A Cornish Stranger (25 page)

‘We're so sorry about all of this.' Tamsin sat next to her and put her hand on her shoulder.

‘You've been so kind.'

‘Nonsense. It's the only way that humans should behave. Now, I think that it is far too late for us to do anything today and that Gabe should stay here again tonight, and we shouldn't talk about any of this until tomorrow morning when we are all rested and can make sensible plans.'

She looked round the room and every head nodded in agreement.

 

Anthony walked through the door with the Sunday papers, and Gabe wasn't sure if she could bear to read any more. She was drained by Jaunty's final revelation, and if she thought about it too much it would finish off what sanity she still had left.

‘That's better.' Anthony handed her the paper he'd taken to read. It was open at a page with an article written by an Alexander Falk, an art historian, said the byline. In it he took Jaunty's side and explained how Jeanette had become Jean and the assumptions people had made. It was all very calm and reasoned. The next article was by Sam Marks, a well-known art critic. Gabe put the paper down. Wasn't that the name of the man she'd met with Fin?

Gabe scanned it and saw that he argued that it didn't matter that one artist had painted one set of work and the other painted another. Both were war artists. Both had studied with the same painter, Pierre François. Jeanette's unique vision had developed in a manner that was equal to the works of Jean, and the weaving of their stories made it all the more ­intriguing, as had Jeanette's divergence from her initial strengths as a portrait painter. There was a photograph of one of Jaunty's paintings that she had hidden, a portrait of Gabe's father. He then went on to contrast the styles, highlighting how the need to be un­identifiable had pushed Jeanette's art to greater heights. Her portraiture, from what he had seen, was excellent, but not to the level of her near abstract seascapes.

Gabe knew she had Fin to thank, if that was the right word for this. He must have photographed the portrait and given it to Sam. But where was Fin now? He certainly wasn't in Tamsin's house.

‘Where's Fin?'

‘Ah, he's a star. He's our man in London and he's doing a stellar job.' Tamsin smiled and handed Gabe a biscuit. As Gabe bit into the still warm ginger snap she wasn't so sure about that.

 

 

 

 

 

Twenty-One

 

 

 

 

I
t was two more days later before they allowed Gabe to go home. In that time the press had begun to turn around. More articles appeared in the form of editorials with large quotes from Alexander Falk. She had heard nothing from Fin, but he was obviously liaising with the little committee that had formed to look after her and Jaunty's name. Gabe was so touched by their support.

‘Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?' Tamsin put her hand on Gabe's.

‘I'm fine. This is my home.'

‘Well, Anthony tells me that all is OK there.'

‘Thanks.' Gabe took a breath. ‘Thanks for everything.'

‘Ah, it was nothing. It's not right what they've done, but we'll see it's sorted.'

‘I don't know what to say. You don't have to do this.'

‘Ah, but we do. Jaunty was our reclusive artist – she came here to be safe.'

Gabe nodded. That was true.

‘Well, thank you again.' Gabe stepped out of Tamsin's car and took a deep breath. Eucalyptus and pine. She turned and waved at Tamsin, then walked down the path to the steps. On the top one she stopped to look at the view. In front of her the pines were still half covered in a morning mist and the river was only just visible. Slowly she walked down the steps. A spider had spun a web across the terrace like yellow crime-scene tape. Drops of dew shimmered in the breeze, reflecting the golden morning light.

No crime had taken place here. Only a life lived as best as it could be. Gabe swallowed and unlocked the kitchen door. There would be no Jaunty and no Fin. From here on she was truly alone, which is exactly what she had hoped for a few weeks ago. But now everything had changed, especially her.

Her phone beeped. She had a voice message. Dropping her bag on the bench, she walked down the stone steps to the creek. She watched an egret fly across the water and land on a bare branch on the opposite shore.

‘Hi, Gabe. I know you don't want to speak to me, but I need to talk to you about so much and I've had a request from
Spotlight on Art
to be interviewed about Jaunty. What do you want me to do? Please call.'

Just listening to his voice and her legs were wobbling. How had she been so foolish? Well, that didn't matter now. She had to deal with
this
. She dialled his number and clenched her free hand. She had no idea what she would say. His voicemail was garbled and Gabe cursed the lack of decent signal.

‘It's Gabe. Go ahead and give the interview. The damage is done.'

The line went dead. There was no need to ring him back because she had nothing else to say and she had many other things that she needed to think about and do. Fin could do what he liked. Jaunty's reputation was in pieces and Gabe had to sort out probate as well as telling the gallery that she didn't want a retrospective of Jaunty's work. They had rung her and insisted that there would be more interest now than ever before, but that was the last thing she wanted, and Jaunty had avoided all that interest during her lifetime. Why would she desire it in death?

Shutting off her phone, she smiled when she saw the flowers on the dining table. That would have been Tamsin. She touched the roses and then knew what she needed to do. Locking the cabin in case there were still people about, she walked to the studio. The mist had gone and the north shore was glowing in the sunlight. The river appeared still through the trees.

Unlocking the studio, Gabe turned to the bed. It was made and there were no signs of Fin's occupation. Even the lemony scent of his aftershave had gone, replaced with the usual musty, closed-up smell. She left the door open and flipped through her music until she came to Grieg's Piano Concerto No 1 in A minor. Placing the music on the piano she sat and, taking a deep breath, she played, letting the music speak her feelings.

By the time she'd finished a sea fog had rolled in. She looked out of the window and she couldn't even see the river, let alone the other side. She closed the piano and locked the studio, then practically felt her way along the path. The mist was so dense she nearly walked into the cabin itself. She went in then locked the door behind her.

She needed to tackle Jaunty's room. Nothing had been done in there since her grandmother had died. Gabe hesitated at the door. Someone had closed the curtains and the room looked wrong that way. She opened them but that didn't help the closed-in feeling. She could see nothing but the opaque fog moving past.

Almost at the laundry room, Gabe dropped Jaunty's sheets when there was a tap on the door behind her. The undertaker stood in a black suit at the door.

She let him in. ‘Hi.'

‘Miss Blythe, I'm so sorry for all the trouble.'

Gabe nodded. No one was more sorry than she was.

‘I'd heard from the crematorium that you hadn't been in so I thought it was best if I collected your grandmother and brought her to you.' He held out a shopping bag.

Gabe swallowed. She'd forgotten about Jaunty's ashes in all the scandal.

‘Thank you so much.' She took the bag and was surprised at the weight. ‘It was very kind of you.'

‘Happy to help.' He looked round. ‘A bit lonely here, isn't it?'

Gabe looked out to the river. It was still shrouded in low
cloud and fog. ‘It's normally not this bad.' She forced a smile on to her face.

‘That's good then. Hope there are no strangers lurking about.'

Gabe coughed. ‘Me too.' But she was missing the stranger – even though he'd betrayed them. She watched the man walk up the steps and then she scurried back into the cabin and locked the door. She hoped the weather would improve soon. She needed some bright, clear days to lift her mood.

Inside the bag was an urn of sorts, but it looked more like an overgrown coffee canister. Gabe placed it on the dining table. What was she going to do with it? Father Tim had said that Jaunty must be buried in consecrated ground, so she could put her with her parents in Manaccan graveyard, but that was far from Jaunty's beloved river. Gabe touched the urn.

‘Well, Jaunty, I don't know what to do, so you will have to stay with me a bit longer.' Gabe looked around. ‘In fact, it will be good to have someone besides myself to talk to.' She welled up but blinked the tears away. That wasn't going to get anything done. She picked up the sheets and put the laundry on.

 

The phone rang and Gabe glared at it. She did
not
want to speak to anyone. She had been reading a client brief and was struggling to think of anything other than blah blah blah. How could she create music about loo cleaner? It was essential to have work, but that was the only good thing she could think of at the moment. Her mind was everywhere it shouldn't be: composing her Sonata of the Tides, singing Nancy in
The Lovers
and, worst of all, longing for Fin.

The phone finally stopped ringing. Gabe stood. Maybe if she worked on her own composition it would expel one of her irritants. Locking the cabin door behind her, she could smell a bonfire drifting over from the north shore. Gabe stopped and listened to the wind in the trees. Today she could feel winter coming. She shivered and hurried to the studio. Despite the air freshener she had put in here the other day the musty scent lingered.

All around her piano were things waiting to be dealt with. Soon she would have to have someone come and evaluate all these works. But right now she was going to do something for herself. Putting her sonata on the piano, she sat down and began to play, stopping and starting as another variation came to mind. Finally she was happy with the first movement. She played it and then stopped, sniffing the air. Pizza. She turned. Max stood in the doorway holding two boxes.

‘You didn't answer my call so I brought you a margarita.'

Gabe laughed. ‘Ah, sorry, I didn't know it was you.'

‘So it's not just
my
calls that you're avoiding?' He came over to the piano.

Gabe stood and blocked the view of her work. ‘No, the world. But a man bringing dinner is most welcome.'

‘Pleased to hear it.' He smiled. ‘But before we go, what was that piece you were playing. I've not heard it before.'

‘Nothing.'

‘That wasn't nothing. It was glorious. The sea and the tide somehow.'

Gabe turned to him. ‘Really?'

‘Yes, definitely. That's your work, isn't it?'

Gabe nodded as she locked the studio behind them. Pine needles dropped on her head as she followed Max, feeling lifted by his comments. But she mustn't build her hopes, and right now she needed to think of something wonderful about loo cleaner. Loo cleaner paid the bills. Random sonatas pleased the soul but did nothing else.

‘How are you?' Max asked as he popped the pizzas in the oven to reheat.

‘Fine.' Gabe left to go and lay the table.

‘I don't believe you, but I won't push.' Max watched her from the kitchen doorway.

‘You've dealt with enough divas then, have you?' Gabe looked up at him.

‘You could say that.' He handed her a glass of wine.

‘Why do I get the sense that you are trying to soften me up?'

‘Wouldn't know.' He looked innocently at the ceiling and Gabe laughed.

‘Hannah sends her love,' he said.

‘How's she doing?' Gabe took a sip of wine.

‘Good.' Max fixed her with his stare. ‘Enough about everyone else. You?'

‘I told you, I'm fine.'

‘Really? No one has heard from you or seen you in a week.'

Gabe bent to the wood burner and began to light the fire. ‘The post mistress knew I was alive.'

‘Gabe, that's not good enough. People care.'

She knelt down. ‘OK, I think I was doing fine with Jaunty's death and revelation, but I'm afraid that the digging up of the past has more than unsettled me.' She stood and followed Max into the kitchen.

‘That I can understand.' Max took the pizzas out of the oven and placed them on the table. ‘Do you want to talk about it?'

Gabe fixed him with a stare. ‘No.'

‘Sure?' He topped up her wine glass, then said quietly, ‘It was Victor Justin, wasn't it?'

Gabe's head swung up, which was a mistake. The room swayed a bit with the blood rush. She reached for the table to steady herself.

‘You know he's in custody, don't you?'

‘No!' Gabe ran her hand around her neck.

‘With all that came out recently about that . . .' Max paused ‘. . . that generation, for lack of a better word, of men, a few of his victims have come forward.'

Gabe closed her eyes. He was in jail. He was in jail. What did that mean? She swallowed and opened her eyes. ‘Thank you for telling me.'

‘What happened was wrong.' Max reached across the table and took her hand in his. ‘That's totally inadequate. It was more than wrong it was criminal and beyond.'

Gabe nodded, thinking of the lost years, the guilt, the self-hate. ‘Thanks.'

Max held out the chair for her to sit, and innocently added, ‘Fin has been asking about you.'

Gabe turned away. She wasn't going down this route.

‘What happened between you?'

‘Not a subject for discussion.' She stood and walked past Max to the kitchen. No amount of wine, pizza or kindness was going to make her talk about Fin.

 

On Jaunty's desk were the notebooks and the loose sheets of paper that her grandmother had written. Gabe wanted to sit and read them again, but before she did that she needed to reconnect with the rest of the world. She had lost time in the black hole of Jaunty's death, and although Gabe had seen the papers she'd only read what had related to her grandmother. A nuclear bomb could have been detonated or a cure for cancer found and she would have no idea.

So she poured herself a glass of wine and powered up her computer to read the headlines. Then she debated checking to see what else had been written about Jaunty. She did and she didn't want to know. However, she sort of needed to know what was likely to happen, so she typed in Jaunty's name and the first link up was a video clip.

Art expert Alexander Falk talks about the recent upset that has rocked the art world.

Gabe looked at the name and recognised it as the man who'd written the balanced article in the Sunday paper. As the opening credits rolled Gabe realised that it was the programme that Fin had called about. He must have declined to be interviewed.

The voice of the host recapped Jaunty's story and pictures flashed past of Jaunty's work and suddenly, shockingly, Fin was on her screen.

‘We have art historian Alexander Falk with us today in the studio to discuss the recently deceased local artist known as Jaunty Blythe.' The newsreader turned to Fin. ‘So you met the artist just before her death?'

‘Yes, just over a month ago.' He wore a dark suit with a white shirt open at the neck.

Gabe swallowed. Alexander was Fin?

‘And what can you tell us about her and what many are calling her fraud?'

Fin sat forward and looked directly at the woman. ‘First, that isn't correct and I'll come back to that point. Jeanette Penrose did what she needed to do to survive. She'd been trapped in occupied France, having selflessly given her passage to England to Jean Blythe. What Jeanette did was an act of kindness and bravery, which people seem to have forgotten with this whole ruckus about fraud.' He looked directly at the camera. He'd had his hair cut and it was combed into place. ‘This left her stranded in France.'

Gabe realised what had bothered her about him. Now that he was tidy and in a suit she recognised him. She'd seen him on television a while ago discussing Renaissance art.

‘And what do you know about this period of her life?'