Unfinished Portrait (7 page)

‘Then I'll check what they'd be likely to fetch at auction.'

‘Hugh—'

‘Consider the matter closed. How soon do you want rid of them?'

‘As soon as possible, I suppose. I'll be getting on to the auctioneers tomorrow.'

‘Then I'll hire a van and collect them at the weekend, if that's OK?'

‘Fine,' she said numbly.

‘You'll need somewhere to put the books in the meantime,' he added. ‘Have you any boxes?'

‘I'll get some. Rona's kindly offered to put me up while it all goes ahead.'

‘Is anything going into store?'

‘I'll decide that when I know how much I'm keeping. I've not made a definitive list yet.'

Hugh drained his glass. ‘Right. If you're ready, let's go and eat.'

‘I've invited Lindsey to stay while her flat's being decorated,' Rona said, watching as Max stirred a béchamel sauce for the evening meal. ‘You don't mind, do you?'

‘Oh, God!' He turned to look at her, the wooden spoon dripping back into the pan. ‘How long for?'

‘No need to sound so thrilled!' Rona snapped.

‘Sorry, love, but as you well know, the less your sister and I see of each other, the better we get on.'

‘Well, you won't
be
seeing much of her, will you? You're only home two evenings a week and she might well be out anyway.'

‘And the weekends?'

‘Same thing applies; she has a busy social life, you know.
Other
people enjoy her company.'

There was a brief silence, then Max returned his attention to the pan. ‘Sorry,' he said, his back to her. ‘Of course she must come.'

Slightly mollified, Rona set about laying the table, but Max, stirring rather more vigorously than was called for, remained ill at ease. His relationship with Lindsey was a state of armed neutrality, and he continually marvelled that his wife's twin, so unnervingly like her in appearance, could be so totally different in character. Nor could he forget – though God knew he'd tried hard enough – that, in the throes of her divorce four years ago, she had driven round to Farthings one night, and begged him to make love to her. But that was something he'd never told Rona, and never would.

Though Hugh and Lindsey did, indeed, go to the Peacock, an upmarket pub on the outskirts of Marsborough, they dined not on the proposed pie and pint, but beef Stroganov and full-bodied red wine. He was good company, and despite the usual underlying tensions, Lindsey enjoyed herself.

It was eleven o'clock when he dropped her back at the flat, and the light was flashing on the answer phone. She pressed the button as she took off her jacket, pausing as Dominic's voiced filled the room.

‘I shall call for you at seven tomorrow evening,' it announced baldly. ‘And if you tell me you can't make it, I shall personally wring your neck!'

Lindsey smiled to herself. So, having got over his sulk, he'd found she wasn't sitting at home awaiting his call. Which was just as it should be.

Humming to herself, she prepared for bed.

FOUR

T
he contract for the biography arrived on Friday, its unusual promptness indicative of Prue's desire to get the project under way – lest Rona change her mind, perhaps. Having duly signed it, she wrote a brief note to Naomi Harris, whose address Prue had supplied, suggesting a preliminary meeting.

As she dropped both envelopes into the pillar box, her hand lingered momentarily in the slot, as though wishing she could snatch them back. Then, with a sigh, she withdrew it and turned away.

That evening, to celebrate, Max took her to Dino's, where they arrived at the same time as their friends Magda and Gavin Ridgeway.

‘Telepathy!' Magda exclaimed, bending to pat Gus, who was nudging her legs. ‘We only decided to come half an hour ago. Thought about phoning you, but it seemed too short notice.'

Dino himself guided them to a table and fussed around taking orders for drinks and producing menus, and it was only when he moved away that Max volunteered the reason for their own visit.

‘Rona's taken the plunge and opted for another biography,' he announced.

‘Well!' Gavin exclaimed. ‘Cause for celebration indeed! Who is it this time?'

And Rona explained again about Elspeth, her ultra-private life and her disappearance.

‘Which aspect will you be concentrating on?' Magda asked shrewdly.

‘Definitely her life; I've had my fingers burned too often to look into any more mysteries.'

‘Oh, come on!' Gavin mocked. ‘You know you love it!'

Rona shook her head with a smile. ‘Enough about me; what have you two been up to?'

He grimaced. ‘Her ladyship here's been on the fashion bandwagon.' Magda, a childhood friend of Rona's, was the owner of a string of highly regarded boutiques. ‘Living it up, while yours truly was left to exist on baked beans!'

‘Don't believe a word of it!' Magda advised them. ‘From what I hear, he made full use of the golf club restaurant, spurning the gourmet selection I'd left in the freezer.'

‘And it was a worthwhile exercise, the fashion week?'

‘Most definitely. It always is, but this year was extra special, because the British Fashion Council's celebrating twenty-five years. Lots of socializing, and so on.'

‘Shaking hands with the great and the good?' Max enquired. ‘Rather you than me!'

‘Oh, it had its moments!'

‘Come on, then,' Rona encouraged her. ‘Name some names!'

‘Crispin Ryder, for one.'

‘The Playboy of the Western World?' Max scoffed. ‘What, pray tell me, is his interest in women's fashion?'

‘I'd say it's more the women than the fashions,' Gavin replied. ‘He was all over Magda.'

His wife flushed. ‘Oh, Gavin, really! He was just being helpful.'

‘Funny you should mention him,' Rona said; ‘Lindsey was talking about him the other day. Seems he's vaguely related to Dominic, and she met him at a do they went to.'

‘And what was her impression?'

‘I think the phrase was “charm personified”.'

‘Sounds about right.'

Remembering Dominic's distrust of his second cousin, Rona thought it wise to change the subject. ‘So, what are we in for this autumn, fashion-wise?'

And talk turned to less controversial subjects. It was only as they were leaving that Ryder's name came up again.

‘You'll be getting the usual invite to my show,' Magda told Rona, while the men settled the bill. ‘Choice of either Thursday the twenty-ninth or Friday the thirtieth, eight o'clock at the Clarendon. And if you fancy meeting Crispin, he's promised to bring a crowd on the Thursday. A foot in that door would be quite a coup!'

‘It'd have to be the Thursday anyway; the thirtieth's Max's birthday.'

Magda laughed. ‘Lucky it's that way round! Admit it – you're dying to meet him!'

‘I'm certainly curious.'

‘You won't be disappointed!' Magda promised her.

They had just finished breakfast the next morning when the phone rang, and Rona reached to retrieve it.

‘Miss Parish? This is Naomi Harris.'

Rona widened her eyes at Max. ‘Good morning, Mrs Harris.'

‘I do apologize for interrupting your weekend – I hope this isn't inconvenient?'

‘No, not at all.'

‘As you'll have gathered, I've just received your letter, and needless to say, I'm delighted you've agreed to take this on.'

‘I'm sure it'll be very interesting,' Rona murmured.

‘You suggest meeting, and I presume you'd like it to be as soon as possible? I'm free on Monday, if that's any use?'

‘Well, yes, thank you; I could certainly manage that.'

‘I was thinking if we met in Buckford, rather than at my home, we could have a preliminary talk over coffee, then I could take you to Elspeth's studio?'

‘That sounds an excellent idea.'

‘How long will it take you to get there?'

‘About two and a half hours, depending on the traffic.'

‘Then suppose we say between eleven and eleven thirty, at St Stephen's Coffee Shop? It's in Market Square, near the main library.'

‘I know it,' Rona said. She'd frequented it while researching Buckford's eight hundred years of history.

‘Splendid! Till Monday, then.' And Naomi Harris rang off.

‘She's not letting the grass grow, is she?' Max commented from behind his newspaper.

‘Suits me. The sooner I get down to it, the better. She's going to show me Elspeth's studio, which should be interesting.'

Max lowered his paper. ‘I wonder if her canvases and sketches are still there.'

‘Wouldn't they be too valuable to leave in an empty house?'

‘Depends, I suppose. If they're still expecting her to reappear one day, they'd be likely to leave as much as possible in situ.'

Rona leaned back in her chair, and looked at him consideringly. ‘What do
you
think happened to her, Max?'

‘God knows. She could have had a complete breakdown, and be in a psychiatric home somewhere.'

‘But then her family would know, surely?'

‘Perhaps they do,' Max said enigmatically.

Rona stared at him, and he went on, ‘She'd peaked, you know, some years ago. Her stuff wasn't going for the sums it used to. Perhaps it was an elaborate publicity stunt, to bring her back into the limelight.'

‘You old cynic! And has it worked?'

He shrugged. ‘There was a surge in prices when she disappeared, but it's settled down again now.' He flashed her a grin. ‘Your bio should revive it nicely.'

Rona threw her napkin at him.

‘Seriously, I'd say the likelihood is that she's dead, though how, where, or when is anyone's guess. Again, perhaps that's where you come in.'

‘I told you, Max, I've no intention—'

‘And I'm glad you haven't. But the family don't know that, do they? They're probably hoping you'll produce her – abracadabra! – out of a hat.'

‘Then they're in for a disappointment.'

‘Perhaps you should make that clear on Monday.'

‘Perhaps I will.'

Rona finished her coffee in a thoughtful mood.

Slowly, reluctantly, Lindsey awoke. From the strength of light behind the curtains, she judged it to be about nine. Hugh would be here with his van in a couple of hours. Which, of course, was a pain. Dominic had suggested, on Thursday evening, that they go away for the weekend, and once again she'd had to disappoint him.

‘You're turning me down for your ex?' he'd demanded incredulously.

‘He's hired the van, and arranged for a friend to help him with the furniture. I can't let him down, Dominic. Anyway, I want the flat cleared as soon as possible.'

‘Why the hurry, all of a sudden?'

‘Because I've put it off quite long enough, and the decorators are almost ready to start.'

He'd given her a searching glance, and she remembered Rona's point about it being a show of independence. Had that thought also occurred to him?

Lindsey sat up and swung her feet to the floor. Odd to think that she wouldn't be spending many more nights in this bed. It, like the rest of the furniture, had been bought for the home she and Hugh had set up together, eight years ago. Remembering all its associations, good and bad, she decided not to attend the auction. It would be too painful, seeing part of her life put up for sale and handed to the highest bidder.

Feeling vaguely sad, she went for her shower.

Because Rona was unsure what her movements would be, Max had taken Gus to Farthings on Monday morning, promising to give him a walk at lunch time.

The drive to Buckford brought back memories of fifteen months ago, when, during her researches, she'd lodged two nights a week with Nuala Banks and her family in Parsonage Place. This time, there wouldn't be the need to spend so long there; having seen over Elspeth's house, she was hoping Mrs Harris would allow her to remove any papers she needed, and work from home.

It was just after eleven when Rona reached Buckford and parked her car in the multi-storey. Memories assailed her as she made her way past the church and turned into ancient Clement's Lane, where the houses leaned towards each other, and old Miss Rosebury had seen the ghost of a little boy. Now she herself was one of Buckford's ghosts, part of its many-layered history.

It was with a sense of relief that Rona emerged from its narrow confines into the openness of Market Square and its weathered stone cross. On her left, a flight of steps led up to the library, and across the square was St Stephen's Primary School, where Catherine had once taught and where, years earlier, Elspeth Wilding had been a pupil. It was obviously breaktime, and children's voices, laughing and shouting, drifted towards her.

Rona turned right, towards the bow window that fronted St Stephen's Coffee Shop. The familiar scent of roasting beans and fresh pastries greeted her as she pushed open the door. Most of the tables were occupied, and she hesitated, glancing from one to another, until a woman at the far side rose to her feet with lifted hand. Naomi Harris, no doubt.

As Rona approached her, she was forming her first, lightning impressions: shorter than herself, neat figure, flyaway fair-to-grey hair, hesitant smile. Altogether not so confident a figure as her voice on the phone had indicated.

‘Miss Parish – I'm so pleased to meet you. I've admired your work for some time.'