The Girl in the Picture Page 8

  ‘Can I get them?’

  ‘If you know what to ask for the archivist will get it for you. You won’t be able to sit down for a day and trawl through fifty years of crime reports looking for something that might have happened at your house – they’re all stored away carefully. And you can’t just run a search like you can on the computer, of course.’

  I was disappointed. That was exactly what I’d hoped to do. ‘I’ll have to try to narrow it down, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Try to find out if something actually happened. I’m just not sure where to go from here.’

  Priya nodded, but she obviously wasn’t ready to give up. ‘Let me ask around, see if anyone knows anything,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing police officers love more than an unsolved crime, even if it is centuries old. Perhaps someone remembers hearing about it.’

  I’d barely made it back to my car, when my phone rang. It was Priya. ‘Did I forget something?’ I asked.

  She laughed. ‘I found out about the mystery,’ she said.

  I was impressed. And slightly dubious. ‘No. Way,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘Spill.’

  ‘Apparently it’s legendary,’ Priya began. ‘But because I’ve not been here that long, I hadn’t heard about it …’

  I fished in my bag and pulled out my pad and a pen. I cradled the phone against my ear, and leaning on the steering wheel, I started to write as Priya talked.

  ‘So Marcus Hargreaves built your house,’ Priya said. ‘He was one of those Victorian philanthropists, you know. He’d made a lot of money somewhere – probably the colonies – and came home to spend it. But he had a conscience.’

  I wrote furiously. ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Well, he lived with his daughter – your Violet I guess. Not sure how old she was when it happened, but she disappeared. Whoosh. Into thin air. Never seen again.’

  I stopped writing. ‘She ran away,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But the exact day she vanished, a gruesome crime occurred, right outside her house.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this,’ I said, chuckling at Priya’s undisguised glee. ‘What kind of gruesome crime?’

  ‘A murder,’ she said in a rubbish Scottish accent. ‘And a beating.’

  I was already getting out of the car. ‘I’m still in the car park,’ I said. ‘I’m coming back.’

  ***

  ‘So the neighbours,’ I told Ben later, checking my notebook for their names, ‘Edwin and Frances Forrest, were attacked that same day.’ I was still annoyed with Ben for being in touch with my dad behind my back, and I was even more annoyed that he was right about me getting in touch myself, but I was trying very hard to be a grown-up about it.

  ‘Were they all killed?’ Ben leaned over where I was sitting on the sofa and tried to read what I’d written in my notebook. ‘Your writing is dreadful.’

  I swatted him away. ‘Patience,’ I said. ‘So Mr Hargreaves was away somewhere, and while he was gone something happened. The neighbour, Edwin Forrest, was murdered, and Edwin’s wife was so badly beaten that everyone thought she would die.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘No, she recovered.’

  ‘And the daughter – your Violet – Mr Hargreaves’s daughter. What happened to her?’

  ‘Gone,’ I said in a deep voice.

  Ben laughed. ‘So maybe she was murdered too?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe. No one knows.’

  ‘How do we find out?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you are lucky to be married to a woman with a brilliant mind for detective work.’ I opened my laptop and turned it on.

  Ben looked doubtful. ‘What are you going to do?’

  I gave him a triumphant look. ‘I am going to google Mr Hargreaves,’ I said.

  ‘Genius,’ Ben said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  As I typed Marcus Hargreaves into Google, there was a cry from upstairs. Stan. Ben and I faced off for a moment as we waited to see if he’d settle, or which of us would admit weakness first and go to him. I lost, of course. I always did. So I thrust my laptop at Ben and went upstairs.

  ‘See what you can find out,’ I said.

  By the time I’d tucked Stan back in and waited for his breathing to become regular again, Ben had found Marcus Hargreaves and brought up lots of information about the man who’d built our house. He had his own wiki entry, he had mentions on several history sites, and he even had a school named after him, down in a dark corner of South East London. At least he had, until last year when it had become the Excellence Academy. Ben snorted as he read about the name change.

  ‘Read it out,’ I demanded as I sat back down next to Ben.

  Ben found the Wikipedia page and started to read:

  ‘Marcus Hargreaves (1807–1871) was an industrialist from Sussex,’ he began.

  ‘What does it say about his daughter,’ I said.

  Ben grimaced at me. ‘Hold on,’ he said and I winced. My impatience always made him want to be infuriatingly slow.

  ‘He was an industrialist who made stacks of cash exporting machinery to the colonies,’ Ben scanned the page. ‘So no murky slave owning like I assumed when you said he worked in the Caribbean.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have named a primary school after him if he was a slave owner,’ I pointed out.

  ‘All right, smart arse.’ Ben flipped my notebook at me. ‘He saw the poverty in the East End, near the docks – crikey he’d be surprised to see the money round there now – and started a school and an orphanage for the children of dock workers.’

  I was impressed. ‘Does it say anything about his personal life?’

  Ben scrolled down. ‘Yep. He married Harriet and they had Violet in 1837.’

  ‘What else does it say?’ I said. ‘Does it say anything about his daughter disappearing?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Ben said.

  ‘Let me see.’ I pulled the laptop towards me and the screen went blank.

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I need to charge it. The lead’s in the car.’

  Ben shot me a disappointed look that made me laugh. He swept me into a hug and for a while, Mr Hargreaves was forgotten.

  Chapter 16

  1855

  Violet

  It was hot and stuffy in the attic study and I couldn’t settle. I sat on the chaise, thinking about Mr Forrest, who I’d not seen for days and days, and of Father, and Mr Wallace, and wondering what would become of my life.

  Listlessly I fanned myself with my hat. The day was ending, but it was still warm and the air was close – waiting for a storm to clear the mugginess. I sighed. I felt like I was waiting too, watching and waiting, for my life to begin. I thought, suddenly, of a painting and, with a burst of energy, got to my feet and went to the cupboard in the corner of the room where I kept all my treasured art books, paints, and pictures.

  Pinned to the inside of the door was a print of ‘Mariana’, by my hero John Everett Millais. I’d cut it out of the Royal Academy programme when I’d seen the actual work a few years ago. Father had taken me to the exhibition, not expecting my love of art to be ignited so violently. I allowed myself a small smile at the thought that Father was to blame for my desperation to paint.

  Now I gazed at the small picture. It didn’t do any justice to the original, which was seared on my memory for ever, but it showed enough. In it, Mariana – from Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure – was waiting, waiting, waiting for her fiancé, who had rejected her after her dowry was lost. She stood watching, face racked with boredom, at a stained-glass window, but she never saw his ship, because he wasn’t coming. She was doomed to wait for ever.

  At the Academy, a few lines from Tennyson’s poem about poor Mariana had accompanied the painting.

  As I had read the poem: ‘My life is dreary. He cometh not,’ I had been struck by a sense of recognition.

  ‘That’s me,’ I thought to myself now as I pinned the picture to the corner of my easel. ‘But instead of waiting for a fiancé, I’m waiting for life.’

&
nbsp; I sketched the outline of Mariana, the window, and the autumn leaves that showed the passage of time. Then I gathered my paints and began to fill in the rich reds, oranges, and blues that Millais had used. But Mariana’s face I left blank.

  When the light faded in the room, I stopped and went downstairs for dinner. But I spoke little to Father and I went to bed early. Then, the next morning, as dawn broke, I climbed the stairs to the attic again and started work.

  Eventually, as afternoon became evening, I stretched and stepped back to look at what I’d done. Narrowing my eyes, I assessed my copy of the painting. It was good; I could see that. But I had to admit the composition and the colours were all Millais’s. I’d added my own twist, though. Instead of Mariana’s long face and straight, neat hair, I’d painted my own round apple cheeks, dusted with freckles, and unruly red curls. I was Mariana, waiting for something and ‘aweary’ like the poem said.

  It was far and away the best thing I’d ever painted. My King Canute was good, but this was something special, even I could see that. I thought of Mr Forrest again and wondered when he would go to London and see Millais. If I wanted to change my life, I had to take control. I had to get him to take my work to London and this was the painting he should take. This, and maybe some others, but this one certainly. But to get him to take them, I would have to swallow my embarrassment and see him again.

  I looked at the painting once more, looking at myself waiting for something that never came, and made a decision. I would wait no longer. I would call on him. That very evening. And I would tell him I had work for him to look at. I shivered at the thought of being so bold.

  Later, I put on my hat and gloves, and set off to the cottage next door. The summer air was thick and heavy with storm clouds looming over the sea. I felt light-headed but whether it was because of the atmosphere or nerves about calling on Mr Forrest, I didn’t know.

  Heart hammering in my chest, I walked up the path and rapped on the door-knocker. It echoed round the house and then all was silent. After a few moments, I heard footsteps and mentally rehearsed what I would say when the housekeeper opened the door. The steps drew nearer and I heard the lock being pulled back.

  But it was Frances Forrest who opened the door, her long pale face peering round as though she expected unwelcome guests. A shadow darkened her eyes when she saw me.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ she said.

  I was so surprised to see her that I forgot all niceties. ‘Oh,’ I said.

  Mrs Forrest smiled slightly. ‘You were expecting to see Edwin, I imagine,’ she said, opening the door wider and motioning me inside. ‘He’s not here.’

  Finding myself completely out of speech, I said nothing. I had no reasons ready to excuse me from going into the house, so reluctantly I stepped into the cool hallway. Overhead thunder rumbled.

  ‘He’s gone to Brighton,’ Mrs Forrest continued as she led the way into the drawing room. ‘I’m not sure why. Something about work, in all probability. Do sit down.’

  I obeyed. I took off my gloves and held them tightly in my hands. My palms were sweating.

  ‘Hasn’t it got dark, suddenly,’ Mrs Forrest said, sweeping past and turning on one of the oil lamps next to me. ‘The storm is on its way. I’m pleased. Some rain will be good for the garden.’

  She went to the door and called out. ‘Agnes, I have a friend come to call. Could you bring us some tea?’

  I heard a muffled shout from the kitchen.

  Mrs Forrest sat opposite me and frowned. ‘She’s terribly ill-mannered,’ she confessed. ‘But she does make awfully nice cake.’

  I was struck by how ridiculous this all was – tea and pleasantries – when really all I wanted to do was give Mr Forrest my painting. I hadn’t thought I’d end up having tea with this strange woman with sad eyes.

  ‘I’m so pleased you called,’ Mrs Forrest was saying. ‘I wanted to get to know you better. I know Edwin is rather taken with you.’

  I was taken aback. Had he told his wife about meeting me on the beach?

  ‘And I with him,’ I managed to stutter. I paused as Agnes banged a tea tray down on the table between us.

  ‘I’ll pour, thank you,’ Mrs Forrest said. Agnes stamped out, muttering under her breath. Mrs Forrest smiled again, properly this time. It made her look much younger.

  ‘You look very frightened,’ she said. ‘Are you feeling well?’

  I decided my best chance was to tell the truth. ‘I’m disappointed not to find your husband at home,’ I began. ‘He asked me …’ I stopped, then began again. ‘I am an artist.’ It was the first time I’d ever said the words out loud.

  Mrs Forrest handed me a cup of tea but she didn’t speak.

  I drew breath and started again. ‘Mr Forrest expressed an interest in my work and asked if he could take it to London to show his friends,’ I said.

  Mrs Forrest sat back in her chair. She looked tired. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘His friends.’

  ‘John Everett Millais,’ I said.

  ‘John Everett Millais?’ Mrs Forrest repeated.

  I was losing patience. Either we were talking at cross-purposes or Mrs Forrest was really rather dim.

  I spoke slowly. ‘He said he would show my work to John Everett Millais.’ I put my cup down without tasting the tea. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell him I called? I would be happy to receive him at home.’ I didn’t mention that Father was hardly ever there.

  I stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea,’ I said. ‘I will see myself out.’

  Back home I went straight to my studio. The sky was dark now and over the sea I could see flashes of lightning. They lit up the wall where I’d pinned my version of ‘Mariana’. I knew it was good. I knew it. Now I needed some other work – some original work – for Mr Forrest to take.

  I curled up on the sofa and imagined myself in a coffee house, talking to Millais and his friends about art. I would bewitch those clever men, dazzle them with my witty talk and exciting ideas. Just because I’d never said anything witty or exciting in my whole life didn’t mean I couldn’t do it when I needed to.

  Father said my favourite artists were dangerous, but I didn’t agree. I’d soon have them eating out of my hands, like Daniel in the lions’ den. A flash lit up the room again as I reached for my pencil. Daniel. I opened my sketchbook and began to draw.

  Chapter 17

  1855

  Frances

  Frances watched her go, the slump of her shoulders the only clue to how disappointed she was not to have seen Edwin.

  She wondered if Edwin did know Millais. It was unlikely, though who knew what he got up to in London. She certainly didn’t, just like she knew little of what he was doing in Brighton. She suspected he was visiting a prostitute. She didn’t mind. If it kept him away from her, so much the better.

  She feared for Violet. Edwin was so charming and she could see he was an escape route to a pretty, clever, talented young woman. Violet certainly wasn’t the first woman to see Edwin that way, but she didn’t know how dangerous he could be.

  Frances was torn between her desire to protect her unborn baby by simply staying away from her husband as much as she was able, and her longing to prevent Violent from getting too involved with Edwin. She was helpless.

  Chapter 18

  1855

  Violet

  I threw down my paintbrush in exasperation.

  ‘I just think it would look better,’ I said.

  Philips grimaced. ‘I’m sure it would, Miss,’ he said. ‘But if your father finds out it’ll be the end of my job.’

  I stared at him in surprise. I was used to Father saying no to me, but this was something new. Philips was normally so biddable. I sighed again. Time for a new tactic.

  ‘Dear Philips,’ I said, looking at him through my eyelashes. ‘It would mean so much to me.’

  He grinned at me, showing dimples in his handsome face, and a broken front tooth. ‘Miss,’ he said. ‘You know I’ll help you any way I can. But taking off m
y shirt is a step too far even for me.’

  ‘Daniel wouldn’t have worn a shirt,’ I said, irritated once more.

  ‘I dare say he wouldn’t,’ Philips said.

  His calmness annoyed me. I lifted my chin in defiance. ‘I order you to take your shirt off.’

  Philips stood up and walked towards me. He was closer to me than he’d ever been and he smelled of the garden and sweat. ‘I order you to get some manners, little girl,’ he said. Then he turned and went, his heavy footsteps echoing through the house as he stomped down the stairs.

  I threw myself on the sofa in despair. This was my last chance, I thought. Father had gone to Manchester – he would be away for a good while. And when he got back, he’d made it very clear, he wanted me to meet Mr Wallace. He’d have me married off by Christmas, sooner than I’d ever thought was possible, I was convinced. And then my dreams of a career in art would be over. Unless I could get Mr Forrest to take my paintings to London before then.

  I’d wanted to paint Philips as Daniel in the lions’ den. Though his lean body was perfect in the pose I’d imagined, I’d always thought Daniel would wear only trousers. But Philips refused to remove his shirt no matter how much I begged. I didn’t know what a man’s body looked like, not really, because I’d only ever seen them in paintings. How was I supposed to draw something I’d never seen?

  But being so rude to Philips hadn’t helped me at all. He was my only ally – my only friend, really, sad as that sounded – and I’d be lost without him. I resolved to apologize. I was painfully aware that this longing to be an artist was changing me. I’d never lied as much as I had recently, or been as rude, or as bold. It was like it had taken over my whole life and the sheer frustration of not being able to do what I wanted to do was twisting my whole being. And yet, it seemed worthwhile. It was so important that I couldn’t for one moment imagine how my life would be without art in it.

  But all that aside, I was left with the problem of Daniel. I stood up and looked at the canvas. It wasn’t right, I thought. It wasn’t real. I leaned against the windowsill and looked at the painting again. No. Philips simply looked like Philips in the lions’ den. I needed Daniel. I needed another model.