Outside, I felt the cold air freeze my lungs as if it aimed to drown me. My hopes were frozen too: it seemed unlikely that I’d get Isaac to pose for me again.
Muriel and Griff were wandering back up the farm track towards me, arm in arm.
“Good walk?” I said.
“Beautiful,” said Griff fervently. “A lovely place.” Yet he stared at me with blankness as if he had no idea of who I was or why we were here.
“We’ve been taking photographs of the scenery, haven’t we, Griff? It was very kind of Eden to show us this farm in Little Langdale, where her friends live,” prompted Muriel. Spelling out the obvious like a patient mother: Look, there’s a cow. Isn’t that a nice sheep? See the big red tractor.
See the old blue van. It hurtled, rattling, over the cattle grid and swooped up the track towards us too fast. Having squealed around the yard like a seagull, it braked abruptly, nose up against the wall.
Selena jumped out, looking pleased. She wore her long trench coat over the baggy jumper like idiosyncratic haute couture. Just as I was about to greet her, Muriel put a swift hand on my arm.
“No names,” she murmured.
“Hallo! I thought you might not come back after all,” Selena said. She gave me half a hug, barely touching me; but her face shone with gratification.
“Why wouldn’t I? I promised.”
“Yes, but people don’t keep their promises, do they?”
“The Lady of the Lake!” Griff’s ebullient voice burst in. His long, earnest face creased into a delighted smile. “It’s the Lady of the Lake! Isn’t it, Muriel? My goodness! Not going for a swim today, are you?”
Muriel clamped her hand to her chest. Selena eyed Griff warily.
“A swim? That was just an accident,” she said.
“We’re so glad to see you.” Muriel’s voice faded, breathless. “We gave Eden a lift here in our car. I hope you don’t mind? You’ve made a full recovery?”
“I’m absolutely fine,” Selena said, and turned back to me. “Are you going to paint me now, Eden? Where should I stand? Do I need to wear anything special?” She gazed at my open sketchbook and her face fell in disappointment. “Oh, you’ve started already! Why were you drawing Isaac?”
“Because you weren’t here.”
“Well, I am now. How do you want me to pose? Shall I get changed? Do I look all right?”
She looked unusual. Tight black trousers, heels too high for a farmyard, coat like a shabby vampire’s cloak, and the vast, grey, masculine jumper.
“She should be standing by a lake,” said Griff excitedly.
“Or in it,” said Selena. She leaned elegantly against the wall, one foot in front of the other in the pointy boots, her hips thrown forward in a practised manner. A 1950s starlet, ripe for a calendar. “Is this okay?” she asked.
“I don’t want you to pose,” I told her. “Just be yourself. Pretend to look at the sheep.”
At once she put her chin on her hand, and gazed into the distance with a languid sensuality straight off a gallery wall. Never mind the PreRaphaelites, I thought, Alma-Tadema would have loved her: he would have undressed her and stood her in a Roman bath for portly Victorian gentlemen to spy on. It was charming; but it wasn’t what I wanted.
“No, take your hand away,” I said. “Look natural.” She was as perfect and obedient as a ragged mannequin, but looking natural was beyond her. I gave up. It didn’t really matter. It was the landscape that I wanted, after all.
But once I began to draw her – just as in the guesthouse – I was hooked. She had such a classic profile, with that straight nose and the strong chin. Formed for art.
As always, it was the expression that eluded me. I moved round her to make quick sketches of her head. None of them satisfied me. They looked like a fifteen year old’s idea of beauty, all pouty lips and arched brows, more Snow Queen than Selena.
As I drew, Griff watched intently: not me, but her. Muriel, in turn, watched Griff with uncertainty and hope. Every so often she put a hand to her throat.
“Please can you not?” said Selena after a few minutes, twitching out of position. “I’d rather you didn’t stare at me like that.”
“Come away, Griff,” said Muriel swiftly. “Let’s leave them for a while.” She took his arm and he followed her obediently across the yard.
“Why did you bring them?” Selena said. She didn’t sound happy.
“They were keen to see you. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t mind her. She’s nice enough. It’s him. The old guy.”
“I know he’s a bit strange. He’s lost his memory,” I explained. “He doesn’t remember anything for more than about ten minutes.”
“But he remembered me! That’s weird.” Selena shifted as she thought about it. I sighed and rubbed out again. “How come he remembers me?”
“I suppose that when you see someone floating in a lake fully clothed, it makes an impression.”
“It’s creepy, though. He’s creepy. I’d rather he forgot.” She turned dark, solemn eyes on me. “What about you, Eden? What did you think, when you saw me in the lake?”
“Well – I was worried about you. That was why I went in after you.”
“I’m glad. Most people wouldn’t have.”
“Oh, I expect they would.”
“No. People are cruel.” She sighed, gazing wistfully into the distance, and I wondered who she meant. Who was cruel? Who broke those promises she had spoken of?
It could only be Luke, I thought, as I pencilled in the shadows round her eyes. Her face was a ravishing enigma, the full lips slightly parted in longing or reproach. Her breath misted in the cold air, making ghosts.
Surely, even if painting Isaac was beyond me, I couldn’t fail with her… My pencil felt its way around her cheek, her mouth, her transient beauty against the enduring hills, searching for a truth that might be within my grasp at last.
And then the spell was broken, as Bryony stumped back across the yard to peer over my shoulder. Griff, rediscovering me, hurried eagerly after her to peer over my shoulder. Muriel followed to rebuke him and peer over my shoulder.
“They’re just preliminary sketches,” I said in self-defence.
“But very charming,” said Muriel.
“So realistic!” declared Griff with elation. He was euphoric. “Why, you could turn professional! They could be book covers.”
He was right. I saw that they were dreadful. The height of clichéd romance: all Selena needed was a shawl and a swarthy lover glowering in the background.
“Let me look!” Selena came over to stare in fascination at her pencilled face. “That’s me?”
“That’s a decent one with the farmhouse,” Bryony said pragmatically. “It’d look good on our website.”
“I’m not going on a website.”
“But you could be famous!” Griff exclaimed. “The Lady of the Lake. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Stop it. No, I wouldn’t.” She shook her hair forward to cover her face, a disingenuous gesture of bashfulness for someone who had been so keen to pose.
“But you’re remarkably pretty,” insisted Griff. “Isn’t she, Muriel? Why, you’re quite lovely!”
“Oh, yes,” said Muriel, smiling. She didn’t seem to mind Griff’s animation, but Selena stiffened. I was embarrassed on her behalf.
And frustrated too. How could I capture Selena’s haunted beauty, or Isaac’s weary kingliness, with perpetual spectators popping heads over my shoulder?
“It may never get finished anyway,” I said grumpily.
“But you’ve only just begun! You will finish, Eden, won’t you?” begged Selena. “You will come back?”
I did want to. I longed to feel that rush again, the excitement flowing through my hands. Like an addict returning to her old habit, I wanted more – if only I could get rid of all the popping heads, and Selena would stand still.
“Later,” I said. “I’ll do some preparation at home first. I should have brough
t a camera to take reference shots.” My phone was an ancient one with no camera.
“You’ve got yours, Griff,” suggested Muriel. “It’s in your pocket.”
“Really? So it is!” He pulled a camera out triumphantly. “Well, that’s a stroke of luck! Shall I take a picture of the young lady?”
“No!” Selena recoiled, crossing her hands over her face dramatically, as if she were a film star and he the paparazzi. “No photos!”
“Oh, don’t be so daft,” said Bryony wearily. Griff held up his camera, a small silver glint against the gloomy sky.
“Smile!” The flash smacked across the farmyard and galvanised Selena.
“I said no photos!” she screeched. Lunging at Griff, she cuffed his head with both hands in turn. She kicked at his shins and tore the camera from his startled hand.
“What the hell?” cried Bryony. Griff, in shock, held his arms up as if he was being robbed. Muriel quickly got in front of him.
But Selena had already whirled away, fumbling with the camera. “How do I delete the bloody thing?”
“Give that back this minute!” demanded Bryony.
Selena swore at the camera, then swirled round in a wild arc like a clumsy discus thrower and flung it away across the farmyard.
A little silver satellite, it hurtled through the air. Sailing through the half-open door of the shed, it landed with a muffled clatter.
“What are you doing, you idiot?” yelled Bryony. Selena burst into tears.
“I’ll get it,” I offered hastily. Running over to the shed, I dived into shadow and a hot stink of manure.
For a few seconds I couldn’t see a thing. Then I made out a low-beamed roof and a row of wooden stalls, mostly full of sacks except the nearest which was full of enormous, smelly, rustling bull. The camera glinted by its feet.
I seized a pair of long iron tongs that were resting on a shelf. They felt surprisingly heavy when I lifted them down. But as I stretched out for the camera with them, the bull’s hind leg twitched. I leapt backwards.
“Stop there!” ordered Bryony’s voice behind me. “Don’t go any closer. Those bull tongs aren’t long enough. Leave it to me.”
She was carrying a spade with which she prised the camera carefully away. The bull shifted its restless bulk and rumbled, a storm trapped inside a shed.
“What the hell is she playing at?” muttered Bryony as she levered the camera through matted straw. “Who does she think she is, a bloody D-list celebrity?”
“She’s upset.”
“Upset! She’s play-acting. Attention-seeking.”
Tentatively I picked up the camera and wiped off some slime. “At least this is okay, I think.”
Backing out into the daylight, I offered it to Griff, who looked shattered: he was trembling.
“I said no photos! I hate people poking bloody cameras at me!” cried Selena.
“Hey,” I said. “No big deal. Lots of people feel that way. It’s no problem. I don’t need photos.”
Muriel added, “It’s perfectly all right. We understand.” Which I thought remarkably forgiving of her, even though within ten minutes Griff would presumably have forgotten all about being kicked.
Selena stared at us and then rubbed her sleeve across her face and snuffled. “Sorry,” she whispered. “It reminded me of – of Luke. Police photos. Those cameras flashing everywhere. Horrible memories.”
“What’s all the noise out here?” Isaac strode out of the house. “Sounds like a coop full of angry chickens.”
“Just Selena being a pain again,” said Bryony.
“I daresay. No need to shout.” Isaac looked down at Selena. “You feeling all right, Selena? What happened?”
She jerked away as if he’d slapped her. “Nothing happened. Bloody well leave me alone,” she said, her voice high and vibrating.
“Perhaps you’d better go and have a lie-down.”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she shrieked. “Don’t push me around! Get off!”
Isaac took a couple of steps backwards before speaking again with gruff kindliness. “Come on, now, lass. Let’s see a smile. No more song and dance, eh? Where’s that shopping? I’ll lend you a hand.”
“I don’t need a hand,” Selena muttered, suddenly forlorn. She stood aside and allowed him to unload the car before following him at a distance into the house.
“Well,” said Muriel. “Time to go, I think, Griff. We’d better change our boots.”
They retreated to the car, Griff already shedding his shock to become engrossed with bootlaces. I began to put my gear away with a sigh. My fifteen minutes with Isaac hadn’t been enough; and my sketches of Selena left me dissatisfied.
“Sometimes I think it wasn’t suicide at all.”
I looked up sharply. Bryony stood next to me.
“How do you mean?”
“You saw that business with the camera. That’s what she’s like! There was no reason for all that. She didn’t make that sort of fuss when the police photographers were here.”
“Maybe not,” I said, “But it must have traumatic. Why else would she lash out at Griff like that? And at Isaac too. Does he really push her around?”
“Of course he doesn’t!” said Bryony. “He’s all softly softly with Selena, treats her like one of his prize calves or something. She’s just a drama queen. Likes to think she’s hard done by.”
I sighed. Bryony seemed determined to do Selena down. “It’s very likely she’s depressed. Has she been back to the doctor yet?”
“She doesn’t want to go. And I don’t see why I should take her. There’s nothing wrong with her except bad temper. That’s why I don’t think Luke committed suicide. She gets violent – well, you saw!”
“I saw her kick someone,” I pointed out, “not shoot them. Anyway, Luke left a note.”
Bryony chewed her lip stubbornly. “She could have written that.”
“But she was downstairs when he – when it happened, wasn’t she? And they must have checked the gun for fingerprints.” I knew damn well they had, although I couldn’t tell Bryony I’d learnt that from Hunter.
“Selena wasn’t bothered, though!”
“Bothered by what?” I asked.
“The sound of the shotgun. You’d panic, wouldn’t you? I heard the shot and I panicked and ran into the kitchen. And there she was, all casual, not bothered. She didn’t even go upstairs until I asked her what was going on. Then she came up after me. And when she saw Luke on the floor, she didn’t try to help, she stood there screaming like a train, and wouldn’t stop–” Bryony broke off and turned away.
I pitied her: both for her grief, and for her desperate need to believe the worst of Selena. Screaming like a train didn’t sound like a surprising reaction to the sight of a husband’s bloody corpse; but Bryony didn’t want to believe that Selena cared.
A moment later she turned back to me with dogged desperation. “Luke should have known that I was there for him. He didn’t need to kill himself!”
“I know it’s not easy to accept,” I said.
“Get her to talk about it,” pleaded Bryony. “I know there’s more to it than meets the eye. Luke had never been like that before.”
“But–”
“You could talk to her when you come back to paint her. She likes you. She was really excited about you visiting. Hardly stopped chattering on about you all last week.”
I felt uncomfortable. “Bryony, you’re surely not expecting her to confess to murder while I paint her?”
“But try,” said Bryony. She was desperate. “Please. Just make Selena talk. I know she’s got a secret. You could find it out.”
Chapter Nine