Sons of Angels (2 page)

* * * *

After lunch, when Meinwen had returned to her pagan emporium–
Closed to honor Bacchus: Back at Two
–and Harold to his bookshop–
We never close for time-travelers: Come back before lunch
–Felicia conducted a gallery check. The series of alien landscapes were popular, as far as anything in her gallery was popular with the locals, but she hadn’t sold any despite her policy of easy payment plans. The russet-hued
Dragon at Dawn
, her personal favorite, had not even received an enquiry.

The watercolors in the third gallery had fared a little better. The modest sums asked for them, all but three of them under two hundred pounds, had generated enough sales for Felicia to subsidize the exhibitions for a further three months on her portion of the price.

Gallery two, where she’d hung four huge oils by the relatively unknown Gillian du Point, was like stepping into silence. The pictures, made with layer upon layer of glazes, seemed to suck the sound from the room. Felicia spent a few minutes looking at them. Even if she could afford the huge price tags, the smallest of the four was larger than any single wall of her flat.

“Quite delightful, aren’t they?”

Felicia jumped at the voice, unaware anyone else had been present. A tall gentleman in a twenties-style double-breasted coat emerged from the shadows. “Yes they are.” She stepped forward. “She’s very talented.”

“They took a long time to make.” He indicated the smaller one with his cane. “Each layer of glaze takes months to dry.”

Felicia nodded. She’d graduated in printmaking before progressing to a master’s in art history and a doctorate in socio-economics. “She has more patience than I do but the results are fantastic.”

“Indeed.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “I should like them all. When can you deliver them?”

“All?” Felicia gaped at him. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Nevertheless.”

Felicia nodded. “The show finishes next Friday. I can deliver them after that.”

“Excellent.” The man inclined his head and gave her a short bow. “I will return then.” He pressed his card into her hand, nodded once more and placed a trilby on his head as he left the gallery.

“Wow.” Felicia let out a silent whoop then looked down at the card in her hand. There were no contact details. No address, no phone number, no email. Just one name, written in white against a dark background.

Raffles
.

Chapter 2

Felicia rubbed her eyes and clicked the projector on another notch. Honestly, was this still the seventies? Why did some artists insist on sending color slides of their work? Hadn’t they heard of computers? She could project the image from a CD onto a wall as easily as using a slide projector. Easier, even. Loading a CD was a lot quicker than loading a cassette of slides.

She turned the projector off. That was an hour of her life she’d never get back. The slides were all right but owed more than a small debt to Sir Stanley Spencer and his post-war landscapes of the Rapture than to anything she could comfortably call modern. What was the term that ghastly woman had used? Retrogarde.

She turned to the etchings. They were a similar subject, and in a couple of cases the same subject, as the paintings but they’d suit gallery two if she could price them affordably. She might even buy one for her flat. If she was crafty she could get Harold to display some alongside the bibles in the bookshop upstairs.

Sorted. She tossed the package to one side and yawned. Could she close early? She could. No one was viewing the exhibits anyway.

Felicia locked the main doors and went upstairs, where she found Mr. Jasfoup at the kitchen table sorting through a pile of books. Wherever they had come from, they had been there a long time. Each was covered in dust and dirt, the pages redolent with the acrid smell of mold and mildew.

Felicia wrinkled her nose. “Have you been to a house clearance? Were they really worth buying?”

The dark-skinned man looked up and smiled. “Always. These are a set of first-edition Dickens. I paid a mint for them.”

“They don’t look to be worth anything.” Felicia stepped closer and ran a finger across the gilt-embossed cover of volume one. “How much exactly?”

“I told you.” He reached in his pocket for a half-empty packet of sweets. “I gave him a mint for them. Have one if you like. Gratis.”

“Thanks.” Felicia extracted one and popped it in her mouth. “It was a good deal, then?”

“Indeed.” Mr. Jasfoup grinned, caressing the volume in his hand like a long-lost lover. “Once they’re cleaned and disinfected, they’ll be worth a couple of thousand.”

Felicia whistled. “I’m in the wrong job. I struggle to make that much in a month.”

“That’s gross, of course.” Jasfoup patted Felicia’s hand, eclipsing her tanned skin with his. “I’ll take my commission out of that.”

“How much is your commission?” Felicia wondered if it was worth asking him to procure paintings for her gallery.

Jasfoup laughed. “A soul.”

Felicia raised her eyebrows. “Do you get many people who would give their soul for a book?”

“One or two.” He winked. “Would you like to take tea?”

“No thanks. I was just looking for Harold to tell him I’d closed early.”

“That’s not like you.” Jasfoup stood to put the kettle on for himself. “Did you make a sale?”

“No. I mean, yes, but that’s not why I’m closing early. I want to nip and see my sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.” Jasfoup dropped a teabag into a mug. “Don’t tell Harold I make it like this, will you? He insists on a teapot but sometimes I really can’t be bothered.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks.” He filled the cup with boiling water. “What did you sell? One of the landscapes?”

“No. Actually I sold all four of the Du Points.”

Jasfoup paused in the act of fishing for the teabag. “The
Gillian
du Points?”

“That’s right.” Felicia took her car keys from her handbag. “Sixty grand less commission. Can I use your back door?”

“It sounds like me who’s in the wrong business. Here, I’ll see you out.”

* * * *

Felicia went through the double doors of St. Pity’s Psychiatric Hospital and walked up to the desk. The duty nurse smiled at her and passed over the visitor’s book without prompting. Felicia signed it, her visits filling almost two thirds of the page. Psychiatric patients weren’t popular.

“I'll send an orderly for your sister.”

“Thank you.” She returned the book and made her way down the two-tone corridor to the refectory, trying, as she did on every visit, to get used to the half-sickly, half-sweet smell of the hospital food. She chose a table near the windows that had the least spillage of food and tomato sauce. While she waited, she stacked the used plates on the next table along and wiped the spilled salt into her hand. She threw a pinch of it over her shoulder before depositing the rest onto a dirty plate.

“Careful. Watch where you’re throwing things.” Julie shook salt from her hair. She was shorter than her sister by a head, though she had the same dark eyes and hair, albeit in a shorter bob.

Felicia gave her a hug and helped her into a seat. She indicated to the orderly there was nothing she needed.

“Felicia?” Julie’s face was drawn with fatigue. “Is there something the matter?”

“No. Sorry.” Felicia did her best to smile at her institutionalized sister. “How have you been, Julie? You look tired.”

“I’m always tired.” Julie’s gaze was fixed at a point an inch to Felicia’s left. “I hear the voices constantly, yet I can’t see what makes them. You’d look tired too.”

“I know.” Felicia patted her hand. “I’m sorry. Would you like to walk in the grounds?”

“Why not?” Julie’s face screwed up, her jaw clenching. “The sun is shining, the flowers are pretty and your poor mad sister is blind to it all. Let’s go for a walk in the grounds. It will make you feel as if you’ve done something charitable.”

Felicia looked her sister in the dead emptiness of her eyes. “You’re not mad, Julie. God knows I’d feel the same way if I had to go through what you do.”

“You don’t, though. You have your art and your beauty and your silence. How I beg for silence.”

Felicia tried to change the subject. “I sold some paintings today. My commission alone came to nine grand.”

“Of course she’s special.” Julie looked to her right. “She can see.” She looked in Felicia’s direction again. Felicia rested her hand on Julie’s arm. “I thought you were getting better but you’re talking to your invisible friends more and more. I don’t understand why.”

“You wouldn’t understand, would you? You’re not blind.” Julie surveyed the room as if she could see. “Without Wrack I’d have been totally insane years ago, but even with him here they get through.”

“Without who? Who the hell is Wrack? Another patient?”

“My miniature elemental.” Julie patted the air above her own shoulder. “He sits on my shoulder telling me what he can see.” She looked at Felicia again, the flicker of a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “You’re wearing a white shirt with a mustard stain behind the third button.”

“How did you know that?” Felicia waved away an approaching orderly and lowered her voice. “I could almost believe you do have something on your shoulder.”

“But you won’t. It’s outside your comfort zone, so you’ll choose to believe it was a lucky guess. I know you well enough to expect you to wear a white shirt, and the mustard has a distinctive smell.”

“Oh.” Felicia stopped short. “That’s clever, though. You should be on stage.”

“One with a trapdoor and a noose around my neck?” Julie nodded to herself. “Let’s go for this walk. Then I can go back and wallow in self-pity.”

“Don’t be silly.” Felicia stood. “How are you doing this? Have you got a miniature two-way radio? Is someone feeding you this information?” She turned slowly, trying to spot her sister's hidden accomplice. “Have they given you a new drug or something?”

“Without you signing a consent form in triplicate? Nothing so simple.”

“This isn’t easy for me either, you know. I closed the gallery early to come here.”

“Lucky me.” Julie threaded through the tables toward the exit. “If my eyes worked I’d be crying in gratitude.”

“What’s the matter with you today?” Felicia hurried to catch up with her. “You’re not normally like this.”

“It’s the voices.” Julie reached the doorway and turned. “They’ve got worse recently. If it wasn’t for Wrack...”

“Why?” Felicia caught up and took hold of her sister’s hand. “Come on. Level with me? How are you really seeing things? Have you started to regain your sight?”

“I told you. It’s my elemental.” She petted the empty space above her shoulder.

Felicia shuddered. Had her sister finally lost her tenuous grip on reality? She could see a future of leather straps and padded rooms.“All right. Let’s just say I believe you. What does this creature do?”

“He keeps me sane.” Julie looked to her left shoulder this time. “He keeps all the others away so I can get some peace.” She pulled Felicia through the door and onto the front drive, turning left to avoid Felicia’s parked Audi without even touching it. “He tells me what he can see. Nice car. Is it new?”

“Not really. I bought it second-hand six months ago.”

Julie nodded. “You’ve a scratch on the offside wing. Let’s go to those trees over there. What are they?”

“How should I know?” Felicia looked at the car. Sure enough, there was a fresh scratch on it. “How did you know about that scratch?”

“They’re poplars.” Julie turned, her sightless eyes staring into space. “Haven’t you been listening? Wrack tells me.”

“Your elemental?” She made a mental note to discuss her sister’s imagination with the doctor.

“Yes. My elemental.” They were halfway to the poplars but Julie turned and headed back toward the hospital.

“What’s the matter now?” Felicia stopped, looking from the trees to her sister. Sometimes Julie could be infuriating. “Julie? You’re not making any sense.”

“Why should I have to make sense? I’m the mad one, remember?”