on the occasion when Dorothy had shown her the painting. Presumably Martin wasn’t expecting her to recall what had been there but had needed company to make this search.
He opened the door of what used to be his own bedroom and stared around vacantly. It was sparsely furnished but had a panoramic view over the landscape with a distant hint of the sea. He shook his head. ‘Nothing gone,’ he said, closing the door. The next room, slightly larger, had been Peter’s when a child but had long since been turned into a storeroom. Boxes were piled high on and around the single bed. Most were sealed and covered with dust. Only one had been opened, the cardboard flaps upright and yellowed newspaper lying crumpled on the floor as if something had been removed. To Rose it looked as if nothing else had been touched for years. Martin closed this door too but did not speak.
Outside the third one he hesitated. This was where his mother had slept, where she had slept all her married life and where she had given birth to both of her sons. ‘I never went in here,’ he offered and Rose saw that she had been right. This had been his mother’s sanctuary, her one place of privacy, and he did not want to invade it alone. It was Rose who opened the door.
It was by far the biggest room and had two windows which looked out over the rainwashed countryside. The top of a minestack could be seen lower in the valley and cars, like small insects, wound their way along the main road. Opposite the window was the wooden-framed bed with its patchwork quilt. The pillowslips were white and clean, as was the edge of the sheet which was folded back over the blankets. On the chest which also served as a bedside table was a fringed reading lamp and a pile of books, Dorothy’s place in the top one marked with an old envelope. The unread novel saddened Rose and she had to look away.
There was a wardrobe, probably Edwardian, and a small table beneath the windows. Everything was neat, everything seemed just as it ought to be. The Stanhope Forbes hung in its rightful place and there were no lighter patches on the faded wallpaper to indicate other paintings had been removed. ‘Everything looks all right to me, Martin. Can you see anything wrong?’
He shook his head and stroked the patchwork quilt. Like Rose he was able to smell Dorothy’s presence. Martin, she thought, was confused about the conversation in the pub which may or may not have taken place. He might even have dreamed it. ‘Come on, let’s go back down.’ It was affecting them both, being in her room.
Rose turned to leave, her artist’s eye naturally settling again on the Stanhope Forbes. Then she froze. ‘Martin,’ she finally said as calmly as she was able, ‘did your mother keep her special things somewhere safe?’ His brow creased with non-comprehension. ‘I mean her paintings, did she put them somewhere safe and hang copies on the wall?’
‘No. Not ’er. She liked her bits where she could see ’un.’
Rose stepped slowly towards the painting. It was identical to the one she had seen before, even down to the frame. Only this one was a print; not a copy, she had only used the word so as not to confuse Martin further. Had Dorothy noticed? Despite her pretence to the contrary, her eyesight wasn’t good. But had Dorothy had time to notice? Was she dead even before it was swapped? Martin may not have been mistaken in thinking that the men he had spoken to had come to the house. Now you’ll take me seriously, Jack Pearce, she thought. ‘She hasn’t changed this painting?’ Rose pointed towards it; she had to be sure.
‘No. ’Tis the same one.’
To Martin it probably seemed so. She had to let Jack know. If Dorothy had decided to put the original away for safe-keeping it was not her place to make a thorough search of the house. But the police would need to speak to Martin and that worried her. If he repeated his fears that he had killed his mother they would question him endlessly and he would probably say things he didn’t mean. There were other items to be considered, ones which Rose had not been shown and which might also be missing. She guessed that more valuables were stored in the boxes in Peter’s old