Landscape with Corpse, page 6
When we got back to the coach, I asked Geoff„ ‘Is she all right there, on her own?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Isn’t she worried about being pestered?’
‘Not at all. This isn’t one of your crummy cities, you know. The locals come and stand behind her and say nice things. Some of them know her by now.’
‘So she won’t be too lonely?’
‘No. Not lonely.’
The coach got going again, reached the double wheel tracks, and continued along them, following the coastline. This was grassland, speckled with gorse bushes, bracken, and distant sheep, the hills beyond folding and interlinking into the distance. Bryngowan Manor was just visible, but looking like a small outcrop of rock. The coach moved slowly over the poor surface.
Cardigan Bay lay to our left now, as we drove north, but there was little to be seen of it, as massed bushes and trees ran ahead steadily, following the coastline. In places, the greenery thickened and spread itself, so that we ran close beneath and between it, overhanging branches rattling on the roof.
‘First stop,’ said Geoff, and Larry pulled the coach to a halt. ‘This is where Paul likes to work. Come along, and see what it’s like.’
‘But we’ve arranged to sit with Elise,’ I reminded him.
‘Yes. I know. But you’re here for a few more days, and there’d be time for a different viewpoint. It’s not Paul’s secret lair.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll have a look.’ And Oliver nodded agreement.
We helped with Paul’s load of stuff. He didn’t seem pleased that we might be intending to trespass on his preserves.
It was at a point where the cliffs curved away north from the estuary. When we reached it, I had to admit that it was ideal, as far as the view was concerned, with the estuary dead ahead of him, and Jennie, beyond it and on top of her cliff, clearly visible in her red T-shirt.
But here Paul’s treasured retreat—there was no more than a patch of scrubby grass, surrounded by towering trees, and there would certainly have been no room for two intruders.
‘Very cosy, Paul,’ I said. ‘You’re well located here.’
Indeed, he was, as he had a superb view of the estuary, from the opposite direction to the one enjoyed by Jennie, though it seemed to me that as the sun came round it would be directly in his eyes.
We left him, and climbed back into the coach. The others seemed restless at the delay. Then we moved onwards, heading north.
The twins were next. We put them off, and they carried their own equipment. Both were wearing very battered jeans and linen jackets, all liberally spattered with patches of colour.
‘Nothing special where we go,’ said Martin. ‘And not much room,’ added Philip. It was clear we would not have been welcome, so there was no point in wasting any more time on viewing it.
‘Right,’ said Geoff, when we moved away. ‘Elise’s little promontory next. And’, he added quietly, ‘where you know you’re welcome. Come along, if Elise still agrees.’ He glanced at her, but it was to me he winked.
‘Oh yes—yes,’ she said quickly. ‘We’ve got it all fixed up. Haven’t we?’ she asked, touching my arm, her eyes big and anxious.
Oliver smiled. ‘I’d be disappointed, otherwise.’
So, between us, we carried everything along, following Elise. Two trips. It was by no means an easy access, with the path very narrow between hedges and trees. But we emerged on a flat area twenty feet by ten, with a low cliff down to the water, on three sides of us. The promontory jutted out into the bay, so that there was a flourishing run of greenery to our left, the estuary directly ahead, and the bay to our right, but lapping almost at our feet, there being a ten-foot fall of cliff to the water.
We were, I guessed, about a quarter of a mile from the harbour, with behind it the rise of the town. The castle ruins were now starkly side-lit against a deep blue sky, with delicious white clouds gathered in parade.
I could now only just detect the red spot that was Jennie.
‘This,’ I said, ‘is absolutely ideal.’
‘Right,’ Geoff said, obviously pleased by our reaction. ‘There’s not much point in taking you to see Pam’s spot and bringing you back here. So I’ll tell you how I usually do things. We park the coach on a flat patch, about a quarter of a mile from here, after I’ve seen Pam settled in. Her little spot’s a quarter of a mile further on than that. Then, throughout the day, I do a tour. That’s to see how you’re all managing, answer any queries, and offer any advice you may need. And so on.’
‘You walk it?’ Oliver asked.
‘Oh yes. The coach is parked where everybody knows where to find it. That we have to do. You’ve all got to know where to go if there’s any kind of emergency.’
‘Emergency?’ I asked. ‘Sitting here, painting!’
He laughed, then grimaced. ‘You never know. We’ve had some very strange emergencies. One man, stepping back to get his perspective right, fell off the cliff and nearly drowned himself. Pam—our Pam—was sharpening a pastel pencil with a sharp knife, and nearly cut the end off her finger. Oh yes—we get ‘em.’
‘If they’re alone,’ I protested, thinking of Pam, ‘how can they—’
‘That’s one of the reasons why I walk the rounds,’ he cut in.
‘But you must walk miles.’
‘Oh, I do, I do. It keeps me fit. For your information, it’s nearly half a mile from here to where I’m now going to take Pam Wilton, who’ll be getting very impatient if I don’t get back to the coach right now. That makes it about a mile between the furthest of you north—that’s Pam—and the furthest south—that’s Jennie. You get the strategy?’ And he winked. ‘Right then—see you later.’
Elise sighed when he’d left us. ‘He’s a bit of a fusspot, and he does rather treat us as children, who have to be guarded with his life.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t put it like that,’ said Oliver. ‘He’s just anxious that his little flock should go away at the end of the week, knowing they’ve achieved something. I think he’s just a wee bit too conscientious, that’s all. And what about all those miles he must walk! No wonder he’s got no flesh on his bones.’
Elise sighed. ‘I’m always telling myself I ought to walk more. Oh…but never mind that. Shall we set up our easels side by side,’ she suggested to me, ‘then we can make catty remarks to each other.’
‘That sounds ideal,’ I agreed, to the sitting together, anyway.
‘Ye Gods!’ said Oliver. ‘What have I got myself into?’
Then, after a bit of arguing and discussion, Elise and I got down to some serious work. Or at least, we got light pencil outlines of the general perspective on our paper, whilst Oliver grumbled to himself, with his pad on his knees.
He was sitting beside me on his stool, pastels displayed in their box at his feet, and Elise the other side of me. Oliver didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.
‘I don’t know how to start,’ he moaned.
‘You draw a general layout, like this,’ I told him, showing him what I had done. ‘Use a grey pastel pencil. But Oliver, I’ve never done pastel work, so I might be advising you all wrong. Do as Geoff said—put down on the paper what you see.’
Elise was on her feet at once. ‘Oh, I’ve done pastels. I’ll just show you.’
And then she was hanging over his shoulder, one arm resting on it, peering at his pad, leaning her face close to his and saying, ‘Like this, look: row of trees, distant castle, edge of cliffs, water, sky.’
That grey pastel pencil was racing over the paper, and they were considering the result with their heads so close that I expected a spark to fly between them. Oliver was pleased with her assistance. Then I realised that I could have done that for him, all of it, and I understood now why she had offered to share her cosy little nook. Not, really, with us, but with Oliver. Suddenly, I was surplus to requirements.
But this was Elise, I reminded myself. Elise, the flimsy flirt, not Jennie, the wildly possessive and practised lover. Elise—who would run a mile if Oliver responded with the slightest gesture that suggested blatant sex. But I ought to have known. He had the situation under control.
‘Well now!’ he said. ‘If that’s not a clever girl! I’ve got my outline, Phillie. In a flash she did it. Now, let’s see if I can get some green in those trees.’
He grabbed up three greens in three shades, and scribbled and cross-hatched and rubbed with his finger, and said, ‘There! Trees.’
‘But they’re not a bit like I drew them!’ Elise complained.
‘But they’re my trees,’ he said. ‘Just as Geoff said. Mine. Isn’t that grand, Phil?’
I agreed that it was. ‘Thank the lady, Oliver.’
‘Thank you, Elise,’ he said. ‘But you mustn’t waste your time on me. Your precious time.’
She returned to her stool, pouting a tittle. Ten minutes later we were each locked in our private enclosure of concentration. Little was said. Elise, with acrylics, was painting her fluffy white clouds. With watercolours, I couldn’t do that, but had to float-in a flat wash of blue, and use a fistful of tissues to pick out the clouds, then, while the white patches were still damp, carefully edge in a touch of Payne’s grey, to add an impression of bulk. The difficulty was that I had forgotten to bring my box of tissues.
‘I’ve got some,’ said Elise. ‘Help yourself.’ Bless her.
Beside me, Oliver was now working silently and intently. More and more sheets of Ingres pastel paper were scattered around his feet. He had dispensed with an opening sketch of outlines and positioning and now simply plunged in and scribbled hard, and was making splendid and positive passes with his pastels, steady curves and bold masses, apparently carelessly but now at last with a certain amount of confidence. He was producing rather splendid pictures, with the sunlight blasting through the trees, his clouds rubbed in with a finger, and a darned sight fluffier than mine.
It was coming up to time for our lunch, when Elise suddenly spoke into what had been an extended silence. ‘I’ll have to ask you to excuse me for a few minutes.’
‘Something you’ve left…’
‘No. Oh no.’ She turned her head away. ‘I’ll have to pop along to the Ladies.’
‘What!’ I said. ‘Where’s this Ladies you’re talking about?’
‘It’s over the bridge and up that cobbled bit of lane—and it’s on the right. Behind where Jennie’s doing her painting. Are you coming with me?’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Heavens no! With all these acres of trees and hedges around?’
‘Oh…I couldn’t…’ She was unable to look at Oliver.
What a delicately nurtured young lady she was! Oliver said, ‘If you like, I’ll walk along there. Have a word with Jennie, perhaps, and take my time.’
‘No, no. Really.’ She got to her feet and smoothed her slacks. ‘I need to stretch my legs, anyway.’
‘The trees’, Oliver said, in that flat and solemn voice he uses when he’s about to produce one of his funnies, ‘would surely be sweeter and fresher than the Ladies. If they’re anything like the Gents, anyway.’
She blushed. ‘I’ll have to rush.’
‘We’ll stop for lunch,’ I told her.
And off she went. We stopped for lunch, as I’d said, after indulging in a bit of a laugh over our dear Elise.
The packed lunch was splendid, sandwiches of a chopped filling that I couldn’t identify, but which were delicious, an apple, a chunk of fruit cake, and a carton of fruit juice.
‘You know, Oliver,’ I said, ‘you’re a natural artist. I mean—just look at some of those…’ They were scattered on the grass around him. They were closer to being sketches than actual completed paintings, but he’d naturally been more interested in getting as much done as possible. By the end of the week, he would, I thought, be concentrating more on detail and overall effect. In that event, I could see him taking half a day on one painting, even a full day.
‘I didn’t know, Phil. I just can’t believe it. And Phil, by the end of the week, I’ll have a painting from our window at night. I swear it. It’s just as Geoff said: you put down on paper what you see.’
‘That’s the general idea,’ I said.
‘Hmm!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She’s certainly taking her time.’
‘It is not necessary’, I pointed out, ‘to time her, Oliver. It’s quite a distance, you know.’
‘Yes—but getting on for twenty minutes…It’s nearly one o’clock.’
‘Would you like me to go and check?’ I asked, a little ashamed of my laboured tone. ‘But I mean—’
I didn’t get to tell him what I meant, because suddenly I could hear screaming, coming closer, and which surely must have been our Elise.
Oliver knocked over his stool, jumping to his feet.
The screams ceased, being replaced by the crashing of undergrowth, then Elise burst into sight, panting and half-weeping, and appearing about to collapse as she caught sight of Oliver.
Then she stood, swaying before us, her face puffed and red with exertion and her eyes wild.
‘Oh Phillie,’ she whimpered. ‘It’s Jennie. Back there.’ She made a wild and sweeping gesture. ‘And she’s d…dead. I’m sure she must be dead.’
‘Now…Elise…’ I was trying to use a calming voice, but she burst out, ‘It’s true! I’ve seen her, Dead. Oh…what are we going to do?’
‘We are going to stay here, until somebody comes and tells us what’s happened.’ I nodded, to emphasise it. Whatever had occurred, we would be doing no good by going to investigate.
She stared at me numbly.
‘I could go and find out,’ suggested Oliver, his authoritative voice working full time.
‘No, no,’ appealed Elise, her hands against her face, eyes wild behind her fingers. ‘I couldn’t. Not back there.’ Then she waved her arms around frantically.
‘I didn’t say we,’ said Oliver. ‘Me. On my own. And I didn’t mean back there. I meant to the coach. To see if Geoff knows about it—whatever it is. You just sit down, Elise. Come along now, and be a good girl.’ He offered her his hand. ‘Just sit yourself down, lass, and take a deep breath, then you can tell us what it’s all about.’
She did not sit down, but clung to Oliver’s hand even more fiercely. Then she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and said, in a reasonably controlled voice, ‘It’s definitely Jennie. The red shirt and the hair. Jennie. And she’s lying there—her easel knocked over—and Phillie,’ she whispered, ‘she’s dead. I know it. Lying there.’
‘You’ve said that Elise,’ I reminded her, trying to erase the image from her mind, trying to remain cool and calm, myself.
Then she released Oliver’s hand, and clawed at my arm. ‘It’s Jennie...’
‘Now Elise,’ I said, ‘you just sit yourself down on this stool, and tell us exactly what’s happened. Exactly.’ I eased her down on to the stool.
She drew in another deep, shuddering breath.
‘Take it from when you arrived there,’ I told her.
‘I just w…went there. Across the footbridge.’
‘Yes. Of course. And straight to the Ladies?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘And did you see anybody the other side of the bridge—either coming towards you or going away, before you reached the Ladies?’
It was quite irrelevant at that time, but it helped to drag her mind away from the basic, appalling fact—that she had seen Jennie dead—and lead her slowly towards the fact that she must actually have seen Jennie.
She frowned heavily, and began to pad at her face with a handful of tissues. ‘It depends…I don’t know why you’re…Coming towards me? No. Oh no. Nobody.’ She looked agitatedly around her, as though she was being stifled by distress.
‘But going away?’ I asked. ‘Is there anywhere anybody could be going away to?’
‘Of course. Of course there is. Oh, Phillie, don’t you know? There’s the market-place, up there. Don’t you know?’
‘How could I, Elise? You mean—up the cobbled lane and past the Ladies?’
‘Yes, yes. Oh…why are we wasting time?’
‘It’s because there’s nothing else we can do. Only wait. And while we wait, we’re just talking. Getting things straight. Now…you saw somebody walking away?’
‘Yes, yes!’ She bit her lower lip. ‘Well…I think so.’
‘Think…’
‘The sun was in my eyes, Philipa. So how could I see anything much?’
‘Yes. Of course. But can you tell me…a man or a woman?’
‘As though I could tell!’
‘Skirt or slacks?’
‘Oh…I don’t know! Oh—all right—slacks, I suppose.’ She dismissed the validity of this with a flick of her hand. ‘What does it matter, anyway?’
‘I don’t know, Elise. I don’t know. Then you went into the Ladies?’
‘I’ve said that. How many more times…’
‘You haven’t, Elise. Anybody else in there?’
She shook her head frantically. ‘Not as far as I know.’ She was impatient now, jabbering the words. ‘What on earth does that matter? Jennie’s lying there dead, and you’re talking about who was where and who wasn’t.’ She looked wildly around her for assistance. ‘We ought to be doing something.’
‘If there was anything we could do,’ I said gently, ‘then we’d do it. But we’re here, not there. I thought I heard a siren, which means that the police are on the job, so there’s nothing we can do. In any event, they wouldn’t allow us to get anywhere near.’
‘Yes.’ She pouted. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Her tone was of relief, a vast load of responsibility suddenly sliding from her shoulders. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she conceded.
‘I am, I assure you. Now…did you, from inside, hear anything going on outside?’
‘Oh yes.’ She sighed. My persistence was wearying her. ‘Somebody running. Across the bridge. I could hear the planks. Yes. I’m pretty sure of that. Then—I think—round to where Jennie…Jennie…where she was painting. Then straight back. Back to the bridge.’
She stopped, biting her lower lip to stimulate her memory. ‘And?’ I prompted.
