Crybbe aka Curfew

Harmless normality.

He thought about Grace. Perhaps if he left the house then what remained of Grace would fade away. Fay had been right; there was no reason to stay here. Everything was clear from here, a different house, not two hundred yards away – but not on a spirit path.

Spirit paths. New Age nonsense.

But he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so happy.

Hereward Newsome was seriously impressed by the painting's tonal responses, the way the diffused light was handled – shades of Rembrandt.

'How long have you been painting?'

'I've always painted,' she said.

'Just that I haven't seen any of your work around.'

'You will,' she said.

He wanted to say, Did you really do this yourself? But that might sound insulting, might screw up the deal. And this painting was now very important, after the less than satisfactory buying trip to the West Country. An item to unveil to Goff with pride.

Hereward had returned the previous afternoon, terrified of facing Jocasta, with two hotel bills, a substantial drinks tab and a mere three paintings, including a study of Silbury Hill which was little more than a miniature and had cost him in excess of twelve hundred pounds.

To his surprise, his wife had appeared almost touchingly pleased to have him home.

She'd looked tired, there were brown crescents under her eyes and her skin seemed coarser. She'd told him of the terrible incident at the Court in which Rachel Wade had died. Hereward, who didn't think Jocasta had known Rachel Wade all that well, had been more concerned at the effect on his wife, who looked… well, she looked her age. For the first time in years, Hereward felt protective towards Jocasta, and, in an odd way, stimulated.

He'd shown her his miserable collection of earth-mystery paintings.

'Never mind,' she'd said, astonishingly.

He'd trimmed his beard and made a tentative advance, but Jocasta felt there was a migraine hovering.

This morning they'd awoken early because of the strength of the light – the first truly sunny morning in a week. Jocasta had gone off before half past eight to open The Gallery, and Hereward had stayed at home to chop logs. On a day like this, it was good to be a countryman.

Then the young woman had telephoned about the painting and insisted on bringing it to the house, saying she didn't want to carry it through town.

He thought he'd seen her before, but not in Crybbe, surely. Dark hair, dark-eyed. Darkly glamorous and confident in an offhand way. Arrived in a blue Land Rover.

She wore a lot of make-up. Black lipstick. But she couldn't be older than early-twenties, which made her mature talent quite frightening.

If indeed she'd done this herself; he didn't dare challenge her.

It was a large canvas – five feet by four. When he leaned it against the dresser it took over the room immediately. What it did was to draw the room into the scene, reducing the kitchen furniture to shadows, even in the brightness of this cheerfully sunny morning.

The painting, Hereward thought, stole the sunlight away.

He identified the front entrance of Crybbe Court, the building looking as romantically decrepit as it had last week when he'd strolled over there out of curiosity, to see how things were progressing. Broken cobbles in the yard. Weeds. A dull grey sky falling towards evening.

The main door was open, and a tall, black-bearded man, half-shadowed, stood inside. Behind the figure and around his head was a strange nimbus, a halo of yellowish, powdery vapour. The man had a still and beckoning air about him. Hereward was reminded in a curious way, of Holman Hunt's The Light of the World, except there was no light about this figure, only a sort of glowing darkness.

'It's very interesting,' Hereward said. 'How much?'

'Three hundred pounds.'

Hereward was pleased. It was, in its way, a major work, lustrous like a large icon. This girl was a significant discovery. He wanted to snatch his wallet out before she could change her mind, but caution prevailed. He kept his face impassive.

'Where do you work?'

'Here. In Crybbe.'

'You're… a full-time, professional painter?'

'I am now,' she said. 'Would you like to see the preliminary sketches?'

'Very much,' Hereward said.

She fetched the portfolio from the Land Rover. The sketches were in Indian ink and smudged charcoal – studies of the bearded face – and some colour-mix experiments in acrylic on paper.

He wondered who the model was, didn't like to ask; this artist had a formidable air. Watched him, unsmiling.

And she was so young.

'Does it have a title?'

'It speaks for itself.'

'I see,' Hereward said. He didn't. 'Look,' he said. 'I'll take a chance. I'll buy it.'

She'd watched him the whole time, studying his reaction. She hadn't looked once at the painting. Most unusual for an artist; normally they couldn't keep their eyes off their own work.

'Could I buy the sketches, too?'

'You can have them,' she said. 'Keep them in your attic or somewhere.'

'I certainly won't! I shall have them on my walls.'

The girl smiled.

'One thing.' She had a trace of accent. Not local, 'I might be doing more. Even if it's sold, I'd like the painting in the window of your gallery for a couple of days. No card, no identification, just the picture.'

'Well… certainly. Of course. But you really don't want your name on a card under the picture?'

Shook her head. 'You don't know my name, anyway.'

'Aren't you going to tell me?'

She left.

It was not yet ten o'clock.

The Mayor of Crybbe was seeing his youngest grandson for the first time as a man.

An unpleasant man.

He'd patrolled the farm, checking everything was all right, collected a few eggs. Then noticed that something, apart from the tractor, was missing from the vehicle shed.

When he got back to the house, he saw Warren landing hard on the settee, like he'd been doing something else, heard his grandad and flung himself down in a hurry.

'Where's the Land Rover, Warren?'

'Lent it to a friend.'

'You… what?' Mr Preece took off his cap and began to squeeze it.

'Don't get excited, Grandad. She'll bring it back.'

'She?'

'My friend,' said Warren, not looking at him. He hadn't even shaved yet.

When Mr Preece looked at Warren, he saw just how alone he was now.

'Come on. Warren, we got things to do. Jonathon's funeral tomorrow and your dad in hospital. Your gran rung yet?'

'Dunno. Has she?'

'She was gonner phone the hospital, see what kind of night Jack 'ad, see when we can visit 'im.'

'I hate hospitals,' said Warren.

'You're not gonner go?'