Page 28 of The Dead Come to Stay
“You must be Aiden’s niece,” he said, backing away to allow her inside. Jo swallowed the interior in a single gulp of extravagance and nodded as she entered the apartment. “It’s good to meet you. I am Aiden’s widower.”
Jo found her way to a sofa she’d originally taken for an art piece and sat down gingerly. Outside the bank of windows, the sun was starting to sink.
“I’ll make tea, shall I?” Arthur held up tiny Japanese cups. The Pomeranian was still circling Jo, and she’d just noticed a sad-looking Boston terrier snoozing on a shag rug. She ought to be putting a list of useful questions together in her head, but she was still trying to take in the art-laden walls, Persian carpet, squat little Moroccan footstools. The mantelpiece shone in glorious white marble, with a nested Russian doll curio and vase of orchids in the middle.
“Please, yes,” she said. “I didn’t know Aiden was married.”
“Ah. I should explain,” Arthur said, sitting across from her. “We werenotmarried, in fact—though, for all practical purposes...” He poured tea.“We’d been together eighteen years. That’s before gay marriage had been legalized, but there were other reasons for keeping things unofficial.”
“What were they?” Jo asked. Then regretted it; probably this was impolite. Arthur sipped tea with engineering precision and a wry smile.
“So, jumping right in. Perhaps we should start a little further back,” he said. “How much do you know about your uncle?”
“My mother never spoke of him.”
“Never? I see. And what about your grandfather?”
Jo bit her lip. She didn’t even know who herownfather was, much less anyone further back on either side.
“Nothing,” she said.
Arthur didn’t look surprised; he nodded his head and stood up, sending the dressing gown into butterfly flutters. He strolled along the wide windows, stopping at a large square painting on the opposite wall. Mostly red, with streaks of gray and a small black dot in the center.
“This is an original painting by a local artist: Chen Benton-Li. It’s calledHiding. Aiden bought it at an art auction. It’s where we met.”
“You’re an artist,” Jo said, but he laughed it off.
“No, alas. But I support the arts.”
“You’re a millionaire,” Jo said, not intentionally. Arthur laughed again, and it sounded to Jo a bit more natural.
“Oh goodness, if we were I’d be living in Jesmond, wouldn’t we, boys?” Jo half turned to take in the modern eclecticVogueshoot behind her, and Arthur went on. “Despite appearance, surprisingly affordable at the time of purchase. I do have somewhat expensive tastes.”
“This is a Persian Kerman Lavar from Esfahan,” Jo said, mentally addingA Guide to Eastern Rugs, 2014. It took her two extra weeks to edit because she kept falling down subject interest rabbit holes.
“Very good!Very. And you’ve caught me out; I am a rather uninteresting investment banker.” He winked. “Though a well-paid one.”
“And that’s not a reproduction on the mantel, is it?”
“Antique Russian iconography nesting dolls, tipped in gold. A present from your uncle, in fact.” The darkness outside was descending, so he turned on the lights, which simultaneously lit up the red painting. Then he returned to his leather club chair. “I realized you are seeing me at home, where I have the obligatory gay man’s dogs and kimono. But out in the world I do not cut an especially flamboyant figure. Which certainly appealed to Aiden. Your uncle, you see, was not out,Ms. Jones.”
“Jo, please.” She took a breath. “He didn’t want people to know you were together?”
“He began life not wanting his father to know. Then I think it became a habit with him.”
“But you lived together—here?” Jo said, trying to explain it to herself.
Arthur nodded. “Yes. You see,straightAiden lived in York, at a flat he sublet most of the time. The real Aiden lived here, with me.” He swept his hand toward the red painting. “InHiding.”
Jo stared at the square, this time focused on the small black dot behind a gray streak. A great deal had just clicked into place.
“My mother kept secrets, too. I was left a crumbling estate that I didn’t even know existed, until she died and I inherited it.”
“I know.” Arthur picked up a newspaper and handed it to her. Jo stared at a headline—and her own face. It was the interview she’d done before the garden opening.
“Oh.”
“American inherits mystery property, almost gets burned alive inside it, bequeathes a garden to the National Trust. You can understand why I wanted to meet you. Aiden would have wanted to, as well,” Arthur said.
