The Forgotten Letters of Esther Durrant - Kayte Nunn Page 0,93
her when I emailed it through?” Rachel asked.
Eve nodded. “She looked at it for a long time. And then the next day, she wouldn’t get out of bed at all. Said she felt dizzy. She doesn’t have a temperature, and the doctor can’t find anything specific, but she seems rather shaken.”
“Oh, I do hope I haven’t been the cause of it,” said Rachel, contrite.
“She’s a tough one,” Eve replied. “She’s climbed the highest mountains on three continents. I doubt that a photo would faze her that much.”
“Well, do let me know if there’s anything more I can do, or if you need anything from Embers, anything at all.”
“Of course,” Eve smiled. “I’ve got your details. Thank you for coming all this way. I’ll make sure she sees it as soon as she wakes up.”
Rachel walked back across the Heath to the train station and tried to forget all about Esther Durrant and the mysterious letters. She’d done her bit by getting them—finally—to her and she really didn’t need to have any further involvement. But not knowing much more than when she’d first found them nagged at her. She knew she’d have a hard time letting it go. She supposed she could always email Eve in a week or so’s time, use the excuse of inquiring about her grandmother’s health. That thought made it a little easier to walk away.
The rest of the day was Rachel’s to spend as she liked. The weather was fine and so she decided against getting back on the tube, making her way on foot back toward her hotel, which was near Green Park, instead. She checked the map on her phone and worked out a rough route, one that would take her down through Regent’s Park and into Mayfair. She brightened. She’d treat herself to tea at Fortnum & Mason and try not to think too much about her meeting with Dr. Wentworth on Monday.
She was nearly there when she looked up at the street sign to check her progress: she was standing at the entrance to Cork Street. She’d been preoccupied the entire hour and more that it had taken her to walk from Hampstead, but she’d half-known where she would end up when she’d seen the street name as she was looking at the map.
She saw a sign hanging from a shopfront a little way down the street: Max Erwin Gallery. The same name as in the catalog she’d found at Little Embers. She quickened her steps and reached the gallery seconds later. She stood outside, looking in through the large plate glass window. There was an exhibition of Aboriginal art and, before she knew it, she was pushing the door open and inside the white-walled space.
“May I help you?” A blond-haired woman walking toward her swiveled her eyes the length of Rachel, taking in her jeans, sneakers, backpack, and wrist in a sling. Rachel knew she didn’t exactly fit the image of a prospective customer.
“I was wondering if Mr. Erwin was around?” Rachel felt distinctly out of place in the cool, sterile surroundings, but she stood her ground.
Again the judgmental gaze, the flick of the eyes. “I’m afraid he is otherwise occupied at the moment. May I inquire as to who is asking?”
“Oh, he won’t know me, but you can tell him I’m here about Leah Gill. My name’s Rachel Parker.”
The woman’s eyes widened for a nanosecond, then she turned and disappeared into a back room. Rachel stood, admiring the swirled and dotted paintings in the gallery as minutes ticked by. She was reminded of ocher dirt and azure skies and gulped down the homesick feeling, glancing at her watch. Was the icy blonde even going to bother returning?
Rachel was just about to give up and leave, when a small, balding man in a dark suit scurried through the door, panting, as if he’d just run a mile and wasn’t in the habit of such exertion. “Ms. Parker?” he asked, giving her at least a more welcoming look than the blonde had. He blinked at her and his mouth widened, lips stretching over his teeth and reminding Rachel of a small, amiable frog.
“Yes,” she replied. “Mr. Erwin?”
“Indeed, that is me. Welcome to the gallery.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand you’re here about an artist I represent? Actually, I should say represented. She no longer paints, more’s the pity.”
“Yes, Leah Gill. She saved my life,” Rachel admitted.
A spark of interest lit up his dark eyes. “Do tell me more.”