In the Frame (3 page)

It felt like living through a siege.

We went eventually again upstairs to bed, although it seemed likely that Donald would sleep no more than the night before, which had been hardly at all. The police surgeon had left knock-out pills, which Donald wouldn’t
take. I pressed him again on that second evening, with equal non-results.

‘No, Charles. I’d feel I’d deserted her. D… ducked out. Thought only of myself, and not of… of how awful it was for her… dying like that… with n… no one near who I… loved her.’

He was trying to offer her in some way the comfort of his own pain. I shook my head at him, but tried no more with the pills.

‘Do you mind,’ he said diffidently, ‘if I sleep alone tonight?’

‘Of course not.’

‘We could make up a bed for you in one of the other rooms.’

‘Sure.’

He pulled open the linen-cupboard door on the upstairs landing and gestured indecisively at the contents. ‘Could you manage?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

He turned away and seemed struck by one particular adjacent patch of empty wall.

‘They took the Munnings,’ he said.

‘What Munnings?’

‘We bought it in Australia. I hung it just there… only a week ago. I wanted you to see it. It was one of the reasons I asked you to come.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Inadequate words.

‘Everything,’ he said helplessly. ‘Everything’s gone.’

Frost arrived tirelessly again on Sunday morning with his quiet watchful eyes and non-committal manner. I opened the front door to his signal, and he followed me through to the kitchen, where Donald and I seemed to have taken up permanent residence. I gestured him to a stool, and he sat on it, straightening his spine to avoid future stiffness.

‘Two pieces of information you might care to have, sir,’ he said to Donald, his voice at its most formal. ‘Despite our intensive investigation of this house during yesterday and the previous evening, we have found no fingerprints for which we cannot account.’

‘Would you expect to?’ I asked.

He flicked me a glance. ‘No, sir. Professional housebreakers always wear gloves.’

Donald waited with a grey patient face, as if he would find whatever Frost said unimportant. Nothing, I judged, was of much importance to Donald any more.

‘Second,’ said Frost, ‘our investigations in the district reveal that a removal van was parked outside your front door early on Friday afternoon.’

Donald looked at him blankly.

‘Dark coloured, and dusty, sir.’

‘Oh,’ Donald said, meaninglessly.

Frost sighed. ‘What do you know of a bronze statuette of a horse, sir? A horse rearing up on its hind legs?’

‘It’s in the hall,’ Donald said automatically; and then, frowning slightly, ‘I mean, it used to be. It’s gone.’

‘How do you know about it?’ I asked Frost curiously, and guessed the answer before I’d finished the question. ‘Oh no…’ I stopped, and swallowed. ‘I mean, perhaps you found it… fallen off the van…?’

‘No, sir.’ His face was calm. ‘We found it in the sitting-room, near Mrs Stuart.’

Donald understood as clearly as I had done. He stood up abruptly and went to the window, and stared out for a while at the empty garden.

‘It is heavy,’ he said at last. ‘The base of it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It must have been… quick.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Frost said again, sounding more objective than comforting.

‘P… poor Regina.’ The words were quiet, the desolation immense. When he came back to the table, his hands were trembling. He sat down heavily and stared into space.

Frost started another careful speech about the sitting-room being kept locked by the police for a few days yet and please would neither of us try to go in there.

Neither of us would.

Apart from that, they had finished their enquiries at the house, and Mr Stuart was at liberty to have the other rooms cleaned, if he wished, where the fingerprint dust lay greyish-white on every polished surface.

Mr Stuart gave no sign of having heard.

Had Mr Stuart completed the list of things stolen?

I passed it over. It still consisted only of the diningroom silver and what I could remember of the paintings. Frost raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

‘We’ll need more than this, sir.’

‘We’ll try again today,’ I promised. ‘There’s a lot of wine missing, as well.’

‘Wine?’

I showed him the empty cellar and he came up looking thoughtful.

‘It must have taken hours to move that lot,’ I said.

‘Very likely, sir,’ he said primly.

Whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t telling. He suggested instead that Donald should prepare a short statement to read to the hungry reporters still waiting outside, so that they could go away and print it.

‘No,’ Don said.

‘Just a short statement,’ Frost said reasonably. ‘We can prepare it here and now, if you like.’

He wrote it himself, more or less, and I guessed it was as much for his own sake as Donald’s that he wanted the Press to depart, as it was he who had to push through them every time. He repeated the statement aloud when he had finished. It sounded like a police account, full of jargon, but because of that so distant from Donald’s own raw grief that my cousin agreed in the end to read it out.

‘But no photographs,’ he said anxiously, and Frost said he would see to it.

They crowded into the hall, a collection of dry-eyed fact-finders, all near the top of their digging profession and inured from sensitivity by a hundred similar intrusions into tragedy. Sure, they were sorry for the guy whose wife had been bashed, but news was news and bad news sold papers, and if they didn’t produce the goods they’d lose their jobs to others more tenacious. The Press Council had stopped the brutal bullying of the past, but the leeway still allowed could be a great deal too much for the afflicted.

Donald stood on the stairs, with Frost and myself at the
foot, and read without expression, as if the words applied to someone else.

‘… I returned to the house at approximately five p.m. and observed that during my absence a considerable number of valuable objects had been removed… I telephoned immediately for assistance… My wife, who was normally absent from the house on Fridays, returned unexpectedly… and, it is presumed, disturbed the intruders.’

He stopped. The reporters dutifully wrote down the stilted words and looked disillusioned. One of them, clearly elected by pre-arrangement, started asking questions for them all, in a gentle, coaxing, sympathetic tone of voice.

‘Could you tell us which of these closed doors is the one to the room where your wife…’

Donald’s eyes slid briefly despite himself towards the sittingroom. All the heads turned, the eyes studied the uninformative white painted panels, the pencils wrote.

‘And could you tell us what exactly was stolen?’

‘Silver. Paintings.’

‘Who were the paintings by?’

Donald shook his head and began to look even paler.

‘Could you tell us how much they were worth?’

After a pause Don said ‘I don’t know.’

‘Were they insured?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many bedrooms are there in your house?’

‘What?’

‘How many bedrooms?’

Donald looked bewildered. ‘I suppose… five.’

‘Do you think you could tell us anything about your wife? About her character, and about her job? And could you let us have a photograph?’

Donald couldn’t. He shook his head and said ‘I’m sorry,’ and turned and walked steadily away upstairs.

‘That’s all,’ Frost said with finality.

‘It’s not much,’ they grumbled.

‘What do you want? Blood?’ Frost said, opening the front door and encouraging them out. ‘Put yourselves in his position.’

‘Yeah,’ they said cynically; but they went.

‘Did you see their eyes?’ I said. ‘Sucking it all in?’

Frost smiled faintly. ‘They’ll all write long stories from that little lot.’

The interview, however, produced to a great extent the desired results. Most of the cars departed, and the rest, I supposed, would follow as soon as fresher news broke.

‘Why did they ask about the bedrooms?’ I said.

‘To estimate the value of the house.’

‘Good grief.’

‘They’ll all get it different.’ Frost was near to amusement. ‘They always do.’ He looked up the stairs in the direction Donald had taken, and, almost casually, said ‘Is your cousin in financial difficulties?’

I knew his catch-them-off-guard technique by now.

‘I wouldn’t think so,’ I said unhurriedly. ‘You’d better ask him.’

‘I will, sir.’ He switched his gaze sharply to my face and studied my lack of expression. ‘What do you know?’

I said calmly, ‘Only that the police have suspicious minds.’

He disregarded that. ‘Is Mr Stuart worried about his business?’

‘He’s never said so.’

‘A great many middle-sized private companies are going bankrupt these days.’

‘So I believe.’

‘Because of cash flow problems,’ he added.

‘I can’t help you. You’ll have to look at his company’s books.’

‘We will, sir.’

‘And even if the firm turns out to be bust, it doesn’t follow that Donald would fake a robbery.’

‘It’s been done before,’ Frost said dryly.

‘If he needed money he could simply have sold the stuff,’ I pointed out.

‘Maybe he had. Some of it. Most of it, maybe.’

I took a slow breath and said nothing.

‘That wine, sir. As you said yourself, it would have taken a long time to move.’

‘The firm is a limited company,’ I said. ‘If it went bankrupt, Donald’s own house and private money would be unaffected.’

‘You know a good deal about it, don’t you?’

I said neutrally, ‘I live in the world.’

‘I thought artists were supposed to be unworldly.’

‘Some are.’

He peered at me with narrowed eyes as if he were trying to work out a possible way in which I too might have conspired to arrange the theft.

I said mildly, ‘My cousin Donald is an honourable man.’

‘That’s an out of date word.’

‘There’s quite a lot of it about.’

He looked wholly disbelieving. He saw far too much in the way of corruption, day in, day out, all his working life.

Donald came hesitantly down the stairs and Frost took him off immediately to another private session in the kitchen. I thought that if Frost’s questions were to be as barbed as those he’d asked me, poor Don was in for a rough time. While they talked I wandered aimlessly round the house, looking into storage spaces, opening cupboards, seeing the inside details of my cousin’s life.

Either he or Regina had been a hoarder of empty
boxes. I came across dozens of them, all shapes and sizes, shoved into odd corners of shelves or drawers: brown cardboard, bright gift-wrap, beribboned chocolate boxes, all too potentially useful or too pretty to be thrown away. The burglars had opened a lot but had thrown more unopened on the floor. They must, I thought, have had a most frustrating time.

They had largely ignored the big sunroom, which held few antiques and no paintings, and I ended up there sitting on a bamboo armchair among sprawling potted plants looking out into the windy garden. Dead leaves blew in scattered showers from the drying trees and a few late roses clung hardily to thorny stems.

I hated autumn. The time of melancholy, the time of death. My spirits fell each year with the soggy leaves and revived only with crisp winter frost. Psychiatric statistics proved that the highest suicide rate occurred in the spring, the time for rebirth and growth and stretching in the sun. I could never understand it. If ever I jumped over a cliff, it would be in the depressing months of decay.

The sunroom was grey and cold. No sun, that Sunday.

I went upstairs, fetched my suitcase, and brought it down. Over years of wandering journeys I had reversed the painter’s traditional luggage: my suitcase now contained the tools of my trade, and my satchel, clothes. The large toughened suitcase, its interior adapted and fitted by me, was in fact a sort of portable studio, containing besides paints and brushes a light collapsible metal easel, unbreakable containers of linseed oil and turpentine, and a rack which would hold four wet paintings safely apart. There were also a dust sheet, a large box of tissues, and generous amounts of white spirit, all designed for preventing mess and keeping things clean. The organisation of the suitcase had saved and made the price of many a sandwich.

I untelescoped the easel and set out my palette, and on a middling-sized canvas laid in the beginnings of a melancholy landscape, a mixture of Donald’s garden as I saw it, against a sweep of bare fields and gloomy woods. Not my usual sort of picture, and not, to be honest, the sort to make headline news a century hence; but it gave me at least something to do. I worked steadily, growing ever colder, until the chillier Frost chose to depart; and he went without seeing me again, the front door closing decisively on his purposeful footsteps.

Donald, in the warm kitchen, looked torn to rags. When I went in he was sitting with his arms folded on the table and his head on his arms, a picture of absolute despair. When he heard me he sat up slowly and wearily, and showed a face suddenly aged and deeply lined.

‘Do you know what he thinks?’ he said.

‘More or less.’

He stared at me sombrely. ‘I couldn’t convince him. He kept on and on. Kept asking the same questions, over and over. Why doesn’t he believe me?’

‘A lot of people lie to the police. I think they grow to expect it.’

‘He wants me to meet him in my office tomorrow. He says he’ll be bringing colleagues. He says they’ll want to see the books.’,

I nodded. ‘Better be grateful he didn’t drag you down there today.’

‘I suppose so.’

I said awkwardly, ‘Don, I’m sorry. I told him the wine was missing. It made him suspicious… It was a good deal my fault that he was so bloody to you.’

He shook his head tiredly. ‘I would have told him myself. I wouldn’t have thought of not telling him.’

‘But… I even pointed out that it must have taken a fair time to move so many bottles.’

‘Mm. Well, he would have worked that out for himself.’