Rose is too sore to drive so she gets a train to Winchester, dozing almost the whole way there, despite the double shot of caffeine she had in the office.
When she steps out of the white-fronted station building at around 3 p.m., it’s cold but the sun is shining. She carefully takes a breath of the air, noticeably fresher out of London. Maybe a gentle walk will do her some good, she thinks, heading off in the direction of Celeste Allingham’s house, which is about fifteen minutes from the station according to Google Maps.
The sky is a bright duck-egg blue and as Rose walks up leafy green streets, she fantasizes vaguely about moving out of London. Doing something completely different, maybe. But while she can imagine herself living in one of the pale stone buildings she passes, she can’t picture exactly what she might be doing. Being a policewoman was all she ever wanted. It was supposed to be the home she never had. And it was, for a while. Now, she’s not sure what it is.
As she walks, the houses seem to edge further back from the road and become grander, with high hedges guarding the privacy of those inside. There is a Tesco garage on the way, where she stops for some mints; her mouth feeling stale and dry.
Celeste Allingham’s home stands at the top of a driveway behind elegant wrought-iron gates. A pale grey sign with cursive white writing says: Caster Lodge: Artistic Retreats, alongside website details and a phone number.
Rose has chosen not to ring in advance. She wants to be face to face with this woman. To see if she really will maintain that she can’t remember a whole decade.
The gates are open and a lorry is delivering something around the side of the house so she walks up to the large, black front door and presses a buzzer marked Reception.
There’s a pause and then a slightly breathless female voice says, ‘Yes, can I help?’
‘Hi,’ says Rose, ‘I’m here to see Ms Allingham.’
To her surprise, she isn’t asked for any other information. The door opens from the inside with a loud click.
A short, stout woman with a pink face and messy streaked blonde hair smiles at her from the doorway as she walks up the drive.
‘I’m just off myself, but she’s expecting you! Go down to the drawing room where she’s getting on with some things.’
Rose probably has long enough to set her right. But she doesn’t. The woman hurries past her and onto the driveway, waving a hand as she departs.
Rose steps into a wide, high-ceilinged hallway that is painted the same light blue as the sky outside, with elegant white cornices like meringue around the tops of the walls. The floor is dark grey slate and a smell of orange and bergamot is coming from a large candle on a delicate iron table to her right.
As she walks down the corridor, hoping the drawing room will be obvious to find, the area opens up for a grand staircase. Above her head, a gigantic pair of angel wings in what looks like soft white material, are suspended. It takes a moment to work out that the material is actually thousands of the Styrofoam bubbles used in packaging. She’s too busy staring up at the imposing artwork to notice someone poking their head out from a room at the other end of the corridor.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’
A woman with iron-grey bobbed hair and merry brown eyes behind oversized dark-framed glasses is smiling at her, hands clasped in front of her body. She’s tall, dressed in a long white silk blouse and slim-fitting black trousers. Silver ballet pumps are on her feet and a multitude of silver chains hang from her neck. She reminds Rose of a dancer as she moves towards her, hand outstretched, her body supple despite the fact that she must be well into her seventies.
‘I must say I wasn’t expecting you until much later, but I’m so glad you’re here. Now, that wonderful piece you’re looking at is the first part of the project we’re going to discuss. Shall I get us some tea?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Rose at last, with a smile. ‘I think there may have been some misunderstanding with your receptionist.’
‘Oh, that’s Jan, my assistant,’ says the woman, her own smile faltering. ‘What sort of misunderstanding?’
‘You were obviously expecting someone,’ says Rose, ‘but it wasn’t me. I mean,’ she pauses and starts again, ‘I didn’t have an appointment or anything. I hope this isn’t a bad time. First of all, am I talking to Ms Allingham?’
‘Um … yes. But please call me Celeste!’
‘Thank you,’ says Rose. ‘Celeste, my name is DC Rose Gifford. I’m with the Met in London and you spoke to my colleague, Scarlett Clarke, the other day? I’m sorry to barge in but I wanted five minutes of your time if you can spare it. It’s in relation to some inquiries we’re making right now.’
There’s a beat, only for a moment, when Celeste seems to go very still but she recovers swiftly. ‘Gosh,’ she says. ‘I remember Scarlett. What a nice young woman. Do come through. We’re in chaos because we’re getting all the studios redecorated. We normally have a full house but we’re closing up for a couple of months. Lucky you caught me because I’m off to Provence next week. Anyway, come through.’
They walk into a large sitting room with antique yellow furniture. A mishmash of different artwork on the walls seems to cover every inch of the space in a jumble of colour and styles. Classical paintings are next to childlike splashes of colour, next to cartoon-style drawings.
‘I know it’s a bit much, but I do love it in here,’ says Celeste, with a grin, gesturing for Rose to sit on one of the chairs. ‘My late husband, God bless him, used to beg me to leave a bit of space on the walls. Said it gave him a headache, the cheeky bugger!’ She lets out a laugh. ‘But so many of our visitors have donated their work over the years, it feels like a celebration of all we do here.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ says Rose, meaning it. ‘You’d never get bored in here because there’s so much to look at.’
Celeste claps her hands together in delight. ‘Exactly!’ she says. ‘Now, do tell me how I can help you, darling.’ Her eyes twinkle warmly. ‘I think I told your colleague everything I could though.’
‘I know,’ says Rose, tilting her head apologetically. ‘But we’re still really interested in the period of time you lived in that property in Wyndham Terrace, you see. I wondered if you’d kept in touch with anyone from that time? Is there anyone else at all I could talk to?’
Celeste looks down at her wrinkled hands as though thinking very hard. ‘The thing is,’ she says, ‘it was a bit of a lost era. I’m a little ashamed when I think about it now.’
That certainly hadn’t been Scarlett’s impression, thinks Rose.
‘Well, as I said on the phone, we were all off our bloody heads half the time,’ Celeste continues. ‘I mean when I think about the drugs and booze!’ She lets out a loud hoot. ‘I’m surprised I’m still standing, frankly. And then—’ she chews her lip, serious now ‘—I met my husband, Jonathon, and well, he was a QC, you see? I wasn’t really in a hurry to keep up with all that crowd after that. He didn’t really approve of my past.’ She makes a comedy face of doom and Rose smiles.
‘Can you remember the names of any other commune members though?’
‘Oh golly,’ says Celeste. ‘Let me think. Well, there was a Harmony … and a Peter. Definitely a Peter. And a couple with a baby were there for ages but I’m buggered if I can remember anything else. I’m not even sure half the people there went by the names they were born with. I mean, at one point I think we even had a Moonbeam, would you believe?’
She looks lost in memory then peers at Rose with a wide grin.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘You must think I’m quite useless.’ She pauses. ‘Look, I know you have to be terribly secretive about these things, but am I allowed to ask what this is all about?’
Rose hesitates. ‘We think there’s a possible crime that took place then,’ says Rose. ‘That went unreported at the time.’
Celeste’s eyes widen. ‘Oh no!’ she says. ‘That’s awful. You all keep mentioning a boy. It’s not going to turn out to be some ghastly Yewtree thing, is it? Another story about 1970s sex with kiddies? Because I promise you nothing like that happened to my knowledge.’ She looks appalled.
‘No, nothing like that,’ says Rose.
‘I’m so sorry that you’ve come all this way for nothing,’ says Celeste. ‘I really can’t help and I wish I could!’ There’s a vibrating sound from somewhere about her person. ‘Oh.’ She pauses and reaches for a phone that is next to her on the sofa. ‘Excuse me a sec.’
She reads the message with a frown, then looks up again at Rose.
Rose forces a smile. ‘I quite understand,’ she says. ‘I’ll get out of your hair but first, on a personal note, can you tell me a little bit about what you do here? I’ve always wanted to learn to paint.’ This is a lie but Celeste’s face lights up with pure joy.
‘Oh, you should do it!’ she says. ‘It’s the most wonderful activity and in your job you could probably do with something to relieve stress.’
‘I’m not going to argue with that!’ says Rose. She’s not quite ready to go yet. ‘Can I be cheeky and ask for a look around? This is such a beautiful place and it must inspire your artists hugely. I think I might just book myself in when I get some leave. After you have your work done, I mean.’
Celeste pauses for second and then beams, rising to her feet.
‘Of course!’ she says. ‘Seems the person I was expecting has had to cancel our meeting anyway, so I have time for a very quick tour.’
Celeste takes Rose around the rooms of the house, each of which is filled with paintings and sculpture. The walls in each room are painted in such rich colours, the effect is very calming. Rose can feel the beauty of the surroundings soothing her frazzled mind a little.
‘What about outside,’ says Rose, once finished. ‘Can I have a peek there too?’
‘Well,’ says Celeste. ‘As I say, we’re about to get some work done but I guess we can have a quick look.’
They go outside to an area with a turquoise rectangle of pond covered in lily pads like something from a child’s fairy tale. Comfortable chairs and tables are under an awning. A riot of flowers in different colours fill the air with scent and Rose finds herself thinking she actually wouldn’t mind coming somewhere like this to unwind a bit. Maybe she should take herself off on a holiday. Once she finds somewhere to live and a new job, that is.
Celeste begins leading Rose in one direction but she can see a long building the other way.
‘What’s over there?’ she says.
‘And that’s where the studios are,’ says Celeste, a little hurriedly. ‘But I can’t really show them at the moment because they’re in a state of disrepair. Let’s go look at the orangery now.’ Her voice is too bright, too eager.
‘Can we not just peek in?’ says Rose. Some instinct is driving her in that direction. ‘I’ve never seen an artist’s studio before.’
‘I really don’t think—’
But Celeste’s words die as the door to the studio opens and an elderly woman appears. She has long grey hair and square glasses and looks confused. She’s dressed a bit eccentrically in some sort of pink fleecy dress to her ankles that must surely be a nightgown.
She beckons Rose over with an impatient sort of wave and Rose begins to move towards her.
‘Oh don’t bother with her!’ says Celeste. ‘She’ll chew your ear off for ages if you let her!’
She takes hold of Rose’s elbow then removes her hand, flushing, when Rose looks pointedly at it.
‘It’s okay,’ says Rose. ‘I have time.’
Celeste has a helpless expression that makes Rose even more inclined to speak to the old lady.
‘Can I show you my picture?’ she says when Rose reaches her side. Her face seems innocent and childlike. She behaves as if they had already met.
‘Not now, Rowan,’ says Celeste, then to Rose’s surprise, she turns a finger to her head in the universal but no longer acceptable gesture of madness. ‘She is my longest-term visitor and she’s not all there,’ she says very quietly. ‘Let me see my visitor out, Rowan, and then I’ll help you, okay?’
But Rose finds her hand being taken by the woman, whose own hand feels incredibly soft and dry, like some sort of crepey material. She leads her into the big barn, where, sure enough, most of the room has been cleared out and there are boxes of tools and piles of wood ready for work to begin.
One easel remains in the centre of the room. A large canvas sits on it. The perfectly represented face of a young man looks out, painted in oil. He has dark hair that flops over one eye and intense green eyes that seem to hold her gaze.
‘Oh,’ says Celeste, ‘that’s wonderful, Rowan, but we really must—’
‘Who are you?’ says the woman called Rowan. ‘You’re quite lovely. I was once pretty too but it brought me nothing but trouble.’
‘Um, I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Rose uncertainly, ‘but thank you! I like your painting. And to answer your question, I’m a police officer. I’m called Rose.’
Rowan lifts both hands up to cup Rose’s face. Her shoulders drop at the same time as though the touch of Rose’s skin is a great relief to her.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she says softly. Her eyes are awash with bright tears but she looks happy. ‘I always said you would. It’s about Vincent, isn’t it? About what we did to my Vincent. I’m so glad you came. It’s been so long, you see? I knew you would come one day.’
‘Who’s Vincent?’ says Rose, leaning down so her face is on the same level as the other woman. ‘Is he the person in this painting? And what did you do?’
There is a flash of movement and Rose looks up quickly. She’s just in time to see the hammer about to smash into the side of her skull.