The Snares of Death (16 page)

CHAPTER 19

    
The words of his mouth were softer than butter, having war in his heart: his words were smoother than oil, and yet be they very swords.

Psalm 55.22

Saturday was a particularly busy day in Norwich as well as in Wymondham, and of course they were running late. ‘Where will you park the car?' Lucy asked, chewing on her lower lip; it was the most anxious he'd ever seen her, David reflected.

‘I can put it in the car park behind my offices,' he thought aloud. ‘It's not very far from the gallery. But it would probably be best if I dropped you at the top of Bridewell Alley. The gallery's only a few yards down the hill. Then I'll park, and catch up with you there.'

‘Good.' She looked around her, then, as they wound through the narrow, crowded streets of Norwich. ‘I had no idea that Norwich was so hilly. Or so picturesque.'

‘Yes, it's a real medieval city.'

‘It's nice to see you in your own setting, David. Now I'll be able to imagine your day-to-day life.'

The Bridewell Gallery was already jammed with people when David arrived. He glimpsed Lucy, surrounded by a crowd; she waved at him but he was unable to fight his way through to her. Instead, he circled round the gallery, examining her paintings and eavesdropping with interest on the comments that were being made. She'd shown him most of the paintings that were on display, weeks ago in her London studio; she'd even asked his advice about which ones to send, so he felt as though he were encountering old friends. The paintings were very good indeed, and they were being quite well received, if the overheard comments were anything to go by. Some of them were already marked ‘sold'; Lucy would be pleased.

He'd just managed to grab a glass of wine from a passing waiter when a strikingly well-dressed, attractive woman came up to him and peered at his face. ‘David?' she said. ‘It
is
you. David Middleton-Brown!'

It was a situation from a nightmare. David prided himself on never forgetting a face, but this woman was a total stranger to him. She was possibly about Lucy's age, and very pretty, with skilfully cut wispy black hair framing her face, a face that was dominated by eyes as green as a cat's; her skin was milky white and unlined, and she was dressed in a flowing garment that had clearly come from the showroom of some famous designer. He stalled for time. ‘Oh, hello.'

‘Whatever are you doing here, David? You've never been in the gallery before, have you? At least not since I've owned it. I know that you live round here somewhere, that you work in Norwich – I've been thinking for a long time that I'd probably run into you one day. I really should have rung you.'

‘Um . . .' She'd called him by name, and seemed to know all about him, so clearly he should know her. But he really was at a total loss, and the woman suddenly realised it.

She laughed. ‘You don't know who I am, do you?'

‘I'm so sorry . . .'

‘Fiona Crawford. I know it's been a few years, but have I changed so much?'

He stared at her as the light dawned. Fiona Crawford. His old friend Graham's ex-wife. He hadn't seen her in over ten years, since he'd left Brighton, where he and Graham had worked together. But the amazing thing was that in the intervening years, Fiona Crawford had seemingly grown younger rather than older. She'd always been an attractive woman, he remembered, but in a very tailored, almost severe, way: she'd worn her black hair pulled back in an austere knot at the nape of her neck, had masked those amazing cat's eyes with spectacles, and had always dressed in conservative suits, expensive but timelessly unfashionable. The perfect solicitor's wife, he'd always thought her. Well, she was a solicitor's wife no longer, and here she was before him, exhibiting a fey prettiness that belied her years. ‘Fiona!' he said at last. ‘Yes, you've changed!'

‘For the better, I hope.' She laughed again.

‘Oh, yes. Your hair . . . and the glasses?'

‘Contact lenses. They make quite a difference, don't they?'

He couldn't help staring, but she took it in good humour. ‘So what are you doing in Norwich, Fiona?'

‘I live here now. Didn't Graham tell you about the divorce?'

He'd seen Graham last summer, on a quick trip to Brighton. ‘Yes, but I didn't know . . .'

‘I've been here about six months. I'd always wanted to run an art gallery, and this one was for sale.' Fiona waved her hand in a proprietorial way. ‘I love it. And this exhibition is my first big event. It's going to be quite a success, don't you think?'

‘It already is. You've done very well, Fiona.'

She smiled, delighted. ‘And I've got a new man in my life,' she confided candidly. ‘You must come round to dinner one night, and meet him – we can catch up on things.' Fiona had always been a good hostess, David remembered, and had often kindly included him in family gatherings on holidays and other special occasions. She had also been an inveterate matchmaker, he recalled. He wondered if she still was, then noticed that she was looking speculatively at him. ‘You aren't married yet, are you, David?'

‘No,' he replied, amused.

‘Ah.' She seemed to be thinking for a moment. ‘Are you by any chance free this evening, David? I was planning to invite Lucy Kingsley for dinner tonight. You could meet her. Would you like that?'

He hated to sacrifice their evening at the French restaurant, but the ironic humour of the situation appealed to him. ‘Yes, that would be nice.'

‘I'll introduce you to her right now!' And Fiona passed like magic through the crowd surrounding Lucy, dragging David in her wake.

‘Lucy,' she said, ‘I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine. David Middleton-Brown.'

Lucy turned; he caught her eye and winked. She smiled at him solemnly. ‘Hello, Mr Middleton-Brown. How nice to meet you.'

‘And you, Miss Kingsley. I must tell you that I admire your paintings very much.'

‘Why, thank you.'

‘Lucy,' put in Fiona, ‘I've been planning to ask you if you'd like to join me and Rhys for dinner tonight, after the opening. Rhys would like to see you again. And David has agreed to join us as well.'

Lucy smiled again. ‘Well . . .'

‘Oh,' Fiona said suddenly, crestfallen, ‘I just remembered that you said you'd be staying with a friend for the weekend. Perhaps you'd planned to spend the evening with her . . .'

‘Him, actually,' Lucy corrected.

‘Oh.' Fiona looked devastated, seeing her spur-of-the-moment matchmaking coming apart at the seams.

‘But I'm sure he won't mind,' Lucy assured her. ‘Will you, David?'

Fiona looked back and forth between them, baffled; they both burst out laughing and she suddenly saw the joke. ‘Oh,' she said. ‘You two know each other!' She joined in the laughter.

‘Yes,' said David at last, exchanging a meaningful smile with Lucy. ‘Yes, we know each other.'

He scarcely saw Lucy after that. Naturally enough, it seemed that everyone in the gallery wanted to see her, to talk to her. A long-haired young man had attached himself to her, following her around with slavish devotion, and there were so many others. Eventually David found a quiet corner where he could drink his wine in peace and observe the goings-on with a sort of detached humour.

After a while a young woman glided over to his solitary corner and raised a glass of wine in greeting. To describe her merely as a young woman with abundant hair and long legs would be to do her a grave injustice. She was surely one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women David had ever seen, with the sort of perfect face that appears on the covers of high-fashion magazines. The abundant hair was tawny blonde, worn in a frothy mane, and the long legs were clad in black fishnet tights. In between was a body that David, who admittedly was no judge of such things, would have called perfectly proportioned, resplendent in a black dress that was so low at the top and so high at the bottom that it seemed in imminent danger of meeting in the middle. He regarded her with something akin to awe.

However, when she spoke the powerful illusion of worldly sophistication was immediately dispelled. ‘Hi-yah,' she said, in a breathless mid-western American twang. ‘I'm Tiffani. Tiffani with an “I”,' she added, giggling. ‘Who're you?'

‘David Middleton-Brown. A pleasure to meet you, Miss . . .'

‘Tiffani. Just call me Tiffani. Everybody does. It's funny, the way you English people like to be so formal. We don't stand on ceremony where I come from, ya know, Davey.'

He winced. ‘And where is that?'

‘Indiana. Beanblossom, Indiana.'

David wasn't entirely sure she wasn't making that up, but decided that it wasn't the sort of thing one would invent. ‘Beanblossom?'

‘Yeah. So I'm a stranger here in London, England.' She giggled. ‘Except I'm not in London, am I? I'm in Nor-wich. Talk to me, Davey. I just love to listen to you English people talk.'

He was acutely uncomfortable already; now he virtually froze. But she didn't seem to notice. Tiffani carried on. ‘I guess you're wondering what I'm doing here at this wing-ding, huh? I'm here with my boyfriend Geoffy – he's into art, ya know. But I don't really know much about art, and I don't know anyone here but Geoffy, and he's got other people to talk to, so I was feeling a little lonesome, ya know, and I saw you standing in the corner looking lonesome too, and thought that we could at least be lonesome together, ya know?'

‘I'm amazed that a woman who looks like you do could ever be lonely,' David said frankly, raising his eyebrows. ‘I should think that the men would be queuing up.'

Tiffani shrugged philosophically. ‘You'd be surprised, Davey. I think that a lot of men are, ya know . . .
intimidated
by beautiful women. At least that's what Geoffy says.'

David nodded; that seemed all the response that was necessary. ‘I guess you're wondering how I happen to be in England at all,' she went on. ‘Well, that's a long story, but we've got all afternoon, don't we, Davey?' And she launched into a tale that took her from Beanblossom Queen to Hollywood and a modelling career, to meeting the fabled Geoffy and this visit with him to his native land. Today's appearance at the opening was apparently coupled with a visit to Geoffy's nephew, who lived somewhere nearby.

‘Yesterday we were visiting Geoffy's nephew. He's a, ya know, kind of a minister. He lives in this big fancy place with all these other minister-guys.'

David was not particularly interested in Geoffy's nephew, but at least this was a conversation of sorts. ‘What is he like, Geoffy's nephew?' he asked idly.

‘Oh, kind of cute, I guess. If you like that kind of guy.' Tiffani giggled. ‘But, ya know, not my type. I like older men.' She looked at David through her lashes and moistened her red lips with her tongue.

With unusual perspicacity, he got her drift. Panic-stricken, he babbled on. ‘You say he lives in a fancy place. What is it like?'

She shrugged, bored with any conversation that didn't revolve around herself. ‘Big. Old. Rich. You know, really fancy, with lots of neat old stuff around. Geoffy really liked all the pictures on the wall – he spent the longest time looking at them, at every one!'

‘Well, that's not too surprising, is it, if he's interested in art?'

‘Yeah, but these pictures were really gross! Not like, ya know, Rembrandt or anything. One of them was a lady with her, ya know, boobs on a plate!' She giggled again, coyly. ‘And there was one of some animal getting its, ya know, guts ripped out – totally yukky. And some guy with his head chopped off. I mean, gross!' Tiffani rolled her eyes.

A waiter approached. ‘Would you like some more wine?' David asked her.

‘Oh, yeah! Look – mine's all gone!'

He put the empties on the waiter's tray and took two full glasses.

‘Thanks, Davey! Cheers!' She sipped the wine daintily and looked at him through her lashes. ‘So, Davey. I've told you about me. Now you tell me why, ya know, you're here, all by your lonesome, standing in the corner. A nice, handsome man like you!'

Once again he felt hot, and not in a pleasant way. He knew that he sounded awkward and stuffy as he replied. ‘I don't really know many people here. I'm here because of Lucy Kingsley. Miss Kingsley and I, that is, we . . . She's staying with me this weekend . . .'

Tiffani burst into peals of laughter. ‘Oh, I see! How funny! You and Lucy Kingsley, and me and Geoffy!'

David didn't see the humour at all; he smiled politely.

‘And you and me here in the corner, Davey! Oh, Geoffy will just die!'

‘Who
is
this Geoffy?' he asked at last, when she'd calmed down.

‘Why, Geoffrey Pickering, of course!' She turned incredulous eyes on him. ‘I thought you knew!'

‘
The
Geoffrey Pickering?
Dr
Geoffrey Pickering?'

‘Yeah, sure. Look, he's over there talking to your Lucy Kingsley!'

Sure enough, Lucy was deep in conversation with surely the best-known man in the art world, Dr Geoffrey Pickering. His face was familiar to anyone who watched television, for in addition to the several series in which he'd popularised art for the masses, he appeared regularly on news programmes whenever comment was required on any issue relevant to art. He was even a regular guest on several intellectual quiz programmes.

Dr Geoffrey Pickering: art historian, media figure, citizen of the world. David regarded him curiously, here in the flesh. If anything, he was even more handsome in person than on screen: although he must have been nearly sixty, he was tall and well built, and possessed of film-star good looks, with swept-back silver hair and piercing blue eyes. He was very tanned, from the California sun; David knew that he had a home in California, as well as one in London and one in Italy. In keeping with his carefully cultivated persona he was dressed in impeccable English tweeds, clearly from Savile Row; David wondered idly if he wore tweeds even in the heat of Southern California. He could just as easily imagine him in a pastel shirt, unbuttoned to the navel, with multiple silver chains nestled among silver chest hairs.