It wasn’t until two days later that Val and Arbie were once more roped into the Phelps affair. During that time, Arbie had been informed by the boatyard that his uncle’s boat was now ready, and he’d arranged with Marcus Finch that one of his employees would deliver the boat to the jetty at the bottom of their garden on the morning of his uncle’s birthday.
He’d also reluctantly signed a contract with a jubilant Wally Greenstreet for a second volume of The Gentleman’s Guide and had (even more reluctantly) started to make some notes on his travel itinerary for the tail end of the summer.
The heat had now broken, and a far more bearable summer day awaited Arbie when he awoke, so he and Basket took a short walk across the fields. Basket, as usual, was too lazy to go any farther than a mile or so, and unless he wanted to end up carrying the stubborn animal home, Arbie had no other option but to keep his ramble down to a modest one.
Even so, he was in a good mood when he returned to the chapel, but that changed the instant he heard noises coming from his uncle’s studio, and thought that he recognised the voice of the visitor. He felt a nasty jolt rocket through him and all but sprinted for the entrance to the outbuilding. As he pushed open the door and almost fell in, he discovered, to his dismay, that he was indeed not mistaken. The less-than-dulcet tones of Inspector Gorringe greeted him immediately.
‘That’s an interesting object, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ He was speaking to Uncle, and eyeing something warily on the nearest workbench.
His uncle saw Arbie first and – to his nephew’s practised eye – was clearly not at ease. But then, Uncle was never easy when the constabulary were within spitting distance. ‘Yes, it’s an idea I have for a portable battery-operated fan,’ he was saying calmly enough. But Arbie, who knew him well, had no trouble interpreting the look Uncle shot at him. He wanted Gorringe out of his studio. And with the Stubbs canvas not ten feet away on the painting platform, Arbie could well understand why. He was feeling a bit queasy about it himself.
At his uncle’s look, he forced himself to stroll casually up, hands in his pockets, and, assuming a nonchalance that would have made an actor at the Palladium applaud him, drawled, ‘Oh, hello there, Inspector, was it me you wanted?’ manfully putting himself forward as a distraction.
‘Ah yes, our famous man of letters,’ the Inspector said, turning slightly amused eyes onto the younger man. ‘I thought I’d call in whilst I was passing. I’ve heard so much about your uncle from the local magistrate that I couldn’t resist meeting this notorious relative of yours.’ If this young rapscallion thought that there were any flies on him, Gorringe mused, it would do well that he should think again.
Uncle bit back a groan. The local magistrate was the bane of his life and would insist on regarding him as something of a crook. The cheek of the jumped-up little jackanapes. Uncle had never been convicted of anything in his life.
He was far too clever.
‘Ah, ha-ha,’ Arbie laughed feebly. ‘Hear that Uncle? You’re notorious! You mustn’t believe all you hear, Inspector,’ he pleaded. ‘Uncle has the reputation of being a bit of an eccentric, that’s all. Take the Old Chapel, for instance,’ he said, indicating the converted building visible through the open door. ‘Only my uncle had the vision for creating a residence out of it. Would you like a tour?’ he offered desperately. ‘It’s remarkable what he did with the floating gallery.’
But the Inspector was not going to be lured from the studio so easily. ‘Thank you, Mr Swift, but I’m not much interested in architecture. Now what’s this curious object?’ He pointed to something that looked like a cross between a cheese grater and a kite.
As his uncle launched into a convoluted explanation of his latest project, Arbie chanced a swift glance upwards, and saw at once that the tops of the two easels were exposed.
He broke out in a cold sweat, and when he glanced nervously back and saw the Inspector watching him with hawk-like interest, he felt even worse. ‘So, what was it you wanted to see me about, Inspector?’
‘All in good time, Mr Swift. Is that where you do your painting, sir?’ He turned to Uncle again, nodding towards the short set of steps leading to the painting platform.
‘I rather think he’s just at a delicate stage with his watercolour landscape, isn’t that right, Uncle?’ Arbie interrupted rudely, aware by the way that the older men looked at him with bemusement that his voice was probably climbing higher than an operatic diva’s. What’s more, he was pretty sure that he’d just gone as pale as an under-baked meringue. ‘Mustn’t keep you, Uncle. If his colours dry out before he’s finished, he’s apt to be like a bear with a sore head all day. So, better leave him to it, eh?’
He did everything but take the policeman by the arm and march him out.
‘So, what can I do for you, Inspector?’ Arbie asked, feeling a little weak with relief after averting disaster.
‘Hmmm?’ the Inspector murmured, still looking thoughtfully over his shoulder at his uncle’s domain. ‘Oh, yes. I wondered if you had made any interesting discoveries on the ghost front, Mr Swift. I saw Miss Coulton-James in the village earlier and she told me you’d held another ghost vigil?’
‘Oh, no, nothing out of the ordinary, you know. Well, we heard a bell ringing in the early hours,’ he added casually, feeling inordinately pleased to see the look of astonishment cross the older man’s face, ‘but it only turned out to be Empress Maud.’
‘Empress Maud?’ Gorringe echoed faintly. ‘Would that be a ghost or living person, Mr Swift? And either way, is there gentry staying at the Old Forge now?’
‘Of a sort.’ Arbie grinned. ‘A queen, in fact, but only of the feline variety. And one who wears a bell on her collar.’ Arbie went on to explain, all the while oh-so-casually leading the forces of law and order further and further away from the site of a Stubbs of dubious origin and towards the garden gate.
‘Ah.’ The Inspector was openly grinning by the time Arbie’s tale was finished. ‘I dare say that must have given you a bit of a fright, sir?’
‘Me? Nothing of the kind. Of course, Miss Coulton-James was alarmed, but Val’s made of stern stuff.’
‘Yes, that was the impression I have of Miss Coulton-James,’ the Inspector agreed blandly. ‘Well, I must be getting on, sir. Oh, by the way, I understand that Miss Thomas is now back in residence at the Old Forge. I daresay, now that she’s inherited the place, she’s deciding what to do with it. Live in it, or sell it, or maybe let it?’
Arbie nodded, suspecting that the niece of the dead woman was now the Inspector’s number one suspect. Or was the disinherited Murray still the frontrunner? He himself was beginning to wonder.
‘I say, Inspector, you do know that the whole village is just waiting for you to arrest Murray Phelps, don’t you?’ he asked artlessly.
The Inspector, not fooled for a minute by this piece of fishing, decided to take the opportunity to make a little mischief. He had long since suspected that the author and the vicar’s daughter were trying to solve the case as well, fancying themselves, no doubt, as modern-day versions of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson – with both of the youngsters assuming they were taking the leading role as the sleuth with the deerstalker hat!
Now he smiled amiably. ‘Are they indeed? Rather hard on him, don’t you think, when he was the only one in the house to have an alibi. Or so he claimed,’ Gorringe added casually, gratified to see the author’s jaw drop comically. In truth, the Inspector, after investigating Murray’s movements, wasn’t altogether sanguine that that young man’s movements were quite as cut and dried as he had made out. But that was the trouble with police work – you very rarely could be sure of anything!
When the Inspector then instantly bade him an amiable good day, Arbie was too relieved to see him go even to try to worm more information out of him. Mind you, what Val would say to him when she realised that he’d let such a golden opportunity slip didn’t bear thinking about. No doubt she would have pumped the Inspector mercilessly for more information!
Instead, he sped back to his uncle’s workshop and rushed inside. Seeing that Uncle was now upstairs on the painting platform, he hurried up the few steps and erupted onto the stage. ‘Where is it?’ he hissed. ‘I hope you’ve hidden it somewhere safe.’
His uncle, standing contemplating his half-finished horse, looked up from the canvas, clearly puzzled. ‘Where’s what?’
‘The Stubbs!’ Arbie walked forward and groaned when he saw the canvas his uncle was working on. ‘For pity’s sake, Uncle, if Gorringe comes back he’s going to see what you’re up to! Can’t you hide these pieces somewhere away from the village until the bobbies are no longer swarming all over the place?’
‘Stubbs?’ Uncle repeated, baffled. ‘You’re not making sense, boy. Are you coming down with something?’
‘Don’t give me that innocent look,’ Arbie advised him. ‘I stopped falling for that when I was ten, and you conned me out of my last bar of Christmas chocolate. I saw the Stubbs myself, right here, not so long ago. And I’m not such a muffin that I can’t tell a genuine Stubbs from a packet of lard. And look – look at that!’ He waved a demented hand at the canvas in front of them. ‘You’re obviously painting a copy! Do you know how many years you can get for art forgery?’ he demanded. ‘Not to say aiding and abetting the theft of a major artwork?’
‘No. Do you?’ Uncle asked, genuinely curious.
Arbie didn’t. Not off-hand. But that was not the point! ‘Uncle!’
‘Oh relax, boy. You didn’t really think I’d nicked a Stubbs from somewhere, did you? Who do you think I am – some kind of geriatric Raffles?’
Since Arbie did think it, he naturally began to look huffy. ‘No, of course not. It’s just that … er … just that … With the Inspector lurking about I er …’ He pulled his collar away from his throat and began to shuffle his feet.
His uncle took one astonished look at him, and then smiled affectionately. ‘You’re a good lad, young Arbie, looking out for your aged relative and all.’ He reached out and patted the lad on his shoulder. ‘Daft as a brush, mind, but a decent enough cove.’ He gave a sudden bark of delighted laughter. ‘So you thought I was about to be nabbed, did you?’ He shook his head at the absurdity of it. ‘As a matter of fact, the Stubbs belongs to an old pal of mine, and he’s got to sell it because he’s found himself embarrassingly short of cash and has commissioned me to make a copy so that his nearest and dearest don’t find out he’s had to sell off a family heirloom. It’s all above board, and quite legal, I assure you.’
‘Oh,’ Arbie said faintly, slumping down on the nearest shabby armchair. His relief was so great that he even ignored the importunate jab of the chair spring which had just introduced itself to his posterior.
Chuckling, his uncle took up his paintbrush again, and contemplated a troublesome fetlock.