Page 49 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Can—can I ask aboutyourpainting? The one Aiden bought,”she said—not very slyly returning to her still-unanswered questions. “Why is it calledHiding?”
Chen’s eyes creased at the edges. “Can you visualize it?”
“Oh yes.”
“Good. Tell it to me. Just like you did with this portrait.”
Jo felt slight panic. “I’m not—definitely not an art critic.”
“Try,” Chen encouraged, her voice humming approbation. “Just speak it.” There was something strangely disarming about the way Chen asked, and it galvanized Jo’s natural need to answer. So she closed her eyes and brought the painting into view.
“The black dot reminds me of a lost shoe,” she said. “Like Miss Havisham’s lost shoe. We only ever see her wearing the one; the other is left behind. That can’t be thepoint. But it’s the first thing I think about.”
“Very well. And what do you make of the red background?” Chen asked.
Jo chuffed at her bare arms. “It’s bright but it’s not warm. And it’sloud. I don’t know why it’s so loud, but I look at the gray streaks to give my eyes a break.” Jo found herself thinking of the hotel carpeting. “I think it’s angry.”
“Ah,” said Chen, “a small, forgotten thing, clinging to a thin veil in the midst of a red, red rage? I think you understand the painting very well.”
Jo opened her eyes.
“But what’s hidden in it?” she asked. “I can’t tell that.”
The old bell was ringing; there were connections, but she just couldn’t see them yet.Colophon, Calliope, Centennial... Smeg...Chen reached out a gentle hand and laid it upon Jo’s, which had accidentally turned into a thumb-hiding fist.
“The artist,” she said, her voice a quiet rasp. “Iwas hiding. Being out, being yourself in the bad old world, it’s hard and it’s grim. When I had my first art gallery opening, I couldn’t face the crowd. I just couldn’t do it.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Everything. I went home and I attacked a canvas. I told Aiden it was a talisman, a bit of magic to trap the old, scared self and all her rage. I left it there in the painting, and I walked right on out into the sun.” She turned slowly in place, looking at all the art at once. “Augustus John had a bit of that magic in reverse.”
“Dorian Gray?” Jo asked. For a moment, Chen’s eyes were a blank, but then they fired to life.
“Ah—perhaps! Something like that. He told people things about themselves they wanted to stay hidden. You can’t hide in an Augustus John portrait. He painted to reveal hidden truths.”
Jo felt a shiver run through her, as though she was wearing skin a size too small.
“Evelyn,” she whispered, thinking of her far-away expression, the angle of her eyes that was still wrong, mismatched from her body, “off” somehow. Her body was in a posture of longing. Expectation. The way she seemed both retiring but resisting, the effect of holding back passion. “Oh. Oh no. He painted her inlove.”
A head tilt, a nervous movement of hands, a quickening of pulse; each could be an indicator if you read them right, and each might be hidden or ignored. But once rendered as a painting—one to be hungwithLord William and Lady Gwen Ardemore—the revelation must surely have been imminent. Gwen, long-suffering, barren, in what was probably a marriage of convenience and consolidation of wealth... maybe she could countenance an affair. But could she hang it on the wall in her own home?
“Did Gwen destroy the painting?” Jo asked. “She couldn’t bear to see the proof each day of her husband in love with someone else?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but Chen’s hand gave hers a squeeze.
“Your uncle Aiden thought so. And now, I think it’s timeI tell you a story. Not here, of course. But I know the perfect place for tea and cake.”
***
MacAdams waited until ten past the hour, ensuring Ashok and Annie would already be seated and saving himself the awkwardness of playing host. They sat at a corner table, sipping still water and chatting idly. Surveillance was the guilty pleasure of the detective, and so he indulged: Ashok was a trifle younger than Annie; he had a fresh face beneath thick black hair and expressive eyes of amber brown. He smiled. A lot. Annie smiled, too, her cheeks flushed by the warmth of the day. Also she was now looking right at him. A sixth sense, he long decided. She’d got him on her radar somehow.
“James!” said Ashok, who darted up and shook his hand with police-rookie enthusiasm.
“Hello, Ashok. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“We ought to be appreciating yours,” Ashok said. “I’m so happy to help.”
“And it’s the only way we’ll get you to a meal,” Annie added, popping up to mime a cheek kiss.
MacAdams took a seat.
