The Haunted Lady (6 page)

Two days later we set off for our tour of the new building. The recently completed art gallery that would be housed within the new part of the building naturally drew most of the attention, and much of the comment that I heard was favourable. A temporary stage had been erected in front and slightly to the side of the main entrance. This would house the official party, and had been positioned so that the audience could get a good view of both the dignitaries and the impressive new structure.

Those controlling the publicity machine had obviously done their job as well as they could but, in spite of their efforts, there were fewer than a hundred people gathered on the lawns and the drive in front of the museum, with its new extension, on the morning of the reopening ceremony.

In stating the number of attendees, I’m not suggesting that the rest of the local populace was culturally challenged, but I don’t believe something seemingly lacking in drama and excitement came high on their list of priorities.

If that was so, their judgement turned out to be extremely misguided.

As we’d predicted, DS Holmes was amongst the gathering, with Johnny Pickersgill in close attendance. Eve nudged me. ‘Starsky and Hutch are over there,’ she gestured towards the officers.

‘I don’t see much resemblance between Johnny and David Soul, or Paul Michael Glaser for that matter,’ I objected.

Eve snorted with laughter, which caused several of those in our immediate vicinity to turn and stare at us. Their actions caused them to move slightly, giving me a glimpse of the vicar, who, with his mother and Chloe Kershaw, was in conversation with a couple I guessed to be Chloe’s aunt and uncle.
Or possibly not
, I thought, given what we’d recently learned. With Chloe’s past now in doubt, David and Valerie Kershaw might be no relation for all we knew. That thought disturbed me enough for me to puzzle over the dilemma for a few minutes. I wondered if the attendance of the Kershaws might imply that they would prove more receptive to a meeting and perhaps to discuss the problem – if only with Eve and me rather than the authorities.

I was about to mention this possibility to Eve but, before I had chance to do so, movement close to the front door of the museum indicated that proceedings were about to get under way.

Having spent a good deal of my formative years as a journalist covering such events, I’d found that studying the crowd formed an effective antidote to boredom that was often induced by the frugal public speaking ability of the chosen celebrity. There was no doubt that the speaker on this occasion was better than many whose tedious platitudes I’d had to endure in the past –probably due to his many radio appearances and the TV documentary series he hosted – but however professional his delivery, the content was understandably bland. Had I not allowed my attention to wander, I might not have seen the stranger from the train yet again.

The man who had intrigued me on two previous occasions was standing on the fringe of the throng, as if unwilling to become involved, or to be drawn into conversation. His attitude was curious too. He was standing with his head slightly bent and to one side. Was that because he was listening intently to the speaker, I wondered, or because he didn’t want anyone to make eye contact with him? He certainly wasn’t looking at those on the platform.

Once more I was struck by the feeling that he seemed somehow familiar. Had I seen him prior to leaving the train in York? Or did he simply remind me of someone? If the latter was true, I was foxed, because I couldn’t think of anyone who bore a resemblance to him.

I diverted my attention when I saw the stranger glance in my direction, focusing instead on the official party accompanying the celebrity art historian. Included in their number I managed to identify the MP for the Dinsdale constituency, alongside his bitter political rival, the town’s mayor. Even if I hadn’t been able to identify his face, the chain of office would have been sufficient to mark him out. Equally distinguishable was the lady mayoress, who also qualified for a similarly gaudy piece of regalia. She hadn’t stopped there, however, and had opted to don a hat that was certainly attention-grabbing, although only she could have considered it appropriate for the occasion. Perhaps she had mixed up the invitations and imagined she was going to Royal Ascot.

My game of ‘spot the dignitary’ was given unexpected assistance when Johnny Pickersgill appeared alongside us. His whispered commentary was highly enlightening, although had it been recorded, he would have faced several potentially ruinous slander cases. His opinion of several of the distinguished figures could hardly have been lower if he’d spoken them from the bottom of a mine shaft – a very deep one.

Having cast aspersions on the MP, the mayor and a couple of councillors, Johnny turned his attention to a suave-looking, smartly dressed individual at one end of the group. He singled that man out for his worst character assassination. ‘That’s Scott Martin,’ he told us, ‘a solicitor by trade. He was born in this area, vanished for a long time and then reappeared five years ago.’ I noticed Johnny hadn’t used the word ‘profession’. This, it seemed, was a deliberate oversight. ‘He’s a solicitor by trade and a thief by inclination. If you shake hands with him, you’ll be wiping them on your handkerchief afterwards to remove the slime, and remember to check you still have your jewellery.’ Johnny paused and added, ‘You might also be advised to count your fingers.’

‘I take it you don’t think much of Mr Martin. Why is that? Has he committed some sort of crime?’ Eve asked.

‘The fact that he’s breathing is a crime as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Yes, but anything specific?’

Johnny shook his head sorrowfully at my question. ‘Nothing we can prove, unfortunately. There have been some dodgy property deals and some very unlikely planning applications that have gone through. He handled them, and I know for a fact that he and the chairman of the planning committee are members of the same golf club. They probably both have the same funny handshake too.’

‘Being a golfer and a Freemason is hardly proof,’ I objected.

‘True, but added to that, he represents some very suspect characters around here, and I know for a fact that he charges hefty fees for his advice, fees that include
special
expenses.’

Johnny’s emphasis on the word ‘special’ intrigued me. I asked what he meant by it.

‘The sort of expenses that have witnesses suddenly developing amnesia, or becoming struck down by a morbid claustrophobia that only occurs when they enter a courtroom.’

‘You’re suggesting he bribes witnesses?’ Eve sounded horrified, which amused both Johnny and me.

‘Certainly not,’ Johnny responded. ‘That would be unethical. He sends someone else to do it for him. There is very little that guy won’t stoop to, if he sees a profit in it. I reckon the nearest Scott Martin has been to the straight and narrow is when he picked up a ruler.’

Having vented his spite and frustration at Martin, Johnny was somewhat more forgiving about others he identified. His scurrilous remarks about various other local dignitaries were delivered with far less spleen. They did, however, leave us with no great regard for some of the names, and shed light onto Johnny’s fount of knowledge, rumour and gossip.

‘The best of the bunch on that platform is Uncle Tom,’ Johnny gestured discreetly to the man at the opposite end of the line-up to the solicitor he’d just vilified. ‘He used to be a good copper until he joined the criminal fraternity.’

I recognised the man he referred to as ‘Uncle Tom’

‘I thought Tom Fox was a councillor?’ I asked.

‘Yes, that’s what I meant by “joining the criminal fraternity”.’

‘Johnny, I’m
shocked
that you should think so badly of our elected representatives.’

He grinned. ‘It would take a heat-seeking missile to shock you, Adam.’

Eventually the tiresome official proceedings ended. Before the throng moved inside to check out the new exhibits there was a short period of respite from the formal timetable, giving attendees the chance to mingle. The schedule had indicated that light refreshments would be available in the museum foyer before the second part of the entertainment, when the opening of the extension built to house the art gallery was to be conducted by the celebrity guest.

‘I’m really surprised that Casper isn’t here,’ Johnny remarked as we watched the gathering disperse towards the food. ‘Mind you, there are enough villains present without adding one more.’

‘Who’s Casper?’ Eve asked.

‘He calls himself Casper Harfleur but his real name is Charles Harvey. Apparently that didn’t have a sufficiently artistic ring to it for someone who believed himself to be the next Rembrandt. The problem was that although he changed his name, Casper was unable to improve his talent. That isn’t to say he isn’t proficient. Casper can paint almost as good a Rembrandt as Rembrandt did; similarly with Van Dyke, Matisse and a lot of other famous artists. Sadly his ability didn’t extend beyond imitating other people’s work.’

‘You’re saying that this man Casper is a forger?’

‘He is – or rather he was until he got found out. After that the only things he painted for a while were the walls of his prison cell. He’s been out a couple of years now, and swears he isn’t up to his old tricks. So far, it seems he’s behaved himself. I saw him in Dinsdale last month and he mentioned that he might come along, but perhaps he changed his mind. Maybe Casper thought that if people saw him here they might be nervous about how genuine the paintings on show were.’

Notwithstanding his disparaging comments, I got the impression that Johnny didn’t dislike Casper. Perhaps respect for Casper’s ability softened his mistrust. As it turned out, Johnny was wrong in one respect. Casper
was
there – and was about to make a suitably dramatic appearance.

At that moment DS Holmes signalled to Johnny to join him. As he left, Eve and I crossed the turf to speak to Michael, Chloe and the others.

To anyone watching we must have seemed like a really romantic couple, with Eve clinging onto my arm in devoted fashion. That would have been a misleading impression, for there was nothing amorous in her tone as she whispered to me, ‘You might have given me some warning beforehand that I would have to walk across acres of lawn. If I’d known I’d never have put these stiletto heels on.’

––––––––

I
was still struggling to work out why I was to blame for Eve’s unsuitable footwear when we met up with the vicar, his mother and fiancée. Chloe introduced us to David and Valerie Kershaw. The couple, although amiable enough, were less than forthcoming, and we moved on before the situation became awkward.

Elsewhere, conversation quite naturally centred on the new building and the excitement generated by the prospect of the town housing one of the prime exhibition spaces of its type in the region. The other talking point, equally understandable, surrounded the terrible death of the former curator. Opinion on Mark Bennett seemed unanimous. He was well liked by everyone, it appeared, although some hinted that the ladies had found him more attractive than was perhaps proper. Few seemed in doubt that Bennett had been murdered by either a jealous rival or a rejected partner, and one or two hinted that despite his release, the police didn’t need to look much further than David Kershaw as the culprit.

To our surprise, one of those making that assertion was a member of the official party: the solicitor recently maligned by Johnny Pickersgill.

Scott Martin introduced himself, and when I attempted to reciprocate waved that aside. ‘I know who you are, Mr Bailey. I used to watch your TV dispatches assiduously. I admired your accurate and unbiased summaries of difficult situations and the politics surrounding them. Assessment of the facts and the ability to remain impartial are two qualities vital to lawyers.’

Martin smiled slightly before including Eve in his next comments. ‘More recently I’ve been fascinated and impressed by you and your wife’s careers, if you can categorise them as such. It seems that your combined talents have created a pair of super-sleuths in our midst.’

He invested the words with heavy irony before continuing, ‘However, I don’t think your detective talents will be stretched to the extreme to solve our most recent violent event. I’m referring of course to the demise of the former curator of this establishment. Sadly, that seems to be an open-and-shut case. It seems that Bennett was a victim of his own predilection for dalliance, shall we say. My only hope is that David Kershaw doesn’t call upon me to represent him. Defending Kershaw would probably be the most challenging case I’ve ever handled.’

‘It does seem to be the general opinion that Kershaw is guilty,’ I responded, without going as far as to agree Martin’s point, ‘but there must be an element of doubt, surely, otherwise the police wouldn’t have released him from custody?’

‘There is a vast difference between being released on bail and being innocent,’ the lawyer replied. ‘I believe a shortage of evidence is the prime reason they haven’t yet laid charges against him.’

Martin’s theory, and that of several others in the throng, was severely tested within minutes of him having uttered it. We had finished our conversation and moved into the foyer, where I was eyeing a particularly tasty-looking gateau when the new curator of the museum called on the crowd to be silent, and asked the distinguished historian to cut the ribbon signalling the opening of the art gallery.

Many people pressed forward, keen to be among the first to view the new building. This, for most of those present, would be the most interesting part of the proceedings. Nobody could have guessed that their interest would be superseded by high drama.

I had no great wish to be among them. For my part, the building would be as exciting in half an hour as it was right then. The gateau was still occupying my complete attention when we heard a piercing scream that emanated from the art gallery. The predominantly glass structure helped magnify and echo the sound, which, with the double doors open, reverberated through the foyer to the museum part of the building.