AN ORIGINAL CLAIRE M. WILLIAMS 'THE SHY PRIVATE EYE' MYSTERY STORY
BY BARRIE J WAKEFORD
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A Brush with Fate
The weather was perfect for the time of year, and Claire would have preferred to have been outside. Maybe following up on some lead or even just wandering around Hanwell.
In fact she would have rather been anywhere else than the office of Inspector Kim Henderson. But something was on her mind, and she really needed help.
Mary O’Connell, a local and well-known artist, had died after suffering from a short illness. And Claire has her doubts as to it being natural causes, how she knows, she can’t say.
And so here they are, Claire is wearing her usual baggy woollen jumper and trousers, while Kim Henderson is in her uniform.
Inspector Henderson smiles as she regards Claire sitting there. The light perm makes Claire's hair float around her face, and she wears no makeup, or jewellery, just the gold initial pendant that she never forgets. On the desk is the file from the death, and Henderson has been through it twice. She can see no reason to reopen the case, but Claire has doubts. These are usually enough for Inspector Henderson to think again.
It was a surprise for Henderson to get this request, as Claire usually just goes off and takes matters into her own hands, so this must be serious.
The local beat officers have quickly become wise to her ways and have nicknamed her ‘the shy private eye’. Something she just allows.
Reluctantly, the inspector grants Claire the go-ahead but advises her to tread carefully, as the officer in charge had already made some comments about amateurs getting involved.
But what information does Claire have to believe that the death was not all it appeared to be?
Shall we delve deeper?
We have to go back a week or so; Claire had finished work for the day and was making her way home via the chip shop. Her mother, Sylvia, was planning a special treat for them, and Claire was tasked with bringing home the dinner.
Sylvia, Claire's mother, had prepared a pavlova, something she always enjoyed, and then they were going to sit down to watch some telly.
The fish and chips were eaten, and the pair had laughed over why the gherkins were called 'wallies', and Sylvia had, as usual, crunched her way through a huge pickled onion.
Claire made the tea and took the pavlova into the front room, just as Sylvia switched on the TV. The news was just coming to an end, and John Suchet was finishing up the last item. There were the usual dreary adverts for various products and then the opening credits to the programme the pair had been looking forward to.
It was a documentary that Mary had given around six months previously and would turn out to be her final interview. The camera panned across the canal and onto the building where Mary had her studio. It then cut to where Mary and the host, Sally Wendle were sitting. The evening sun was streaming into the studio, its beams catching the dust and making little sparkles.
And then Sally introduced Mary and started to recount details of her early life in Ealing—how she had emerged as a rising star in the art world. How experimental the art world had been in the sixties and of course how Mary had frequented the most prestigious clubs and mingled with the wealthy and famous.
Sylvia, Claire's mother, squealed with delight as the camera panned past a photograph of her and Mary, taken at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire in 1968.
Sally, an accomplished artist in her own right, was waxing lyrical about the artworks on the wall. She then made a seemingly innocuous comment, which would later be pivotal to why Claire thought something was not quite right.
“The painting of ‘Oak Cottages at Dusk’ has always fascinated me; and well it should as I know the area well. But something in the picture feels as if it’s hidden, waiting to be revealed.”
Mary quietly replied, “Hidden…yes, you may be right. I think I once saw something I should not have.”
Off camera, someone gasped, followed by the tinkle of glass; Sally, ever the professional, swiftly moved past the scene and continued on with the interview. Other paintings were discussed, and the techniques Mary employed to get the atmosphere just right in her artworks. But by this time Claire had tuned out and was concentrating on that one simple remark.
The programme ended, and Sylvia went and made another cup of tea. Claire went up to the little bookshelf and pulled out the catalogue that Mary had given Sylvia a couple of years before.
This was one of only a few limited edition books, containing most of Mary’s better works. Each one in glorious colour and with the handwritten notes about the scene and light, printed from the originals.
Claire opened the book and swiftly located the page she sought.
‘Oak Cottages at Dusk’ was there in front of her. It was nothing particularly remarkable, merely a row of cottages. However, if one was familiar with the area, it was evident that the artist had taken some liberties with the scene. The pub was omitted, and the trees were depicted as larger and lusher than they were in reality. This was indeed a real location within the borough, much like most of Mary’s works. She had never ventured far for her inspiration.
Claire gazed intently at the picture for quite a while, unaware that her mother had re-entered the room. Sylvia observed her daughter’s deep concentration and hesitated to interrupt the thoughts unfolding in Claire’s mind.
After a while, Claire leaned back and closed the book. She accepted the cup of tea that had been offered to her and simply remarked.
“I don’t think it was an accident, Mum.”
That one simple remark made Claire visit Ealing Police station the very next morning and ask Inspector Henderson if she could make some investigations.
REF: XD/92-1
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As Claire parked her green Triumph Dolomite around the corner, she surveyed the scene before her. Most locals knew the row of quaint workers' cottages, affectionately known as 'Oak Cottages', all just past the Fox pub. Originally, these cottages had housed the workers who built the railway line and the canal, which was completed in 1848. While the canal no longer transported goods, it had transformed into a popular destination for walkers and canal enthusiasts, creating a typically pleasant and inviting atmosphere.
Claire approached the canal, a shiver running down her spine as memories of the ‘Indigo Rose’ case flooded back. She felt as if she could almost smell the water from this distance and hear the rhythmic chugging of the canal barges as they navigated the Hanwell locks.
She turned and surveyed her surroundings, gradually moving forward until she came to a halt. Now, she found herself in the very spot where, years earlier, Mary had sat, making the preliminary sketches for what would later become ‘Oak Cottages at Dusk'.
And Claire was convinced that Mary’s death was somehow linked to what she had painted that day. Although the picture in the book was intricate, it had offered her no further insights; a chill ran through her once more.
Under different circumstances, she might have found the place enjoyable for a relaxing day out. However, that was not the case; she was here because of Mary's death, and her sense of dissatisfaction ran deep.
In her hand were the police and medical reports, both confirming that Mary had died of natural causes, with ongoing health issues cited as the reason for her decline. She was certain that there was more to this and she was going to prove it
REF: XD/92-2
===========================
Claire walked back towards the car and then round the corner to the old kettle factory. The imposing Victorian building had managed to withstand German bombs during the war and had then fallen into disrepair in the late forties. Mary had purchased it in the early seventies, and she had transformed the old building into a now vibrant hub for artists and craftspeople.
Mary had retained the whole loft area for herself as a studio. Once she had become ill, she had even moved into the space full time, and this is where she spent her final few months.
Walking up to the big doors at the front of the building she found Detective Weldstone waiting for her. He didn't look pleased, and Claire could understand why, but she quickly put the thought out of her mind.
She said hello and held out her hand.
Weldstone ignored it and sullenly said. “Do you realise I'm only doing this as a favour to Henderson. Otherwise you wouldn't be allowed anywhere near here?”
“I understand, and I am grateful,” replied Claire. "My mother was a friend of Mary’s and, well..."
She paused and looked at the ground.
Weldstone remarked. "You can pay your respects, but you cant poke around. The coroner was satisfied, and so were we, and I still am. It was natural causes, and nothing will change my mind.”
They entered the reception area, and Claire saw bright artworks, tapestries and other crafts. All displayed and priced to sell, a lady was sitting at a desk, and she nodded hello to Weldstone as they passed her.
The old wooden staircase creaked and groaned as they walked up to the loft. Weldstone took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. Claire did her usual and memorised what type of lock it was, just in case.
They entered the loft, and Claire still remained silent, her anger at Weldstone's comment simmering beneath the surface. She ignored him and paid no attention to what he was now saying; instead, she walked across to the big window and looked out. In front of her lay open fields and the train tracks in the distance. The church bells informed her that it was twelve o’clock.
She focused her mind and calmed her heart, and gripping her initial pendant, she closed her eyes. The smells of the room became clearer – turpentine for sure, its pungent resinous smell sharp. But underneath it there was a metallic smell that she couldn't place.
Turning back around away from the window, she opened her eyes and smiled, the light from the sun catching the dust in the air just as it had on the TV.
A calendar hung on the wall, it was the same type her mother always got, pictures of cats. She moved closer, and she could see that there were notes scribbled on it. There was a cross through one date, and Claire realised that it was the day Mary had died.
Weldstone had become bored and had sat down on the chair beside the door; it creaked, and Claire noted he was wearing odd socks.
She next headed to the large wooden work bench, where she saw the picture of Mary and her mother. Picking it up, she turned it over just to see if anything was hidden behind. But there was nothing.
There was still a jar of dirty brush water on the work surface; the level was low due to evaporation. But the surface had a greenish film on it; just in case, she sniffed it, but there was no real odour.
Towards the side were hundreds of jars of pigment and liquids Claire couldn't identify. The pigments were lined up neatly by colour; however, there were a few really old ones hidden away towards the back. The labels on these jars were all very faint, and all of them looked like they had not been opened in a very long time. A splash of green had solidified on the side of one jar, and Claire placed it back with the others and absentmindedly wiped her hand on her hip.
And finally on this side of the studio was a massive easel, and sitting on the little shelf was an old and chipped coffee mug. Claire knew this to be the one her mum had given to Mary many years before. There was a yellow residue in the bottom that didn't look like tea.
The rest of the studio had been turned into a small bedroom and a small kitchenette. The bathroom was obviously on the lower floor, as there didn't appear to be one here.
Turning back to Weldstone, Claire decided to ask a couple of questions.
“Did anyone run any tests on Mary’s body to determine if she had been poisoned?”
"No", replied Weldstone "she had been ill for a couple of months, and her own doctor was not surprised when she finally died. Why won't you believe it was an accident?”
Claire huffed, not because she didn't want to tell Weldstone that she thought Mary did not die naturally. But she could not give any concrete evidence for why she thought it, so she stayed quiet and told Weldstone that she was satisfied for now and then she headed home.
Sylvia was out when Claire got home, so she fussed about in the kitchen and made tea, in the cupboard was the twin of the cup she had seen in the studio. She got it out of the cupboard and looked at it. Nothing special and then she remembered something and rushing upstairs to her room she looked in the mirror.
Nothing, where Claire had expected to see a mark from wiping her hand on her hip after handling the old and dirty jars, there was nothing . No dirty mark, or even a smear of colour from the muck that was on the jars.
She wondered why.
REF: XD/92-3
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The next morning Claire headed back to the studio and asked the lovely lady on the desk if she had the address of the owner of the ‘Oak Cottages’ picture. She mentioned that her mother had been a friend of Mary’s and that seemed to work. Finally, the lady relented and phoned, the owner said Claire could visit.
Claire thanked the lady and headed off to a house near Elthorne Park and the home of Sharon Mendoza. Sharon lived in a generously sized house with a huge oak tree in the front garden; Claire thought it looked familiar and then realised that Mary had painted this house and at the time the tree was a lot smaller.
Sharon opened the door to Claire and ushered her inside; she shook Claire warmly by the hand and a beautiful opal set silver bracelet hung on her wrist. Sharon was quite enthusiastic about meeting a real-life friend of Mary’s even if it was only the daughter. At no point did Sharon ask why Claire wanted to view the picture, and Claire didn't bother to explain.
Claire was seated in a rather gaudy lounge, on a sofa that still had the plastic protection cover over it. Every time she moved it squeaked. Sharon appeared moments later with the picture and placed it on a small easel that was set up on the table.
Upon first glance, ‘Oak Cottages at Dusk’ was rather disappointing; it was much smaller than Claire had anticipated, no larger than a sheet of A4 paper. Yet, it was painted in the exquisite and flowing style that had made Mary famous.
The location depicted was one that Claire knew Mary had visited daily, sketching the scene on numerous occasions. Curiously, however, she had only ever painted this single picture. The muted, yet detailed colours perfectly captured the view of the street just before the streetlights illuminated the houses with their sodium-yellow glow.
Claire took out a small torch and directed it over the surface; the light caught the frantic brush strokes, altering the atmosphere of the painting. The previous touches of brilliance vanished, replaced by a dark and foreboding ambience. While Mary had usually excelled at conveying mood through her art, this particular piece suggested an unsettling sense of dread.
Then, concealed within a window halfway up the row, Claire noticed a faint shape, little more than a smudge of ochre and indigo, with a little fleck of yellow. Leaning in closer, she gasped.
There, within the smudge, was the silhouette of a body, its hands wrapped around a neck. The brushwork suggested an impulsive action rather than a deliberate stroke. This was not merely a figment of imagination; it was something tangible, something that had actually occurred. Not an artist's impression of something fictional, but a real event, something that happened as the artist took in the scene.
"I wonder how many people have noticed that tiny detail?" Claire remarked.
Sharon looked at her and replied, “There is no detail; it’s merely a trick of the light.”
Yet Claire had seen the shock in Sharon’s eyes; she too must have seen the same thing in the painting.
Claire thanked Sharon for her time and headed off home; she spent some time talking to her mum about Mary and the things they got up to in the late sixties and through the seventies. Sylvia mentioned that Mary changed and became more introverted, and while the two stopped going out, they still remained friends.
“It was as if something had happened,” Sylvia said when I asked her. Mary always said that she felt we were different people now.”
Claire was even more certain that something untoward had happened to Mary, and not just the circumstances of her death.
Dinner was a quiet affair, and Claire decided to write down all she had learned— which was very little, to be honest. She went to bed early and dreamt of windows and death.
REF: XD/92-4
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Very early the next morning, Claire made her way to Ealing police station, where she spoke with Simon, her on-and-off boyfriend. Following their conversation, she headed to Hanwell Police and waited for Detective Weldstone to arrive. He appeared to be in a better mood than during their last encounter, but he still scowled when Claire requested information on a couple of individuals.
Although she didn’t mention it, Claire was confident she could obtain the information with or without his assistance. However, if her instincts were correct, she would ultimately require his help in the end, so she decided to be honest.
“So who do you want to know about?” Asked Weldstone.
“Just some background information on Sharon Mendoza, Steven Jones and Alex Chappel, if you dont mind too much?” Replied Claire.
Weldstone looked at her and said. “Now why would you want to know about them, and how do you even know their names?”
Claire chose to be honest and explained to Weldstone that she possessed a copy of the report, in which the three individuals were mentioned.
Weldstone left to retrieve the information Claire requested. He brought her into an office where she spent the next hour making notes.
When she had finished, Weldstone took the files back. Upon his return, he asked her what exactly she was trying to prove.
“I’m not entirely certain at the moment,” Claire replied, “but there’s something unsettling about Mary’s death. A remark made during the TV documentary led me to believe that the situation might be more complicated than it appears.”
Claire was taken aback when Weldstone didn’t dismiss her outright. He sat thinking for a while before finally speaking.
“What you’re suggesting is that someone, whose identity you have no clue about, was responsible for Mary O'Connell’s death, making it appear as though it were due to natural causes. You’re uncertain how this was accomplished and have no insight into the motive. Am I right?”
Claire listened to this, and even she was now wondering if it were all a mistake. But no, something was wrong, and she knew it.
“All I can say is my mum knew Mary, and she knew her really well. At some point something happened and Mary became different, and Mum thought it might be something to do with her mind.”
Weldstone looked at Claire; he knew about her talents, but he was sceptical. “Ok, cards on the table. The doctor who pronounced it told us that Mary had been suffering from memory loss and was depressed. He thought she was worried about losing her mind. And that's why we put it down to natural causes; there was no reason for an autopsy.”
Claire pondered this, aware that she might be overreacting, yet she was determined to pursue the matter, even if it turned out she was mistaken.
“So, detective,” she said, “give me a quick rundown on my three flimsy suspects.” And she smiled.
Weldstone started with Sharon. “Well, she is one of Mary’s long-time patrons; she owns a fair few paintings, and obviously from your point of view, she is now loaded, but money has never been a problem to her, so murder for cash is out. The value of her collection must have increased ten times since Mary’s death. But she has not sold anything yet.”
“Interesting,” replied Claire "when I saw her yesterday, I could only see the one painting. Go on, what about Steven Jones?”
Weldstone made no comment, and he just continued. “He is a little bit slimy; he discovered Mary and was responsible for selling all of her work. Now she is dead, he basically owns everything she had left.”
“I think I may have met him once or twice, during other cases.” Replied Claire. “And his name was on the calendar in Mary’s studio quite a lot.”
“Yep, he controlled the flow of work. He was in the studio early in the morning before Mary died.” Said Weldstone. “And now we get to your last suspect, Alex Chappel, the local carpenter; he has a workshop on the floor below Mary. He was a friend and often brought pies and food from home. He was the one who phoned the ambulance that day.”
Claire noted that fact and closed her notebook when Weldstone asked. “So are you going to be talking to them?”
“Not yet, and I only went to see Sharon because I wanted a close look at the painting. I have other things to think about before I go prodding potential suspects.”
She got up and was escorted out of the station. Sitting in the car, Claire reflected that she had three likely suspects. But what she didn't know then, was that the painting bound them closer than she could have expected.
REF: XD/92-5
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Claire took the next day off, although Billy, her boss, was not pleased about it. She drove back to the canal and spent an hour throwing bread to the ducks and wondering what her next move was going to be.
The window of the house showed a murder; Mary must have unconsciously painted it, and then someone must have realised.
When the question arose during the interview, the killer must have decided that Mary should die before she realised it herself and told someone.
But what did Mary actually see?
Was it a murder or just something she mistakenly drew without thinking about?
Finding out when the painting was completed might allow her to check the newspapers for a crime in Oak Cottages. So she threw the last of the bread at the ducks and headed for Hanwell Library.
Claire stood on the pavement in front of the library and looked up. The building stood there in all its glory; a sign proudly proclaimed that it was built in 1905 and that it was a Carnegie Library, in fact one of the first ever. Claire had spent many mornings inside as a youngster, hiding in the corners reading books.
She approached the librarian, and memories came flooding back. Mrs Pentecoastal must have been 70 even when Claire was a child. And there she was, standing there brandishing the date stamp like some hideous harpy.
“Silly me,” she said to herself, “I need to know when the painting was done.” And she turned and went back outside.
And with luck there was a telephone box across the road; with a quick call to her mum, at a cost of 10p, she had the date she needed.
October 1977, so she asked Mrs Pentecoastal for anything from the local papers from three months earlier, as she knew Mary often dated her pictures well after painting them, and she sat down and worked her way through them. Most of the issues held details of mundane town life, like how big the marrow was at the garden fete and old so-and-so and his amusing vegetables.
Finally, in the Ealing Bugle, who’s tagline made people laugh, was a small reference to a disturbance at one of the cottages in the row whereby a Madeline Gurney had reported seeing something. The police had found nothing when they arrived.
And that was all; nothing more, no follow-up report, no investigations, nothing at all.
It seemed like it was a cover-up; someone didn't want the truth to come out. The only thing to do now was to visit the house in question.
Claire headed back to Green Lane and stood again in the place where Mary had painted the picture, although the row of cottages was rather drab in real life compared to the painting. Bricks were chipped, and the old sash windows rattled in the quiet breeze. The faint smell of coal fires lingered, and the smoke from them had turned the chimney pots black with soot.
She moved forwards and stood outside the cottage from the painting; the window where the smudge was couldn't be easily seen from this angle, this concerned Claire. So how did Mary see what had happened. The curtains were now drawn and she couldn't see into the room and the building itself seemed lifeless.
And then she heard them. Two elderly women who were sitting on a bench outside the pub just over by the corner, their voices and cackles drifting over on the breeze.
Then one of them said. “You won't want to buy that house, dearie, especially since poor old Mable died there.”
“Oh, that’s right, Doreen, poor old Mable, throttled, they say she was.”
The other one whispered loud enough for Claire to easily hear. “Hushed up, it was; the police didn't want no trouble.”
Claire’s heart jolted, and she grinned.
She turned and walked towards them and said. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn't help overhearing what you said. Did you say someone was killed in that house?”
“I suppose we did,” said one of the women. “A man was seen lurking around here, lurking, I said.”
The other one clicked her tongue and added. “Swept under the carpet it was, well she was a bit of a tart. Bloody great big mirror on the wall, and her standing there showing tomorrows washing. Disgusting I calls it.”
“Do you know what he looked like, or even his name?” Claire asked.
The second woman scratched her chin. “Might do, luvvie; it began with an S. Yes, that’s it, Simon or Stewart.”
“Do you mean Steven?” prompted Claire.
The two women looked at each other and nodded.
'Steven Jones', thought Claire. That's a turn-up for the books, but the old lady wasn't finished.
“Well, there were others as well; that woman who buys the art used to come here all the time, I think she and Mabel were sweet on each other like. Before she married again, that was.”
Claire felt her heart plummet; Sharon had been a visitor as well. However, it appeared that the two women had unfinished business.
“Also, the man who does the woodwork used to come and fix things too.” And she cackled. “If you know what I mean luvvie?”
Claire thanked the ladies and went about her day even more confused than before. All three of her possible suspects had been identified as visiting the house.
The answer had to be in the studio, and that's where she needed to go. She decided to return in the evening, after the sun had set and the streets were quiet, unofficial like as the two old crones might have said.
REF: XD/92-6
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Claire hated herself for doing this, but the local police were not going to help. Her lock-pick kit glinted in the moonlight, and within moments she had gained access to the lobby.
She checked and was amazed that there was no alarm panel or even a bell box. Foolish people around here, what with desperate private investigators breaking in at all hours.
She headed back up to the studio, opening drawers, boxes, and tins. In fact, anything and everything was checked— she went through all of the pigment jars by label and type.
Remembering that she had seen some older jars earlier, these were brought out from the gloom and into the small light from her torch.
There were three colours, and each one could easily be a source of poison; older paints always were.
Taking the first one, Claire twisted the rusty and grime-covered top and was surprised that it opened easily. She looked at the threads and saw they were coated in what looked like Vaseline. Why would someone lubricate old paint jars unless they wanted to be able to open them easily, and she reckoned Mary wasn't the one who did?
Sitting there was chrome yellow, often mixed with lead sulphate and barium sulphate, two poisons already identified.
Then emerald green, composed of copper acetoarsenite. Or just plain old white arsenic, as it was commonly called years before.
Finally, Naples yellow, another lead-based paint, contains both lead and antimony; this paint had even been found in Egyptian tombs.
These three were tucked neatly away behind the new and shiny jars and tins. Claire was sure that Mary would never have used these, as she was well educated on paint types.
But Claire was beginning to form a very disturbing picture; someone may have added them to her usual paints, or in small amounts to her tea of even her food.
Mary’s brushes were sitting in the old tin dish she always used, and Claire picked one up and felt as if she were holding a magician’s wand. The bristles were stiff from wiping but not washing, as there was residue in the middle near the ferrule.
Claire touched the tip to her lips; the taste was bitter and metallic.
And then it came to her: in the pictures of Mary, she always licked her brushes, shaping them with her mouth.
Just like many hundreds of other artists, even the likes of Vincent van Gogh. Researchers were now thinking some of his mental problems were caused by this act; lead poisoning has symptoms not unlike depression and mania.
If someone had been adding these older paints to Mary’s modern ones. She had been killed a bit at a time. And then at last a final large dose, and it was just the result of a short illness. A simple thing to explain away.
Finally, Claire had decided how Mary had died, and the 'where' was always here in the studio. She now had to eliminate two of the three possible suspects. It was obvious where she was going to start.
REF: XD/92-7
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So bright and early the next morning, she set out on her quest. However, she needed to figure out the best way to proceed carefully, and if she could conceal her investigation, she hoped to obtain answers. She decided that she would just talk to these people as if she were the daughter of an old friend, which was partly true.
Sharon already knew that she was looking into the case, and Claire played on the ‘doing her mother a favour’ aspect, and Sharon admitted that she was familiar with the woman who had died in the house. Mable Bowman was her name, and they had a somewhat ambiguous friendship.
“It was one of those hot summers you know, I was down by the canal and there was Mabel. The sunlight in her hair, the little westie terrier running around her legs. We spent some time together, it was innocent you know and she brought me this silver bracelet you know” She paused as she remembered that day and waved her wrist in the air, the light sparkled off the stones. “Well, you know how it is, or maybe you don’t?”
Nodding slightly but saying nothing Claire waited, people had this tendency to fill the silence if you let them. And she didn't have long to wait.
“Of course, it never worked out. And then she was gone, just up and left, nobody saw her going and the house was sold a year or so later.”
Again Claire said nothing and Sharon continued.
“But I wasn’t there that night, you should be speaking to Steven. He rented a room nearby at the time. He was always hovering.”
And she said those words with some contempt, almost as if she knew there had been something going on.
“Anyway, Mary was wasting away; she worked too hard. She became very cold to her friends you know. It was never murder; the police said it was natural.”
Claire looked at her and thought she would have made a terrific actress.
Leaving Sharon, Claire drove back into Hanwell and was just going to pop into her office when she spied Alex going into the little cafe by the clock tower. She followed him in and introduced herself; he leered at her over his glasses, and they sat down for a cup of tea.
“Do you fancy an iced finger?” he said in a creepy way.
“Trying to give them up.” Replied Claire hastily. “So what do you think about the weird little detail in the painting, then?”
He stopped with the bun a couple of inches from his mouth. His dirty fingers had left prints in the icing and his watch was hanging loosely on his wrist, its grey steel metal bracelet catching the cold fluorescent lights.
“I knew that house,” he said quietly; “did the odd job there. And yes, I was in the area when Mable died. I told the police that at the time, honest. As to the detail as you put it, nothing more than a blob of paint.”
Claire smiled. “So you did look at it then?”
“Mary showed me her prep sketches and then I saw the finished work. She was always putting little things in as hidden gems. And one day she changed, got all serious and pushed us away. But I will tell you something, Steven was there that night; I saw him heading that way when I was on my way back to the studio to finish up a bit of French polishing like.”
"That was another mark against Steven," Claire thought.
They finished their tea, and Alex said goodbye, his earlier attitude now replaced with one of dread.
Claire headed to the offie and grabbed her notebook and then slowly walked to the gallery, trying to get her thoughts in order. When she arrived she could see that Steven was busy rearranging the layout of the gallery; all of Mary’s paintings were now front and centre.
‘Bloody vulture,' she thought, but she said. “Morning, Mr Jones, having a change around?”
Steven turned, and his smile faded. “I was told you were a copper, but that’s not true, is it, young lady?”
“No,” replied Claire, “so are you going to tell me to leave, or will you answer some of my questions?”
“I dont see why dragging up Mary’s untimely death will do anything.” He replied. “The police were convinced it was natural so at best all you will do is prove they were right, she had been difficult to work with of late, but I will answer if I can.”
Claire looked at him, he was slightly balding, his jacket had those elbow pads and in his top pocket was a spotted red and white handkerchief, on his left wrist was a Rolex and it glinted in the spot lights. Just because his dress sense was slightly suspect It didn't make him a killer. But if anyone knew Mary, and her habits it would be him.
“Do you handle all of the sales for Mary’s artworks?” A simple question and one she hoped would put him at ease.
“I do, and have done since the mid seventies.” Steven looked at Claire. “Mary must have been no older than you and she was a rising star in the art world, her portraits were not wonderful, but hey they sold. She was lucky, she knew all the pop and rock stars of the day you know?”
“Yes, my mother was one of those stars, as you call them. She and Mary were very close until she changed. Mum wondered what happened and I think it was something to do with the ‘Oak Cottages’ painting.”
Steven nearly dropped the picture he was holding, which would have been a shame as it was a nice scene of Syon House. His face flushed slightly and he hastily looked away.
“Why do you think it was then?” He asked.
“My opinion is that something happened and Mary changed, my mum said that Mary was cold to her for sometime and then just said that they had both changed. They stayed in contact and we even have one of those catalogues. Like the one on your desk.”
“You have a portfolio collection?” Asked Steven. “Do you know how much they are worth now?”
“No and I dont care, Mary gave my mum that and it's going nowhere. But what do you know about the little detail in Mary’s painting, ‘Oak Cottages at Dusk,’ and the goings-on at the house?”
“I admitted to the police that I was there,” replied Steven “I heard shouting, but I didn't hang around. I was there on business, yes, business. Besides its just rumours, no crime was committed the police checked the area.”
He looked at Claire with the sort of intensity that made her skin crawl.
“Besides,” he continued, “you are not talking to the right person. You should be talking to Sharon; she was obsessed, infatuated even, with Mable, the woman who went missing.”
‘Now the three of them were starting to blame each other, and it starts to get interesting,’ thought Claire. ‘Three people have three motives, and they are all trying to implicate each other. But the evidence will show me the truth.’
Claire went back to the studio via the police station; this time she was going to enter the building legally. She was determined to understand what Mary meant when she had spoken of ‘seeing something I shouldn't have’, and she really wanted the picture in the place it had been painted.
Weldstone had arrived before Claire, and he was holding the painting in his hands.
“I hope you know what you are doing?” He said, “My supervisor is asking all sorts of questions, and your friends in Ealing are stalling him.”
Claire said nothing; she took the painting from his hands and placed it on the easel, the one it must have sat on when Mary painted it all those years ago. She leaned in and stared at the image in the window
The silhouette was not crisp; it was partly blurred, smudged even, as if it were a dream. However as Claire looked closer, she could just make out more of the flash, not only that but its position brought two of her three suspects fully into the frame.
And then she understood.
Mary must have sketched from further away; she must have caught the murder in a moment's glance, the flash from the wrist locked it into her minds eye not sure of what she had seen.
Someone had obviously recognised the detail later, many years after, and because Mary had said nothing, they had thought their secret was safe. Until that day during the interview, an innocent enough comment.
It had to be one of the three; there was no other way.
Maybe one of them had killed Mable, or they knew who had and was protecting them, and someone finally realised Mary might remember more details.
That comment, “I think I once saw something I should not have.”
Claire closed her eyes and cast her mind back to the interview.
Sally was talking and Mary made her comment, and there it was. A gasp and a glass breaking. So how could she work out who had gasped?
'Stupid fool,' she thought, 'I can phone that silly cow Sally.'
There was a telephone in the lobby of the building; Claire had seen it the night before., when doing her breaking and entering. But she was not stupid, so she asked Weldstone if he knew where she could make a call.
“Phone downstairs in reception.” He grumbled.
Claire raced down the stairs and quickly contacted Ealing Nick; the desk sergeant provided the number for the production company, and they put her through to Sally. Claire asked one question and received the answer she needed.
She went back upstairs and reluctantly told Weldstone of her news. He was not happy, but he agreed with the plan Claire put forward. She headed home and made three other phone calls; one was instantly confirmed, and the second sounded confused but the person agreed, reluctantly. The final call was to Inspector Henderson and she did not like the news at all, but she agreed and said she would make the order.
REF: XD/92-8
===========================
The next morning it was raining and Claire hurried to the studio and found that Steven Jones was already waiting for her. He was standing in the lobby, the rain dripping off his overcoat and pooling around his feet. They headed upstairs and he removed his coat and Claire noticed he kept away from the shelf with the paint jars on. In fact he didn't even look at them.
Lightning flashed as it does in all the best movies as detective Weldstone entered the room, Jones jumped and his face was a picture.
Weldstone uncovered the painting and turned the easel to face Jones. He looked at it and cowered slightly.
“Mr Jones,” Weldstone said, “before we go any further is there anything you would like to tell us?”
Jones stood there staring at the picture, he said nothing and then he jumped as Sharon and Alex walked into the studio, flanked by Inspector Henderson. She signalled Claire and went to stand by the paint shelf.
Claire moved to the centre of the room, this part was always hard for her, but she owed it to Mary. She took a deep breathe and started.
“One of you poisoned Mary, you realised that she had finally started to remember the details of the murder she had witnessed. Now from personal experience, something changed Mary a couple of years after she had finished ‘Oak Cottages’ as she became distant from her friends. You all mentioned the same to me, when we spoke. I suggest that she was unsure if she had witnessed something or that she thought her mind was going. So she picked the latter.”
Pausing she walked to the shelf where all the paint jars were kept. She picked up one of them and unscrewed the top, which came off easily.
“Someone greased this and a couple of other jars, the three hold old paints from many years ago, why Mary kept them> I doubt we will ever know, the writing is hers and one or more of you knew about them. So you took these old pigments and added them to the jars of modern pigments. All of you knew Mary licked her brushes to form a point. Lots of artists did and do.”
She paused and handed the jar to Inspector Henderson, who put it and the other two into an evidence bag.
“I dont suppose we will find any prints on them, but it will be nice to know which one poisoned Mary. Well, once we have exhumed her body and run some tests that is.”
The three were standing there shocked, each one glanced at the other and Claire hoped one of them would break down and confess, she really didn't have much to go on. All three had the means, the motive and the opportunity. But one of them was off the hook because of the way the hands were in the window. And then she realised what had bothered her at the scene. The window, and what did the old woman say?
“You know the only reason I involved myself in this case, is because my mother knew Mary. Not only that but something Mary said herself set me off. I have a problem with nice tidy deaths, and this one is no different. So I could go all Columbo on you and spend ages trying to get one of you to confess, when all along its been staring me in the face. Or in this case the mirror.”
She waved at Weldstone and he uncovered the large mirror that was sat against the wall, he pushed it over to the window and moved away. Claire walked over to it and stood there, Weldstone then came up behind her and put his hands round her neck. All three gasped and stepped back.
“You see,” began Claire, after gently pushing weldstone away. “Mary didn't see into the window, she saw a reflection. Something that bothered me slightly until I went back to the scene. Two old women told me that Mable was a, in their words ‘a tart who paraded herself in-front of a mirror for all to see’. Thats what I think Mary saw, a reflection so Steven are you going to confess?”
Steven stood there, his light blue eyes daring Claire to continue. But then his face drained colour, and he slumped slightly.
“I loved her,” he whispered, “but she finally remembered, not completely, just enough, and then one day Sharon mentioned the painting, and Mary had such a look on her face.”
“When was this?” Claire asked.
“A few years ago, she would get flashes and then make some comment. Thats why she went cold, she knew she had seen something but she didn't know exactly what” Said Steven.
He swallowed and then continued.
“I strangled Mable because she was threatening to expose my affairs with the art students. She wanted money, and I panicked.”
Claire quietly added. “And she painted it without actually knowing what she had done.”
“The painting knew; it was there as a constant reminder,” stuttered Steven. “It was only a matter of time. I watched a programme on Vincent and the way he licked his brush, and I used the old paints I knew Mary had here in the studio.”
He shook his head and sobbed.
“Little by little, the months flew by; and one day she thought it was old age. I watched her decline, and I watched her art suffer. I thought the guilt of it would crush me—but the fear of being unmasked was worse.”
He fell to his knees, Detective Weldstone read him his rights and arrested him.
The others looked both shocked and relieved and then Sharon found her voice.
“How did you work out it was Steven in the end?”
“I thought it was between you and Alex to be honest, I’d excluded Steven because of the fact the killer was left handed as the fleck of colour was on the right. But when I finally realised that there was a mirror involved, it could only have been him.”
REF: XD/92-9 CASE CLOSED
===========================
A month later, Claire stood in Mary’s studio. The dust had settled. Sunlight streamed in gentle beams.
On the table lay Oak Cottages at Dusk, finally returned from evidence.
The tiny painted silhouette glimmered faintly in the window—the silent witness Mary didn’t know she had been. A murder preserved in watercolour and hidden for decades in soft strokes and dusk shadows.
Mary hadn’t known she’d seen a crime. But she had painted the truth anyway. And eventually, that truth had cost her life.
Claire whispered:
“You saw what others didn’t. Even when you didn’t know you were seeing it.”
The case was closed. Both murders—one from 1977 and one from 1992—all bound together in one painting, one artist, and one killer.
And this tiny part of Hanwell, quiet as ever, kept its secrets a little less tightly now.
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