A crack in the varnish, p.1
A Crack in the Varnish, page 1
A CRACK IN THE VARNISH
Kathy Shuker
Copyright
Published by Shuker Publishing
Copyright © Kathy Shuker 2021
The moral right of Kathy Shuker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9932257-8-9
This novel is written in UK English.
Cover design by Lawston Design
Other titles by Kathy Shuker:
That Still and Whispering Place
Deep Water, Thin Ice
Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts
The Silence before Thunder
To find out more about Kathy and her work, please visit her website.
Table of Contents
Two Years Earlier
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
If you’ve enjoyed this…
La Vieille Abbaie, Provence, June 1988
The acrid smell of smoke hung in the air, choking and oppressive. Bits of ash rose and eddied for a few seconds before drifting down to settle somewhere else. The sun hadn’t cleared the horizon yet but dawn was slowly illuminating the eastern sky and suffusing the gardens with clear, soft light. Already the lamps that Guillaume had brought looked ineffectual by comparison.
Esther surveyed the charred remains of the building then turned away, trying to clear her head. She needed to think. The alcohol of the night before, the lack of sleep and now this pervasive smoke were all conspiring to dull her senses. After all the desperate and feverish activity, the confusion of people coming and going, suddenly it felt very empty. There was nothing else to be done here. The men were clearing the hosepipes away; the women had gone back to the house.
She heard a cough and quickly looked round, peering through the fog of smoke. Guillaume had returned and was standing the other side of the smoking, sodden mess. Was he looking at the devastation or at her? It was hard to tell. He picked his way round to join her.
‘The police have gone, Miss Langley,’ he said. Tiredness had made his French accent more noticeable than usual.
‘Will it be all right, do you think?’ she asked anxiously. ‘They accepted my story?’
‘Yes, I think so. No, I’m sure they did.’
‘Good, good. Still, there might be... I don’t want gossip about this Guillaume. You know what the press are like. If they find out we had a party and then this…’ She glanced reluctantly back at the ruin. ‘But you’ve got contacts, haven’t you? You’re a local. You know these people.’ Her smile pleaded with him. ‘Please keep it quiet for me. Whatever it takes.’
‘I’ll do my best, Miss Langley.’
‘Thank you Guillaume. What would I do without you?’ On an impulse she leaned forwards and planted a soft kiss on his cheek, then suddenly remembered his hands and looked down. They both had dressings on them. ‘How are your hands?’
‘They will be fine, thank you. Claudine looked at them for me. Which reminds me: I managed to get that painting out that was downstairs. It’s over by the edge of the lawn over there.’ He turned and gestured with one padded hand. ‘It is damaged though.’
‘Thank you. But you shouldn’t have risked yourself.’
He shrugged and shook his head. He looked exhausted and she let him go.
Esther walked past the swimming pool which now reflected the opalescent dawn, and onto the lawn. She found the painting; it was in a terrible state. She stared at it for a moment, frowning, then made her way slowly back up to the house.
Chapter 1
Oxford, March 1990
Nathan picked up the bottle of varnish and poured a generous finger’s depth into a small bowl, watching the new woman out of the corner of his eye. This was her fifth day with them and he was already convinced that she had attitude. Timothy had taken her on to replace Gary. Nathan had liked Gary. He’d been easy-going, co-operative, a real team worker, more likely to crack a joke than to argue. Whereas this woman – Hannah something French, he couldn’t remember what – was not going to be easy to work with at all, he could tell.
Nathan focused back on the job in hand, dipped his brush in the varnish and started methodically coating the painting on the table in front of him, working from top to bottom.
It was Friday morning and they were in the Oxford workshops of Blandish Fine Art Conservation, a business Timothy Blandish had started twenty years previously. He had gradually expanded the studios and now employed five restorers plus Daphne, the receptionist. Timothy himself rarely picked up a scalpel or brush in anger any more. His role, as he saw it, was to bring the work in and organise others to do it. He specialised in offering a bespoke service to the wealthy and insecure. For those clients who were reluctant to send their precious paintings away, or for those who simply could not for some practical reason, Timothy sent the restorer to them. Most of their clients had the space and the means to have someone living and working on site for as long as it took.
Presumably Hannah would be on probation for a while, thought Nathan, working in the workshops. That would be good. Timothy insisted on keeping two restorers back at base for what he called their ‘tick over work’ and Steve Chorley never went away. That would mean Nathan could be released to travel again. He was ready for that.
He forced himself to concentrate on smoothly overlapping the brushstrokes of varnish all the way to the bottom of the picture. It was a portrait by Reynolds which he’d recently finished cleaning. He soaked up the excess in the last bead of varnish with his brush then straightened up and surveyed his work. As always, the varnish lifted the colours and added depth and vibrancy and he felt the familiar glow of satisfaction. Another coat or two and it would be good to go.
‘Hi.’
He looked round quickly. Hannah had loomed up and was staring at his work table and the equipment laid out there.
‘You are neat, aren’t you?’ She flicked him a quick, piercing look. ‘Which varnish are you using by the way?’
He showed her and she nodded but said nothing. He sensed criticism.
‘Finding your way around?’ he said. ‘I imagine Timothy’ll have you started on a project next week.’
‘I hope so. I much prefer to be working. But I understand we do a lot of work away from here – in situ?’
‘Yes. Quite often. Is that a problem for you?’
‘Not at all. I’d welcome it.’ She produced a rare smile and gave a little shrug. ‘I’m happy to work alone.’
I’ll bet you are, thought Nathan.
The intercom on the wall near the door crackled and Daphne’s voice chirped at them.
‘Hannah. Could you come downstairs please? Mr Blandish would like to see you in his office.’
Hannah walked away to the stairs and Nathan watched her go: dark, urchin cut hair; drainpipe jeans; an oversized check shirt and huge trainers with thick rubber soles which made her legs look even skinnier than they already were. She walked purposefully, head held high. Definitely an attitude. Then his eyes narrowed. Why had she been summoned like that?
A moment later, he abandoned the Reynolds – it needed to dry anyway – and went downstairs too. When he reached reception, Daphne pointed one warning finger towards the office at the rear of the room then put it to her lips. The door stood slightly ajar and they could hear the drone of Timothy talking.
‘What’s it about?’ he mouthed, jerking his head in the direction of the office.
Daphne knew everything that went on at the studios. And a surprising number of other things too.
‘He’s dividing up the next round of jobs,’ she said.
‘And she’s being told first?’
Nathan frowned and half turned, cocking his head to listen. For a man, Timothy’s voice had a shrill tone; it carried.
‘All things considered, I’ve decided to send you to Miss Langley’s. She’s got four paintings that need attention and she’s happy to offer accommodation.’
‘Esther Langley, the actress,’ Daphne mouthed at Nathan. ‘Lives in Provence. You must have heard of her.’
Nathan nodded, his frown deepening. Timothy was still speaking.
‘…can’t stress enough what an important client she is. We’re very honoured to have her business. And she’s a charming lady; I spoke to her on the phone. Qu ite charming.’
Nathan rolled his eyes. Timothy became irritatingly sycophantic around pretty women, especially if they were famous and wealthy. He liked to think he had a way with women; his two ex-wives probably disagreed.
‘And, of course,’ Timothy went on, ‘we want her to recommend us to her friends. I gave her an estimate from the photographs she sent me but, as you know, it’s difficult to judge a painting’s condition from a photo. So do a thorough assessment of the work, what needs doing, how long it’ll take, the usual drill, put it in writing and send it to me. Then I’ll give her a more accurate estimate of the cost. She said to go ahead anyway which is good. Miss Langley’s not at home at the moment. She’s off shooting a movie in the States, I gather.’
Hannah was talking now but her voice was softer and more mellow. It was impossible to make out the words.
‘Good, good,’ said Timothy. ‘That’s what I thought. Anyway, Miss Langley seemed to think she’ll be back before you finish.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Now look Hannah, your last employer said you were very thorough. Great attention to detail, she said. Now I like that, I do, I told you that at your interview. It’s good.’
He paused. Nathan could hear the inevitable ‘but’ in his voice. He imagined the oleaginous smile that always preceded it.
‘But don’t forget that we always have a waiting list,’ said Timothy. ‘Do what’s necessary, no more, make sure the client’s happy, then move on. Don’t get carried away and linger. Time is money after all.’
Daphne and Nathan exchanged a look. Hannah replied again inaudibly.
‘Of course, of course,’ Timothy said dismissively. ‘I know you’ll use good judgement but don’t forget to ring me with a regular progress report. This is the address and contact details. Let them know when you’ll be arriving. Get your trunk ready. Alan explained all about the trunks I assume, showed you where we keep our materials and equipment? It’s your responsibility to make sure it’s stocked with everything you think you’ll need. Daphne’ll organise the collection of it and your travel arrangements.’ A hesitation. ‘And remember, it may be Provence but it’s not a holiday.’
‘Of course not.’ Hannah’s voice, raised, firm and indignant, was clear that time.
‘Fine.’ Another, slightly longer, pause from Timothy. ‘Do dress tidily, won’t you? It’s probably quite a smart place and we do have a reputation to maintain. Still, I’m sure you’ll be a credit to us. Oh, here are the photographs Miss Langley sent me.’
‘Good advice about the clothes,’ Nathan muttered to Daphne. ‘Have you seen the things she wears?’ He pulled a wry grin.
Daphne glared a warning as Hannah appeared beside him. With those damn rubber soles he hadn’t heard her coming but she’d probably heard him. She stared at him for a long moment then turned to Daphne.
‘I need to get to a place called Tourbelle la Vierge in Provence as early next week as possible. I understand you can sort that out for me?’
‘Yes. I’ve looked up where it is. You need a flight to Marseille and you’ll need a rental car. Miss Langley lives up in the hills. And I should be able to get your trunk collected this afternoon.’
‘Great. Thanks.’
‘Special food requirements for the plane?’
‘No. Anything edible.’
Daphne smiled and picked up the phone. ‘I can’t promise that.’ She referred to a list in a notebook and dialled a number. ‘Just think,’ she murmured, ‘when they finish building the channel tunnel, you’ll be able to get a train straight through to Paris. And then…’ She shrugged, eyebrows raised. ‘…well, wherever you want to go.’ Someone spoke in her ear and she looked away. ‘Hello, yes. I’m looking for flights to Marseille, Monday or Tuesday next week.’
‘So–o,’ Nathan said to Hannah, trying to sound conversational, ‘Provence. Nice call.’
‘You were listening.’
‘Not exactly. Timothy’s voice carries. Still… spring in Provence. That’s a good gig when you’ve only just arrived. I guess you must have quite a résumé. I mean, Timothy usually has new people kicking their heels for months in the workshops, breaking them in. You’re not related to him or anything, are you?’
He had meant it as a joke – well, sort of – but it hadn’t come out that way.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘No, I’m not even anything. And I don’t believe I need breaking in. I guess maybe I have got quite a résumé at that. How long have you been here, Nathan?’
He straightened, pulling back his shoulders. ‘Six and a half years.’
‘Really? That’s amazing. And aren’t you allowed out yet? That must be so frustrating.’
He opened his mouth to reply but Daphne cut in, demanding Hannah’s attention and the moment had gone.
‘The earliest flight I can get is on Wednesday,’ said Daphne, her hand over the mouthpiece.
‘OK then, that’s fine. Let’s take that.’
A few minutes later, all the travel arrangement made, Hannah turned back to him.
‘I’d better go and sort out my trunk. If you’ll excuse me, that is?’
She walked away, head held high, and made for the stairs to the basement. Nathan watched her go then looked back at Daphne.
‘What is it with her?’
‘Come on, Nathan, you asked for that. Your jealousy’s showing.’
‘I’m not jealous.’
‘No?’
‘Well, maybe.’ He sighed, glancing back at Timothy’s office door to check it was closed. ‘Spring and summer in Provence? And at some fancy villa probably. I could have done with that right now. But it’s not just that: it’s a matter of principle. I’m the senior restorer here. Why should she get the best job going? She talked him into it, didn’t she? A flash of those big eyes and he’s putty in her hands.’
‘Really Nathan, she doesn’t strike me as the type. In fact, I rather like her. It’s about time we had another woman working here.’ Daphne studied his face. ‘You seem a bit tense this morning and you were late arriving. Is everything OK?’
‘I had a phone call just as I was about to leave.’
‘Your mother fretting again?’
He felt the familiar tension in his jaw. ‘Yes. Same old same old. It doesn’t matter what I say.’ He sighed. ‘It’s coming up to the anniversary again.’
Daphne nodded sympathetically but didn’t comment.
‘You know this Provence job might not be so great,’ she remarked instead. ‘It’s not a villa; it’s an old abbey, all stone and cloisters. I saw some photos in a magazine. And they say Esther Langley can be a bit… odd. Unpredictable.’
Nathan managed a smile. Daphne was a sweetheart. ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’ He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned against the desk. ‘What do you know about Hannah then? You must have seen her file.’
‘Yes. She’s thirty-eight, same as you more or less, and has moved around a bit. She’s worked at a couple of big galleries, one in London, one in Paris plus two private restoration studios.’ Daphne shrugged. ‘She’s had a lot of experience with Renaissance paintings. Oh and she’s half French – no surprise there given the surname – and speaks French fluently. So there you are.’
‘There I am, what?’
‘That’s why he’s sending her to France. He always sends Michael to Germany ’cause he’s half Swiss and speaks German.’
Nathan grunted. He pulled himself away from the desk. ‘I’d better get…’
Timothy’s office door opened and he appeared in the doorway.
‘Thought I heard you, Nathan. Where are you at with that Reynolds?’
‘I’ve just started revarnishing it. Alan’s already done the frame. I’m waiting to put the second coat on.’
‘Good, good.’ Timothy looked at his wrist watch. ‘I’ve got someone coming in shortly. Pop down at twelve, will you? I’ve got a job for you up in Scotland next: a quick clean ready for an exhibition. I’ll tell you all about it then.’
He retreated back into his office and Nathan looked back at Daphne.
‘Scotland,’ he muttered. ‘Great.’
‘Scotland’s beautiful,’ she said, and smiled. ‘You wanted to get away.’
*
It was one-thirty on a dull, rainy afternoon on the last Wednesday in March when Hannah arrived at Marseille airport. She picked up the hire car, glanced at the address and map one last time, and hit the road. She had visited France many times, partly for work and partly for pleasure but she didn’t know this area at all and drove carefully, windscreen wipers swishing back and forth. It was easy to go miles out of your way on these French autoroutes if you missed your turning. She was heading north and east, the smudgy blue line of the distant Luberon mountain range leading her on.
