The Darkest Hour (31 page)

‘Shall I go on my own? The door to the studio was shut when I went up to get the water. Did you shut it when you ran out of the room?’

‘I can’t remember. I must have.’

‘OK. I’ll go on my own.’ She saw a moment of brief hesitation then his usual cheery grin was back.

‘Robin –’ she said and paused. ‘Be careful.’

‘I will be so careful, ducky, you will wonder how I manage to get up there at all,’ he replied. ‘After all, I don’t believe in all this supernatural stuff, remember.’ He blew her a kiss. ‘I may be some time, as they say.’

She sat frozen to the spot as he climbed once more to the kitchen, listening to the sound of his footsteps overhead. Slowly they died away. Five minutes passed. Her stomach was churning with apprehension when at last she stood up and went to the foot of the stairs. ‘Robin?’ she called up. ‘Are you OK?’

There was no reply.

She put her hand on the knob of the newel post and clung there for a moment, her mouth dry with fear. ‘Robin!’ she called again, more loudly this time.

Still no reply.

She took a deep breath and put a foot on the bottom step. ‘Robin!’ Her voice was shrill this time.

Somehow she managed to drag herself up the stairs into the kitchen. The studio door was open. ‘Robin,’ she called again. Her voice was a whisper this time. She could hear nothing from within the studio. And then suddenly he was there in the doorway.

‘Come and see this.’ He beckoned her towards him. ‘It’s OK. There is no one here.’

For a moment she couldn’t move, then at last she forced herself to go towards him. She stopped on the threshold and looked in. The picture was back on the easel. Beyond it, the studio looked much as it always did. ‘What do you want me to look at?’ she asked at last.

‘The painting. Come and see.’ He didn’t seem frightened, just perplexed. He went back to it and stood peering at it closely.

She had to force herself to walk towards him. Robin had pushed open one of the skylights and the room was full of fresh cool air. She could hear the sound of cars from the street below. ‘What is it?’ She looked at the picture and gasped. The figure behind Evie’s shoulder had been obliterated by daubs of blue paint. She could see the oil glistening, smell it, see the marks of the brush, coarse and crude on the dry surface. ‘Did you do this?’ She spun to face him, eyes accusing.

‘I shan’t dignify that with an answer,’ Robin replied shortly. ‘I was looking at the brushes, look, he didn’t use any of these. They are all clean and dry.’ He gestured at Larry’s work table.

‘Someone must have come up here,’ Lucy said, her voice husky.

Robin shook his head. ‘How? We were never out of sight of the staircase. Not for one second.’ He shivered suddenly. ‘That paint is real, Lucy. Look.’ He held up a finger and she saw a dab of blue paint on the end of it. ‘Whoever did this is angry that Evie’s young man has been revealed and whoever did this is real. It is not ghostly paint. It was not a ghostly brush! That is why I looked out of the window. I wondered if someone had crept along the roof from next door.’ He shook his head with an exasperated sigh. ‘Not possible. Even Spiderman couldn’t have done it. I’ve checked all the rooms up here but there is nowhere someone could hide.’

‘It was the ghost,’ Lucy said softly.

‘No! I’m sorry, Lucy, but it was a real person. It had to be. And it was a real person who is determined to ruin this picture. You were right in what you were saying downstairs, just now. There is something funny going on here to do with the Lucas family and this pilot chap, and I am going to help you get to the bottom of it.’

Lucy was still studying the painting. ‘Thank you, Robin. You make me feel much better. I was so afraid. Somehow it reassures me to think this was done by a real person.’ She still sounded doubtful though. ‘If you’re right.’

‘Do you think Mike came here to distract us? He could have done, you know. We were so intent on you, we might not have noticed someone creeping in and climbing the stairs.’

‘The bell on the door would have jangled.’ She found her brain was beginning to function again.

‘It might have been muffled.’

‘That is easily checked.’

As if on cue the bell rang below them in the gallery. They glanced at each other then Robin turned and hurried across the floor to the stairs. Lucy stood where she was for a moment then slowly she followed him.

‘Two postcards.’ Robin was back in the kitchen a few minutes later. ‘And it’s begun to rain. I’d better close the skylight.’ He went back into the studio. A few minutes later he reappeared turning out the lights after him. ‘Two things occur to me. One, would you like to come and stay with me and Phil? I wouldn’t blame you if you felt nervous being here on your own after this. And second, should we move the painting? If someone is determined to destroy it, it isn’t safe here and besides, as you don’t want Mike to see it we could take it to our place, or put it in the bank – do people still do that? Or find somewhere to store it safely.’

Lucy pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know what to do about the picture. But this is my home, Robin. I will not be driven out.’ Even as she said it she felt a prickle of unease.

He sat down opposite her. ‘Another idea. Why not let me and Phil move in here for a bit and you can go to ours? That would work.’

‘And Phil wouldn’t mind?’

‘No, I don’t think he would.’

Dudley Lucas was standing in the shadow of the barn watching his daughter as she sketched the old horse standing patiently between the shafts of the wagon. He smiled fondly, enjoying a few more minutes of peace before moving out into the sunlight.

‘I’ve got to take Bella up to the field I’m afraid, Evie. We need the wagon up there,’ he said gruffly. Why was it that even the sight of his daughter made him feel tearful, silly old fool that he was. She was so vulnerable, his girl, with her slim figure and her delicate hands roughened by the farm work but still so dextrous on the pencil she was using to sketch with. ‘You going to paint that?’

She looked up at him and nodded. ‘A picture of old England as she was in happy times. David Fuller seems to sell them as fast as I can paint them. I would have thought people would stop buying paintings with the war on, but it appears not.’

‘I expect he tells people they will be a good investment,’ Dudley said a little grimly. Ralph had told him that Evie knew about the loan. ‘I had to tell her, Daddy,’ he said. ‘Not about Tony, of course not. God forbid she ever find out about Eddie’s threats to him, but she had to know why we all have to be nice to Eddie.’

Nice! Dudley scowled at the memory of his son’s tight-lipped admission. He began to untie the horse from the ring in the barn wall. It nosed his pocket hopefully. ‘No more sugar lumps, sweetheart. I’m afraid they’ve gone for good,’ he said with a fond ruffle of the animal’s mane. He leaned over the fence and pulled a tuft of grass. The horse nibbled it without enthusiasm. ‘I haven’t seen Eddie recently,’ he went on cautiously. Like Evie’s mother he was careful how he spoke about Eddie to his daughter.

‘He’s busy,’ Evie said bitterly. ‘I never know when he will have time to come up here. When he’s run out of paintings no doubt.’ She had said nothing about the loan. Perhaps it was better not mentioned by anyone. She closed her sketchbook and put her pencils into the basket of sketching materials which stood at her feet. She glanced up at the sky. ‘Do you reckon they have packed up and gone home for the day?’ Save for that one single Spitfire, the sky had been empty for several hours. ‘Perhaps they will let Rafie come out for the evening.’

Dudley gave a wry smile. ‘I hope so, girlie.’ He followed her gaze heavenwards. The sky was hot and almost white with glare. On the southern horizon storm clouds were gathering out to sea. ‘No doubt Nazis dislike flying in a storm as much as our boys do.’ He gripped the horse’s bridle and began to turn her towards the field gate. ‘Now you go in to your mother and see if she needs help with anything. I’ll be in for supper later.’

Evie watched him as he clicked his tongue at the horse and headed away from the yard, walking easily beside the animal, whispering encouragement into the great flicking ears.

‘There’s a letter for you, Evie,’ Rachel called from the pantry as Evie walked in. ‘On the table.’ Evie put down her basket and the sketchbook and walked over to the kitchen table. She picked up the envelope and stared at it curiously, not recognising the writing. Tearing it open she stood, the light from the sun shining onto the page through the back door.

Dear Evelyn, I felt I had to write to you after receiving the most heart-breaking note from Tony. My dear, why have you broken off your engagement? He was so excited when he wrote to his father and me about you –’
Evie turned the letter over and looked at the signature
. Betty Anderson
. For a moment she was tempted to tear up the letter, but she couldn’t. Her hands shaking, she went on reading.
He loves you so much, my dear, and because of that, his father and I love you too. He has told us so much about you in his letters, how could we not? Please don’t break his heart. We know you too through the lovely portrait of him you sent to us – every brushstroke betrays your love for him. I know how difficult it must be for you with him in danger every single day, and we realise that living in Sussex as you do, you and your family are in constant danger yourselves, as is your brother, but please, please dear child, don’t abandon Tony. There will be a future for you both when the war is over and I hope and pray every day for your safety and future happiness.

Evie let out a little whimper of pain. She bit down hard on her lip, crunching the letter in her fist.

‘Evie! What is it?’ Rachel had been watching her from the pantry doorway.

Evie shook her head, unable to speak. Tears were flooding down her cheeks. Rachel stepped forward and took the crumpled letter out of her hand. Spreading it out on the table she bent over it and read it slowly. When at last she stood up there were tears in her own eyes. ‘Poor woman. I didn’t realise Tony had told anyone you were engaged.’

‘We weren’t. Not properly. It was a dream.’

‘Oh, Evie.’ Rachel pulled out a chair and sat down heavily.

‘Why, Mummy, why did he have to break it off?’ Evie wailed suddenly. ‘His mother thinks it was me. It wasn’t. It was Tony. He finished it.’

Rachel stared at her helplessly. ‘I don’t know, Evie.’ She looked beyond Evie suddenly towards the door as a shadow filled the doorway and her expression hardened. ‘Eddie! We weren’t expecting you.’

Evie turned away from the doorway rapidly, rubbing the back of her hand across her face to remove her tears.

Eddie walked into the kitchen and put down a battered briefcase on the table. ‘I’m glad I caught you both. I am sorry I haven’t been over for a while. I’ve been up in London. We’ve had a lot to do at the Ministry. How are you Evie, darling?’ He went over to her and leaned across to kiss her cheek. Evie stiffened, but she didn’t move away. ‘Hey,’ he touched her face with his forefinger. ‘You’ve been crying. What’s happened?’ His voice sharpened.

‘Nothing that need concern you, Eddie.’ Rachel stood up and, picking up the crumpled letter, tucked it into her apron pocket. ‘I’ll put on the kettle. I’m sure we could all do with a cup of tea.’

With a sniff Evie turned round and gave Eddie a watery smile. ‘So, how are the picture sales going?’

‘Well.’ He gave her a long thoughtful look, then went on, ‘Have you heard anything from the WAAC? I thought they were going to commission another painting from you. They were very pleased with your picture of the women in the Spitfire factory.’

‘Which was bombed only days after I was there,’ Evie said sadly. ‘Those poor women. I’m sure they were all in the shelter, but even so. This bloody war!’ She stamped her foot suddenly. Then she took a deep breath and calmed herself. ‘I know the WAAC were pleased. I had a letter.’

Eddie nodded. He opened his briefcase and pulled out some newspaper clippings and a box. He passed her the papers almost shyly. ‘I thought you’d like to see. I’ve been writing for one or two of the local papers. About art. And I’ve been reviewing one or two local exhibitions.’

She read his byline, Edward Marston and the dates at the top of the articles. He must have been doing this for some time and he had never mentioned it.

Evie glanced at them. ‘That is brilliant, Eddie.’

He smiled. ‘I will review your exhibitions when you have them, Evie. You can be sure of that.’ He hesitated, then he handed her the box. ‘I’ve never seen you use a camera, Evie,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I don’t know if you ever do, but I wondered if it would help when you are out and about. Not without permission of course, but a lot of artists use them to help with their work.’ He pushed it over towards her. ‘See what you think.’

Evie frowned. Carefully she began to open the box and extricated a Leica camera. She gave a little gasp of excitement. ‘Eddie! This is amazing. We used them in college, but I’ve never had my own camera.’

He smiled. ‘I thought I hadn’t seen you with one. It’s yours.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know how to use it? Would you like me to show you? If you’ve used them in college you probably know.’

Her face had crumpled. The last time she had seen a camera it had been in Tony’s hands. He had taken several photos of her in front of the farmhouse, saying he would send them to his mother. Betty Anderson hadn’t mentioned them in the letter. Perhaps he hadn’t bothered. He had probably torn them up as she had torn up the photo he had given her of himself.

‘Evie?’ Eddie’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘There is nothing wrong,’ Rachel interrupted. She put the teapot down on the table with a bang. ‘Fetch the teacups, Eddie, if you would. You know where they are. Over there on the dresser.’ She was glaring at Evie.

Evie straightened her shoulders. ‘Thank you, Eddie. I would love you to show me. I’ve taken pictures, but I’ve never loaded the film or emptied the camera, and this one looks very complicated,’ she said meekly. She felt her mother’s intense gaze on her and she looked away. ‘I was doing some sketches of the farm and the horse this afternoon. You said the WAAC would like to see some paintings of the land girls. Daddy was there, but I could easily substitute Patsy for him. I’ll take a photo of her, then I needn’t waste her time by asking her to pose for me. ‘