The Murderer Inside the Mirror, page 5
‘Here is the Gainsborough,’ said Lady Girdlestone as they reached the far end of the gallery. ‘I’ve always considered it rather pallid, I’m afraid. I like a painting to be rich and colourful.’
‘But the use of cooler colours is a distinctive aspect of Thomas Gainsborough’s work, madame,’ said Jack, and thought their hostess would not have suspected that it was as recently as last evening that he had committed this information to memory.
They considered the portrait solemnly, Byron making use of a magnifying lens he had brought with him, Jack writing in a small notebook.
‘You have provenance for the painting, madame?’ he asked.
‘There is a letter from an aunt of my husband’s, referring to it being brought into the family.’
‘To see that would be of the greatest value,’ said Jack, at once.
‘We could wait while you find it,’ put in Byron.
‘And while you do so, we will study the painting in a different light. You will permit that we open the shutters on those windows …?’
‘Byron, is it a Gainsborough?’ said Jack, as Lady Girdlestone went away in quest of the letter, her footsteps tapping down the stairs.
‘No idea. But let’s see what else is here while Gertie is foraging for provenances.’
Jack was already unlatching the shutters and folding them back. Sunlight slanted into the dim gallery behind him, and he was just thinking that one of the catches looked satisfyingly flimsy and that there was a section of guttering which could be sufficiently sturdy to be climbed if they had to return, when Byron said,
‘Jack. Look at this.’
‘What? Where?’ Jack looked to where Byron was pointing, and felt as if something had squeezed a hand around his heart.
Hanging in a shadowy recess, almost as if it had been placed there to semi-conceal it, was a small portrait. It was roughly sixteen or eighteen inches in height and some thirteen or fourteen inches wide, and it ought to have been wholly unremarkable – nothing more than a daub by some unknown painter, or perhaps even by a long-ago Girdlestone. But it was not unremarkable at all.
It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, and she was staring out at the world with defiance. Her hair and as much of her gown as could be seen were what Jack thought were Tudor style. She had dark hair and vivid blue eyes, mirroring the colour of her gown.
Even to his relatively untutored eye, the painting was poor. The paint looked as if it had been patchily and hastily applied, as if someone had wanted – or needed – to complete the work quickly. The girl’s eyes had a faintly skewed look, which might have been due to a slight squint, or might simply have been because the artist had not had the skill or the time to depict them properly. But at the bottom edge of the painting were the words, ‘Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh. circa 1536 …’
Jack stood very still, feeling the sunlit gallery whirl about him. Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh. Was this the link Montague Fitzglen had wanted to find? His notes had referred to a marriage between the Rafferty family and the Girdlestones, and to a ‘16C Ó Raifeartaigh ancestress who had met a mysterious, macabre and probably shameful end …’
And here, in Girdlestone Hall, was a lady with the Ó Raifeartaigh name. Was this what Montague had hoped – even expected – to find? Tomás’s lines in the play came vividly to him. Catrina had understood, he had said. Catrina … And now here was a portrait of a lady called Catherine. Were the names only coincidence, though?
Byron, who was examining the painting closely, said, softly, ‘Look there, Jack. In that corner.’ He indicated a dim outline on the painting’s left-hand edge. ‘A lute,’ he said. ‘It’s almost entirely in darkness – deep shadow – but it’s just possible to make out what it is. Can you see?’
‘I can. But weren’t lutes part of everyday life in the 1500s?’ said Jack. ‘There wouldn’t be anything remarkable about a lute being in a portrait in that era, surely?’
‘No, except that I don’t think that’s a patch of shadow,’ said Byron. ‘I think someone tried to paint over it. D’you see there – and there? A definite line of a different colour. The darker paint almost obscures the lute, but not entirely. Whoever painted over it either didn’t do a very good job, or the paint has flaked off in places with time.’
Jack was just wondering if they could take the portrait nearer to the light from the window when Lady Girdlestone’s voice, sounding rather annoyed, said,
‘I see you’ve noticed the family murderess.’
The murderess. Jack felt his mind flinch, but Byron said, quite smoothly, ‘A murderess? How very dramatic. Who was she?’
‘A very distant ancestor of my husband’s,’ said Lady Girdlestone dismissively. ‘Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh. I believe some people called her the Cat. I don’t really know why the painting has even been kept here all these years – the connection is a long way back, and it was very tenuous anyway. A cousin acquired the painting through marriage, I believe.’
Jack said, carefully, ‘What was the murder she committed?’
‘I could not say. I think the story is that the murder – whatever it was – had to be kept a close secret. Strictly guarded within the family.’
‘But she was executed?’
‘I presume so.’
‘All families have one or two bad ancestors,’ said Jack, forcing his voice to sound offhand, hoping he was keeping a secure hold of the French accent. ‘Is that the letter of provenance for the Gainsborough? So kind.’
‘You permit we make notes?’ asked Byron, taking the letter.
‘Oh, of course.’
‘Ó Raifeartaigh is not an English name, I think?’ said Jack, as Byron opened his notebook.
‘Irish,’ said Lady Girdlestone, tight-lipped.
‘Ah, of course, the Irish—’ Jack spread his hands in deprecatory fashion.
Byron, having completed his notes, took Lady Girdlestone’s hand, and bestowed a light kiss on it. Jack contented himself with a plain handshake.
‘I wonder,’ said Jack, as they walked back to the halt for the London train, ‘which came first for Uncle Montague? Did he hear about Catherine during his visits to Phelan, or was there something in the play that made him suspect there was a mystery to be uncovered? Although that begs the question as to how he came by the play in the first place.’
‘And who wrote it,’ said Byron.
‘Yes. But Byron – Catherine’s portrait,’ said Jack. ‘I got the impression that it had been done hurriedly. It was painted on a board, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I think painters often used boards in those days,’ said Byron, as they went onto the platform. ‘I don’t think that tells us anything. But I agree it had a hurried feeling about it. Almost as if the artist had snatched whatever was to hand to get it done.’ He frowned, then said, thoughtfully, ‘If she really was a murderess, could she have been in prison when it was painted?’
‘Awaiting execution for a murder the family kept secret afterwards,’ said Jack, thoughtfully.
‘You might well want to cover up that you’d got a murderess in your family, though,’ said Byron. ‘See now, 1536 – she could have been a martyr. Killed for her religious beliefs.’
‘True.’ Jack saw again in his mind Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh’s defiant stare. She had looked as if she would have been prepared to stand up for whatever she believed in, no matter the cost. He said, ‘She didn’t look much more than seventeen or eighteen.’
‘People commit murder at any age,’ said Byron, as the train appeared at the far end of the track, and puffed its way into the station, belching out clouds of smoke.
They had a compartment to themselves and, as the train pulled out, Jack said, ‘What was in that provenance letter? I know it was about the Gainsborough, but did it mention Catherine?’
‘Only in passing,’ said Byron, producing his notebook. ‘It was from somebody called Augusta Girdlestone, and it was mainly about how the Gainsborough came into the Girdlestone family through her uncle. But she did say this:
“If hung in a good light, perhaps near a window, the Gainsborough should deflect attention from that creature, Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh. I cannot think why that portrait has been allowed to remain on view all this time. Neither I nor anyone else knows the truth about her, of course, but if only half the whispers are true, to my mind the painting should have been burned long since and the girl’s name expunged from the family’s history”.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all,’ said Byron, closing the notebook. ‘But if nothing else it confirms Uncle Montague’s belief about the link between the Raffertys and the Girdlestones.’ He stared through the window at the passing countryside, then said, ‘I suppose we can’t go through with that Gainsborough filch, can we?’
‘Only if you think you could copy the original.’
‘Of course I couldn’t. And don’t grin like that – you know perfectly well that I’m a mere novice – in fact, compared with Montague, I’m not even that,’ said Byron. ‘It’s a pity we can’t stage that filch, though. It would have felt like a memorial to the old boy.’
‘Speaking of memorials,’ said Jack, ‘his funeral’s going to be quite an event, isn’t it? Ambrose is having fits at the cost of the food and wine for the wake. And during the wake, I’ve got to retrieve the play without anyone seeing, get it out of the house—’
‘And read it,’ said Byron.
‘Yes. I’ve got to read it,’ said Jack.
The funeral and the interment of Montague Fitzglen proceeded much as any funeral and interment. People were solemn, ladies dabbed their eyes with black-bordered handkerchiefs, and everyone told one another what a beautiful service it was – dear Montague would have been pleased. It was all so sad, wasn’t it – and a reminder that you should send not to know for whom the bell tolled. And hadn’t something been said about refreshments? Whatever else you might say about the Fitzglens, they were always hospitable.
Once at the house people mingled amicably, falling into discussion with old acquaintances, dusting off a few scandals, and calling to mind one or two feuds, including commenting on the remarkable sight of the Fitzglens and the Gilfillans under the same roof.
It was agreed that the buffet lunch was lavish, which was doubtless Cecily Fitzglen’s doing; she might not be able to convincingly portray a Lady Macbeth or an Ophelia, but when it came to domesticity, she could not be beaten.
Jack moved around speaking to people, then, when everyone seemed to be in the dining room, he went unobtrusively along the hall to the study. He did not acknowledge – not quite – that he could have come to this house at any time during the last few days and retrieved the script, but he was aware he had deliberately waited until there would be people around. Because his mind flinched from that reference of Tomás’s to a darkness? But what was it, that darkness Tomás had wanted to destroy – almost to exorcise?
The study was silent and shadowy, although faint light filtered in from the street. It showed up the photographs on the mantelpiece – several of Fitzglen plays, and a silver-framed one of Montague with Tansy’s mother. She was smiling straight into the camera, the narrow Fitzglen eyes strongly noticeable, and Jack smiled back at her, and thought the silver frame was typical, because Montague had had a very great fondness for Tansy’s mother – although all of the family had had that, of course. Tansy had a lot of her mother’s qualities – the same delight in life, the same energy, the quick intelligence.
He looked round the room, thinking that if the play were to be staged, this was exactly the kind of lighting it should have for the opening scene. A smeary twilight, with uneasy shadows, and then Tomás’s words dropping into the listening silence.
There was such a darkness in that place … he had said.
But it was important to remember that – whoever had written this play – it was a work of fiction. Whoever had written it … Jack looked back at the photograph, and his heart lurched, because for a wild moment it seemed that Montague moved – that he turned his head slightly and looked straight at Jack. Then the moment passed, and Jack’s heart returned to its normal rate, because after all it was simply a reflection in the glass of someone standing in the corner. Someone who had quietly come into the room behind him – or had been in the room already when he came in?
‘Hello, Jack,’ said the familiar, slightly husky voice. ‘Were you looking for me or were you in search of a priceless heirloom left by your Uncle Montague?’
Viola Gilfillan.
For a moment Jack did not speak. Then, reaching for composure, he said, ‘It’s like you, Viola, to make this kind of appearance. It’s a pity it’s so artificial and unconvincing.’
He was glad that his voice sounded slightly dismissive, as if he were brushing away a minor annoyance. He was not actually annoyed, even though it was typical of Viola to add a touch of drama – almost materializing in an empty, shadow-filled room. And, said his mind, within a few feet of a manuscript that must not – under any circumstances – be allowed out of Fitzglen hands.
A small part of his mind registered that she was wearing conventional mourning attire – a silk costume with a small patterned velvet scarf at the throat – and that black suited her. The contrast with her porcelain skin and coppery hair was striking. She was wearing black jewellery – jet? – and her hands were gloved. But her left hand was resting on the edge of the cupboard door – the cupboard in which reposed the document. Had she opened that door? Had she been closing it or been about to open it when Jack came in?
But she said, in what sounded a sincere tone, ‘I’m here to offer condolences for the death of your uncle. He was a great figure of the theatre. He should be paid homage. Or did you think I was here purely to look into your bright eyes again, Jack?’
‘What I thought was that you might be here to look around this house in case you could disinter any scandal for your family to use against mine,’ said Jack, immediately.
‘How cynical. But as for scandals, from all I’ve ever heard, Montague Fitzglen led quite a colourful life. I should think there were a good many secrets in his past. But then which of us doesn’t have secrets? And, of course, a scandal or two.’ She took a step nearer to him. ‘You could certainly tell a few good tales, couldn’t you, Jack?’
Jack said, coldly, ‘I could, but not to you, Viola.’
‘Never?’
‘Never. I’ll toll out King Lear’s five famous “nevers” if that will convince you.’
‘Oh, you’d never play Lear,’ she said, at once. ‘You haven’t that melancholy side to your character that Lear had.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Jack. They regarded one another, and then, with a slight effort, he said, ‘And having exchanged insults, I shall now remember that you’re a guest in this house, and I’ll take you into the dining room to have some lunch.’
‘Are we playing our Montague and Capulet roles again?’ she said, as he held open the door leading out to the hall. ‘And if so, are you taking me to old Capulet’s “trifling foolish banquet”?’
‘Yes, but it’s on the understanding that you don’t make a mutiny among the guests,’ said Jack, luckily remembering a later line from the scene. He stood back to allow her to precede him. ‘If I know anything about my cousin Cecily,’ he said, ‘the banquet won’t be so very trifling.’
The banquet was very far from trifling, but it was fairly short-lived. It was not considered polite to remain too long at such a gathering, and also some people had matinees at which to appear.
Jack waited until the mourners had left and the family had gone into the dining room to finish up the food, then returned to the study. He paused in the doorway, reminding himself that all he was going to do was take some pages of an old document off a shelf, then went in.
The yellowing press cuttings and the scrapbooks were still on the shelf; Jack lifted them down, then reached up for the iron box. He placed it on the table, looked at it for several minutes, then grasped the lid and pushed it up. There was no resistance as there had been when he first found this box; the lid folded back with only the smallest scrape of sound.
The room seemed to tilt and the shadows blurred into rearing outlines. Because the box was empty.
The script of The Murderer Inside the Mirror – the undiscovered play that might have come from the pen of a brilliant Irish writer, or that might as easily have come from the pen of a wily forger – had gone.
SEVEN
Tansy was glad the funeral was over. It had been dreadfully sad about dearest Great Uncle Montague, but it did sound as if he had had a splendid send-off, with most of the London theatre world present.
She had supposed she would go to the service and the wake, but Aunt Daphnis had said somebody had to be at the Amaranth for the day, to make sure everything was set up for the evening’s performance, and that she and Uncle Rudraige – Jack too – had thought it would be good experience for Tansy to undertake this responsibility. Tansy suspected it was more that they thought the service might bring back the memory of her parents’ double funeral – and if so, it was very kind of them and she was grateful. Her parents’ death had been just about the most harrowing experience of her entire life. It had been harrowing for everyone, of course – Tansy’s mother had been a cousin of Jack’s own father and they had been very close. She had married a Fitzglen connection from the Canadian branch of the family – there had been plans for a Christmas visit, which Tansy had been looking forward to.
But this morning, she was helping Bill the Chip on stage. It had been Uncle Rudraige’s idea; he had said all actors needed to understand backstage work, and Aunt Daphnis had added that you could never entirely trust Bill not to rearrange a set when no one was watching, and then forget to tell anyone about it, so that folk tripped over unexpected chairs on their entrances.
