The Girl in the Picture Read online

  But if she was right – and she was almost sure she was – then Violet may not believe her. Edwin’s charm was considerable. For a young woman in the grip of first love, it would be hard to imagine another woman didn’t want her man. Violet may assume she – Frances – was simply a bitter, spurned wife. And what if Violet told Edwin what she had said? He would be furious.

  Frances was worried about Violet, there was no doubt, but her biggest concern was for her own child. Now she had her baby to think about, she couldn’t do anything to risk his or her safety. If she said anything to Violet all her plans to leave could be at risk – her one chance for a future away from Edwin.

  So it seemed she had to continue with the softly-softly approach. At least for now. She stared up ahead where Violet was whirling down her garden path, skirts and hair trailing behind her. She just hoped Violet would understand.

  Chapter 31

  Present day

  Ella

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Success!

  Darling Ella

  What a house! Lovely stuff. So pleased things are looking up for you and that handsome husband of yours. I have been watching the progress of his football team with a new-found eagerness. Who knew football could be such fun? ;-)

  I have good news and bad regarding your mystery artist. Of Violet Hargreaves I found nothing. Not a trace. If she was painting back then, she obviously just did it for her own pleasure and not for commercial gain. Sorry.

  Regarding Edwin Forrest I had a bit more luck. I have found two works by him – not of him, as you asked. I attach them as jpegs. They are very good. One is King Canute turning back the tide (it is on display in one of those rather exclusive private members’ clubs in London called the Jermyn Club) and the other of Daniel in the lions’ den (part of the collection at Manchester University).

  Apparently his career was short-lived because he was brutally murdered not long after he began – I’m guessing that’s related to this mystery of yours? Tell me more – I’m desperate to hear all about it.

  Hope that helps. If you need anything else, give me a shout. I would love to come and check out your new pad and see those lovely boys of yours. I’ll give you a call in a few days.

  Look after yourself.

  George x

  I opened the two attachments George had sent with the email and looked at the pictures in surprise.

  Ben was in our bedroom, putting together a new chest of drawers. I went out of the study and leaned over the bannister.

  ‘Ben,’ I called. ‘Ben, come and look at this.’

  He came out of the bedroom and looked up at me. ‘I am very busy,’ he said, waving the screwdriver at me. ‘It’s like DIY SOS down here.’

  I laughed. ‘Well I hate to interrupt, but could you come and see what George has sent?’

  Ben took the stairs two at a time, so eager was he to abandon his flat-packed furniture.

  He perched on the desk where I’d been drawing arrows between names on a piece of paper, trying to force myself to concentrate on Tessa’s story instead of Violet’s.

  ‘Plot?’ he said.

  ‘Plot schmot,’ I said, shoving the papers to one side. I showed him the pictures George had sent.

  ‘He says they’re by Edwin Forrest,’ I explained. ‘But they’re Violet’s. At least one of them is, so I think the other one must be, too.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ben said.

  ‘It’s Daniel in the lions’ den,’ I said. ‘It’s the finished painting from the sketches we’ve got. And she signed those sketches.’

  ‘Ooh the crafty bugger,’ Ben said. ‘Do you think he passed off Vi’s work as his own?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ I said, chewing my lip. ‘I suppose she could have known about it, though. It could have all been her idea; from what I’ve read, female artists weren’t well received back then.’

  ‘Could they all be Edwin’s?’ Ben asked. ‘The sketches too?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s fairly obvious that these are drawn by the same artist as the sketches, and like I say, those are signed by Violet. And of course people paint self-portraits, but I think it would be strange for an artist to paint himself into a story – like Daniel. I’ve been reading lots about these Pre-Raphaelites and I’ve not come across anything like that.’

  ‘Violet painted herself into “Mariana”,’ Ben pointed out.

  ‘Spose,’ I said. ‘Though not if Edwin was the artist.’

  I narrowed my eyes as I thought back to what I’d read about the artists of the time. ‘I really think Violet did that painting, though. From what I’ve read, Millais painted “Mariana” as a kind of comment on women’s place in society at the time. Violet would have known that; it was quite controversial then – there’s a big write-up about it in that paper I found. Maybe she painted herself into “Mariana” because that’s how she was feeling. Remember, it’s all about a woman waiting for a man, and not being able to act by herself.’

  I turned the laptop back to myself and scrolled through the two paintings on screen, zooming in on the signature. It said Edwin Forrest in a confident, blue scrawl.

  I shook my head. ‘I just don’t believe Edwin was an artist,’ I said. ‘Violet’s the artist. Surely …’

  A thought struck me.

  ‘Maybe she was angry that Edwin got the credit for her work,’ I said. ‘Maybe she was the murderer?’

  ‘How much credit?’ Ben asked. ‘Was he successful?’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, thinking of George’s email. ‘No, not really. That ruins my theory. He seems to have sold two paintings in all.’

  ‘Because he was killed,’ Ben said. ‘His death stopped his art career.’

  ‘Or rather it stopped Violet’s career,’ I said. ‘So why would she kill him if he was her route to success?’

  ‘Maybe that’s why she ran away, to follow her dreams of becoming an artist,’ Ben said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said doubtfully. ‘I’d love to think she ran off and saw out her days painting, but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘George didn’t find anything by Violet Hargreaves, for a start,’ I said.

  ‘She could have changed her name.’

  ‘I don’t think this story has a happy ending, you know …’

  ‘I can hope,’ Ben said.

  ‘Softie,’ I said, with affection. I pulled my notebook and pen towards me, then I wrote Violet and Edwin on my paper and joined them with an arrow.

  ‘If I was writing this story,’ I said, ‘they’d be having an affair.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Ben agreed. ‘It would explain how she came to draw him and why his name ended up on her paintings.’

  ‘So maybe it was Edwin’s wife who killed him in a jealous rage,’ I said. I wrote Frances down, frowning as I did so. ‘It’s a bit obvious, though.’

  ‘Maybe it was just a love triangle,’ Ben said.

  I sighed, feeling inexplicably disappointed. ‘A love triangle,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe Violet was having an affair with Edwin,’ Ben said. ‘Frances found out and killed them both – Edwin and Vi.’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head because something about what he was saying didn’t add up with what I thought I knew. I leafed through my notebook until found the page I was looking for. ‘Priya said Edwin was killed and Violet disappeared, but Frances was also badly injured. Beaten so violently she almost died herself. She couldn’t do that to herself.’

  Ben smiled at my enthusiasm. ‘Are you writing this story in your head?’

  ‘I am, a bit,’ I admitted. ‘I can’t settle to Tessa when this is more interesting.’

  ‘So what’s next?’ Ben asked.

  ‘We need to find out exactly what happened,’ I said. ‘Priya said she could get me into the police archives in Lewes. I’m going to ring her now and see if she’s got me an appointment.’

  I looked down at George’s email.


  ‘And I might see if George fancies a trip to London,’ I said, half to myself. ‘I’d like to go and see Violet’s painting for myself.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘Has your dad seen the house?’ Priya asked a few days later. It was another hot day and we were in our garden watching my boys and her girls play in the paddling pool.

  I shifted on my deckchair uncomfortably. ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit complicated.’

  Priya looked at me, but she didn’t say anything.

  ‘We had a bit of an argument,’ I admitted. ‘And I said some horrible things. He’s been calling me but I’ve not answered.’

  ‘Oh, Ella,’ Priya said. ‘If being in my line of work has taught me anything, it’s that life is short. Don’t wait too long to speak to him.’

  I sighed. ‘I know. You’re right. I need to call him.’

  Priya picked up my phone and held it out to me. ‘No time like the present,’ she said. ‘I’ll watch the boys.’

  I didn’t take it. ‘I don’t want to,’ I said.

  Priya raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The signal’s patchy in the garden.’

  ‘Go inside.’

  ‘He might be busy.’

  ‘So leave a message.’

  Reluctantly, I took the phone from her outstretched hand and scrolled through to find Dad’s number.

  He didn’t answer but he never did – his phone was probably in the bottom of his bag, or on a shelf somewhere. Or he might be at work – he still did the odd bit of work for his old firm, even though he was in his sixties now. I took a breath as the ring switched to voicemail.

  ‘Dad?’ I said in a small voice. ‘It’s me. I was just phoning to …’

  I paused and Priya gave me a little nod of encouragement.

  ‘Just to see if you and Barb want to come down next weekend. It would be really lovely to see you and the boys have missed you.’

  I paused again.

  ‘I miss you too,’ I said in a hurry.

  I ended the call and looked at Priya.

  ‘Feel better?’ she said.

  I did, actually. It was a start, at least.

  ‘Things are tricky between me and Dad,’ I said. ‘Though I’m not sure he’d see it that way.’

  Priya raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I kept a lot of stuff bottled up and when he questioned us moving here, it all just exploded,’ I said.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Ben’s been emailing him.’

  ‘Double ouch.’

  I shrugged. ‘I was annoyed when I found out, but he was right to,’ I admitted. ‘In the end, family’s the most important thing.’

  Priya made a face. ‘I’ve seen some pretty awful families over the years,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t say it’s always blood relatives who are the ones to stand by you. My family weren’t great when I married Nik. They didn’t like the thought that he’d been married before. But Nik’s parents are wonderful and they’ve been a big support with the girls.’

  I thought of Barb and how she had fitted right into our lives, and nodded.

  ‘But when family is good, it’s great,’ Priya went on. ‘And you shouldn’t throw it away because of a silly row.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Ben’s right. I just hope Dad calls back.’

  ‘He will,’ Priya said. ‘What did you row about anyway?’

  ‘Oh moving here,’ I said. ‘Giving up work. All sorts.’

  I looked over to where Oscar and Amber were lying on their tummies in the water and laughing uproariously.

  ‘He thought we were taking a big risk and we were. But look – the boys have settled in and they’re making friends – and so am I.’ I smiled at Priya and she smiled back. ‘Ben loves his job … it’s all good.’

  ‘What about the writing,’ Priya said, picking up her glass of water from the garden table and resting it on her bump. ‘God it’s hot.’

  I stood up and adjusted the parasol so she was in the shade. ‘Don’t overheat,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  I sat down again. ‘It’s going very badly,’ I groaned. ‘I’ve written a plot for Tessa, but I just can’t get started. I’m not interested in her mystery – I’m interested in my own.’

  ‘So write that one instead,’ said Priya.

  ‘Well, I’ve got nothing to write yet,’ I pointed out. ‘I don’t know what happened to Violet.’

  ‘I’m still waiting for the archivist to get back to me,’ Priya said. ‘But there must be something else we can do.’

  ‘What do you do, when you’re investigating a crime?’ I asked.

  ‘What do I do?’ Priya said. ‘You know all this, surely?’

  I nodded. ‘I know the procedure, but if you talk it might give me an idea.’

  ‘Well it’s all to do with the scene, of course,’ Priya said. ‘If someone’s dead, then we go to where it happened.’

  Her phone rang and she looked at the screen, then answered. ‘Oh lovely,’ she said. ‘We’re at Ella’s. It’s the Cliff House, you know? We’re in the garden so come round the side.’

  I looked at her, wondering who she’d invited round.

  ‘Jasmine,’ she said. ‘She’s home from uni this weekend and she was in the village and wondering where we were. She’s going to pop in.’

  Amber hurtled past us, to the side gate. ‘Jassssssssssss,’ she bellowed.

  I looked round as Jasmine came in to the garden. She was only wearing denim shorts and a plain black vest top with flip-flops on her feet but she was film-star gorgeous.

  Amber pulled her towards us. ‘This is my sister,’ she said proudly. ‘My biggest sister.’

  We all said our hellos, Jas engulfing Priya in a huge hug as much as she could with the bump in the way. I watched them, thinking about what Priya had said about family as I poured Jasmine a glass of water too. As Amber dragged her off towards the paddling pool, Priya stopped her.

  ‘Jas, can you watch the kids for a minute? Ella and I just have to pop next door.’

  ‘Next door?’ I said in surprise, as Jas nodded and headed to the water with the children. ‘Why?’

  ‘Crime scene,’ said Priya, heaving herself out of the chair. ‘Might give you inspiration.’

  ‘Nice thinking,’ I said, following Priya as she waddled round the side of the house and out on to the lane.

  ‘So according to the people at the station, the attack happened outside the house,’ Priya said, squinting in the sunshine at the house next door. ‘But by the look of it, the house has been completely rebuilt – that’s not a Victorian house, is it?’

  I looked at the house, which was double-glazed and red-roofed, with a huge extension on the side and a large conservatory to the back.

  ‘Guess not,’ I said, disappointed. ‘Mind you, if someone had been murdered in my house, I’d probably want to knock it down and start again.’

  Priya nodded, a grim expression on her face. ‘Got that right,’ she said.

  ‘But whatever the house looks like now, this is where Edwin Forrest lived,’ I said. ‘With his wife, who was pregnant …’

  ‘Poor cow,’ Priya muttered.

  I chuckled. ‘And where he died,’ I added, seriously.

  We looked up and down the lane as if trying to picture what had happened.

  ‘My friend George is an art historian and he found some paintings,’ I said. ‘I asked him to find stuff painted by Violet, but what he found was two paintings by Edwin Forrest.’

  ‘So he was an artist too?’

  I shrugged. ‘I think he’s signed Violet’s paintings,’ I said. ‘Because I think the work George found is drawn by the same artist who drew the self-portrait, and that’s Violet, obviously.’

  Priya looked thoughtful. ‘Is there any way to find out for sure?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘But George is coming down in a few days and I’m going up to London to meet him. We’re going to see one of the paintings in re
al life.’

  ‘Oh brilliant,’ Priya said. ‘Because if he nicked her work, that gives her a motive for murder.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe Violet killed Edwin and then went on the run,’ Priya said. ‘Changed her name and fled the country. Maybe she’s sunning herself down in Spain as we speak.’

  ‘Priya,’ I said, giggling. ‘Be serious.’

  She stuck her tongue out at me. ‘She would be a suspect, though,’ she said.

  I made a face. ‘So what would you do next?’

  Priya leaned against a tree and fanned herself as she gazed at the house next door. ‘I would follow the artwork,’ she said. ‘I’m assuming there would have been money in it. It always comes down to money in the end. That or sex.’

  ‘Or both,’ I said, wondering again if Edwin and Violet had been having an affair.

  ‘Go to London and see what you can find out about the paintings,’ Priya said. ‘I’d come with you but I can’t face the train in this heat.’

  I gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Don’t worry, George knows what he’s doing,’ I said. ‘I just need you to get me into the archives.’

  ‘I’ll email them now and chivvy them along,’ Priya said.

  A shout and loud laughter drifted along the lane from our back garden and we looked at each other.

  ‘Let’s go and rescue poor Jasmine,’ I said.

  ‘Or,’ said Priya, ‘we could go to the pub, sit in the garden, and share a jug of Pimm’s.’

  With a rueful look along the lane towards the pub, we both turned and walked back to the house.

  Chapter 33

  1855

  Edwin

  Edwin stared at Violet and she stared back, chin lifted and eyes gleaming.

  ‘I want to come with you,’ she said. Her travelling cloak was wrapped around her shoulders and a small bag lay at her feet. In her arms, like a baby, was a rectangular parcel, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with string.

  ‘I want to come to London,’ she said.

  Edwin chuckled. ‘Darling V,’ he said. ‘London is no place for a girl like you.’