Fourteen

On rising, he sent DC Leonard a text suggesting that the canoe might have been launched from the public slipway at the Hardway at Gosport, across the harbour from the sailing club. Leonard would get Gosport police to ask around for any sightings, and Horton said he'd also instruct Elkins and Ripley to make enquiries around the harbour for any canoe seen before the arson, or being launched at any of the other public slipways; the canoeist must have surveyed the territory before his attack.

That done, and after finishing his breakfast, he made the boat ready. It was a perfect day for sailing. The rain had ceased during the night and the wind had eased to that of a crisp April breeze. The forecast was for a chilly but clear day. His other thought had been that he could combine his sailing trip to Cowes with a visit to Ms Ellwood's art gallery. He didn't expect it to be open, or for her to be on the premises, but no harm in checking. So much for putting the case out of his mind, he thought with a wry smile.

He took his time crossing the Solent; he had no choice with the wind and tide, and he certainly wasn't going to cheat by putting on the engine until he had to, and then only as he was entering Cowes Harbour. Elkins called him on the crossing to say that he had received his text and would make enquiries in and around Portsmouth Harbour for the lone canoeist, and that he had also seen all the Ryde Inshore Rescue Team; they had an open day at their centre. He'd got prints from Jason Arlett and his colleague who had boarded Halliwell's boat and had sent them over to the fingerprint bureau.

After mooring up at East Cowes, and lunch at a waterside pub, Horton caught the small chain ferry across to West Cowes where he made his way through the winding narrow streets for the Bounty Art Gallery, wondering if he would find it open and Ms Ellwood inside.

The first was achieved and, as he stepped inside, the smell of varnish greeted him, along with a tall, casually but elegantly dressed woman in her mid-thirties wearing trousers, loafers and a tight fitting jumper that accentuated her shapely curves. Perhaps it was her smile – open and friendly – or her olive skin, or maybe the long curly black hair and lively dark-eyes that reminded him of Cantelli. He was convinced that, like Barney, she must have some Italian blood in her. He was delighted when she introduced herself as Felicity Ellwood. He thought it far too ordinary a name for someone so stunningly vibrant. She should have had a more musical name.

He commented on the spectacular paintings in the window of classic yachts in full sail, quickly adding that he wasn't in the market for buying them. He doubted he would ever be able to afford them. There was no price tag which meant they must be expensive. That didn't alter her attitude in the slightest. In fact, she smiled broadly and said, 'In Cowes people expect to see paintings of yachts and seascapes but it's not the only subject in which I specialize, far from it.'

He could see that from the other paintings around the gallery, some were urban landscapes of cities or towns which he couldn't identify. They were executed in clean almost clinical lines. Others were of an abstract nature that reflected the colours and movement of the sea. He showed his warrant card and explained he was keen to know more about the late Cedric Halliwell and his paintings.

Her dark eyes lit up. 'Stunning aren't they, and quite a find.' Then her expression became solemn as she recalled that Halliwell was dead and she was addressing a police officer. She pushed back her hair which sprang right back into its curls as though it had never been touched. 'Is there something suspicious about his death?' she asked, concerned.

'No, about his life,' he found himself answering.

'He was certainly something of a mystery and so are some of his paintings,' she added fervently with that open smile he found infectious.

'I don't want to hold you up but I would like to know more about them.'

'It will be my pleasure to tell you. I could talk about them for hours but then I'd be holding you up. You don't look much like a policeman, more a sailor,' she added, eyeing his sailing jacket. He felt amused by her critical and friendly gaze.

'I am. I sailed over from Portsmouth.'

Her shapely eyebrows shot up. 'Don't tell me police cutbacks have resulted in you being forced to use your own boats.'

'Give it time. I'm off duty, sort off.'

She laughed. 'And curious about the late Cedric Halliwell. Let me close the gallery.'

'I wouldn't dream –'

'Please, it gives me an excuse. I don't usually open on a Saturday afternoon anyway, unless by appointment. I'd have been gone by now if I hadn't been trying to catch up on some paperwork.'

Thank God for the paperwork, Horton thought, probably for the first time in his life.

'And I'd love to talk to you about Mr Halliwell's paintings and show off my knowledge or lack of it in the case of some of them,' she added, crossing to the door and turning the 'Open' sign to 'Closed'. 'It's a pity that I can't explain what I mean in front of them,' she said locking the door and turning back to him. 'It makes it much easier and I'd love to see them again, although I do have copies of them on my phone and computer, but it's not the same.'

'I have the keys to Beachwood House but no transport, unless we go by boat.'

'That would be fun but I've got my car outside.'

'You might change your mind when you see it.'

Horton smiled. He liked her enthusiasm and easy manner. Like Gaye she had a straight-forward, no nonsense approach. He followed her through a workshop at the rear, where she grabbed a jacket. Noting him studying the contents of the workshop, she said, 'My real interest is restoration and painting. I have a studio at home.' She set the alarm, checked she had locked the door, and they struck out along the road of terraced houses.

'Where's home?' he asked.

'Niton. Not far from St Catherine's Lighthouse.'

The southernmost tip of the island. He knew it well. An important seamark along a rugged and spectacular coast. She suddenly halted alongside a maroon and cream Citroen 2CV.

'This is yours?' Horton asked surprised, although he didn't know what he had expected, a sports car maybe. But then on consideration, the vintage somewhat idiosyncratic classic French car seemed to go with her. Maybe she had French blood in her.

'Absolutely, gorgeous, isn't she?' Felicity said. 'Why are cars always female? She's a real classic, from 1988, low mileage and exceptionally well maintained. I travelled to Wales to buy her, three years ago. Modern cars are so boring, no personality at all,' she said unlocking it. 'Apologies if you have a state-of-the-art techno-whiz Audi or BMW, but somehow you don't look the sort.'

He climbed in, smiling. 'I'm not. I have a Harley Davidson.'

'Now why aren't I surprised?'

He didn't know. 'I haven't been in one of these for years.' It was a little cramped given his height but comfortable and smelt of leather and polish. He glanced at her hands as she placed them on the wheel.

'No, I'm not married,' she said, dashing him a glance.

She was sharp and observant.

'Never found the right man. I live with my father. What about you?' she asked, starting the car and pulling out.

'Divorced. One lovely daughter, nine years old, who I don't see enough of.'

'I could say yes, but that's probably an excuse.'

'You could say that. But it's partly my fault. I've let… Did you ever meet Mr Halliwell?'

She threw him a smile, acknowledging that he had changed the subject and that more personal probing was off limits. Again, he couldn't help thinking about Cantelli. He got the uncomfortable feeling, that like Barney, she could read him like a book. Maybe that was her artist's eye.

'Only through his paintings. What do you think of them? I take it you've seen them?'

'No, perhaps not. With your eye I might see more of them.'

'And of their owner. What do you sail?'

'A small yacht which I also live on board in Portsmouth.'

Again, her dark-shaped eyebrows shot up, and she tossed him a glance. 'That takes some doing. It must be freezing in the winter.'

'I've got used to it. Do you sail?'

'Of course. I keep my boat in East Cowes, is that where you're moored?'

'Then I'll show you mine if you show me yours when we get back.'

She threw him a glance and smiled. After negotiating a busy junction, she said, 'Let me give you some of my background because I can see that you are about to ask me for it.'

Again she had pre-empted him.

'After my degree in the History of Art I worked for Sotheby's in London and then abroad but my father had an accident three years ago and, as I'm an island girl, I came home. I took over the gallery. My aim was to do more painting, only I don't get much opportunity for it. I'm kept busy with valuations.'

'Has Mr Chilcott given you many?'

'You don't like him?'

She shrugged. 'I don't really know him. I'm grateful for the work but I don't feel easy around him. I've done some insurance valuations for theft, both here on the island and on the mainland. And I go up to London occasionally to value, lecture and conduct research. It gives me the chance to catch up with friends as well as get my London adrenaline fix.'

'Does your father paint, Miss Ellwood?'

'Italian!' Horton couldn't prevent himself from saying triumphantly.

'My mother. She wanted to call me Felice but my father wanted Felicity. They tossed a coin and dad won. The funny thing is he ended up calling me Felice too. I use both names depending on who I'm with and whether or not I like them. It's Felice if I like them Felicity if I don't.'

'So you should be, Inspector.'

'Not for as long as I can remember.' Not even his mother had called him that but a couple of people he'd met while in care had, and he had hated them with a child's passion.

'Both my parents were artists,' Felice continued. 'My mother died ten years ago. I have some of my father's pictures in the gallery. The bright abstracts you might have noticed that capture the moods of the sea.'

'I did, and I liked them. Are any of your own in the gallery?'

'Not yet. Maybe soon.'

They fell to talking about sailing as she drove expertly through Shanklin, but he couldn't prise from her what kind of yacht she owned. Judging by her love of this vintage classic car, he thought her tastes might run to a more traditional yacht than modern like his own. Before he realized it they were turning on to the track that led to the footpath and the gatehouse.

Edging the Citroen carefully along the weed-strewn driveway, she said, 'Strange place this. You'd never think the inside was so contemporary and refurbished to such a high standard. It says something about your mystery man.'

'And that is?' he asked.

'A dual personality, maybe?'

No, thought Horton, two entirely different men. The man Redcar had met and the one the lawyer had drawn up a will for. Who was the real Cedric Halliwell?

She said, 'Clearly he was someone who wanted to keep people at arm's length, reclusive, the exterior tells of that. Excessively tidy, a bit OCD I'd say from the interior design; whereas his choice of some of his paintings indicate something different, a spiritual man with a taste for daring and adventure. A talented musician, if that piano is anything to judge by; artistic, from his eclectic taste in paintings, quiet and thoughtful because of where he choose to live, and perhaps secretive. Though what secrets he had to hide who knows, but you'd like to find out,' she said drawing to a halt and silencing the engine. 'And he was a shrewd investor with a taste in expensive wine, but was he a man who bought it to drink alone? Or was it purely an investment?'

She climbed out. Horton followed suit and extracted the keys.

'He was obviously comfortable with his own company and liked solitude,' she added thoughtfully.

'Can you throw any light on when and where he might have purchased the paintings?' Horton asked unlocking the door but not entering.

'Not at the moment, but I'm working on it. It's a pity there wasn't any paperwork but playing detective does make it interesting and fun, although frustrating at times, which I guess you'd know all about.'

'It's not much fun and mostly frustrating but it is challenging, as in this case. We've discovered a body in the landslip area below here. That death is suspicious.'

'And you think Mr Halliwell could have been involved with it?'

'It's just one possibility.' They stepped into the hall.

'As I said, an interesting man.' Her gaze swept over the abstract paintings in the hall and stayed there. 'As are these. They're by Jessie Balfour, an American who was hugely popular in the early to mid-nineteen fifties. She was one of a small group of American painters living in New York who seized the spotlight of artistic innovation which, until then, had been focused on Paris. Alongside the likes of Jackson Pollock they became known as the "Rebel Painters of the 1950s".' She turned her gaze back on Horton. 'Their art can be classified, if I can use that term, as Abstract Expressionism. It was in its heyday when, in 1956, Jackson Pollock was killed in a car accident. After that things started to change, not because of Pollock's death alone, but the political and social climate was shifting and a new generation of artists was beginning to emerge, more rooted in the wave of radicalism, the global student protests, the Cold War and communism.'

Horton thought of Jennifer and five of the men in that picture, members of the Radical Student Alliance, and Dr Quentin Amos's words – that Jennifer had been involved in the Alliance, helping to support and organize the protests.

As they entered the piano room, Felice continued, 'These two are by an unknown French artist, Jacques Defour, who painted in the style of Henri Cadiou, a French realist painter and lithographer known for his work in trompe-l'oeil paintings. Cadiou died in 1989. We are seeing a resurgence in this style of work across Europe, Asia, North America and Canada, which will also make these highly popular and therefore will attract a good price. They're scenes of French life. Jacques Defour died in 1981 aged thirty two, drug overdose. These might be his only paintings, which again adds to their value. They are excellent.'

Horton could see that, just like Tim Jennings with his wine, Felice was passionate about her subject; enthusiasm shone in her eyes and rang in her voice. He felt his attraction for her deepening.

'Did Defour have any relatives?' he asked, as they crossed the hall into the drawing room.

'A wife and daughter. The wife died three years ago, but I managed to track down the daughter, she was only a year old when her father died. She said that her mother never spoke of Jacques being an artist and she wasn't aware of any paintings. Now these, as you can see, are urban landscapes.' She waved an arm at a number of paintings in the drawing room. Horton already knew there were a couple more by the same artist in the sitting room.

'They are scenes of London between the two World Wars, painted by Gilbert Morley, who, judging by the style, the period, and what I have gleaned from his background, was from the same school of art as the East London Group of painters, although his name isn't listed as being a member of the East London Group.'

'Perhaps because he chose not to exhibit his work.'

'He could have just imitated the style.' That earned him a beaming smile, as though he'd passed a test. He felt ridiculously pleased by it.

'Sergeant Cantelli liked these. I work with him in CID.'

'Then he has good taste. Although I prefer others in this house, but we'll come to those in a moment. Which are your favourites?'

'The ones we'll come to in a moment.'

She inclined her head. 'To get back to these. The East London Group of artists were essentially working class, like Gilbert Morley who was a porter at Convent Garden. His paintings are evocative and, like the other artists in the East London Group, are scenes of life – buildings, streets, markets – that reflect a way of life that has long since vanished. Because he, like the others, was working during the day, he had to find the time to paint, often in the evening, and he had to find the money for materials, which must have been incredibly difficult for him and many of the other artists in the group. But they were dedicated and highly talented.'

They moved into the sitting room. Felice continued, 'There is a great deal of interest in their work and a growing demand for it. Most of the East London Group's work is held privately, often by members of the artists' families. Gilbert Morley joined up at the commencement of the war in 1939 and died at Dunkirk. He wasn't married, but another family member could have been left his paintings and they subsequently ended up with Cedric Halliwell, but there is no way of knowing how. The value I've placed on Gilbert Morley's paintings could well triple at auction.'

Horton led the way back into the hall and up the stairs where the brightly coloured paintings in primary colours hung.

'Now these are stunning and by far my most favoured,' she declared excitedly.

'They have an abstract feel about them, but if you look hard you can discern the subject matter, an animal, a group of aboriginals around a fire, and this one,' she paused at the top of the stairs, 'a musical instrument.'

Horton peered at it and, with a start of surprise, realized he was looking at a harmonica. Nothing unusual in that save that such a musical instrument had been found on Ben's body.

'Is there a name on the harmonica?'

'You recognized the instrument,' she said amazed.

'I've seen one like it recently and only because you told me it was a musical instrument. I didn't look closely enough before.'

'There's no name but there is a small blob of white, a dash of red, and two blue stripes, all miniscule.'

'The Union Jack Flag?'

'I should have brought my magnifying glass for you to look through but hang on.' She reached for her phone, located the painting and enlarged it. 'There.'

He peered over her shoulder. Her hair smelt nice. An idea occurred to him based on what he remembered of the harmonica at the mortuary. It had been a Marine Band harmonica. That hadn't meant anything to him and yet these tiny colours, and the way they were arranged, reminded him of a Royal Marine Band member's uniform. Even if that was just his imagination the inclusion of such a musical instrument in one of these paintings indicated to him that the artist and Ben might have known one another, or that Halliwell had known Ben and asked the artist to include the harmonica in the painting. He didn't mention any of this to Felice.

She continued, 'These paintings are by an artist called Jethro Dinx, but I can't find any trace of him. No one I've spoken to in the business has heard of him. They're excellent and quite a find. See that one. It's of a group of aboriginals around a fire. The subject matter, the style, and his use of colour say that he was or is Australian, even though none of my enquiries so far have located him in that continent, either past or present.'

Horton thought of Gordon Eames who had died in Australia. Gordon Eames had not been a painter, as far as Horton was aware from what he'd read in the press about him, and from what he had had learned of his death while liaising with the Australian police in Nhulunbuy where Gordon had died. Besides, Australia was a huge continent with hundreds, maybe thousands of painters.

'Maybe he gave up painting or died young.'

'Possibly. There is no register of his birth or death in this country or in Australia. I've put out some feelers with my former colleagues in Sotheby's Australian and International Art departments in Sidney and Melbourne, so I might hear something from them. And I'm hoping that the picture framers can tell me more. They were framed in Stanmore in New South Wales so, again, another Australian connection. Dinx's technique reflects those of the artist, Ginger Riley Munduwalawala. Yes, it's quite mouthful,' she said, smiling at Horton's raised eyebrows. 'But a very musical sounding name. Munduwalawala was an extraordinarily talented and unique artist. He was born about 1936 in the bush in South East Arnhem Land, in the Northern Territory–'

'Where?' Horton said sharply.

'The Northern Territory,' she repeated looking puzzled. 'Why? Is something wrong?'

'No.' Just another connection, thought Horton, with a slightly quickening heartbeat. Gordon Eames' body had been found in the Northern Territory on Town Beach in Nhulunbuy off the Arafura Sea, on the Gove Peninsula in 1973, part of East Arnhem Land. 'Go on.'

'Munduwalawala was of the Marra people,' Felice said. 'He died in 2002. His art is a fusion of "Aboriginal" and "Contemporary".

'So Halliwell needn't have paid a fortune for any of the pictures in this house.'

'No, and no one I've spoken to so far remembers a man called Cedric Halliwell in their gallery or auction house, but my contacts at all the major international auction houses are tracking back through their records to see if they have sold to Mr Halliwell at some time, or if they have handled the sale of any of these paintings with the exception of Dinx because, as I have already mentioned, no one recalls an artist of that name. I'll certainly let you know when I hear from them and the picture framers.'

'Did you speak to the abbot about the paintings? You know that the abbey has inherited all of the estate.'

'Yes, and I showed him photographs of them. He didn't recognize any of them or the artists' names, but then I didn't really expect him to. He also checked with the Brothers, volunteers, and staff and got the same result.'

Horton thought of George Caws who had visited Wight Barn Wines. 'Has anyone contacted you or come into your gallery asking about Mr Halliwell or any of the artists or paintings?'

'Did you see anyone when you were at Beachwood House doing the valuation?'

'You knew him?' Horton asked surprised.

'No, but I met him. I was in the garden looking for a footpath down to the bay when he emerged from the shrubbery. I told him why I was there, and we talked about the paintings. He said he hadn't seen them and knew nothing about any of them. He told me that wood carving was more in his line of work and Mr Halliwell had let him live in a cabin down in the bay.'

So Halliwell did know. Horton had suspected he must. He wondered if she knew that Ben was dead. He doubted it. He postponed telling her for a moment. 'Did Ben say anything about Cedric Halliwell?'

'Only that he knew the house would be put up for sale now that Mr Halliwell was dead and that he was living in the cabin on borrowed time.'

Did he mean he'd be evicted or had he a premonition or knowledge that he only had a short time left to live, wondered Horton?

'Did you go down to the cabin?'

'No. Ben said it was a fairly dangerous descent, the land being unstable, although I'd have liked to have gone to see his wood carvings, but I'd run out of time.'

'So has Ben. I'm sorry to say that Ben was found dead in his cabin eight days ago.'

'Oh, that's sad. Another death too! Suspicious?'

'But you're not sure. There seems to be a lot of mystery surrounding these men.'

Horton silently agreed. As they descended the stairs, he said, 'Can you describe Ben to me?' He had only seen him in the mortuary and he thought her artist eye, like the architect's eye, might provide a good description, although in Ben's case not such a surprising answer as they'd got from Redcar.

She considered her response. Horton could see that she was visualizing the man. Eagerly, he awaited her description.

'He was deeply tanned with that ingrained bronze skin that looked as though he'd spent a lifetime in the open air. Abroad I would say, not in this country. His voice was gravelly, as though he'd once smoked, although I'd say if he did, he must have given up years ago because he looked too healthy to be a regular and recent smoker. He was well spoken, middle England, but there was something there, a hint of an accent. I couldn't detect its origin. Voices aren't my thing. Visual is more in my line.'

She paused in the hall looking thoughtful. After a moment she continued, 'His face was heavily lined, rugged, and he had very hypnotic blue eyes, the kind that see right through you and always have that hint of a smile in them, as though he knows something no one else does and certainly knows more about you than you do yourself. They were half mocking but in a warm and friendly way. His hands and arms were strong, as were his legs. He looked fit, not as though he worked out, but he had the fitness of someone who walks everywhere and does physical work. He was probably early sixties, wearing shorts and those brown leather sandals the monks at the abbey sometimes wear.'

Yes, Horton had seen them, and they were not unlike the ones he'd seen on Lomas, the beachcomber, back in October. He too had had that kind of ingrained tan Felice had just described, as though he'd also lived abroad. But her description of Ben was not Lomas. He hadn't expected it to be. Ben was decidedly the man in the mortuary. Horton recognized the description even without the hypnotic blue eyes and gravel voice, and the tan had been replaced by the pallor of death.

'Then let's go and look at your boat.'

But as they climbed in her car her phone rang. A shadow crossed her face. 'I'll have to postpone that. My father's not well.'

'I'm sorry,' he said, keenly disappointed.

'So am I. I'll take you back to Cowes.'

'No, please don't. It will delay you. I can get a taxi. I'll take another look round here.'

'If you're sure.' She looked relieved.

'I'll call you when I get any new information. Will you call me and keep me updated?'

'Yes.' He handed over his card and watched her drive away with a keen sense of disappointment that they hadn't been able to spend more time together. Maybe next time, he thought, hoping there would be one.