The Girl in the Gallery Read online

  The Girl in the Gallery

  The Second London Murder Mystery

  Alice Castle

  From the same series:

  Death in Dulwich

  Copyright © 2018 by Alice Castle

  Design: soqoqo

  Editor: Christine McPherson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2018

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  In memory of

  Domonic Noble

  Acknowledgements

  To Ella, Connie and William, with love.

  Thank you to my mother, Anita, and my brothers, Clive and Marcus, for all their help and support, and to Connie, Seth, Clive, Penny, Matthew, Natasha, Marie-Louise, Lucy, Clare, Oliver, Emma and Bill.

  This mystery was inspired by the wonderful Dulwich Picture Gallery, celebrating 200 years of art for the public this year. I found Soane’s Favourite Subject: Dulwich Picture Gallery by Francesco Nevola very useful, as was Dulwich Picture Gallery: Complete Illustrated Catalogue by Richard Beresford. Thank you to all the friends who have heard so much about the progress of this novel and all those who’ve been so generous in their enthusiasm for my first in this series, Death in Dulwich, giving me the impetus to continue. Thanks, too, to Laurence, Steph and Christine at Crooked Cat for making it all possible.

  Alice Castle

  About the Author

  Alice Castle was a national newspaper journalist for The Daily Express, The Times and The Daily Telegraph before becoming a novelist. Her first book, Hot Chocolate, was a European best-seller which sold out in two weeks.

  Alice’s first book in the London Murder Mystery series, Death in Dulwich, topped Amazon’s satire detective fiction chart. The third instalment in the London Murder Mystery series, The Calamity in Catford, will be published by Crooked Cat next year.

  Find Alice’s website at www.AliceCastleAuthor.com. Alice is also a top mummy blogger, writing DD’s Diary at www.dulwichdivorcee.com, and is on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/alicecastleauthor/ and Twitter at https://twitter.com/DDsDiary

  She lives in south London and is married with two children, two step-children and two cats.

  The Girl in the Gallery

  The Second London Murder Mystery

  Chapter One

  Beth Haldane gazed helplessly in front of her, trying to decide between the Gainsborough and the Romney. The flames might be flickering up the walls, the silk damask covering the chairs starting to singe, but still she dithered, her serious grey eyes flicking from one large canvas to the other. Which work of art would you save in a fire? It was her favourite museum game, but it was just so hard to play, here at Wyatt’s Picture Gallery.

  Should she rescue that perfect, frilly vision of the English countryside, with its bewigged and powdered owners preening centre stage? Or would she plump instead for the dimpled cheek and laughing eyes of a delicious daughter of the nobility, immortalised in the brief interlude between smallpox and childbirth?

  She wanted them both, basically.

  It was a lovely idea – to run out of the burning building with, say, a Reynolds up your jumper, and be hailed as a heroine instead of slammed into prison as an art thief. The fact that she would be more than tempted to gallop straight back to her tiny house a few minutes away in Pickwick Road, and stick her salvage straight onto her sitting room wall, was beside the point. She would never do it, even if she could get away with it. A life of crime was not for her. She knew that much for sure, no matter how many pictures were dying to be liberated from this elegant building and relocated to her own beloved but slightly down-at-heel home.

  She trotted across the parquet of the central gallery, worn smooth by 200 years’ worth of art lovers’ feet, hardly believing her luck that the place was still deserted. The girl on the ticket desk had only just arrived when Beth had popped in on a whim. She didn’t have to be at work at Wyatt’s Endowment School’s archive office – or the research institute, as she had to get used to calling it, after her stratospheric recent promotion – until 11am today, but she did have to pick up some cannelloni for supper from the Italian deli in the Village. Cannelloni had made her think irresistibly of Canaletto and, before she knew it, she was prancing up to the impressive yellow brick building, its rows of blind windowless arches like quizzical eyebrows raised at her small sturdy figure, her pony tail swishing as she passed the still-closed café and the beautiful old mulberry tree to the side of entrance.

  She always felt so lucky to have great works, including the Canaletto, the Gainsborough and all their friends, right on her doorstep in Dulwich. The place had pretentions to village status, but really – whisper it softly – it was just another south London suburb. By rights, a collection this good should have warranted a train trip into the centre of the city, with all the hassle and planning that entailed. But, through a quirk of history and the founders’ affection for this leafy pocket, the Gallery had opened to the public here in 1817 – and she was certainly dedicated to making the most of it.

  The Friends’ desk, where Beth usually showed her £30-a-year, come-as-often-as-you-like pass, was staffed by volunteers. It had been deserted at this early hour, but she’d been waved through by the flustered assistant at the other end of the counter who usually dealt with the normal ticket sales. She’d been switching on her computer with one hand and flipping the light switches with the other, and couldn’t have been less interested in checking the fine print of Beth’s pass. So, Beth was savouring every moment of being the first visitor of the day.

  The sun flooded in through the central roof lanterns, the brainwave of 19th century architect Sir John Soane. They ensured that, although there was not a single conventional window in the place, every painting was bathed in an equal share of light from above. The uninterrupted sweep of the walls was studded with gem after gem – Tiepolo, Rembrandt, Poussin. A few motes of dust danced in the central pools of brightness, and the air had that heaviness that betokened that it was going to be a hot day in Dulwich.

  Beth’s gaze slid from Rembrandt’s little girl, leaning out from her canvas to beguile every viewer that passed with her frank, bright-eyed gaze, to one of her all-time favourite pictures, Gainsborough’s full-length portrait of a lady, Mrs Elizabeth Moody. The lovely Mrs M held her rather pensive toddler nestled into her silken waist, while her long fingers curved possessively around the wrist of her eldest boy, as he stood close to the sheeny swish of his mother’s taffeta skirts.

  Beth shivered, despite the gathering warmth of the day. Sometimes knowing too much could spoil even the most innocent moments. She’d only been a small girl herself, little older than the boy standing at his mother’s side, when she’d learned the secret of Gainsborough’s lady in blue. Mrs Moody, with her faraway gaze, had died aged twenty-six – which seemed like early childhood now to Beth, from the vantage point of her mid-thirties. The little boys, dressed so much like girls to modern eyes, had been painted into the pre-existing portrait after her death; a sentimental gesture toward the dead that had rebounded horribly on the living.

  The picture, which seemed such an innocent record of an everyday stroll with mother and sons, was as much a work of imagination as Beth’
s own save-the-painting game. It turned out that poor Elizabeth Moody had died when her youngest boy was a newborn baby, not the self-possessed child Gainsborough had captured, and the little family had never once taken a walk together in the woods like this one. In fact, despite the grief which had initially prompted Elizabeth’s widower to alter the picture and paint his growing boys with the mother they missed, Mr Moody had rapidly remarried. Elizabeth’s boys hated their new stepmother, and ended up estranged from their father, too. Thomas, the painted toddler, had bequeathed the valuable Gainsborough to the public Picture Gallery on his death, expressly so that his stepmother and her own children would never inherit it.

  Had this fantasy of devoted motherhood helped to wreck their real life? Beth wondered. It was amazing to think of the grief, jealousy, and anger which hid behind these wistful painted smiles.

  The rich russet walls seemed to close in and, despite the light wells, the place started to feel claustrophobic. Maybe it was a dose of reality, or maybe it was because Beth was approaching the part of the gallery she always dreaded. She wanted to see the latest exhibition while the going was good, and today was the perfect moment while the place was deserted, but her route took her right past a strange stone nook built into the museum’s heart. It always gave her chills. It was a mausoleum, housing the dead bodies of the place’s founders. She knew it was silly, but she had a superstitious horror of the spot. It was such a bizarre idea – a cemetery hidden in plain sight, right in the middle of an art gallery. While tourists, the cognoscenti, and amateur enthusiasts like herself idled away moments looking at these walls, the original collectors who had hand-picked everything here, lay rotting in their midst.

  All right, she had to admit, Sir John Soane had packaged the bodies of the art dealer, Francis Petty, his business partner Noel Devereux, and his wife, Margot, with his usual flair. First, there was a circular stone antechamber, with a flagged floor radiating out from the central roundel. Quite a few patios in Dulwich sported this design, and Beth knew that the B&Q in Norwood High Street even sold the slabs in kit form. They made a nice terrace feature in a suburban back garden, but here the effect was sombre. Six tall, fat marble columns edged the circle, supporting a high ceiling with a glass lantern, its panes in murky orange and cold yellow-green, drowning the place in cheerless shadow. Even here, an unwitting visitor could drift in and still not realise what they were seeing, though they might wonder at the gloomy décor. But at the end, the circular room opened into a smaller, darker, oblong annexe, again with a high, high ceiling. And here were the three marble sarcophagi which the entire gallery was built around.

  Francis Petty was in what looked like a long, low, marble filing cabinet, right opposite the entrance to the mausoleum. As a last resting place, it was very plain. There seemed to be a vacant filing cabinet just above him – perhaps for a woman who had gone off the whole idea when she saw what lay in store for her mortal remains. Two white marble busts topped off the cabinets. Flanking Petty on either side were tombs containing the bodies of his friends, the Devereux. These were more recognisable as enormous coffins. Again, drab dark-orange and yellowish-green panes up above filtered the light, so it had a cold, flat, and mournful quality.

  It was quite possible to walk past this set of two creepy rooms without knowing their purpose – and Beth heartily wished she had never been curious enough to find out about it – but it was open to view if you were so minded. Although she quite liked the joke that the art dealers had made a spectacle of themselves, her 21st century mind recoiled from the reality of death. And, after recent events which were still horribly vivid, she was all the keener to canter past the whole business.

  And that’s what she started doing. But as she sped on to the last gallery, containing the current exhibition, she stopped for a second opposite one of her favourite canvases – the spectacular red, white, and blue bouquet of Jan van Huysum’s still life; one of the jewels of the collection. She’d heard that 18th century flower painters were paid extra for insects, and it was one of her little habits to try and spot the wriggling wildlife every time she came. This time, it wasn’t a beastie in the bunch of flowers that caught her eye, though. It was something on the very edge of her peripheral vision. Something that jarred, didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t even be there. Something that, she realised with dread, was in the mausoleum antechamber. Something that meant, however much she did not want to, she had to turn back and look.

  Beth’s heart started to thud. It was a flash of scarlet.

  Someone had once told her that Constable had added a dash of red to all his canvases – it was ‘the salt in the soup’. Beth felt quite vehemently that her life did not need even the tiniest jot more seasoning. In fact, she could no longer even think of the shade crimson lake without shuddering from head to toe, after making a ghastly discovery on the first day of her job at Wyatt’s.

  No, this time, if anything bad was happening, she was not going to stumble across it on her own. Resolutely shutting her eyes, she sidled back past the niche and then ran straight for the ticket desk. She’d get that girl on the desk to come with her, if she had to drag her all the way.

  ***

  Tricia, the gallery assistant, was surreptitiously washing down a fistful of paracetamol with a bottle of water purloined from the gift shop when Beth arrived, panting and shouting.

  Feeling just as harassed now as she had been when Beth had first breezed past her, Tricia had been looking forward to a clear twenty-minute breather to get her hangover under control. She needed it, before the daily stampede of Dulwich mummies, OAPs, and art students began traipsing in and ruining her day. Looking Beth up and down crossly – seeing a short but determined little person, with surprisingly intelligent eyes peering past a long fringe – Tricia summed her up as probably another one of those women with nothing better to do than make a massive fuss about the pamphlets having run out in the main gallery. Which Trish knew all about already, as she’d promised faithfully to replenish them. Last week.

  ‘Ok, ok, I’ve got a load of them here. Somewhere…’ she said, pushing a mess of bleached hair out of the way and rooting around half-heartedly under her desk, where her stash of biscuits was hidden. If anyone had told her that her first job out of uni would be this dull, she’d have… At this point, her imagination failed. For what was there for her, but the treadmill of exams, college, and dull jobs, until, maybe, marriage to a Dulwich banker beckoned? Shame she’d just dumped her boyfriend. But the woman leaning annoyingly over her counter wasn’t calming down at all, despite Trish’s efforts to appease. If anything, she was getting a lot more agitated.

  ‘You don’t understand. I’ve seen something… It’s all wrong…’

  ‘Oh, you mean on the kids’ trail? Yes, we’ve got a few spoof captions up. For April Fool’s Day, you know?’ Ok, so the first of April had been some time ago. But, God, she couldn’t get round to everything, could she?

  ‘It’s not that. Look, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to come with me. Now!’ There was no mistaking the note of command in Beth’s voice. Trish was willing to bet this woman was a terror with her kids. A workshy intern was no match for her. Clearly, if she had to come round and drag Trish with her, she would.

  Trish sighed and admitted defeat. Brushing a few crumbs off her lap and screwing the cap onto her water bottle with an aggressive twist, she levered herself off her chair and sidled out from behind the desk. This wasn’t as easy as it had been when she’d landed the job, four months ago. Close proximity to the gallery’s outstanding café, not to mention the plethora of coffee shops in the village, was not doing much for her embonpoint, though Rubens – well represented in the collection – would have heartily approved of her pale and bountiful flesh.

  ‘Ok then. What’s up?’ said Tricia crossly, wincing slightly as her own harsh voice jarred the Jägerbomb-jangled contents of her skull. Beth didn’t waste any more words but, taking the girl’s wrist in as firm a grip as the late Mrs Moody’s, led her through t
he main gallery. As they approached the mausoleum, Tricia dug in her heels.

  ‘Oh no you don’t! That’s just part of the gallery, that bit. Don’t ask me why they thought it was a good idea, but yes, those marble chunks are, like, coffins and the owners of the gallery are in them, dead. It’s all legit.’

  Beth stopped and looked Tricia in the eye. ‘I know all about that. But there’s something else in there today. Something that shouldn’t be there.’

  Tricia, a head taller than Bella, looked down at the serious oval face before her and measured the look in the clear grey eyes. This woman wasn’t messing about. Suddenly, Tricia felt afraid, and not just because the zip on her skirt was starting to give.

  ***

  Just the day before, Beth had sneaked in an early coffee with her friend at Katie’s absolute favourite café, Jane’s, in the heart of the village. It was a measure of Beth’s ebullient mood that she was happy to meet at this insanely popular spot. If there was anything even remotely confidential on her mind, she would no sooner go to Jane’s than she would have stood at the corner of Calton Avenue and Dulwich Village with a loudhailer, announcing her business to the passing hordes. Ears were not just on stalks at every table at Jane’s, they were arrayed in giant bouquets and attuned to catching every nuance of a promising-sounding conversation. Not helped by the fact that the proprietors of Jane’s had crammed in as many tables as possible to maximise custom.

  As they took their seats, the table wobbling precariously as usual – Beth couldn’t actually remember sitting at a table that didn’t wobble in this place – Katie was all smiles. Her perennially supportive husband, Michael, had finally agreed that they could revamp the upstairs of their already gorgeous home on Court Lane.