Unfinished Portrait (19 page)

Rona mulled this over. ‘Do you know why she went? To the theatre? Shopping? Exhibitions?'

‘She never said and I didn't ask. She told me as much and as little as she wanted me to know. One day she said, “Mary, if I do go away, it'll be on the spur of the moment. The family will make a fuss, but that can't be helped. And I'll come back just as sudden when the mood takes me, so mind you keep the house clean.” And I have. Everything is exactly as she left it.'

‘She didn't say how long she'd be gone?'

Mary Strong shook her head.

‘So you don't think . . . something might have happened to her?'

‘Course not. If it had, we'd have heard, wouldn't we?'

Not necessarily, Rona thought, but did not say.

‘Well – ' the cleaner wiped her hands on her apron – ‘where do you want to start?'

They'd been talking in the hall, to the accompaniment of the grandmother clock gently ticking the minutes away at the foot of the stairs. Opposite Rona, at the end of the hall, lay the kitchen she'd passed through on her way to the studio, and on either side of her a single door stood ajar.

‘Perhaps in here?' She indicated the one on her right, and Mary Strong pushed it open to reveal a small dining room. There was barely room for the oval table and four chairs – Chippendale, by the look of them – but twin mirrors, hung on opposite walls, gave, by their succession of reflections, an illusion of space. A corner cupboard with a display of Crown Derby completed the furnishings. There was a faint smell of lavender – furniture polish, no doubt.

Charming though it was, the room had an air of being seldom used, and retained no essence of its owner. As Rona emerged, Mary Strong, who'd waited in the hall, pushed open the door opposite and gestured for her to go in. Here, the effect was of a country cottage – a couple of deep, comfortable armchairs, a small television set, book shelves and occasional tables. Over the fireplace hung an exquisite Dutch Interior, and in the empty grate a fire was ready laid, screened by a vase of dried grasses.

And here Elspeth came into focus. Rona could imagine her relaxing after a strenuous day's painting – curling up in one of the chairs, perhaps with a TV supper, planning her next work – or maybe her ‘sabbatical'. And from the window at the far end, the studio, surely never far from Elspeth's thoughts, could be glimpsed, solid and reassuring in its grey stone.

A little reluctantly, since she'd have liked to linger, she rejoined Mary Strong, and the woman led the way upstairs. There were two bedrooms over the downstairs rooms, and a bathroom above the kitchen. The latter must have been installed well after the house was built, but was appropriately equipped with a claw-footed bath, deep, old-fashioned basin, and lavatory with polished wooden seat. Rona didn't bother going inside.

The first door was that of the spare room. It contained a bed covered with a quilt, but the underlying flatness suggested a bare mattress beneath. There was a dressing table with a frill round its base, a built-in wardrobe, painted white, and a single chair. The room was completely devoid of atmosphere, and Rona felt mounting disappointment. Apart from some empathy in the sitting room, this visit was proving a waste of time. It seemed Elspeth's desire for privacy encompassed even her home.

Again, Mary Strong was waiting on the landing, and silently pushed open the last door, that of the main bedroom; and here at last the full force of its owner's personality came alive, as though Elspeth had just left the room.

Rona paused, taking it in. A faint, indefinable scent hung in the air, possibly emanating from one of the glass bottles on the dressing table. A silver-backed mirror lay next to them, alongside a cut-glass tray bearing a discarded cameo brooch, its pin still open. The bed was prettily feminine, a lace spread and frilled pillow, and a silk dressing gown hung behind the door. Why hadn't she taken it with her? Rona puzzled.

On one wall hung a set of four small etchings of old-time Buckford, and on another, a signed Russell Flint print. The bedside table held a pretty lamp, a carafe covered with an upturned glass and a small enamel clock, showing the correct time. The faithful Mary Strong must either wind it or replace batteries as needed.

What had been Elspeth's thoughts, the last time she stood here? Had she taken a swift, final look round, wondering if there was anything else she might need – the little clock, the silk dressing gown?

Rona sighed, accepting that though she might speculate, she'd never know the answer. She returned to the landing, smiled her thanks at Mary Strong, and followed her down the stairs.

‘Mrs H said as you wouldn't bother with the studio,' she said.

‘That's right – I spent some time there the other day. Well, that was most interesting. Thanks so much for showing me round, Mrs Strong. I hope I haven't delayed you.'

The woman shrugged. ‘I'll have missed my usual bus, that's for sure.'

Rona felt a stab of guilt. ‘Oh, I'm sorry. Can I give you a lift somewhere?'

Mary's face brightened. ‘Well, that's good of you, miss, if it's no trouble. If you'd like to wait in the sitting room, I'll just rinse through my dusters.'

‘Of course.'

Rona, glad of the extra time, walked over for a closer look at the painting. She'd always liked Dutch Interiors and this was a particularly good example. After a moment, she moved on to the bookcase and idly examined its contents. Only a couple of volumes were on art, she noted, the majority, of course, being in the studio. Here, the mix was eclectic – Penguin classics, detective stories and several novels with flashes on their jackets, proclaiming them the winners of literary prizes.

She took one down, and as she riffled through the pages, a scrap of paper fell out and spiralled to the floor. Not wanting to mar the room's tidiness, Rona bent to retrieve it – and started almost guiltily as a voice said from the doorway, ‘That's me done for today, so if there's nothing else, we can lock up.'

Slipping it into her pocket, Rona cast a last, valedictory, glance round the hall, and went outside, waiting while the alarm was set and the door securely locked. If there were any secrets here, she concluded ruefully, the house had held on to them.

Half an hour later, having dropped off the grateful Mary Strong at a nearby council estate, Rona drove into town, deciding to lunch at the coffee shop before going to meet the Pynes.

Like the Harrises, they lived in a bungalow, but this one, as Rona could see from its widened doorway, had been adapted for wheelchair access.

Mrs Pyne opened the door – Jackie, as she introduced herself – and shook Rona's hand. She was a small, neat woman, in whose faded hair it was possible to detect a hint of her daughter's rich chestnut.

‘Please come in,' she said, leading the way into the front room, where a log fire burned. ‘I hope it's not too hot for you, but Reg feels the cold.' And, to her husband, ‘Rona Parish, dear.'

Mr Pyne, seated beside the fire in his wheelchair, nodded and smiled. ‘Please excuse my not getting up,' he said with wry humour.

Rona went quickly to shake his hand. ‘It's so good of you both to see me. I know it can't be easy for you.'

‘My dear, by this time we're inured to talking about our daughter.'

‘I don't want to intrude,' Rona assured him. ‘It's your memories of Elspeth Wilding I'm most interested in.'

‘Ah, Elspeth.' Jackie Pyne indicated a chair to Rona, and seated herself on the sofa opposite. ‘There's no news of her, I suppose?'

‘No. But as I explained in my letter, her family have asked me to write her biography.'

Reg gave her one of his peculiarly sweet smiles. ‘Forgive us if we know you better as a writer for
Chiltern Life
,' he said. ‘We particularly enjoyed your series on Buckford's eight-hundredth anniversary.'

Rona smiled back. ‘I'm glad. I enjoyed doing it.' She paused. ‘I believe Chloë met Elspeth at the High School?'

‘That's right,' Jackie Pyne confirmed bitterly, ‘and from then on, she dominated her life.'

‘Now, love,' Reg remonstrated gently, adding to Rona, ‘There's no denying Elspeth was the stronger character, but Chloë thought of her as the sister she'd never had, and loved her accordingly.'

‘How strong an influence was she on her becoming an artist?'

‘Very strong.' Reg again. ‘If they'd not met, I doubt if Chloë would have considered it as a career. She'd always enjoyed painting, and been good at it, but she was more academic than Elspeth, and could have made her mark in a variety of fields.'

‘Instead of which,' Jackie put in, ‘she was always in Elspeth's shadow.'

‘You must have come to know Elspeth pretty well. What was your impression of her?'

‘Ah, now there's a question!' Reg said ruefully. ‘She was always a complex girl; she could be charming when she chose, and generous to a fault; but where her art was concerned, she was ruthless. Nothing and no one was allowed to interfere with it.'

‘And she was so
possessive
!' Jackie took up the story. ‘She wanted Chloë all to herself. Several men fell for her over the years, but none of them came to anything. Quite frankly, we wondered if that was down to Elspeth. It sounds unkind, but she was – and no doubt still is – totally self-centred, and if something didn't fit in with her plans, she'd take the necessary steps to remove it.'

‘Nathan Tait was the first to stand up to her,' Reg said quietly. ‘And look what happened then.'

There was a taut silence, which Rona dared not break. Then Jackie drew a deep breath.

‘I felt really sorry for Nathan,' she said more calmly. ‘It was obvious he adored Chloë, and she was so happy and excited at the beginning. Flowers and phone calls and boxes of chocolates – bless her, having been in Elspeth's shadow all those years, she wasn't used to being the centre of attention. I think – I'm sure – they could have been happy together.'

‘So, what happened?'

‘Elspeth happened,' Jackie said flatly. ‘It's my belief she was jealous; after all, no one had ever been wild about
her
. But whatever the reason, Chloë started to cool towards him, make excuses when he phoned.'

‘She was living at home?'

‘Yes – that was another thing; when they left the RCA, Elspeth bought a house and converted a disused building in the grounds into a state-of-the-art studio. Chloë was involved from the word go, helping her plan the studio and so on, and she assumed they'd be living there together, as they had at uni and the RCA. It seemed ideal – but Elspeth soon disabused her of the idea. Said that now she was starting to paint seriously, she needed her own space, and sharing her studio was out of the question.

‘We could tell Chloë was hurt, but there was nothing to be done. She looked half-heartedly at one or two places but none of them were suitable, so we suggested she live at home, and rent a studio in the town. Which was what she did, but she still spent all her spare time with Elspeth.'

Though she knew to the contrary, Rona asked tentatively, ‘Did Nathan accept Chloë's change of heart?'

‘Far from it,' Reg said grimly. ‘He positively bombarded her – wouldn't take no for an answer. In the end, she was in such a state I had to have a word with him, ask him to give her some space.'

‘And he agreed?'

‘Grudgingly, but by then she'd had this big flare-up with Elspeth, and that got to her as much as the Nathan business. It was as though she'd become so dependent on her, she couldn't function without her. And however often she insisted it was over with Nathan, Elspeth refused to believe her. Punishing her, I suppose.'

He stared into the fire for some time, before saying sombrely, ‘But though we knew she was upset, we'd no idea how deep it went. Until it was too late.' He looked at his wife.

‘Jackie, love, should we show this young lady the letter?'

Rona looked quickly at Mrs Pyne, seeing the tremor cross her face. ‘It's private, Reg,' she protested in a low voice.

‘I know,' he persisted gently, ‘but it explains better than we can. And it shows how hard Elspeth could be.'

Tears had come into Jackie's eyes, but after a moment she nodded, went over to the bureau and took an envelope out of one of its drawers.

‘It's from Chloë,' she said unsteadily. ‘As you can see, Elspeth returned it unread – we were the ones who opened it. We found it in her desk after she died.'

She held it out to Rona, who hesitated. ‘Are you quite sure you want me to read it?'

The Pynes nodded, and Rona took it from her. Elspeth's address had been heavily scored through and replaced by Chloe's, and both postmarks were dated the week prior to Chloë's death. Apprehensively, she slid out the single sheet and read it quickly, then again more slowly.