The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries (8 page)

Laura, however, did not seem to register this reaction. “Yes, if you would be kind enough.” And with that Laura set off in the direction of the house with her mind full of concern. She was not so consumed by this concern, however, that she didn’t take just one look over her shoulder to enjoy the ironic spectacle of Samantha Pearson having to tout just those goods which she despised most on behalf of her adversary, Sebastian.

Laura was not sorry to be returning to the house. Not only did she want to appraise Rupert of Sebastian’s disappearance, but she also felt in need of a freshen up. As she made her way through the Great Hall, she encountered Keith Lowe, the local doctor. Keith was a very good looking and pleasant bachelor in his forties, one of the few locals whom Laura actually welcomed to the occasional dinner party which she felt obliged to arrange.

“Oh, hallo Laura, is everything going well out there? When I’m finished I hope to take a look around. I’ve arranged for the body to be taken away. There will have to be a post-mortem of course, but I imagine with Floyd’s lifestyle we can assume heart attack – that’s off the record, by the way!”

“Thank you. We will have to tell his wife, Jinny – she is down there looking after his stall.”

“Not easy; she is much younger isn’t she? Rupert said she wasn’t staying here last night, which perhaps explains why nobody found his body for so long.”

“Yes; we just assumed a hangover and left him undisturbed,” Laura lied fluently.

“That’s pretty much what Rupert said. The press will make a story out of it, I imagine.”

Laura winced. “I suppose so. There is a photographer coming to take pictures of Sebastian and his painting later – that’s if we can find Sebastian.”

“Well, if you will mix with artists: unreliable lot.” Keith winked and made his way out in a brisk, businesslike manner.

Laura carried on up the stairs and met her husband on his way between the green bedroom and their own room He followed Laura in and flopped down on the bed. Laura went to quickly slosh a bit of water on her face and then came and sat beside him.

“Keith seemed satisfied,” she said. “He thinks heart attack.”

“Hopefully he is right. Anyway, I spoke to Mike Herbert. As luck would have it he was staying with his parents who are only about ten miles away. He became very excited when I told him about the ring and mentioned a possible link with Nesperennub and got straight in his car – it’s just his field of expertise. He’s on his way over here now. Any objections if we offer to donate it to the British Museum if it is genuine? I just have this feeling that things might be better if the ring and the owner were reunited so to speak.”

Laura looked mildly surprised by this indication of continued superstition on Rupert’s part, but agreed readily enough. “If you like,” she said. “Will you wait in here for him?”

“I’ve got to wait for one of those private ambulances to collect Floyd. Hopefully its arrival will go relatively unnoticed if everyone is otherwise occupied. How is the fair going? I’m sorry I’ve been so out of it.”

“Not your fault,” Laura gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek and smoothed his light hair off his forehead. “Anyway, I better go and talk to Jinny – she might want to see Floyd before they come for him. Oh, and I thought I should tell you – Sebastian seems to have disappeared. And he was painting a strange Egyptian scene on his canvas.”

Rupert, who had been propped up on one elbow in a weary stance, suddenly sat upright at this sudden revelation. “That’s what I didn’t want to hear. Are you sure he is gone? Couldn’t he just have wandered off for a drink?”

“Maybe, but Samantha and I had a pretty good search for him. Don’t worry too much now. See your friend and when you are free come and find me and we’ll have a good Sebastian-hunt. Oh, and remember that we are presenting prizes at four. I’d really like you to be there if you can.”

After his wife had left to find Jinny, Rupert took himself down to the kitchen for a cold drink. He wasn’t sure what to think. It had been reassuring to have Keith walk into the green bedroom, pull the curtains and dispel the eerie green light, and examine the body with a practical, professional manner. When Rupert had glanced at the hieroglyphs even they seemed to fade to nothing in the bright daylight. Keith did not seem to see anything to arouse his suspicion above sniffing the air and commenting that artists always seemed to carry about with them the smell of turpentine. And then there was the apparent disappearance of Sebastian. Still lost in thought, Rupert sliced himself some bread and cheese and took a jar of pickles out of the large, walk-in larder. He had just cut a piece of Victoria sponge when he heard voices which he recognised to be those of Delilah and Jinny. Bracing himself, he went out to meet Floyd’s now fully informed widow. He found her dry-eyed but obviously upset, Delilah flustered but comforting.

“He had been warned by the doctor last week about his drinking,” Jinny was saying, “but you could no more ask him to stop drinking that to stop painting: it’s what he lived for!” She gave a sad little laugh at this irony.

“He lived his life the way he wanted to,” said Delilah.

“Yes, and he didn’t suffer. I just wish I had been with him last night. I was going to come, but my mother had been in hospital after a minor operation on her knee. I wanted to visit her and spend the evening with my dad. It seemed to make sense to come down here this morning – and I just expected Floyd to turn up; late, disorganised, unapologetic and adorable as ever.”

Delilah patted her arm.

“I’d like to see him and say goodbye,” sniffed Jinny. She looked imploringly up at Rupert. “Would you come with me and show me his room?”

Rupert nodded and rapidly swallowed the rather dry cake crumbs in his mouth. He took Jinny up the stairs, leaving Delilah behind in the kitchen, obviously reluctant either to confront a corpse or to intrude on a private moment.

It was four o’ clock and prize giving time. There were a greater number of clouds in the sky and a little breeze had picked up, but it was still a beautiful afternoon. The photographer had pictured Sebastian’s lonely, abandoned easel and looked eagerly for those two great artists: Sebastian Fullmarks and Floyd Bailey. So far disappointed, he and an associate had stayed only after hearing rumours that Floyd was dead and Sebastian had fled. The rivalry between the two was well known.

Laura had been explaining procedures to her friend, Wendy, from Claresby village. “I’m going to hand out the raffle prizes, then Samantha Pearson will announce the prize for a flower arrangement and Conran Hawkes will choose a winning painting from Claresby Art Club. The Bishop is choosing “Best Stall” – I thought I ought to slip him in somewhere.”

Wendy nodded. She knew that Laura was actually talking about the churchwarden, Monty Howard. During the interregnum following the retirement of Reverend Pierce, Monty had been the big power in church affairs and would have been offended not to be given a significant role in Claresby Fair. Laura was now looking around for Rupert, reluctant to proceed without him. Luckily at that moment she saw his head bobbing through the crowd, head and shoulders above most of those around him. Laura sighed with relief and mounted a small podium to a gentle ripple of applause. The awards went well, with general good humoured appreciation, a few clever words from Conran, and a surprisingly gracious announcement from Samantha admiring the lovely flowers. They had just reached Monty Howard, a bulky, bullish man with an oddly high pitched voice which was at odds with his stature, when a bellow from the back of the crowd made them all turn around. Sebastian had reappeared; very flushed in the face and gloriously drunk. The cameraman nudged his companion; things had become exciting at last.

Laura was sitting beside a gently weeping Sebastian in her study. It was a comfortable, chintzy room with a warm feel to it despite the stone doorway with fifteenth century mouldings and the high ceiling with its ornate plasterwork. Sebastian was drinking the black coffee which Rupert had brought him and was hiccupping gently.

“Floyd came to me last night – he was very superstitious and started asking me whether I thought the Egyptian ring was cursed - he’d picked up one of your old university books, Rupert, something on Egyptology, and was filling his head with nonsense. He was mumbling on about Lord Caernarvon and Tutankhamun and I told him he was a silly fool and that it was all balderdash. Then he got a bit argumentative and told me that just because I was insensitive and prosaic, it didn’t mean that there weren’t strange things at work in the world. You know: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” After he had finished quoting Shakespeare at me he started casting aspersions on
Plate of Meat
. We ended up having a bit of a bicker – the usual thing. As a matter of fact we are old friends; but you know that.”

“Of course we do,” Laura reassured him with all sincerity. The two artists may have squabbled their way through forty years, but the friendship had been a steady one.

“Well,” continued Sebastian, “he can’t have been too troubled in his mind, because once his head touched his pillow all I could hear from his room were colossal snores. It was driving me crazy and I hardly slept a wink. Then, at about six-ish, I heard him make his way to the bathroom. I suppose I was filled with mischief and a desire to get my revenge on him, because I had a sudden urge to give him a bit of a scare. I meant it as a joke. Well, I know very well that Floyd takes an age in the bathroom – I don’t even want to contemplate why – but even so I took a bit of a chance. I took a brush and a dab of gold paint on my palette and went to scrawl a spooky message on the wall. Then I had a bit of a scare myself as I heard his footsteps returning. As luck would have it, he actually carried on past his room and went downstairs, perhaps to have a quick drink in the kitchen – the water from the upstairs cold tap comes out an interesting yellow shade that even Floyd could not miss. Then I had an idea. Seeing the Egyptology book beside his bed I picked it up and copied out a few hieroglyphs at random. In the dim light the paint seem to glow: it was very effective. Anyway, I hot-footed it back to my own room and waited for his response. As it was I heard nothing and I must have dozed off for half an hour after that.”

“So what you mean,” said Laura with dawning understanding, “is that when you found out that Floyd was dead, you thought that you had frightened him to death?”

“I was painting Claresby Hall,” explained Sebastian. “At least, I meant to, but all I could see in my mind’s eye was that painting of The Sphinx that Floyd showed us from the suitcase, so I painted that. I don’t know why I did that; it was almost as if Floyd’s superstition had rubbed off on me. And then Rupert came up and mentioned that Floyd hadn’t showed up and I became worried about the old reprobate. I carried on with the picture until I had got the main thing in place, and then I went to look for Floyd. Of course I found him stone dead, staring at the ceiling. My writing was still on the wall glowing with such an eerie light that it half frightened me. I went to my room and put some turpentine on a cloth and tried to rub it off the wall. Sorry, Laura, it stuck in the flock of the wallpaper, but I got most of it out. And then I went to The Claresby Arms and drank a toast to Floyd.”

“Ah,” said Rupert, “that explains why Keith could smell turps when he went to examine Floyd – and I thought that the hieroglyphs had faded. But really, Sebastian, you can’t blame yourself. Floyd has been drinking himself to death for years. Even Jinny was unsurprised.”

“I do feel some responsibility for Floyd’s death,” said the remorseful Sebastian. “I shall have to make a tribute to him. What about my commissioning and designing some new stained glass for Claresby church? I was going to donate the money from the sale of the
Plate of Meat
replicas anyway. That would be a fitting tribute to Floyd.”

Laura wondered what Floyd would have had to say about this; but as for the generous gift for Claresby church, she was ready to accept.

Later that night Rupert and Laura lay side by side in the four-poster in the scarlet bedroom. There seemed to be a lot in the day that they had needed to talk over and digest, but now they were silent, Laura absentmindedly stroking her husband’s arm as it embraced her.

“Did you really believe that there could be a mummy curse at Claresby?”Laura asked eventually, just at the point when Rupert was dozing off.

“Well,” replied Rupert sleepily, “Let’s just say that I am glad the ring has gone back to join its owner. I interpreted the little hieroglyph of walking legs which Sebastian had put on the wall as meaning “return” – and assumed that Nesperennub wanted his ring back. Frankly I’m glad it’s gone: perhaps we are all a little superstitious at heart, or perhaps there was more going on in Claresby today than we like to admit.

The Black Widow of Claresby

It was a rather dismal Sunday in February, the rain having lifted at dawn to reveal a cold, misty landscape and iron grey skies. Fortunately the interior of Claresby Manor provided a cheerful haven with log fires burning in the Great Hall and the red drawing room and the aroma of roast lamb wafting out from the kitchen. Laura Latimer, the Lady of Claresby Manor, was in the process of cooking the Sunday lunch herself. There were to be only six for lunch, including the new vicar whom she barely knew. Nonetheless, Laura had decided to keep things informal and to serve dinner in the kitchen rather than the Great Hall, which was always inclined to be draughty and gloomy, even with the fire alight. Eating in the Claresby kitchen was no hardship; it was a fine, stone medieval structure with a large scrubbed oak table at the centre and tall-backed, carved walnut chairs with green silk damask upholstery. The dinner had reached a stage where it could look after itself for a short while, so Laura made her way to the drawing room where Rupert was already entertaining two of their guests with sherry and gossip. In fact when Laura entered it was Wendy Lloyd, an old friend, who was providing the gossip whilst her husband and Rupert stretched out long limbs from the comfort of a fat, red leather settee which was amongst the new acquisitions at the manor.