A Missing Signature, page 23
Unless there was CCTV in the side street that caught her getting into my car, there’s no evidence that she ever did. But my fingerprints won’t be anywhere in the house where the body was found, except I could have been wearing gloves. Just like Nessa.
As the implications threaten to bring up my breakfast, something that DS Symonds said earlier returns.
Sitting up again, I wait till the room stops spinning. “You said that your questions today might relate to the skeleton in the woods.”
“It’s possible, but I can’t say more.”
I fold my arms. She lured me down here on a pretext so she owes me, unless she’s planning to pin last night’s murder on me.
After a minute’s stand-off, she relents. “You sent me extra information about the grave and I appreciate your assistance today. I can tell you this. The victim of last night’s attack may be linked to a person-of-interest in the Merivale Manor murder.”
“Nessa?”
She hesitates. “Everyone connected to the manor five years ago is a person-of-interest.”
Verity. Nessa. Felix. Kirk. Have they found any former contacts of Kirk?
And what about Sergeant Philip Bennett who went missing after the inquest into Reggie’s grandson’s bike accident? But he’s hardly a person-of-interest if he was the skeleton in the grave.
I return to the obvious. If Nessa is telling the truth, Felix was in the house last night.
“Felix Silverwood,” I say.
“He’s not the victim. And I’ve told you all I’m prepared to say. We’ll contact you if you can be of further assistance.”
I have no doubt about that.
“Are you going back to Topsham today?” she asks.
Topsham? I remember Topsham. A scenic town with warm friendly people who aren’t murderers. And my loyal dog.
“Yes.”
But first a mug of something warm and soothing.
Chapter 49
After finding a nearby café, I sip a hot chocolate until the trembles subside. But my mind won’t settle.
Felix isn’t the victim, but DS Symonds’ careful answer suggests he could be the person-of-interest that the victim is linked to. That doesn’t make him the murderer, but according to Nessa, Felix was at the house last night. And I didn’t give that information to DS Symonds to avoid repeating Nessa’s hostage story – because I’m not sure I believe it?
That leads to my next grim thought.
Nessa is also a person-of-interest. How possible is it that she stabbed some guy, climbed out the window to avoid any CCTV and casually wiped the victim’s blood off her leg with a towel from my hotel room? All the time praising me for being a real friend?
There’s one way to find out. My message fails to be very cryptic.
The Bill knows about body & blood. Thanks for more BS.
She phones straight back. “What do you mean?”
The café has music, but I drop my voice. “The police saw my car last night. They’ve found the body, but you didn’t warn me. You dropped me in it.”
“What body?”
Is she for real? “The deceased male found in the house in Tingwell Street.”
Her scream tells me she’s not in a café. “What? Did someone kill Felix? When I left, I could hear him talking to cab companies about the frame. My god, did he ring Earl after that?”
She thinks Earl killed Felix? It sounds like she really doesn’t know.
I tell her what DS Symonds told me, including that Felix wasn’t the victim.
“What if Felix called Earl and demanded the Manet?” she says.
She doesn’t mean the letter. She’s just renamed the Trudy.
“And Earl went round there,” she says, “and Felix killed him?”
I hadn’t thought of that, but it makes sense. The police would know that they worked together at The Turrets – providing the link that the DS mentioned.
“It’s easy to check,” I say. “Ring Earl and see if he answers.”
She hangs up with a click. She sounded shaken, but I remind myself of her drama skills. Returning to my tepid chocolate, I peruse the online bulletins. They only mention a ‘deceased male’, the street name and ‘suspicious circumstances’. The name of a victim is always withheld until the next of kin is notified.
A few minutes later Nessa’s back. “Got his voicemail. I’m worried, Sis.”
“You can’t change what’s happened but you can look after yourself. Ring the police. They know you were there because I told them and if you’re innocent, they need to hear from you.” And if the blood on the towel is her own, is she off the hook?
“Of course I’m innocent. I have no idea what happened after I climbed out that window.”
“Tell them everything. But you’ll have to go down to the station for a formal interview.” And stash the frame and the letter in a safe place if she hasn’t already done it.
“Thanks, Sis. You’re a star.”
“Good luck. And don’t call me either of those s-words ever again.”
My turn to click.
When Baxter answers my call, he’s both pleased and disappointed that I’m coming home. As well as sharing the flat with the pooch, he’s enjoyed raiding the fridge without Dinah fussing about his nutrition.
“I’ll be back in time to drop you home for dinner,” I say.
After I call in on Verity in case she has news on the latest ‘deceased male’.
“Or we could have takeaway together,” Baxter says. “A treat for your amazing dog-sitter. And drop me home after that.”
I laugh. It’s a relief to tangle with Baxter who’s hard-wired to tell the truth.
“Check it’s OK with your mum and let me know when I get there.”
Next I try Rupert but get his voicemail. I imagine he’s working overtime to fit back-to-back ‘open-homes’ into the weekend before New Year. After I take Baxter home, I’d love to debrief on the latest episode in the Nessa Nightmares. Rupert can pour a glass of wine, put his previous advice on replay and sit back trying not to look smug. But he’ll be appalled by the increase in the body count and fascinated in equal measure by the developments in the now-renamed ‘Manet’.
Driving the country road to Merivale Manor eases some of my tension. It’s my second dead body in so many weeks.
I often get ideas for my plots while I’m doing something else. During the drive, Nessa’s reference to Felix calling cabs gets my mind spinning a new connection.
Last night, Nessa waited about twenty minutes before I picked her up. Long enough for a taxi driver, who thinks he knows the location of a parcel shaped like the missing picture frame, to contact his despatcher and get the address of the person seeking the frame’s return.
Was it Paddy’s taxi turning into Tingwell Street just as Nessa jumped into my car? On an errand to demand a cash fee from Felix in exchange for what he thought was my name, hotel and phone number? It fits with his previous antics.
But since Felix hasn’t called ‘Piper’ on the charred pup, I may be way off track.
Unless Felix refused to pay Paddy for the information and Paddy left.
Or they argued and dot dot dot …
Could their encounter have ended in Paddy’s death?
The CCTV that snapped me would have recorded his cab. His pockets should contain his driving licence and other ID – unless they were removed by the murderer. And his cab parked in the street would display his photo. Unless the murderer drove his cab away.
This scenario might be the product of my writer’s mind, but the thought of such cold-blooded actions by Felix Silverwood makes me shiver, in spite of the over-heated car. It all feels way too plausible.
Chapter 50
Over tea and fresh-made pikelets, I ask Verity if she’s heard from DS Symonds.
“Not a word. Has something happened since she interviewed Felix?”
I bring her up to date.
“I heard about the body on the news. How terrible for the woman who found him. Why did you think DS Symonds might have called me about it?”
I repeat the detective sergeant’s exact wording.
“Connected to our murder? Five years later? I suppose a person-of-interest includes me. But Parnell wasn’t here last night so there’s no-one to confirm that I was home all evening.”
It hasn’t occurred to her yet that Nessa – or Felix – might be involved.
“I doubt that you’re a suspect, Verity.”
“If they know who was buried in my woods, they haven’t told me. I keep hoping it’s that policeman and not Kirk. But I don’t know why it would be him. I never met him. If Kirk did, does that make Kirk the murderer? Either outcome is just too horrible, Tiggy.”
I weigh up whether to tell her about the connection between Sergeant Bennett and Felix, but the story of Tye Saunders’ death is all too horrible too. If it’s Kirk in the grave then Verity doesn’t ever need to hear about Tye.
Instead, I ask her if she’s seen Nessa today. The answer is no. And Nessa said she wouldn’t risk bringing the frame and the letter back here. With Felix hovering around and possibly killing people, this house just isn’t secure enough.
How safe is Verity?
She changes the subject and regales me with her research into bathroom renovations with a Victorian flair. Tessellated tiles and bevelled mirrors are a good smokescreen for my mental machinations about Nessa. But as Verity talks, it dawns on me that beyond her basic knowledge of computers, she’s a natural at putting keywords into a search engine.
“Your research reminds me of Great Aunt Euphemia’s portrait,” I say. “When you described it yesterday, I wondered what you’ve found out about her life. Had you heard about her before you inherited Merivale Manor?”
“Not by name, but my mother used to gossip about a hussy in the family. Such a dated word. I assume she meant Euphemia.”
“How did she get such a bad reputation?”
“It took me a while to find out but after seeing her portrait, I felt like I knew her. I wasn’t going to let her slip through my fingers. Euphemia would have fitted in well today. She didn’t marry. She wore men’s trousers whenever she could get away with it. And … she painted.”
“An artist in her own right? That’s exciting. Where did you dig up this information?”
“I searched her name and found a short reference in a book about female English painters of the Victorian period. She won an art prize in London by using a man’s name to enter. At the presentation ceremony, she stood up and revealed she was female.
“That was courageous. I understand why you’ve got a soft spot for her.”
“It caused an uproar and was even mentioned on the front page of the newspaper. I printed the piece.”
She leaves the kitchen and returns with a manila folder of printouts.
Male Prize-winner Really a Woman
At yesterday’s Bentley Art Show, first-prize winner, Eustace Cotton, shocked the audience by stepping forward to claim the prize, wearing a woman’s frock. Eustace is actually Euphemia Cotton, who entered under a male name. She showed the judges her name written on the work in tiny print and only visible with a magnifying glass.
“That was clever. I can imagine the male judges not believing her. And ridiculing her.”
Then I read: Judges are yet to decide if she must forfeit the prize for engaging in deceptive conduct.
“Do you know if they awarded her the prize?”
“I couldn’t find any reference to it and I stopped looking after I gave away her portrait by mistake. But the Bentley Art Prize might have an archive of the winners that goes back to the 1870s.”
“Such a shame about the portrait, Verity.”
“It must have happened just after Felix valued them all. He’d taken them off the walls and left them stacked up on the floor for me to put back. I had a box of other paintings to go to an antique shop in Taunton and Euphemia must have been mixed up with them.”
It’s horrible having to keep Nessa’s secret about what really happened to it.
“Do you have a photograph of it?” I ask.
“No. I didn’t think to do it until after it was gone.”
“What about an old photo? Even a black and white from your album would show the style. Has Nessa started digitising the pictures for you?”
“Started. Then she ran out of steam.”
Verity leaves the room again to fetch the photo album. At least Nessa returned it. Why did she even offer to scan them? If she had an agenda, did she stop when she got what she wanted?
But she found the ‘Manet’ at a car boot sale, so there’d be nothing in Verity’s album to strengthen its provenance. Except she named Verity’s catalogue the George Cooper Collection and inserted a fabricated history as if the ‘Manet’ came from here. Why did she do that, if she’s got the letter and the frame to prove its provenance?
When Verity puts the album on the table, the loose photo of her gallery falls out like it did last time.
“There’s Euphemia,” she says, handing it to me.
It’s the small black and white photo that I scanned for Verity and emailed to myself. It’s a view from the door of the Rogues’ Gallery showing portraits at an oblique angle on each side. Verity points to a portrait and hands me a magnifying glass. The subject is hard to see and the painting style impossible to determine. But I can make out a woman in a period-style dress looking in a mirror. Her eyes are piercing, the most prominent feature in the painting. She’s leaning forward, resting her arm on the dresser and holding what must be the letter that Verity mentioned yesterday.
It’s very similar to the subject of the ‘Manet’ and Henry will know if this was a popular trope of the day – using the theme of a letter and a mirror to give a glimpse into the privacy of a woman in her bed-chamber.
Verity believes there are no more photos of Euphemia in the album, and I need to get back to Topsham.
“Do come back, Tiggy,” she says. “I’ll resume my research into Great Aunt Euphemia. Your interest has inspired me.”
At the end of her driveway, I stop to check my messages. Nothing from Nessa. The police could still be putting her through the third degree. Has she heard from Earl?
Pushing aside the possibility that he’s the ‘unidentified male’, I head towards the motorway to Exeter, wondering again about his role in Nessa’s plans.
For five years, she stored the Trudy and the frame separately at Verity’s while she kept the letter with her. On the night we collected the portrait, she put it back into the frame that the whisked gent’s portrait had been minding and took possession of all three pieces of the package. A package worth millions?
But in the middle of the night, she immediately drove to Taunton and entrusted the portrait and the frame to Earl. To prepare the painting for auction, as she told me? Or to separate them again, securing the portrait in the archive and the frame in the storage unit, because they were no longer safe at Verity’s?
And again, she kept the letter.
If all three components are authentic why did Nessa need Earl at all? For his skills as a conservator? Or as an artist? And why wait five years?
The letter must be authentic. That’s why she’s never parted with it. And together with the frame, they provide the provenance for the unsigned portrait.
What if Nessa found the letter at the car boot sale? She didn’t tell Felix, she told Earl and an idea formed. Create a fake ‘Manet’ portrait to go with the letter, using one of Verity’s ancestors as a model and all Earl’s knowledge and skills. Find an old frame of the right style, and old wood from other frames to build a box into the frame for the letter. Use the absence of markings on the back of the frame to sell it as ‘completely undiscovered’. Put them on Verity’s gallery wall and allow five years in less-than-ideal conditions for the oil paints to age, ready to be ‘purchased’ by Nessa from the George Cooper Collection and create an important layer of provenance.
This theory explains the unlikely teaming up of Nessa and Earl, and even with all the technology these days, the portrait and its frame verified by an authentic letter could beguile the experts. Except for the intrusion of Felix, their five-year plan must be ready for the final step: the auction.
That’s when my mind weaves a disturbing scenario. And it shows just how fragile my trust in Nessa has become. I only have Nessa’s word that she didn’t tell Earl about the kidnapping, that he went to the hospital with concussion. When I saw him leaving the storage units in the back of the cab, he could have been going anywhere, including to the house in Tingwell Street.
What if Nessa is finished with Earl, and being kidnapped played into her hands. Lure Earl to the house to rescue her – and implicate Felix in a murder?
The murder of Earl.
Then she’d be rid of both of them and she’d keep the millions from selling the ‘Manet’ all to herself.
Chapter 51
After parking beside my wounded boathouse, I stay in the car and stare at the steel-coloured waters, letting my speculation about Nessa’s crimes float away with the current.
When I open my front door, the flat is empty. Baxter is walking Raider and he’s left me a note saying that a takeaway meal is fine with Dinah but she wants him home by 7pm to help with the twins. He’s drawn a cute sketch of two pairs of eyes peeping over the edge of a bathtub. He loves his little brothers.
It’s Saturday, the night before New Year’s Eve, and Rupert could be going to the pub with friends, but I message him that I’ll be driving past a bit later if he’d like some company.
Baxter’s walking boots clomp up the stairs and when I open the door, the beaming pooch almost knocks me over.
“Hello, Mr Wet-nose. Have you had a good time with Baxter while I’ve been away? I’m pleased to see both of you.” An understatement.
