case.
Or maybe Kath was right? The English Trust had a darker side – ‘like the mafia with cream teas’, that was her phrase. A bit over the top maybe, but it was possible. If there was a billion pounds in the Trust’s bank account, who knows? Harper could be covering up for some powerful people. Either way, as long as she stayed out of his way, she might as well carry on investigating. What harm could it do?
By the time she reached the riverbank forty minutes later, the sun had dipped behind the hills. The sky blushed peach and amber. A soft wash with a flat sable brush – that’s how she would paint it. If she hadn’t given up painting. Working with great masters made you realise how amateur your own work was – as Simon had always pointed out. Simon… she hadn’t thought about her husband since this morning when Kath mentioned him. The investigation was taking her mind off him. It was also kind of fun. Sifting through the evidence. Narrowing down the suspects – who wouldn’t enjoy that?
Through a gap in the reeds, she noticed her boat on the opposite side of the river. The name Curlew’s Rest was painted down the side. This was the first time she’d seen it from a distance. It looked rather handsome. The prow shouldered the current, which slid past into gold and black V’s behind the boat. The mast was perfectly vertical – a dark line scratching the sunset.
To get back to it took another ten minutes. Upstream to the wharf, over the bridge and back down the towpath. She could barely see where she was going now. Left hand out to make sure she wasn’t going into the reeds. Right hand feeling for the hedge. How had she made it back from the pub that first night? She scrambled aboard the boat and shut the door behind her. Shoes off. The little curtains drawn over the portholes.
It was good to be back – safe and sound.
11
Monday, Day 6
At 8.40 a.m., her staff lanyard clearly on display, Astrid strode along the second floor of the house. This was the quickest way to get to the storeroom. Or it would be if she hadn’t planned a detour to find Harold. The house wouldn’t be open to the public for another ten minutes.
As she predicted, he was seated by the door. ‘Ah, good morning to you, Astrid.’ He rose slowly to his feet.
‘Morning, Harold. I don’t suppose I could ask you a couple of questions.’
‘I’d be delighted. That’s why I’m here.’
She wandered over to the window. When she turned round to find him he was in the middle of the room, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his blazer. ‘The eagle-eyed cinema goers will no doubt recognise this room from a film called The Dark Knight.’ His voice was slow and considered, smoothing the bumps of a story he’d no doubt told word for word a thousand times.
‘Sorry, Harold. I just…’
He returned to his usual voice. ‘Terrible movie. I assumed it would be about a knight. It wasn’t. It was about a man who dressed up as a bat.’
‘Oh, right…’
He had an audience, and he wasn’t going to lose it. ‘The filmmakers used this room as the library for Wayne Manor. Which is adjacent to a bat cave. Although for some reason there weren’t any bats down there. Just some rather unroadworthy cars and rubber suits.’
‘Sorry, Harold.’ She held up her hand. ‘We only have a few minutes.’
‘Of course.’ He joined her at the window.
She pointed to the path that ran through the arch in the yew hedge, and on into the woods. ‘This path through the hedge.’
Harold squinted. ‘Yes?’
‘Is that the only way to get to the icehouse?’
‘It is.’
‘There’s no other way of getting into the woods then?’
‘No. There’s fencing all around it to keep people from sneaking into the grounds without paying.’
‘Right. And why is the icehouse closed to the public at the moment?’
‘Closed? No, no… it’s open all day.’
‘Really? There was a closed sign across the gap in the hedge.’
‘Well, there shouldn’t have been. It’s only just been restored to working order. They cut the ice on the pond this winter and put it in there – as they would have in Georgian times. Of course, there were no fridges back then. Anyway…’ he checked his watch, which had a black leather strap that hung loosely on his pale wrist ‘…I better get back to my post.’
‘I’ve just got one more question.’
‘Go on.’
‘The top floor of the house. Is it open to the public?’
‘The top floor?’ Harold hesitated. ‘No, it hasn’t been for years.’
‘Is it locked?’
Harold checked his watch again. ‘Yes. Although I’ve no idea who has the keys. Why do you want to know?’
‘Oh, well… no, I’m sure it was nothing.’
‘Go on, Astrid. You can tell me.’
‘Okay, the other day I was in the garden and I thought I saw a figure at the window.’
‘A figure?’ He shook his head. ‘You know, the Trust store a lot of furniture up there. Maybe it was a trick of the light.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘Listen, I really must dash.’ Harold smiled anxiously and set off for the door. His tread was soft and careful. He moved to the side of a floorboard that creaked when Astrid stood on it. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat,’ he said. ‘But there’s supposed to be someone in the rooms at all times.’
‘To welcome guests?’
‘Mainly, but they also need someone for insurance reasons. In case anyone makes a grab for the antiques. Although I don’t know if it would work. I’m still pretty sprightly, but I can’t imagine Margaret wrestling a cat burglar to the floor. Can you?’
‘I haven’t met her.’
‘She’s just had her hips done.’
They reached the door. ‘Well, thank you, Harold. You’ve been more than helpful.’
‘I’m very glad. And by the way – if you are short of company, we volunteers have our lunch in the old boiler room in the basement. I’m sure the others would love to meet you too.’
‘I may do that, thanks.’
He sat down, put his palms on his knees and watched the door for the first of the visitors.
*
On the way to the storeroom, Astrid mulled over what she’d learnt from talking to Harold. The case, as she had begun to call it, had got more intriguing. Maybe she had imagined the figure at the window. But there was one thing she was sure about. Whoever had gone into the icehouse after DeVine had drawn the closed sign across the hedge. Which meant they didn’t want to be disturbed. Then they’d taken the same path back into the gardens – there was no other way out of the woods.
The problem was, it could have been any of hundreds of people in the grounds that day. Any visitor, member of staff or volunteer could have slipped into the woods. So where should she look now? For the time being, like the wet footprints on the path, the trail had evaporated.
*
For the rest of the morning Astrid went through the remaining collection. She worked steadily through the paintings, taking photos and notes and setting aside anything that might be worth featuring as the star of the show. Eventually she found what she was looking for. Wrapped in a white sheet was a small landscape, about twelve inches by ten. It showed a grey sea surging against towering cliffs. Along the headland were copses of trees. There was a white smudge for a building, a lighthouse presumably, near the edge of the rock face. She checked the signature, although she already knew who’d painted it. Sure enough, scratched in olive paint was the name John Constable.
She was going to take some photos, but her hands were shaking. This was too exciting. The landscape was smaller than most Constables, less showy than the watermill scenes and cathedrals he was famous for. No more than an afternoon’s work. Perhaps it was a rough guide for a larger canvas he never painted. It may not be his finest work, but it was almost definitely a Constable. And if the Trust had paid less than five hundred thousand for it, they’d got a bargain.
Astrid checked the list again. The painting was noted on the other side. It had the date down as 1816. If she remembered correctly that was the year he’d married his childhood sweetheart Maria. They’d gone on honeymoon on the Dorset coast, staying with a local vicar, who was a friend of his. He must have brought his art materials with him. So was Maria in the painting? Astrid took out the magnifying glass and ran it across the canvas. There on a path that wound up the side of the hill was a tiny mark. Astrid looked closer. It was two quick brushstrokes. A dash of blue, a dab of hazel above it. There was no mistaking it. This was a figure – Maria walking ahead of him? Who else would it be?
Astrid stepped back and gave a little fist pump. It wasn’t something she’d done before, but now seemed as good a time as any. Not only was she going to be working on a Constable, there was a story behind it. Paintings were always more beautiful with stories attached to them – and this was a romance. Cressida might get her ‘blockbuster’ exhibition after all. She left the painting on the table and gathered her bag. It was time for lunch.
*
Astrid eventually located the Orangery Café in part of a stable block at the back of the kitchen garden. It was busy. There was a crowd of people milling around the hot food area. A long line of families queued patiently to get to the chiller cabinets. At the front a child was grabbing a selection of snacks.
‘That’s six items, Josh,’ hissed his mum. ‘Put a yoghurt back.’
‘Can I swap it for more crisps?’
‘Okay… quickly.’ Josh was dragged away as the next family shuffled forwards. ‘Sorry.’
‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ said the dad behind her.
But it wasn’t – you could tell. Everyone was tense. The place had the same atmosphere as just before a riot in a prison canteen. Astrid skipped ahead and quickly bought the first sandwich in reach. Maybe it would be nice to have lunch with the volunteers.
*
The signs to the boiler room took her down a corridor in the basement, past some empty wine cellars, over a rope and round the corner. Astrid pushed open the big cream door and was struck by a warm fug of cosiness – a mixture of steam, coffee and shortbread. There was a long table in the middle of the room. Harold was sitting there with an elderly woman who was eating something brown and lumpy from a Tupperware bowl. She was wearing a shapeless floral dress that reminded Astrid of a flowering shrub she’d seen in the gardens.
‘You made it.’ Harold got up and took her elbow, steering her round to face the shrub lady. ‘Margaret – this is my new friend Astrid. The art restorer I was telling you about.’
The woman peered at her. Like a conger eel drifting out from some crevice in a rock. ‘I won’t get up – it’s my hips.’
‘Margaret specialises in Georgian etiquette and fashion,’ said Harold.
‘Only Georgian. The Victorian stuff is a bit dull for my tastes.’ She raised a spoon of brown food to her lips.
‘How fascinating,’ said Astrid. ‘I love the Georgian era.’
Harold shuffled over to the sink area. There was a microwave, a rack of cups and a silver water boiler with a black tap at the bottom. ‘Coffee, Astrid?’
‘Oh, yes please. Just milk.’ Astrid settled into a spare seat at the table. ‘So, are you two the only volunteers today?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s just the three of us at the moment – me, Harold and Denise. There’s a bit of a recruitment problem at the moment for volunteers. So when we have our coffee and tea breaks we have to pull the rope across some of the rooms.’
‘There’s some garden volunteers,’ said Harold, pouring a dash of milk into a sage-coloured cup. ‘But they knock off before lunch.’
‘The garden volunteers are pretty much part-time,’ Margaret said dismissively. She worked the spoon into the corner of the bowl. ‘Not sure you’ll get much sense out of them though. You have any questions about the house, you ask us.’
‘I promise I will.’
Margaret pressed the lid down on the empty bowl and pushed it to one side. ‘So why are the Trust restoring the paintings?’
