Читать книгу The Darkest Hour - Barbara Erskine - Страница 34

Dolly Davis was standing at her kitchen window at home, the drying up cloth in her hand, staring into space. In ten minutes she would need to leave her small terraced cottage in Midhurst to walk up to the bus stop at the end of the street, ready for the long tour of local villages which would at last drop her off near Rosebank Cottage.

She had been thinking hard all night and was still turning her dilemma over in her mind. Did she trust Lucy Standish? Obviously Mr Mike did. He had told her on the telephone that he had given Mrs Standish a key to the house and to the studio and had told her she could come any day she chose, every day if she wished. He had made it very plain that she, Dolly, was not to interfere or question anything the woman did and was to give her every bit of help she could. To that effect Dolly had written down some dates and facts for Lucy, sitting down the night before with an exercise book and carefully making a list in her best writing of all the dates she could remember, starting with the date Evie had bought Rosebank Cottage. She was to write down the names and addresses of anyone she thought could help with researching the book and any details of the family she knew. Mr Mike said he was going to do the same, but he knew she probably had the key to so much more knowledge about Evie than he did. She knew he was flattering her; she wasn’t born yesterday. But on the other hand he obviously genuinely wanted her co-operation.

She had written down the names of Evie’s parents and grandparents, the name of the street where she had lived in London before she came to Rosebank, she couldn’t remember the number, the names of several of Evie’s friends, the ones who used to come and visit her. She no longer knew their addresses, if she ever did, but it was something to put on the list. She omitted the address of Christopher Marston. It was up to Mr Mike if he wanted to tell her about that side of the family.

At last she had put aside the notebook and stood up. Painfully she made her way up the narrow staircase, cursing her rheumatism, and she walked into the small second bedroom at the top of the stairs. Since her husband, Ronald, had died she had gratefully expanded her life into this second room which had been his for so long. He had suffered privately, as he did everything, from the pain of his long illness and died quietly one night seven years ago. She had not found him, still and peaceful in his bed, till morning when he was already cold.

She had waited a year, that was only decent, then she had sorted all his belongings into bags for the charity shops or for the bin men and moved some of her own things into the room, taking time to lay it out as she liked it with a comfy chair, a table and her small electric sewing machine and cupboards and a light so she could sew in there in her own domain. In one of the cupboards was a large cardboard box. She hauled it out and sat down with it on her knee.

As soon as she had realised what Christopher Marston was up to, clearing all Evie’s personal stuff out of Rosebank, she had saved what she could. It hadn’t been much, the diaries, hidden in the chest of drawers in Evie’s bedroom, two small sketchbooks and the old log book which had lain under the diaries. She had glanced at the log book and frowned in disappointment. She had thought it would be Ralph’s but it belonged to some man she had never heard of. Nevertheless she tucked it into the box with the rest and that same night, quietly, after Christopher and his wife had left, their car stuffed with everything of value in the house, she carried it up the lane and lugged it home on the bus.

She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. What to do? She didn’t want to ask Mr Mike. He would be furious with her for taking it all in the first place but she was unrepentant about that. She did it for Evie. Instinctively she had known that Evie would hate to have anyone, never mind her difficult and rude grandson, poring over her diaries.

She glanced at her watch and pulled off her apron. Time to go. She would think about what to do during the day and make a judgement then.

Lucy was already at work when Dolly arrived at the cottage at exactly nine a.m. The old lady frowned a little, but glancing quickly round she was satisfied that Lucy hadn’t touched anything or messed up the kitchen. She opened the door to the cupboard under the sink and pulled out her polish and dusters. At ten thirty she would go over to the studio and take her a cup of coffee. Until then it was up to Lucy. If she had the manners to come in and say good morning that would be a mark in her favour.

Lucy had pushed open the door of the studio with some trepidation when she arrived that morning after a sleepless night. She stood in the doorway and stared at the scattered brushes on the floor. When the jar fell she had not waited to pick them up. She had slammed the studio door and locked it. When she climbed into the car she was astonished to find that her hands were shaking.

Taking a deep breath she put down her bags and walked over to pick up the scattered contents of the jar. She put it back on the table and pushed it firmly to the centre, well away from the edge, then she glanced nervously round the room. Everything was as she had left it last night. Or was it? She looked at the pile of boxes against the wall. Had they been rearranged? She frowned. Perhaps Dolly had arrived early. Walking over to the wall she stooped and picked up the top box. She didn’t remember seeing it before. Her heart thumping she put it down on the table and pulled open the flaps at the top. Within moments she was completely absorbed. Amongst the shabby cardboard files she found two or three that contained flimsy carbon copies of Evie’s letters. They were smudged and faded and occasionally so faint as to be illegible. Obviously Evie went on using each sheet of carbon paper long after it was too worn to be of much use, but there was enough there to show that these were the letters she wrote to galleries and exhibition organisers about showing her work. Lucy felt a shot of adrenaline run through her as she saw the names of various paintings listed again and again, one or two of which she recognised, several which she did not. This must be an inventory of her basic exhibits, the ones she sent off round the country on tour. At the top of each letter was the name and address of the place to which they were going. She found a sequence of dates spanning some five years of Evie’s main exhibitions. Perhaps elsewhere in the studio she would find the catalogues themselves. Dolly was forgotten. This was like striking gold.

An hour later Dolly arrived with a tea tray. Today there was one cup. ‘I don’t want to interrupt or get in your way,’ the old lady said coolly.

Lucy looked up then she glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. She should have gone over to the cottage to say good morning. Reluctantly she pushed the files to one side. ‘You are not interrupting, I promise. You haven’t brought a cup for yourself. Can I fetch one so we can have coffee together?’

Dolly looked at her suspiciously. ‘I assumed you hadn’t come in because you wanted to be left alone.’

Lucy shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It was me, not wanting to get in your way. I thought you must be so used to having the place to yourself that I would be under your feet, but I would love to talk to you, when you have some time. I so much want to hear your reminiscences about Evie. You and Mike are the only people I’ve met who remember her, and you both knew her so well.’ She was cursing herself for putting Dolly’s back up again. She slipped off her stool and stood up with a smile. ‘Can I fetch that cup? There is enough in this cafetière for two and it smells so gorgeous.’

Dolly hesitated then she nodded. ‘No, you stay here. I’ll fetch it.’

When she came back she brought a plate of biscuits.

By the time she left that evening Lucy had filled several pages of her notebook with anecdotes and she was clutching Dolly’s exercise book, but she did not know about the box of diaries. The old woman was still hedging her bets.