Authors: Sally Quilford
Mistletoe Mystery (2 page)
It would take her forever to search through it all, and she
doubted any of it was worth much. She knew that when the house was turned into
a hospital then a boarding school, most of the larger family heirlooms had been
put in storage elsewhere. She suspected that everything in the attic were
worthless items that had just been put up out of the way when they were no
longer needed.
She opened one of the trunks and found a load of clothes in
the nineteen-fifties style. Another trunk contained clothing from an
earlier era, and another had clothing dating back to Victorian times.
“Perfect,” she whispered. They would be ideal for the murder mystery weekends.
So far they had to borrow costumes from a friend in the BBC costume department,
but they had been told under pain of death not to damage anything.
One trunk bore the name Dominique DuPont, but when Philly
opened it, it only contained a painting.
The painting was about four feet high by three feet wide.
Philly turned it over, hoping but not really expecting, to find a masterpiece.
At first she thought it rather dull. It showed a tower set in front of a
forest, and sitting upon the tower was a bird. Below the tower lay a long
winding path, and walking along it was a small figure dressed in red. The more
she looked at it, the more she became transfixed by the colours, and the way
the bird’s eyes followed the small figure, yet also seemed to follow her
whenever she moved away from the picture. There was something wrong with
the perspective. The figure in red looked to be nearly half the height of the
tower. She rubbed at the bottom with her finger, guessing that an art historian
would have a fit if he saw her. There were probably sounder, scientific ways of
cleaning up a painting but she did not have those at her disposal. The name of
the artist was Robespierre.
All Philly knew of Robespierre was that he was a rather
unpleasant figure of the French Revolution. This painting could not be that
old. It did not even seem to be as old as the trunk in which it was stored.
Something about the red outfit the figure wore was too modern looking. It
looked like … “An anorak,” said Philly, squinting her eyes, trying to get a
better look.
“Robespierre,” said Puck, as they ate a late supper of beans
on toast in the drawing room. They all sat with trays on their knees, a bit fed
up of the dining room, where most of the murderous action had taken place.
“I’ve heard of him. Used to run around with Andy Warhol’s crowd in the sixties
and seventies. Bit of a champagne socialist by all accounts.”
“The trunk it was in belonged to someone called Dominique
DuPont,” Philly explained. “But I think the trunk was older than the painting.
A real nineteen-forties or fifties style.”
“Now where have I heard that name?” asked Meg. “Dominique
DuPont, I mean. Oh, I can’t remember, but it’ll come to me.”
“She might have been a friend of my godmother’s,” said
Philly. “It sounds familiar to me too. It’s odd she left her trunk here.”
“You should take that picture to be valued,” said Puck. “The
Warhol connection should be worth something.”
“It could be worth millions,” said Meg. “Then you’ll have
what you need to keep Bedlington Hall afloat, Puck and I can get married …
assuming you’d stump up for a wedding dress that is.”
“Darling Meg,” said Philly. “If this painting is worth more
than two pounds fifty, I’ll pay for the wedding and your honeymoon.”
As much as she would like to believe the painting would be
worth a fortune, Philly did not believe for one minute that her problems would
be solved quite so easily.
Chapter Two
Philly took the London road in her godmother’s yellow
Triumph Stag. The painting was wrapped in sheet on the back seat.
Meg and Puck had waved her off that morning, wishing her
luck, but it was fair to say that none of them really thought the painting
would be worth anything.
“I feel resentful wasting the petrol money,” Philly had
said. “But if I don’t try I might always regret it.”
She found the auction house first, then looked for somewhere
to park. Though the painting was not huge, it was difficult to carry through
the busy London streets. Her arms were aching by the time she reached the
auction house.
It was said to be one of the best in the country, so she
hoped they would be honest with her. She carried the painting up the steps,
almost crashing into a man who was just coming out.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just…”
“No, it was my fault completely,” he said. He was about
thirty years old with an American accent. He had the greyest eyes Philly had
ever seen, and looked like the sort of White House intern they had in
television dramas, clean cut and handsome in a preppy way, but with a slightly
tougher edge. Dressed in jeans, t-shirt and a tan leather jacket, he turned
informal into an art form. She had to remind herself that tongue hanging out
was not a good look for any woman. “Wow that’s an interesting painting you have
there.”
Philly looked down to see that the sheet had fallen off the
Robespierre picture. “Yes, I’m coming to get it valued. I’m hoping I’ll at
least get a Big Mac out of the proceeds.”
“Robespierre…? Interesting.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him.”
“Oh well, that’s hopeful. Do you work here at the auction
house?” She could not think of anyone she would rather have answer her
questions about the paintings.
“No, I just called in to see an old pal. My name is Matt
Cassell, by the way.”
“Philly Sanderson.”
“Sanderson?”
“Yes. You know it?”
“No, no. Well, it was nice bumping into you, Philly.”
Ask him to go for coffee, her mind commanded. “You too.
Bye.” Damn! She would have to get better at asking men out. She smiled shyly
and picked her painting up.
“Look … er… I know this is very forward,” said Matt, “and I
promise I don’t do this sort of thing all the time. Would you like to go for a
coffee? When you’ve had your painting valued?”
“Yes! Absolutely. I’d love to. I mean … thanks.” She wanted
to kick herself for her over-enthusiasm. Her godmother had always said she
should play it cool with men. The trouble was that left men believing she was
cool and unapproachable. She could not let this one go. “I’ll just deal with
this.”
“I’ll come back in with you. If you don’t object.”
“No, not at all.”
“Great, because I’m afraid you’ll fly away if I don’t keep
you in view.”
Philly had only reached the top of the steps when the doubts
set in. Gorgeous men did not just ask her out like that. Maybe he knew the
painting was worth a fortune and had decided to latch on to her. On the other
hand, he looked to be very much his own man. How can you know that on
five seconds acquaintance, Philly, she mentally chided herself. He could be a
murderer for all she knew. On the other hand, he might seem perfectly nice but
turn out to be one of those boyfriends from hell. The type who didn’t like you
going out with your friends, then turned out to be slowly poisoning you… Philly
tutted to herself. She really had appeared in too many bad television dramas!
The auction house reminded Philly of a library. The colours
were muted, and the atmosphere matched. She was glad she had found a smart,
nineteen-fifties style grey suit in one of the trunks in the attic. It fit her
almost as if it were made for her. With her dark chestnut hair pinned back in
chignon, she hoped she looked sophisticated and business-like.
“If you were a blonde, Alfred Hitchcock would be swooning in
his grave,” Meg had told her before she left.
There was a reception desk at the auctioneers, but no one
staffed it. She tapped on a brass bell.
“Did you forget something, Matt?” a man asked, coming from
one of the offices.
“No, it’s this young lady who’s looking for you, Sebastian.”
Of course, thought Philly, he had to be called Sebastian. He
was a nice looking young man, but appeared to have a bad smell under his nose,
judging by how high he stuck it in the air when he looked at her. The suit was
not going to impress him, that much was certain. He looked her up and down,
disdainfully.
Unwittingly, Philly followed his gaze to her feet, and almost
swore when she realised that she had forgotten to change out of her pink
plimsolls, which she always used for driving. She had packed a pair of elegant
black court shoes, but they were still in the boot of the car. To make matters
worse, Matt’s eyes had also followed Sebastian’s to her feet. She shuffled
around a little, as if doing so would magically make the pink plimsolls
disappear. It did not work. “I have this painting,” she said, putting it onto
the reception desk with a bang. That took their attention from her feet! “I
wondered how to go about getting it valued. It’s by Robespierre. Two people
I’ve spoken to have heard of him, so he must be famous.”
“Everyone has heard of Robespierre,” said Sebastian, as if Philly
had said something stupid. “But I’m afraid your painting will not be worth
anything other than as curiosity value.”
“Oh, why?”
“Robespierre was a master counterfeiter. I am guessing
that’s a copy of the Haywain that you have there.”
“No,” said Philly, feeling hot and bothered. “It isn’t
actually. It’s called
The Robin Watches
. I Googled it last night and
it’s not listed anywhere.”
She had also done an Internet search for Robespierre, only
to find over four million web pages about the French Revolution Robespierre
rather than the artist. She gave up searching through them when she reached
page ten of the listings and had read too many descriptions of people going to
the guillotine.
“I’m sorry but you are wasting your time,” said Sebastian.
“Come on, Seb, give the girl a break,” said Matt. “I’d like
a closer look at the picture.”
A look passed between the two men, after which Sebastian was
all smiles. “Of course. It is possible that Robespierre did something original.
I’m told he was very good in his youth, but he wanted to make a fast buck.”
“My friend said Robespierre was a champagne socialist,” said
Philly.
“Yes, he was that too … oh, this is rather good…” Sebastian
seemed to have forgotten Matt and Philly were there. “Very good indeed. I don’t
think I know it. Look, can you leave it here for a day or two and I’ll find out
what I can about it?”
“Erm…”
“It’s perfectly okay. I’ll give you a receipt for it, of
course. Where did you find it? It will help prove covenance.”
Philly quickly explained about inheriting Bedlington Hall
from her godmother and finding the painting in the attic. “There are more up
there, but I haven’t had time to check everything. I don’t suppose it’s worth
it if Robespierre was a counterfeiter. Chances are they’re all by him.”
“Don’t be too hasty,” said Sebastian. “You may have hit on
something original, in which case it might be worth something. Not millions,
but it has been known for Robespierre’s counterfeit works to fetch a few
hundred pounds each.”
“Really? That’s great.” Philly smiled. Okay, it was not
millions, but it might help her pay some of the costs of running Bedlington
Hall.
***
“So,” said Matt, sitting across from Philly in a coffee
shop. “What will I have seen you in?”
“I was a victim in
The Bill
. I had to utter the immortal
lines ‘
It was … it was …ugh’
before dying.”
“The Bill?”
“Yes, it’s a British cop drama. Then I was a road traffic
victim in
Casualty
. Like ER but without George Clooney. I didn’t have
any lines in that before I was declared dead. I just had to lie there whilst
they poked and prodded me. It’s not easy to do when you’re ticklish. That is
probably why they’ve never asked me back. Oh, and I was a cyberman …
cyberperson … in Doctor Who.”
“Now Doctor Who I’ve heard of! Haven’t you been in anything
where you had a proper speaking role?”
“I was in a teen soap when I was about eighteen. I died in
that too, of whatever disease was fashionable eight years ago. I’ve done a lot
of stage work. Mostly small towns. I was Cinderella in Huddersfield last year,
on the back of my work in the teen soap, but people only came to watch it
because the baddie was being played by an ex-Big Brother contestant. What about
you? What do you do?”
“I work for my dad’s firm.”
“And what does your father’s firm do?”
“We’re in insurance. Kind of.”
Oh God, thought Philly, he’s the son of a mafia don. They
did a ‘kind of’ insurance. Like ‘pay us all your money and we’ll insure we
won’t send Cousin Roberto around to break your legs’. She knew he was too
handsome to be true. “When you say ‘kind of…”
“It’s mainly big stuff. Like paintings and sculptures.”
“Ah…” Philly breathed a sigh of relief. “So you couldn’t
promise me a reasonable quote on my car whilst singing opera then?”
Matt laughed. “You really don’t want to hear me sing. Tell
me about your godmother. How come she raised you?”
“Mum and dad died when I was seven.”
“I’m sorry, Philly.”
“It’s alright. I’ve come to terms with it, I think. They’d
gone on a second honeymoon, and were in a crash on the way home from the airport.
So my godmother, Robyn was made my guardian. She wasn’t just my godmother. We
are related in some way. Second cousin, something removed. I forget which. Dad
was her second cousin, and her solicitor. I don’t think she knew what to do
with me, so she pretty much packed me off to boarding school within weeks of
the funeral.”
“That must have been tough.”
“Yes … Yes, I suppose it was at the time. I had no other
family to stay with. I was at boarding school for most of the year. Sometimes
she’d come and take me out for the day during the break. Sometimes I’d go home
with friends for the holidays. But for one fortnight a year, Aunt Robyn – I
called her that even though she wasn’t my aunt – would come and take me to
Bedlington Hall to stay.”