A Sprig of Sea Lavender Read online

  It was a scene of quiet loveliness, typical of the soft-hued, unemphatic beauty of the Suffolk countryside. The car park and the caravans were an intrusion, but from this distance not very much; they were intelligently sited to be screened by trees. Piet wished he had his sketching block – the thatched cottage, a little off-centre in the near distance was exactly right, and would make a perfect composition. How much nicer just to make pictures of this supremely beautiful world than to pursue the evil people in it! But evil was ugliness, corrupting everything and everyone it touched; unless it could be rooted out there could be no peace to enjoy beauty. The policeman had a job to do, as creative in its way as the artist’s. No, not as creative – that was high-falutin’ nonsense. But creative, certainly, creating the security in which the artist could be free to work. Anyway, there was police work to be done and he’d better get on with it.

  Piet was glad to see that there were only two other cars in the car park and both had a look of belonging to the place. It was just on three o’clock, safely after lunch but early for tea. With luck there wouldn’t be many other customers.

  What he had not seen from the hilltop because it was screened by the cottage was a low single-storey building linking the cottage to a barn. This had obviously been built on recently, but it was pleasantly designed and the end nearest the barn was already half covered with quick-growing Russian vine. The new building was the shop. Most of the front was glass and through it he could see a rosewood table bearing a pair of Georgian silver candlesticks, and surrounded by what looked like a set of Chippendale chairs. A bell rang as he went in and a woman came through an arched opening that led from the new building to the barn. She was of that rather indeterminate age that might be anywhere from the mid-thirties to the mid-forties, slightly sharp-featured, but with a good figure and quite attractive. She had very dark, almost black hair, severely held in a band and she was wearing an embroidered smock.

  ‘Good afternoon. May I have a look round?’ Piet asked.

  ‘Of course. The antiques, as you can see, are here. There are pictures and some other things in the barn.’

  ‘Your sign said that you also do teas. Is it too early for some tea?’

  ‘No. You can have tea in the barn. What would you like – just tea and some scones? There are some cucumber sandwiches, too. They’ll probably go later in the afternoon.’

  ‘I didn’t have much lunch, and if it doesn’t sound greedy I’d like cucumber sandwiches and scones,’ Piet said.

  For the first time he got a little smile out of her. ‘I daresay we can manage. Will you come through?’ She stood back to let him walk into the barn and followed him through the archway.

  The barn seemed huge. It was remarkably well lighted through a row of big windows skilfully let into the north wall. The other walls were hung with pictures, one wall displaying a number of high-quality reproductions of Old Masters, the others showing a mixed bunch of oils and watercolours, all discreetly priced. At the far end of the barn there were about a dozen small tables set for tea. Near the archway leading from the antique shop was a long table with a cash register. In the middle of the room were two other long tables, displaying various pieces of sculpture, hand-painted pots and arrangements of dried flowers. The woman showed Piet to one of the tea tables and went off through an opening in the end wall. ‘The kitchen’s at this end. I’ll be back with your tea in a moment,’ she said. As Piet sat down he noticed a small pile of portfolios, precisely like the one in his office, in a corner of the barn.

  The woman was as good as her word, returning with Piet’s tea, scones and cucumber sandwiches in no more than two or three minutes. ‘You have a beautiful place here. Are you Mrs Vincent?’ Piet said.

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I saw the name on your sign. It must be a lot of work running a place like this singlehanded.’

  ‘Oh, but I don’t. I’m on my own this afternoon because it’s early, and my assistant has had to go to Colchester to deliver some furniture that we sold yesterday. If we get busy some of the girls or men from the studio will come in to give a hand.’

  ‘What is your studio?’

  ‘Didn’t you see on the sign? There’s another barn like this where we have art classes. We have holiday courses –people can stay in the caravans.’

  ‘What a splendid idea! Why is it called Moat Cottage? I’ve always imagined moats round castles rather than cottages.’

  ‘Well, I think there was a castle once, or a fortified farm. It was at the back. You can still see a few ruins, but the buildings disappeared long ago. The cottage and the barns presumably belonged to them. We actually have a moat, though it doesn’t go right round now. You crossed it on a bridge when you turned off from the main road, but you probably didn’t notice because it’s been so dry that there isn’t any water in it at the moment.’

  Piet finished his tea, and asked, ‘May I look at your pictures?’

  ‘They’re mostly the work of the people who come to the art classes, but some of them aren’t bad.’

  Piet wandered round. Most of the original pictures he thought fairly mediocre, but there was one watercolour of a cornfield that he liked, and he bought it for fifteen pounds. The reproductions were superb and he was much attracted by a Vermeer interior. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such fine reproductions,’ he said. ‘Can I have the Vermeer?’

  ‘They are good, aren’t they? They’re fairly new – they come from quite a small firm called Equinox Engravers. I’m afraid they’re rather expensive. That one is twenty-five pounds.’

  ‘It’s worth every bit of it. May I have it with my watercolour? Oh, and could I have one of those portfolios to carry them in? How much is the portfolio?’

  ‘They’re not really for sale – the Equinox reproductions come in them, and we’re supposed to send them back. But I daresay I could spare you one.’

  She was doing up the pictures in the portfolio when a girl, her hair flying, came rushing into the barn. ‘Oh, Shirley, I’ve just brought you these,’ she said breathlessly. ‘But I haven’t got a moment – I must get the bus from Lavenham to get the train at Sudbury.’

  She put two framed dried-flower arrangements on the table by the till. They were exquisite work. Both of them contained several sprays of sea lavender.

  ‘I’m on my way to Sudbury now. I can give you a lift if you like,’ Piet said.

  ‘Oh, can you? That would be a tremendous help.’

  ‘And can I buy one of your flower pictures?’

  ‘Well, I sell them to Shirley.’

  ‘Of course you can buy one – they’re for sale in the shop,’ said Mrs Vincent. ‘Which would you like? They’re both the same price at twenty pounds.’

  Piet chose the one that had more sea lavender in it. He paid in cash – it was a good thing, he thought, that he’d just drawn a hundred pounds from the bank. His cheques had his name on them, and although there was no reason to suppose that it might mean anything to Mrs Vincent, it was not wholly unknown in the art world.

  IV

  A Bad Night for Sally

  PIET PUT HIS portfolio and a rucksack belonging to the girl in the back of the car. The girl herself got into the front seat beside him. ‘This is really awfully good of you,’ she said. ‘I’m Sally.’

  ‘I’m going through Sudbury anyway, and it’s no trouble at all to take you there. Besides, I’m in your debt for your really lovely flower arrangement,’ Piet said.

  ‘Shirley charges rather a lot. She only pays me twelve pounds. Don’t you think her profit of eight pounds is a bit steep?’

  ‘I don’t know – she must have pretty heavy overheads. And it might easily cost you more to advertise and sell direct.’

  ‘I suppose so – but she made eight pounds very quickly when you bought my piece. I’ve often thought that I’d like a little shop of my own, but I haven’t any capital.’

  ‘What brought you to the Moat Cottage place?’

  ‘It’s partly run
as a centre for holiday art classes. I give lessons twice a week in flower-arranging. During the summer, that is. I don’t know what happens in winter, because I’ve only been there this summer.’

  ‘How did you come to hear of it?’

  ‘A girl I know lives in a sort of artists’ colony at a place called Poplar’s Fen near the coast between Dunwich and Walberswick. It’s a fascinating place, almost as much water as land. Some people live there on old boats, and there’s an ancient windmill that people live in, too. It’s not exactly a collective, more a kind of co-op. People pay into a fund which buys food and things, and they take it in turn to cook – there’s a communal dining room in the old mill. It suits the people who live there because it’s cheap, and they help each other out. When someone’s sold a picture, for instance, he’ll be in funds for a bit, and he’ll pay perhaps the whole cost of a week’s food. Then if he’s broke next week, someone else will pay. I’ve got a job in adult education in London – I run evening courses in flower-arranging. But that’s only in winter, and in summer I’m rather at a loose end. I can just about keep myself going with my flower pictures, but when Sandra suggested that I could spend the summer cheaply at Poplar’s Fen and find a lot of interesting wild flowers in the marshes, I thought that at least I could try it. She lives on a boat, and there was room for a few others. Then a man who lives on Sandra’s boat – well, I think he and Sandra more or less live together – knew Shirley Vincent, and he told me that she wanted to add flower-arranging to her other art classes. He took me to see her and she agreed to give me a trial. She doesn’t pay much, but the flower-arranging classes are new, and if I do them again next year there may be more students for them. And Shirley buys my flower pictures for her shop.’

  They were through Long Melford and approaching Sudbury. ‘Where do you want to go from Sudbury?’ Piet asked. ‘I’m going to London and if it’s any use to you I can take you on.’

  ‘Well, it would certainly be nice to save the fare,’ she said frankly. ‘Could I pay half your petrol?’

  ‘No,’ Piet said, ‘you couldn’t. It doesn’t cost any more whether you are in the car or not. Whereabouts in London are you making for?’

  ‘To tell the truth I’m not exactly sure. It’s really because of Sandra. She went to London nearly a fortnight ago, she hasn’t written, and she hasn’t come back. It’s a bit awkward for me, because of this man she’s been living with. I don’t like him all that much – I mean, he’s quite nice to me, but I just don’t like him. There’s another girl on board, and when Sandra was there it was all right. The other girl and I shared a cabin and we got on quite well. Now I think the other girl has rather fallen for the man . . . I’ve been living for the last few days in one of the caravans at Shirley’s place. There wasn’t a fuss or anything – one of the students who’d booked had to cancel, so there was a spare berth in the caravan, and as it’s a tiresome journey in three buses from Poplar’s Fen to Lavenham I asked Shirley if I could have it for the week. Next week I can’t, because all the caravans are booked. So I feel I’ve just got to find Sandra and find out what’s happening. I think I know where she’ll probably be in London. She’s got a studio room in a house belonging to some friends at Finsbury Park, and I expect she’ll have gone there. If she’s there, she’ll put me up for the night.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘I’ve got a sort of half room in a flat at Shepherd’s Bush. It’s a flat I’ve been sharing with two other girls, and when I thought I’d take up Sandra’s offer for the summer I couldn’t really afford to keep it on. One of the other adult education lecturers had just been deserted by her husband and was desperate to find somewhere cheap to live. So I told her that she could have my room in the flat for half what I pay on condition that I can come there when I want to. I mean, it’s still my room and I shall want it again after the summer, but she has the use of it now.’

  ‘I live near Victoria, so I’ve got to go through the middle of London. If I drop you off at Leicester Square you can get the Piccadilly Line to Finsbury Park.’

  ‘That will be wonderful.’

  ‘I hope you find your Sandra, or you’ll be wandering about London half the night. Tell me about her – how did you come to meet her?’

  ‘Sandra? Well, I was at school with her, but I went to a teachers’ training college and she went to a proper art school. She’s a painter and she’s jolly good. I try to paint, too, but I’m not all that good. Then I started to read about flower-arranging and got very interested in it. I went to various classes and although I say it, I am quite good.’

  ‘Your dried flower pictures are superb.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you – or perhaps you don’t want to think that you’ve wasted your twenty pounds! Anyway, I’ve got an art teaching certificate, and I’ve got a diploma in flower-arranging, so it works out quite well.’

  ‘And Sandra?’

  ‘She’s really good. She had an exhibition last year, and it attracted quite a lot of notice. She ought to be having another exhibition this autumn – several galleries would put her on – but she’s changed her style, or something. She works away jolly hard in a room at the top of the old mill, but I don’t really know what she’s doing. I don’t think she’s very happy and I’m a good deal worried about her.’

  ‘What is her other name – Sandra who?’

  ‘Sandra Telford.’

  ‘I went to her exhibition last year. She certainly is good.’

  ‘Are you an artist?’

  Piet took a sudden decision. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘Gosh! I’ve never been given a lift by a policeman before! Why were you buying all those pictures?’

  Piet laughed. ‘Policemen don’t have to be Philistines! Actually, I went to an art school, too, but my father died, there wasn’t much money, and I had to get a job. You’re quite frank about your flower pictures being good . . . I sometimes think I’m rather a good policeman. Never mind. I’ve not stopped being interested in pictures, and one day I want to try to write a book on Constable. Even policemen have days off sometimes, and I love the Suffolk country-side. I wanted to paint the view from the hill above Moat Cottage this afternoon, but I didn’t have time.’

  ‘Well, it was a good thing for me, or I wouldn’t have got a lift to London. You’re a funny sort of policeman, but I think perhaps, you’re rather nice.’

  *

  When Piet dropped her at Leicester Square he gave her his card. ‘Gosh!’ she said again. ‘A real Chief Inspector, and at Scotland Yard!’

  ‘It’s quite a real place. Look, if you don’t find your friend, and for any reason still feel worried about her, will you ring me up? The police are very good at making discreet inquiries, and it’s possible that we could help. You’ve told me that you’re called Sally, but you haven’t told me the rest of your name.’

  ‘Sally Graham. And the Shepherd’s Bush address is 41C – the C means it’s the top flat – Cordoba Road. I’m quite a good cook, and if you like I’ll give you a meal there in the autumn to say thank you for the lift.’

  ‘I’d like that very much. And don’t forget to give me a ring if you are at all worried about Sandra Telford.’

  *

  Piet had a lot to think about. He was restless, and having gone to his flat intending to cook a meal he hung up the frying pan that he had just taken off its hook and decided to go out instead. He went to a small Greek restaurant that would be crowded later, but at this time was likely to be quiet. It was. He had a table in a corner, ordered a preliminary ouzo and tried to sort out the day.

  First, the girl to whom he had just given a lift. She was a nice kid, he thought, not exactly pretty, but vivid, with a mass of rather windswept copper-coloured hair framing an alert intelligent face. She had been extraordinarily frank and open about her life – perhaps that was typical of the young nowadays. The young! He winced slightly – he wasn’t all that old himself. But this girl must be at least ten years younger than he
was, and he was conscious of the half generation between them. It was an essential part of his job to understand people, but really he knew very little of the way of life of the young twenties. She seemed to have a distinctly casual life, but at any rate she kept herself. And it was not necessarily so casual – her group might have easy-going relationships, but it didn’t follow that they were irresponsible. Painting, a close bond with his father, school, and then the disciplined hard work of learning to be a policeman – he’d not had much in the way of social relationships outside his immediate surroundings in his own youth. He hadn’t really wanted them, there was too much else to be interested in. One mustn’t disapprove of people because they happen to live differently. There was a lot to approve of in this girl, for instance. The skill that went into her flower-arranging was not something that happened by accident – she had natural talent, obviously, but she’d thought and studied and worked to make herself a craftsman. However easy-going her artists’ colony might be, she was sensitive to the situation on her friend’s departure and she didn’t like it. And showed a wholly responsible concern for her friend.

  He remembered Sandra Telford’s exhibition very well, mostly street scenes, with sharply-understood portraits of newspaper-sellers, women weighed down with shopping bags, people waiting in a bus queue. There were a few rather precise landscapes, too, but with a haunting quality about them. Potentially they were very good indeed – odd that she seemed to have wasted a year. Perhaps there was an emotional entanglement with the man at Poplar’s Fen.

  Had it all ended in a drab death at Liverpool Street station? He mustn’t put two and two together and make five –probably Sandra Telford had walked off in a rage because she thought the man was paying too much attention to the other girl on the boat,and was restoring herself with work in her own studio. It might be the best thing that could have happened, helping her to get back to work again. But she would have to be found – there was an uncomfortable little chain of circumstances suggesting the dead girl in the train: the portfolio from Mrs Vincent’s shop, which was clearly known to people at the Poplar’s Fen colony, the tiny sprig of sea lavender, which might easily have come from Poplar’s Fen on a shoe.