4
Toby was standing in front of his easel in the long low conservatory built on the back of the stone farmhouse he now called home. He had moved after his wife had died and it had taken him a long time to put past unhappinesses behind him and settle in. But slowly, between trips abroad, the routine of writing and painting and hacking his way through the jungle of what might one day be called a garden had brought about a feeling if not of permanence, then at least of ease with himself in this place.
The portrait was coming on even better than he had ever dared hope. At first it had seemed a crazy idea. The illustration in the guidebook was so small and fuzzy; the detail hard to make out. A reproduction of a long lost portrait from an obscure collection in America. Perhaps it was the empty canvas that had inspired him. It had been standing there for months, ignored in favour of watercolour paper. But suddenly, after his visit to Carstairs Castle, the idea had come to him out of nowhere. He had clamped the canvas in place and set to work conjuring those strong saturnine features into paint. He stood now staring at the eyes of his illustrious ancestor. Dark, compelling, powerful. He had no idea what colour they had been in real life. He couldn’t tell from the illustration. In the event the eyes he had painted were, though he hadn’t yet realised it, his own.
He looked up suddenly, the brush suspended in mid air. The light was going. Striding over to the windows he gazed out across the garden towards the hills. The sky was the colour of Welsh slate. Huge drops of icy rain were beginning to plop one by one onto the leaves of the magnolia grandiflora which added such presence to the house. He sighed. Time to stop work.
He stood back and surveyed the portrait again as he reached for a paint rag. The face was almost alarmingly life-like. He frowned. He was not over modest about his own capabilities but he was not a fool about them either. He could recognise something exceptional when he saw it and this was exceptional. His best piece of work ever.
The voice in his head was peremptory.
Toby gave a wry smile. He was not usually that dedicated either. Any excuse to stop; grab a cup of coffee, read the paper.
Why indeed. He picked up his palette again.
The eyes were holding his own with so powerful a gaze that he found for a moment he couldn’t look away. It was like staring into a mirror. He scowled uncomfortably, aware that behind him the rain was beginning to hit the windows with unusual violence, rattling against the glass, resounding on the roof panels above his head. The wind had begun to roar in the boughs of the Scots pine at the end of the garden, a sure sign that a vicious storm was building in the north. Toby stepped back away from the easel.
The conservatory was growing darker by the minute. Turning towards the table spread with paints and pencils he reached for the lamp and turned it on. It was not a light he could paint by but it flooded the studio area with a warm glow. Putting down palette and brush he sighed. No more painting today.
‘Don’t be silly. I can’t finish it now. It’s too dark.’ To his surprise he had spoken out loud against the noise of the storm. Appalled, he stared round. The voice, the voice that was egging him on, had come from inside his own head. Or had it? He glanced at the picture. It was barely visible outside the range of the lamplight. He moved closer to it. It was finished, or as near as dammit. All it needed was one or two more touches of the brush. He reached for one and leaned closer, adding a small twinkle to the eyes, a quirk to the corner of the mouth. Then he stood back again, satisfied.
He was going mad. The sudden conviction that the voice had come from the portrait was the craziest thing that he had come up with yet. Lord Carstairs, traveller, visionary, occultist, magician, speaking through a portrait painted by the man who had inherited his bloodline?
Oh God! Toby could feel the fear crawling up his back. What had he done?
He didn’t react for several seconds when the phone rang, echoing round the conservatory, the bell an eerie counterpoint to the drumming of the rain. When at last he picked it up he was still standing facing the portrait as though afraid to take his eyes off it for a single second.
‘Toby?’ It was Anna. ‘Toby, are you there?’
Her voice was warm, friendly, the hesitant suspicion with which she had sent him away, gone. ‘Serena and I want your advice. About the bottle. Serena has brought it back. It made her uncomfortable.’ She didn’t have to explain the reason why to Toby. He had been there on the cruise. He had seen what happened.
‘Please, Toby. You couldn’t possibly come back, could you?’ Anna paused. ‘We -’ She hesitated. ‘I need you.’
Behind Toby the rain drummed even more loudly. He was smiling. Part of him had been steeling itself against the fact that he might never see her again; that the warmth and affection – he didn’t dare call it love – which had begun to burgeon between them had shrivelled and died before it had had a chance to develop. And now here she was asking, begging him to go back.
‘Of course I’ll come.’ He turned back to the portrait with a broad grin. ‘I’ll come as soon as I can. Don’t do anything until I get there.’
As he put down the phone he was aware of a strange overwhelming sense of triumph.
5
‘He’ll be here tomorrow.’ Anna looked at Serena with a shrug.
‘I bet he was glad to hear from you.’ Serena smiled.
‘I think he was. Yes.’ Anna gave a deep sigh. ‘But what do we do in the meantime?’ She was staring at the small bubble-wrapped package on the table. I don’t want it here overnight any more than you do. Not if I’m here on my own.’
Serena grimaced. ‘You’ve got a garden, haven’t you? Why don’t we put it out there. A London garden in March. That should cool the ardour of any passing ghosts!’
‘And you could bless it. To keep it safe overnight.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘And stay here with me?’
Serena laughed out loud. ‘I saw that coming.’
‘Please. I have such faith in you, Serena. You know what to do. You’ve studied all these esoteric subjects. You know how to deal with the paranormal.’
‘So why have I brought it back to you, Anna?’ Serena spoke very softly. ‘Because I was afraid I didn’t know what to do any more.’
The two women sat for a moment staring at the package. Then Anna stood up again. ‘Come on. I know where we’ll put it. Just till Toby comes.’
Outside the back door the cold hit them. Pulling on coats as they went they walked out into the walled garden and stood on the path. Serena gazed round in delight. ‘It’s beautiful! Did you do all this?’
Anna nodded. ‘My pride and joy. That’s why I started taking photographs – to keep a record of it all. And that’s why my ex let me keep the house.’
‘Bloody hell! That’s generous!’
‘No. It was the price of guilt.’ Anna led the way down the path through a rustic arch and into a small hidden area walled with budding clematis and roses. In the corner was a little pond. At its centre an ornate iron confection which in summer was obviously a fountain sat on a small island of sparkling granite. ‘I’ll put it there. Surrounded by
