Prospero’s Children. Jan Siegel
‘You’ll take care of it,’ said Will. ‘You always do.’
In the afternoon Fern, annoyed with herself for not having thought of it earlier, rang the solicitors to enquire if they had the rest of Mr Capel’s keys. Her brainwave, however, failed to bring results; a man with an elderly voice suggested that she search in drawers, cupboards, and so on. ‘I already have,’ said Fern.
‘He’ll have put them in a safe place, then,’ said the solicitor comfortably.
‘I’ve been afraid of that,’ said Fern.
She tried vainly to stop herself looking out of the window every few minutes; Ragginbone’s continued absence might be irrelevant, but it provided an extra irritant. At tea, Will startled her by remarking: ‘That rock’s gone again.’
‘Which rock?’ The question was a reflex.
‘The one that looks like a man. It’s been gone for several days now.’
You’re imagining things, ‘said Fern.’ Forget it.’ She was still reluctant to talk about the Watcher.
Will studied his sister with limpid detachment. ‘This woman who’s coming here,’ he said, ‘do you suppose she could be part of it?’
‘How could she?’ said Fern, without pretending to misunderstand.
‘I don’t know,’ said Will, ‘but I can see you thinking.’
Alison Redmond arrived later that day, driving a Range Rover loaded with paintings, samples of carpet and furnishing fabrics, several cardboard boxes taped shut and three or four items of Gucci luggage. She was wearing her point-edged smile and a passing flicker of sunshine found a few strands of colour in her dim hair. She greeted the Capels with a diffidence designed to undermine hostility, apologised to Mrs Wicklow for any possible inconvenience, and demanded instantly to be taken over the house, praising its atmosphere and period discomforts. She did not say ‘I do so hope we’re all going to be friends’, nor scatter kisses in their vicinity: her gestures were airy, tenuous, almost filmy, her fingertips would flutter along an arm, her hair brush against a neighbouring body, and Fern knew it was paranoia that made her fancy these feather-touches contaminated her. Alison managed to adore everything without quite crossing the line into effusion, drawing Will out on his attic researches so skilfully that his sister grew anxious, throwing her arm around him with unaccustomed affection and digging her nails into his shoulder to silence him. The only thing that checked Alison’s flow, just for a moment, was the main drawing room. She hesitated on the threshold, glancing round as though something were missing, her smile blurring; and then she seemed to regain her self-command, and the charm was back in play. Afterwards, pondering that temporary glitch in her manner, an explanation occurred to Fern, but she discarded it as too far-fetched. Alison had never been in that room before. She could not possibly be disconcerted because the idol had been moved.
‘I’ll help you bring your things in,’ Will offered, clearly reserving judgement.
Alison, just grateful enough and not too grateful, passed him a valise and a book of carpet patterns and began hefting the boxes herself. ‘Most of the pictures can stay in the car,’ she said. ‘One of our artists lives in York: I picked up a load of stuff on my way here to take back on Monday. There are just a couple of mine I’d like to have in my room; I never go anywhere without my own pictures.’ The sweep of her smile deprecated affectation. ‘Some people won’t travel without a particular cushion, or a bag, or an item of jewellery. With me I’m afraid it’s paintings. It’s disastrous on planes: it makes my baggage so heavy.’
Fern went to assist her, largely out of curiosity. The paintings in question were propped up against the bumper, shrouded in a protective cloth. Alison vanished indoors and Fern lifted the material to steal a glance at the topmost canvas. She had been expecting an abstract but this work was representational, though it struck her as strangely distorted, not for effect but because of some clumsiness on the part of the artist. It showed a horse’s head peering over a stable door, a conventional enough subject, but there were bars impeding it and an odd discoloration creeping in from the borders of the image like mould. The horse’s mane was unnaturally long and tangled and its forehead seemed somehow misshapen, as though its creator had made no real effort for verisimilitude, yet its eyes were intensely alive, heart-breakingly real, dark wild eyes gazing out at Fern with a mixture of pleading and defiance. Being in London most of the time Fern had had few opportunities to ride, but she loved horses and still dreamed of having the chance to learn. She found herself reaching out to touch the canvas, her hand going instinctively to the lock on the stable door; the paint felt rough and hard, like metal, like rust. ‘Leave it!’ The voice behind her was Alison’s, almost unrecognisable in its abrupt alteration.
Fern jumped. Her hand dropped; the cloth slipped back into place. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said with exquisite politeness. ‘I wasn’t aware the pictures were private.’
For a second, she thought Alison was discomfited; then both curtness and awkwardness melted away and a thin veil of warmth slid over her face, leaving it as before. ‘The paintings are old,’ she explained, ‘and very fragile. If you touch the paint you could damage them. I’m keeping them for restoration work: my own personal project. As a matter of fact, I think that whole scene has been applied on top of something else. The layers have to be removed very carefully. As you saw, I’ve only just started.’ The area that looks like mould, Fern thought, only half satisfied. ‘A lot of stolen masterpieces get painted over to make them easier to hide or transport. I keep hoping I’m going to come across something special.’
She carried the pictures upstairs herself. They had installed her, by common consensus, on the top floor—‘Out of the way,’ said Will—in a room that felt chill and gloomy from long vacancy. Alison, however, professed herself delighted with the crooked ceiling, the balding velvet of cushion and curtain, the smoky mirror above the mantle. ‘I trust you won’t think me obsessive,’ she said, ‘but if I might just have the key? I have this thing about privacy. My own space is vital to me—I can’t help it, it’s just how I am. I grew up sharing with three sisters: I expect that’s how it started.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Fern blandly. ‘We only have the house keys. Great-Cousin Ned seems to have put all the others in a safe place.’
‘We’ve looked everywhere,’ Will added. ‘At least, Fern has.’
Watching Alison, Fern was convinced there was another flicker in her expression, a momentary freezing-over. ‘I’d be obliged,’ she said, ‘if you didn’t come into my room when I’m not here. I’m sure you understand.’
Do I? thought Fern.
She and Will went back downstairs, leaving Alison to unpack.
‘She’s very nice,’ said Will, ‘if you like niceness. It’s hard to tell how sincere she is. She seems to be working at it—but if she’s keen on Dad she would, wouldn’t she?’
‘The niceness is all on the surface,’ declared Fern. ‘All sparkle, no substance. It’s called charm.’
‘Like tinsel,’ said Will, ‘on a shoddy Christmas tree. I don’t think I trust her. I haven’t quite made up my mind.’
‘I have,’ said his sister. ‘You don’t.’
In the hall, Mrs Wicklow was putting on her coat. ‘I’ll be off now,’ she said. ‘There’s a pie in t’ oven. I daresay Madam won’t eat it, she’s too skinny to eat pie: probably lives off brown rice and that muesli. Still, I know you two appreciate my cooking.’
‘We do,’ Will concurred warmly.
‘Queer thing about her,’ she added, glancing up in the direction of Alison’s room. ‘Odd fancies you do get sometimes.’
‘What fancy?’ asked Fern.
‘Miss Redmond comes from London: that’s what you said?’
Fern nodded. ‘She works in an