I can practically hear Ewen reassuring his accomplice, ‘I’ll send Fergus to sleep with Piriton, he’ll never hear a thing.’ Ewen must have crushed up a tablet when I’d caught him filling the water glasses before dinner. He’d even made a point later of confirming the drugs were Zoe’s. She’s involved, I know it. She’d even covered up the fact Fergus had overslept the next morning. With everything going on in the night, no wonder Haggis was shut away downstairs.
On Ewen would have gone, the leader of the two, ‘When we’re in the ballroom you must photograph our next project, Early Morning Stags on the Moor.’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Louis, beaming with excitement. Result: the photograph of heather on Louis’ camera wasn’t actually from real life. It was a detail by Landseer. No surprise I’d been shut down when I suggested putting it on Zoe’s website.
If Ewen was in a bit of a fuss on the way home, heart beating rapidly with suppressed guilt, he could have easily accidentally hit a deer down the back drive. Then dragged it into the wood in a hopeless attempt to cover it up.
The huge file I saw downloading on Ewen’s computer, when Rupert and I paid him a surprise visit, were Louis’ photographs, details of Early Morning Stags on the Moor – they’d used up most of the bandwidth allowance.
Mention of an art valuer visiting had given Zoe the heebie-jeebies – she’d kicked up a fuss about the Landseers going on loan but she’d underestimated her husband’s persistence. He was mad keen they should be shown.
Urgh. I feel so embarassed remembering how smug I felt when I heard Ewen had gone away. I really believed he’d taken my advice and gone to start his own life. But no, he must have fled, maybe before or maybe at the same time as the woman driving the silver van. The very one Davy bumped into. Odd at the time, but now, I think, she must have been transporting an original painting. Davy had said she was all alone…So where is Ewen?
I rang the doorbell on the old-fashioned chain of Downs View, Berwick. Thirty seconds later and no answer, I let myself in. There was chattering in the room to my left but as I’ve caught a view of the dining room I’m going to put my box of chocolates in there. It gives me an excuse to count up the places.
Ten people are coming to dinner and as I creak open the small door to the sitting room it appears everyone has arrived.
‘You must be Susie, how marvellous to meet you.’ Lavender’s eyeshadow matched her purple lipstick and the baubles of her necklace and the studs in her ears. She gasped towards me across the small room and the lightness of the pomegranate print chiffon dress over her plump figure shimmered.
‘You look just like your mother,’ she said as she embraced me in her bosom.
Up until now I’ve always been told I’m the spitting image of my father’s mother, not my mother. But this kind of thing is what people say to make you feel like you belong. Lavender was welcoming my looks as an old friend and I told her how pleased I was to finally have been able to come.
‘I nearly gave up asking you.’ She rolled her eyes for comic effect. ‘I said to myself, well, we’ll give her one more try. Damned lucky I did, eh?’
I nodded and smiled, giving off all the right impressions despite the truth – I’d so much rather be at home in bed. Even Mum, when I’d rung to say I’d made it home, thought me going out for dinner would be an ordeal. ‘They’ll all be strangers double your age, poppet. No nice young men to keep you awake. You really should have said no.’
My parents will never tire of telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. They just love to be the ones in charge, respecting my decisions if they’re in accordance with theirs and kicking up a fuss if I go my own way. They’ve got it in their heads family mistakes are genetic. They’re convinced I, their only child, will get a double dosage of theirs and their relations’. They’re constantly trying to save me tripping up; the problem is, they leap in with opinions before I’ve even taken a step. But I’m soldiering on, living alone, being an artist and no doubt proving them wrong.
‘Would you like some wine, Susie?’ said Lavender. ‘Or something stronger? Your mother was always fond of a tipple.’
‘A glass of white wine would be lovely, thank you.’ I grinned; Mum would not like me being told this.
‘I’ll do it, Lav,’ came the dulcet tone of a dapper man next to the drinks cupboard.
‘Do take your coat off, Suz, and when you’re done just lay it on the sofa.’
As soon as I turned around, Lavender thrust a glass into my hand and introduced me to ‘Georgina Foss’.
Rubbish, I’d meant to Google her.
‘Hello, I’m Susie Mahl.’
Lavender left us.
‘Do call me George, it’s so much easier when one is amongst friends.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m told you’re an artist. Are you a painter, a writer, a sculptor, a dancer…?’
‘I’m a painter. Or at least trying to be.’ I gave a self-depreciating giggle.
‘You must stick at it. I’d love to hear more about your work. That’s if you don’t mind?’
I went hot at the thought and moved a step away from the fire. ‘I paint in oil, still lifes and landscapes mostly.’
‘From life?’
‘Yes, to begin with at least.’
‘Good girl. I can’t stand pictures from photographs. You can always tell. What’s your style?’
‘Well, hmmm, my paintings are, well, hmmm, always figurative but if you
