Date: Sun, 12 Sep 2004 04:12:20 EDT
From: MGouda3464@aol.com
Subject: The Elmcombe Art Show

The Elmcombe Art Show
Short story
Michael Gouda (mgouda3464@aol.com - http://mgouda00.tripod.com)

No place in England, they say, is further than seventy miles from the
sea. Elmcombe, where Peter Preston lived, is some seventy miles from
Weston-super-mare (or Weston-super-Mud as its deprecators call it) to the
west, seventy miles from Harwich in the east, and approximately sixty odd
miles from Portsmouth in the south. Preston didn't like the sea. If he
admitted it, he rather feared its great immovability, its depths, its
ability to cover everything when the the tide came in and of course the
slimy, stinging, biting, pinching, clawing things that lived in it, so he
was pleased to live in something like the middle of England. Of course it
wasn't really the middle because the distance from the sea to the north of
Elmcombe was some 700 miles which, he thought, was all to the good and put
those remote, frozen, gale-tossed northern seas even further away from him.

Peter Preston was a quiet, retiring sort of person. He lived in a stone
cottage in the dip at the bottom of a steep hill which periodically, about
every ten years or so, flooded, sometimes to a depth of six inches. This
was infuriating as it spoiled his carpets, but wasn't anything like the
depth that the sea might submerge, so, for various positive aspects of the
house - its small, handkerchief-sized garden, its views over the Cotswold
hills etc., he put up with the disadvantage with good grace.

His main interests, apart from a super-neurotic Collie bitch who yelped
when the telephone rang or when he had a shower upstairs, and a fat elderly
cat, whose only exercise was coming downstairs to eat and going up again to
sleep, were the neighbours. An odd bunch. If they'd been richer they'd
probably have been called eccentric. As it was most of them were considered
slightly mad. Preston found them fascinating.

This morning, Preston was in his garden clipping stray strands from the
climbing rose when he heard a shout. "Hey, Peter. Peter. Over here."

Preston was deaf in one ear so that direction location of sounds was
problematic, noises emanating from all directions reaching his good ear at
about the same time so that most times he turned in the wrong
direction. There was no one there when he looked.

"No, Peter, over here." He turned the other way and saw Mrs Fletcher-Bell
in her garden over the road. She was what she euphemistically called
'walking her dog' which meant dragging her fat spaniel, Tatiana. round her
patch of lawn until the animal voided its bowels or emptied its bladder or
both. Mr Fletcher-Bell was then summoned to clear up any visible
result. Both dog and mistress wore pearls round their necks, the first
certainly, the other probably, fake. Both dog and mistress wore a fur
covering, the dog its own, Mrs Fletcher-Bell the pelt of some long-dead
rodent.

"Peter, dear," called Mrs Fletcher-Bell.

Preston sighed, but when he got across the road and climbed the steps into
her garden, his face was wearing a polite smile.

"Good morning, Mrs Fletcher-Bell," he said. "How are you?"

"Yvette, dear. Call me Yvette," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell, as she always
did. "Now, Peter, I want to ask you about art."

"Art? I don't think . . . "

But of course Mrs Fletcher-Bell wasn't really interested in any
protests. "Now, you know I do art."

It was a statement rather than a question. Preston indeed did know that
Yvette - he really must try to think of her as Yvette - dabbled. She
painted 'woodland' scenes, mostly containing rabbits, squirrels, pheasants
etc., on tiles. She had inflicted some on him on occasions like
Christmas. They had piled up in a dusty cupboard as he was terrified that,
if he threw them away, Mrs Fletcher-Bell (dammit Yvette) might one day ask
for them back or demand on some pretext or other to see them again.

"Yes," he mumbled. "I have your tiles, of course."

"I want you to organise a show," she said.

Preston looked at her. Mrs Fletcher-Bell must be fifty if she was a day yet
she seemed to think she was in her twenties. She had long blondish hair
which tended to float about in a vaguely elfin way. Her face was pale apart
from the pinkish bits which were applied rather erratically on her cheeks
and bright rose lipstick. Apart from the pearls, strands of which were
always around her neck, she usually had on a long white dress - which
Preston always thought looked like an old-fashioned night-dress, but which
perhaps was the height of fashion - and, if the weather was at all likely
to be chilly a full length fur coat. Mink, was it? Rabbit? Cat? White strap
sandals with stiletto heels completed her outfit so that she tended to
wobble over the lawn and left holes which perhaps aerated the ground.

"Organise... show... I don't quite think..."

"In the Community Hall," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell sternly, like a primary
school teacher to a particularly recalcitrant infant. "Or the Guide Hall,
Or the Parish Hall. You decide which is most appropriate. Must be good
light of course."

Preston knew there was no way out, but he had to try. "The expense," he
said.

"I'll organise the finances, of course. Just need a man to do the legwork."

"Mr Fletcher-Bell..."

"Hubert?" said Mrs Fletcher-Bell dismissively, "Couldn't organise a beer
drinking competition in a brewery. No, you'll have to do it, Peter."

"Have you many - er - tiles?" asked Preston hesitantly. "How much space
would you require?"

"Tiles!" Mrs Fletcher-Bell. "I won't be showing tiles. My oil paintings of
course. And Mrs Wynde's water-colours, bit runny though they are. I think
Fred and Rick paint too - or one of them does. And there's Susan
Crownhatch. I've seen her with an easel sitting in the field. Any others
you can think of, as well."

Colonel and Mrs Wynde (pronounced haphazardly 'wind' or 'wind' with a long
'i' depending on whim) were Preston's next-door neighbours, Fred and Rick
were a pair of middle-aged partners who ran a bed and breakfast just along
the road, and Susan Crownhatch was a Labrador owner, whom Preston used to
meet in the mornings when they both exercised their respective dogs.

Mrs Wynde was not exactly 'best-friends' with Mrs Fletcher-Bell, and both
Fred and Rick had on occasions described with acid tongues both of these
ladies as the 'ugly sisters of Elmcombe'. Susan Crownhatch sang in the
choir. From the way she commanded her Labrador bitch, Preston rather
assumed she sang baritone. She was forthright and didn't tolerate fools
gladly. The prospect of 'organising' all five - together with their
attendant partners - depressed Preston profoundly.

"Um," he said.

"Good," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell. "Glad you agree. Find out the costs, will
you? Then you can sound out the others and see if they have anything to
show. Three days, I think. Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Come to tea this
afternoon and you can report."

"I don't think . . ." started Preston, about to say that he'd never do all
she asked and be able to 'report' by the afternoon, but Mrs Fletcher-Bell,
with her reluctant spaniel in tow, had turned and was disappearing into her
house.

"Damn and blast," said Preston with a profound intensity of feeling.

Nevertheless later on in the day he made a few phone calls to find out the
details of the costs of hiring the various halls in the village. He noted
down the figures and various other bits of information. Unfortunately all
three places were available on various dates over the next few months. He
had rather hoped that they'd all have been fully booked for the next three
years.

"It's all very well for you," he said to Jess, his collie who was sitting
looking up intelligently. Jess wagged her tail. "I've got all these jobs to
do, and trying to persuade all these temperamental artists to join together
and show off their masterpieces without fur flying all over the
village. And what if no one comes?"

Jess wagged her tail again, this time sympathetically. "Oh you," said
Preston, "You're always such an optimist. Do you want to go for a walk?"

Jess barked, a walk was what she'd been waiting for all the time.

The sun was out, the fields, after what had been a rather wet week, a
brilliant green studded with gold buttercups, white daisies and blue
speedwell. Some sheep looked up as Jess passed but didn't seem much
concerned. Jess pretended she wasn't rather fearful of sheep, after all she
was a collie, and looked the other way.

Suddenly a black labrador skidded to a halt in front of Preston and sat
down. "Hello, Angel," said Preston. "You want a biscuit." He produced one
from his pocket and the dog wolfed it down, then turned tail and shot back
to its mistress.  "Typical Labrador," said Preston to himself, rubbing his
finger which the dog's teeth had brushed.

Susan Crownhatch was striding across the field, her sturdy legs covering
the ground at a great rate. She wore a blue anorak and had some sort of hat
crushed down on her head from under which various curls of greying hair
escaped.

"Angel's just passed her test," said Susan when she was within hailing
distance, which, in her case, was nearly a hundred yards.

"Susan," called Preston, "Just the person I wanted to see. What test? You
make her sound like a car."

"Silver medal," said Susan, arriving. "Two minute stay, find and
retrieve. She isn't biting as many other dogs either."

"Congratulations, Angel," said Preston, patting the dog tentatively on her
head. "I suppose that means you want another biscuit. Look. Susan, I wanted
to ask you about Yvette's idea - "

"She did very well, even though there was this retriever which tried to put
her off. Barking when she was lying down. She did give him a bit of a nip."

"There's something I have to ask you. Yvette wants an Art Show," By now the
occasion had advanced into capital letters and Preston felt he was giving
it them.

Susan looked at him. "Who's Yvette?" she asked.

Preston cursed under his breath. Just when he'd remembered to call her by
her first name, now he had to unthink the whole process. "Mrs
Fletcher-Bell," he said.

"Is that her name? Yvette? Good God." She hooted with laughter, a baritone
guffaw. "What's the mad woman want now?"

"She's decided on an art show." Diminished to lower case. "You paint don't
you? She wants various artists to put on a show in the village."

"Who?" Susan demanded.

"Well, she, of course, and Mrs Wynde and Rick and Fred, or at least the one
who paints."

Suddenly Susan began to look coy - it was rather a frightening sight. "Oh I
don't know. I'm only an amateur. Not up to their standard."

Preston felt he had to enthuse. "Of course you are," he said. "You're much
better than they are."

Susan's eyes sharpened. "Have you actually seen any of my work?"

Preston realised he hadn't. He took a chance, remembering a remark Yvette
had made. "Of course, Susan, I saw that one you were painting in the
field."

"The bridge over the lake?"

Preston wondered whether he ought to commit himself. It could have been a
trap. "Surely that was the one," he hazarded, crossing his fingers behind
his back.

There was a pregnant pause and then Susan's expression cleared. "One of my
best," she said. "Yes, of course I'd love to participate. Tell me some
details."

"Nothing resolved yet," said Preston. "I'm organising. I'll be in touch
when things are a bit more decided. You're the first to agree - apart from
Yv - Mrs Fletcher-Bell of course."

"We're away for the second week in June, of course. France."

"Will you enjoy that, Angel?" asked Preston to the dog who was rooting
amongst the grass probably after some sheep droppings to eat.

"Shhh," said Susan. "Angel will be in the kennels, of course. Don't upset
her."

"Upset her? Look what she's doing."

"ANGEL," roared Susan and the dog cringed away.

"So, you'll get some paintings ready?" asked Preston.

"How many is Yvette planning on?"

"I'll let you know. I'll go and see Rick and Fred. I suppose you don't know
which one of them paints?"

Susan shook her head and went off, urging Angel away from the sheep
residue.

Preston made for home but before he could get far, he was stopped by a
shout from Susan. "I'll ring you later," she shouted with the decibel level
of a bull-roarer megaphone.

Preston's heart sank. This is what it would be like for the next few weeks,
until in fact the whole Art Show (surely it would turn into a debacle) was
over. People would be ringing him asking for the latest news, complaining
that someone else had the best wall as far as lighting was concerned,
asking who had the highest sales (if any) etc. etc. Blast the woman, he
thought. Blast all of them. His quiet, uncomplicated life just wouldn't be
the same until the whole thing was over.

But Preston was a conscientious soul and he had promised Yvette, however
unwillingly, that he'd see the artists of Elmcombe and report back to her
at teatime that day so there still calls to make.

Rick and Fred lived along the road in a large stone house - with extensions
at the back. Beesmoor House, they called it from the name of the stream
which ran at the foot of their garden. They themselves lived at the back
with three dogs and an Aga. The rest of the house was given over to B & B
visitors. Preston called at the back door which was opened by Rick,
accompanied by a cacophony of barking and shouts from inside of "Down,
Bella. Quiet, Petra. In your basket, Wilma." None of which seemed to make
the slightest difference.

Rick was middle-aged, wore glasses and looked professorial. He claimed at
one time to have belonged to the Hong Kong Police but his quiet, bookish
air of abstraction made this a little difficult to believe.

Fred who so far hadn't made his appearance, was dark and slightly camp,
prone to gossip and often viciously amusing. He had a a mop of unruly black
hair. Preston liked them both though was aware that the acid tongue might
have been directed at him when they were with other friends.

"Come in, sweetie," said Rick. "As you can hear the hounds of spring are on
the winter's traces - but let it pass."

Preston recognised the allusion to Thurber's joke and smiled. He was
ushered into the kitchen which was warm and smelled slightly of wet dog fur
and some sort of meaty stew which was bubbling away on the top of the Aga.

"It's the tooth fairy," said Fred, running his hand through his hair. The
dogs rushed up and started to lick Preston's hands. "Leave him alone," said
Fred. "You don't know where he's been."

Preston looked at Rick for an explanation. "He thinks you have beautiful
teeth," said Rick.  Preston smiled, then realised he was showing his teeth
and covered them with an embarrassed hand.

Fred laughed. "Make the most of what you've got," he said. "They'll go in
time. I suppose they're real."

"Of course they are," said Preston.

"Have a gin and tonic," said Rick, clinking bottles and glasses, "and tell
us why you called."

"Not that you're not most welcome at any time," added Fred.

"It's bad news I'm afraid," said Preston. "Mrs Fletcher-Bell is organising
- well, I'm organising it but at her command - "

"She who must be obeyed," interposed Rick, handing Preston a glass.

"Yes, well, she wants an 'Art Show' and she's despatched me to ask
contributors and find out costs and do all the hard work."

"Who else?" asked Fred.

"Susan Crownhatch, Mrs Wynde, her own, Rachel from the Castle I suppose."

Rick's laughter floated round the kitchen. "I can see that ending in a
glorious cat fight," he said.

"You'll put some pictures in then?" asked Preston.

"I don't paint," said Rick. "You'd better ask Fred."

"Male nudes?"

"I don't see why not," said Preston. "Are they tasteful?"

"Some are - 'interesting'," said Rick. "You know - pairs. Doing things."

Suddenly Preston had a twinge of apprehension. He took a large swallow of G
& T to settle it, but the thought remained - a brooding presence. The Art
Show - raided. Pictures seized by the police. Accusations of immorality,
pornography. He'd have to sell his house for a price well below its value
and leave the village.

"Perhaps the slightly LESS interesting ones," he said weakly.

"It's OK," said Fred patting his bottom. "We won't cause a scandal."

Preston finished his drink, thanked them, stroked the dogs, said he'd be in
touch and left.

Just opposite Beesmoor House lived Jane Wilson, a pleasant,
cheerful-sounding twenty something. She was a freelance photographer by
trade. Coincidentally as Preston left the portals of Beesmoor House, Jane's
cottage door opened and her dog, yet another black Labrador came out,
crossed the road and greeted Preston by sniffing at his crotch. Preston
drew back.

"Sorry about that," said Jane. "He only wants to be friendly."

"No problem," said Preston, then was struck by an idea. "Look, Jane," he
said, "Mrs Fletcher-Bell wants to put on a sort of Art Show - in the
village. She's asked me to find out who'd like to put up their work. What
about you with some of your photographs?"

Jane appeared to consider for a moment. "Why not. Is Hyacinth going to put
in some of her daubs?"

"Hyacinth?"

"Hyacinth Bucket," said Jane. "It's my name for her. Who else have you
asked?"

"Only Susan Crownhatch and Rick and Fred. so far."

"Basso Profundo and the Terrible Twins," said Jane. "You'll need more than
that."

"I've still got to see Mrs Wynde and Rachel Llewellyn-Flint."

"Grandma Moses and the Artful Dodger. Sounds an interesting mixture."

Preston wondered what Jane's name for him was. Nothing complimentary he was
sure.

"What sort of photos would you like?"

"You must choose," said Preston. "As long as they're not
controversial... well, I mean not TOO controversial."

"You mean Fred's showing some of his 'interesting' paintings?"

"Oh God, I hope not," said Preston, appalled at the thought.

Jane laughed. "It would certainly buck up the village."

* * * * * *

Mrs Fletcher-Bell dispensed cucumber sandwiches and cups of weak China
tea. They sat in the garden, Preston making sure that his chair wasn't
anywhere near any of Tatiana's offerings. It was warm and birds sang in the
bushes. Along the bottom of the garden, the brook tinkled, water over
stones. Preston, though, didn't feel entirely at ease. Hubert Fletcher-Bell
refused tea and drank some dark liquid from a glass. It didn't look like
cold tea.

"What about the venues?" asked Mrs Fletcher-Bell.

Preston showed her the costs he had noted down for the various halls in the
village.

"We can't use the Working Men's Hall," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell
snobbishly. It was, Preston remembered, also the most expensive. "What's
the Scout Hall like?"

Preston admitted he hadn't actually viewed any of them.

Mrs Fletcher-Bell tutted disapprovingly.

"I haven't had time," said Preston defensively. "I've seen Fred and Susan
and Jane Wilson and got the OK from them."

"Jane Wilson?"

"She's got a black Labrador," said Preston.

"Which tends to be rather - er - intimate," said Hubert, slurring slightly.

Mrs Fletcher-Bell ignored her husband. "Have you seen Mrs Wynde?" she
asked.

"She wasn't in when I called." Surely he wouldn't get the blame for
that. "I'll try later." Dammit, why should he feel guilty?

Mrs Fletcher-Bell nodded, her long hair floating in the afternoon
breeze. From some hidden bottle Hubert had refilled his glass, his cheeks
and nose rosy.

"Cake, Peter?" She indicated a chocolate-cream confection oozing calories
on a plate in the middle of the table.

If Preston had a weakness, it was for chocolate. He wanted to get away but
greed overcame his fear. "Please," he said offering his plate.

"Now," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell, "this is what I want you to do." She had
obviously thought this out in detail as her instructions were concise and
all-embracing. They involved visiting the various venues, checking on the
'light', making sure the 'artists' Preston had so far missed were
contacted. She had decided on two dates which were 'convenient' for her and
he was to ask everyone if either or both were acceptable and if not, why
not.

Preston started to object but the mouthful of chocolate cake impeded his
protests and all he could do was nod his head. He thought he saw a glimmer
of sympathy in Hubert's bloodshot eyes but this just made him crosser. Why
couldn't she send out him to do her jobs for her.

A second slice of admittedly delicious cake did something to restore his
equanimity. Eventually he excused himself on the pretext of having to feed
his animals and left. Hubert seemed unable to get up and Mrs Fletcher-Bell
fetched him such a look that Preston felt sorry for him. He suspected
Hubert would be receiving the rough edge of her tongue as soon as he left.

"Don't forget to ask Mrs Wynde." The instruction pursued him across the
road - as if he could.

In fact to discharge his obligation, Preston called on the Wynde house
immediately. This time he was lucky (or unlucky if you prefer it). Colonel
Wynde opened the door. He was a tall, elderly man with a penchant for long
stories that never seemed to have much result, one reference leading on to
another, reminding him of something else so that the listener never
achieved an understanding of the real heart of the matter.

Mrs Wynde was pleased to see Preston. She asked after his health, which
reminded the Colonel that he had been suffering from a cough caused, he
assumed, from his staying out in the evening to observe the recent lunar
eclipse, though of course the cloud cover being almost complete, he hadn't
had much chance. Anyway . . .

"That's enough, Brian," said Mrs Wynde. "Get us a couple of drinks will
you?"

Colonel Wynde went out.

"Now, Peter, what can we do for you?"

Preston explained Mrs Fletcher-Bell's idea and how the Art Show was
building, the situation thus far. "She'd like you to participate," said
Preston, "with some of your water colours."

"Isn't that typical of Yvette?" said Mrs Wynde. "Wanting to show off those
dreadful daubs of hers. Is she still painting those tiles?"

"Oil paintings," said Preston.

"God! I can't wait to see them."

Colonel Wynde came in with some glasses which chinked encouragingly.

"Did you hear, Brian. Yvette wants to put up her daubs on public
show. Well, at least they'll provide some amusement around the village."

"I assume that means you won't be showing your paintings then," said
Preston.

"On the contrary. I wouldn't miss it for worlds." She raised her glass. "To
the success of the Elmcombe Art Show," she said. "It should be one of the
village's finest entertainments. Cheers."

It seemed a bit mean but Preston raised his glass with the other two.

* * * * * *

The doorbell rang, Jess barked furiously and dashed to the cat flap,
pushing her nose through. Then she stopped barking and growled deciding
that the caller wasn't a friend. As Preston had feared he'd been pestered
by phone calls - mostly from Mrs Fletcher-Bell who had anxiously demanded
the latest results of his enquiries and whether Mrs Wynde had agreed to
take part in the venture. Hearing that she had, Yvette had laughed
delightedly and then issued another string of instructions about booking
the most suitable hall.

"They'll want a deposit," said Preston.

"Oh darling, give them a cheque. I'll pay you back when I see you."

As she lived about twenty yards away from him, and at the moment of her
phone call could actually see him out of her window, Preston wasn't
reassured but was too much of a gentleman to demand immediate cash.

He opened the door.

A small man with ginger hair stood on the doorstep. He looked at a notebook
which he held in his hand and then up at Preston. "Mrs Fletcher-Bell," he
asked.

"Do I look like a Mrs Fletcher-Bell?" demanded Preston.

"Well, no, sir," said the man, "but that's the name I have on my order
form." He held out his pad to Preston and sure enough at the top was
written 'Mrs H. Fletcher-Bell'.

"You want that house over there," said Preston pointing across the
road. "That's where she lives."

Jess sniffed around the man's ankles, who didn't look particularly happy at
the attention. "I've been over there," he said, "and the gentleman directed
me over here. Said you were organising everything. I'm from the printers in
Feltenham. I understand you want some advertising posters and tickets
printed."

'Thanks, Hubert,' thought Preston. "You'd better come in," he said.

Once in, though, things took a turn for the worse. Preston really had no
idea of the actual date of the show or even if it had been decided. He
couldn't say how many tickets he wanted printed and when it came to the
question of the catalogue, about which he'd heard nothing before, he
couldn't say what should be included. He'd had no lists of pictures from
the contributors.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You'll really have to see Mrs Fletcher-Bell. I have
only the sketchiest idea of what is going on."

The man, whose name was Jenkins, looked a trifle cross at being shuttled
from house to house, and Preston could appreciate his feelings, having
experienced them himself.

They crossed the road, leaving Jess, who had been expecting a walk, sulky
on the window ledge looking out. Preston rang the bell. Nothing happened
for some time and then an upstairs window opened. Mrs Fletcher-Bell's head
appeared, her hair hanging loose. 'Rapunzel, Rapunzel,' thought Preston,
'let down your long hair.'

"Yvette," he called. "This is Mr Jenkins from the printers. We've got some
queries that need to be sorted."

"Sorry, dear," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell. "I can't let you in. Hubert's gone
out in the car and taken the key. I can't open the door."

Behind him, Preston heard a heartfelt sigh. "What am I going to tell him?"
he asked.

"What, dear? You'll have to speak up."

Preston raised his voice a few decibels. "He wants to know how many tickets
to print and what to put in the catalogue," he bawled.

"And what to put on the adverts," said Jenkins.

"And what's to go on the advertisements."

"I can't discuss this now," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell. "You'll have to come
back later."

"I can't come back later," said Jenkins. "I've got other calls to make."

"He can't come back later," Preston shouted. "Can't you come down, at least
to the ground floor."

"Can't come down," said Yvette. "I'm not dressed."

Some windows opened in neighbouring houses. Heads peered out, curious to
know what all the shouting was. Jess. locked up but hearing Preston's
raised voice. started to bark.

"Is there a fire?" A woman asked. "Shall I ring 999?"

"No. There's no fire," called Preston.

"A fire," shouted Mrs Fletcher Bell. "Where's the fire? I'm locked in."

"Oh God," said Preston rather wishing there were a fire. He turned to
Jenkins. "Look," he said," I'm sorry about your wasted journey. I'll get
the details and phone them through. As you can see there's a bit of
confusion."

Jenkins nodded, a reasonable man. "Good luck, mate," he said "You'll need
it." He got into his car and drove off.

Mrs Fletcher-Bell was still hanging out of her window looking
distraught. Preston was reminded of the first Mrs Rochester, the mad one
who prowled the corridors in 'Jane Eyre'. "THERE IS NO FIRE," he
shouted. "I'll come back later.

Jess was unsympathetic when he got home. Understandably so, so Preston took
her for a walk and while striding across the fields, he worked out a plan
of campaign. The catalogue was the most difficult. He's once been to an
exhibition which had a catalogue. As far as he could remember, it had
contained the title and description of every piece together with a price
and indeed a picture. Preston wasn't sure about the illustrations but he'd
certainly need to be armed with details of what was going into the Art Show
before he went over to see Mrs Fletcher-Bell again.

He rang Fred as soon as he got home. Rick answered and said Fred was out
shopping. "I need some information," Preston said. "You don't know what
pictures Fred will enter, do you?"

"No," said Rick, "and I doubt whether he does either."

"I need them for the catalogue."

"Hmm," said Rick. "Seems like us girls will have to put our heads together
and come up with something positive."

"What do you suggest?" asked Preston eager to delegate any 'positive
thinking' to someone else."

"OK," said Rick. "You got a pen and paper? Let's say he enters twenty-five
paintings. They're all male nudes. Probably got names as well but I
shouldn't bother about those. Don't want our friends suing him for
defamation of physique."

"Defamation of . . .?"

"Too small cocks," said Rick. "So just call them 'Male Nude 1 to 25'."

What about price?"

"Fifty quid. He won't sell any so we might as well put an unreasonable
amount on them. Oh, they're all oils."

Preston made some notes. "Thanks, Rick. You've saved my life - well,
started to anyway."

"Do you want to look at the paintings?"

"No, thanks," said Preston perhaps rather too quickly.

"Don't blame you," said Rick and rang off.

Then he phoned Susan Crownhatch and explained his problem. "All I need to
know is how many, what the titles are and what price you're putting on
them."

On the phone Susan sounded much less self-confident than in the fresh
air. "Oh, I don't know what they're called," she said. "There are about
fifteen of them."

Preston suddenly envisaged a catalogue full of 'Untitled' interspersed with
'Male Nudes'. "You've got to give them titles," he said desperately. "Are
they all scenes? Call them by the places you painted."

"I could do that," said Susan. "I don't know about prices though."

"Fred's charging fifty," said Preston.

"Fifty guineas," said Susan. "That sounds an awful lot."

"There aren't such things as guineas anymore," said Preston. "Fifty
pounds."

"Oh I couldn't charge that," said Susan.

"No of course you couldn't," said Preston without thinking.

"Don't you think they're worth that?" asked Susan, an edge to her voice.

'I've not seen the bloody things,' thought Preston, but choked it
back. "Decide what you think is right," he said, suddenly decisive. "Make
up the titles and let me know in half an hour. Otherwise they'll go in as
'Untitled 1 to 15 and it'll all be extremely boring."

"This getting to you, Peter?"

"Just a bit," said Preston. "Please don't let me down."

Jane was much better organised. She had titles for all her photos and she
dictated them over the phone: 'Old Breton Woman', 'Old Woman from the
Camargue' 'Old Sicilian Woman'.

"Are they all old women?" asked Preston.

"The ones from my 'Old Woman' series are," said Jane. "There's some 'Old
Men' later, and then some scenes. Very rural those. All in Black and
White."

They sounded a bit unexciting. "Nothing in colour?" he asked.

"I don't do colour," said Jane. "Just texture and tone."

Preston wasn't sure what that meant but didn't want to upset her. "That's
fine," he said. "And the costs?"

"Priceless," said Jane, but relented and read off the charges which ranged
from 25 to 175 pounds. That seemed to be enormously high for just clicking
a button but Preston didn't dare to query it. Anyway he was so pleased to
get the information that he would have willingly accepted prices in
thousands of pounds.

"Do you want me to take some digitised thumbnails for the catalogue? Make
it look more like a proper one."

Preston had no idea what she meant but an offer is an offer is an
offer. "Er, thanks. How would that work?"

"I'll take some pics with my digitised camera and then send them as jpegs
to the printer. They'll know how to incorporate them into the text."

"Excellent," said Preston. "I'll tell Mrs Fletcher-Bell. She'll be so
pleased."

"Hmmm," said Jane. "If you say so."

Preston suddenly started to feel more optimistic, especially as Susan
phoned him just before the half hour was up with a list of titles - 'Bridge
over the Lake', 'Langley Hill in Autumn', 'Misty Morning over the
Cotswolds' etc. He really felt that something was happening, especially
when he rang Mr Jenkins in Feltenham and enquired about the 'jpegs' for the
catalogue. He rather feared he'd be asked abstruse technological questions
and was therefore pleased when Jenkins said that that would be fine, just
save them on a floppy, he said, or e-mail them through in a zip
file. Preston of course had no idea what that meant but felt sure that Jane
would know. He wrote down what Jenkins had said and then girded his loins
for yet another teatime with Mrs Fletcher-Bell.

On the way over, he called in at Mrs Wynde's. "Just a quick message," he
said. "How many paintings, can you give me their titles and how much are
they?"

For all her husband's waffling, Mrs Wynde could be concise when she wanted
to be. "I've written them out," she said, handing him a piece of paper.

"You've saved my life," said Preston. "For once I'm completely prepared for
Yvette."

"Pride goeth. . ." said Mrs Wynde.

Despite Mrs Wynde's warning, Preston was not downcast. He had everyone's
artworks with their names and prices. He had a quotation from Jenkins. He
was bullet-proof.

Unfortunately . . .

Almost the first thing she said was, "Where's Rachel Llewellyn-Flint?"

Rachel Llewellyn-Flint, self-proclaimed Artist in Residence at the
Castle. Chief source of gossip for what went on with the nobs and Preston
had completely forgotten all about her. He attempted to justify himself.

"I thought perhaps five contributors would be enough," he said weakly.

Mrs Fletcher-Bell's eyes sharpened. She gripped her teacup
fiercely. Clearly the thought of Preston thinking on his own didn't go down
well.

"There's a certain cachet," she said, "in having someone from the Castle."

"Oh, come one, Yvette," said Preston, "her mother is housekeeper and her
father's head of security. It's not as if she's even remotely related to
any of the owners."

Clearly this response came as a bit of a shock although she must have known
the details. Was this just another example of rebellion? "It would still
add something to our little show," she said.

Preston felt sorry for her. "I'll call on her," he promised.

Mrs Fletcher-Bell visibly brightened. "Now," she said, "let's look at the
catalogue."

Preston explained how he had got the titles and prices from everyone so
far, and how Jane had promised to take some pictures which would be
included. "All I need is yours," he said.

"And Rachel's"

"And Rachel's."

Preston sipped his tea. There didn't appear to be any chocolate cake today
and the cucumber sandwiches were a little dried round the edges. Could Mrs
Fletcher-Bell have wrapped the remainder from yesterday in clingfilm and
kept them, in the fridge overnight? He refused another.

"Er, Yvette," he said. "There's just the question of payment. Mr Jenkins
wants a down payment before he'll start on the printing."

Mrs Fletcher-Bell pursed her lips. "Tradesmen," she said
disapprovingly. "There's no trust any more."

Silence for a moment. Preston had to break it. "So, if I could have a
cheque to cover. . ."

The request fell flatly over the tea table. Hubert, who had been sipping
his glass, cleared his throat.

"Peter," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell, "I thought we were all in this
together. If I gave you a cheque for half. . ."

"There are three of us," said Preston boldly, looking at Hubert
meaningfully. He forbore to say that it had been her idea at the beginning,
that she had said she would pay.

Yvette looked at Hubert. Hubert looked into his glass. Both waited for
Preston to retract his 'outrageous' suggestion but Preston said nothing.

Eventually Mrs Fletcher-Bell said," Of course there's the commission."

"Commission?" asked Preston vaguely.

"Of course, the organisers take 10% of the sales. If we go into this
fifty-fifty you'll get half of the commission."

"I didn't tell anyone about the commission," said Preston. He could see
this causing some friction when they did learn.

"Oh, it's common practice," she said. "Everyone knows that."

I didn't, thought Preston. I bet Rick and Fred don't. He could see more
upsetting conversations, more blame, more unpleasantness. It was all too
much. He couldn't face it. "All right," he said, surrendering, "I'll go
halves."

"And do try to get in touch with Rachel," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell. "There
isn't much time left."

Hubert drained his glass and gave a self-satisfied, almost soundless belch.

It wasn't until he got home that Preston realised he hadn't got a cheque
from Yvette, not even for half the deposit. For a moment he considered
taking Jess out and just walking away from the whole ghastly affair. But
then there was the cat - and she was too old to move.

* * * * * *

The day after, things didn't seem quite so bad. Almost - but not quite so
'head-in-the-oven' bad. He'd call on Rachel, get her consent - or refusal,
make out the complete - and final - list of entries for the catalogue and
send it off to Mr Jenkins in Feltenham. He'd have to enclose a cheque but
he'd do that himself; he just couldn't face another confrontation with
Yvette, or another stale cucumber sandwich tea.

He took Jess because she liked Rachel's dog, a white Samoyard with a blue
tongue, called Zabik. It was really Lady Ashdown's but she was away from
the Castle for so long that Rachel had taken to looking after the dog and
it now considered itself hers. The occasional arrival of Lady Ashdown only
merited a feeble wag of Zabik's tail. Lady Ashdown had accepted the dog's
desertion with equanimity.

Rachel was sitting in the medieval knot garden, a folly originated by the
former owner of the castle but now presented to the paying visitors to the
castle as an exact copy of an Elizabethan knot garden, its geometrical beds
of different herbs and spices divided from each other by low lines of box
bushes.

Zabik barked at Preston as he arrived but wagged his tail when he
recognised Jess and licked her nose companionably. Zabik wasn't generally a
popular dog and had been set on by some of the other canine walkers but he
seemed OK with Jess. Preston explained his mission. "Don't feel you HAVE to
join in," he said. "It's just another of Yvette's 'ideas'."

"I'd love to," said Rachel. Her dark hair hung down her back, long and
rather lank. "I've got some spare canvases. They're all of dogs."

"Make a nice change from rural scenes and nude males," said Preston. He
carefully told her about the 'commission' so there could be no
misunderstanding later.

"That seems fair," said Rachel. "Come to the gatehouse. I've got them
stored there and we can pick. How many did you want?"

The selection went well and Preston was feeling quite pleased when he got
home. He typed out the catalogue in its final form and rang Jenkins.

"Send it as a text attachment, together with the jpegs," said Mr Jenkins.

Preston suddenly felt he was underwater, pushing against a current with
unfamiliar things swimming past in great shoals. "Er," he said.

"You have our e-mail address?"

"Er." Something slimy with tentacles slithered by.

"It's on the card I left with you."

"Er. Right."

"Send it as soon as possible if you want the finished catalogue by the
date."

"Er." A fish with teeth, surely a shark, grinned at him.

The phone clicked and went dead.

"Help," said Preston and went to see Jane.

"No problem," she said. The dog plunged its nose into his crotch. "Haven't
you got a computer?"

"Heavens, no," said Preston. "I'd be terrified."

Jane gave him a pitying look. "Come into the twenty-first century," she
said. "I'll hold your hand."

"I don't think I like the 21st Century," said Preston.

He sounded so depressed that Jane got him a cup of coffee. It was instant
which was a product that Preston associated with all that he disliked about
modern life, but he recognised the thought behind the offer and sipped it
with an expression which he hoped would be construed as appreciative.

"We'll have to type in the information again into the computer, I'm
afraid," said Jane.

The word 'type' impinged on Preston's consciousness. "I can type," he said,
"rather well. But I don't know anything about computers."

"The keyboard's the same. You just don't have to bother to return at the
end of each line. It does it for you automatically."

Preston didn't understand until Jane showed him. He was immediately
entranced. "What a good idea," he said, happily tapping away and giving a
little cry of pleasure each time the line shifted itself to the next one
without splitting the word. "Perhaps I should get one of these computer
things myself."

"You don't know the half of it. You'd be amazed at what they can do."

"What's all this 'duplex' business you were talking about?"

"Duplex?"

"The pictures you said you could send."

"Jay-pegs. Here's one I took of mine." She clicked a few keys and a little
picture appeared on the screen. "There you are - a photo of mine. It can go
straight into the printed version. What's the matter?"

She stared in alarm at Preston whose mouth hung open in an expression of
acute horror. "You've lost all that typing I put in."

"It's all right, Peter. Things usually stay in the memory, and if you're
about to lose something, usually the computer will remind you to save
first."

"Magic," said Preston and shivered at such technological marvels.

* * * * * *

Preston sighed contentedly. It had all gone so well, considering. The
catalogues had arrived and, even Mrs Fletcher-Bell agreed, looked very
impressive. The large advertisements too announcing dates, the venue, the
names of the contributors, the entry cost - a very reasonable £2 - which
Preston had taken round the neighbouring villages asking shops if he could
put them up in their windows. Almost all had said yes and Preston felt a
glow of satisfaction as he drove around and noticed the tastefully
decorated posters on his way.

There was still the hanging of the pictures and the disagreements that that
might cause but perhaps Yvette's Art Show hadn't been such a bad idea after
all. Of course she still hadn't paid anything so far, Preston having sent
off the cheques for all the printing and the booking fees, but surely she
wouldn't back out of those in the long run.

All in all it hadn't been too bad and surely the worst was over now. He
stretched himself in his armchair, ignoring the baleful look that Jess, who
considered the chair hers, and thought how blissful life would be without
the worry of Mrs Fletcher-Bell's Art Show. His eyes closed but then shot
open when Jess burst into furious barking.

"It's only the post," he said, "and it'll mostly be junk."

A few brightly-coloured envelopes lay on the mat bearing out his
prediction. Amongst then was a manilla envelope with a hand-written
address. Preston seized on it with rather more enthusiasm but the piece of
paper he withdrew and read came as a shock. It was a diatribe against the
coming Art Show couched in offensive terms. It railed against the artists
and their works which the writer seemed to know in some detail, referring
to the obscene scurrilousness of Fred's 'Nudes', the watery incompetence of
Mrs Wynde's impressionism, the sentimentality of Mrs Fletcher-Bell's
anthropomorphic animals, the commercialism of Rachel's dogs, the lack of
any spark of individualism in Jane's 'snaps'. It was of course unsigned. It
took Preston two read-throughs to notice an oddity - nothing said at all
about Susan Crownhatch's countryside paintings.

Preston felt a sense of outrage. In the back of his mind there was a
feeling that the writer of the letter had fastened on shortcomings which,
if pressed, he himself might have identified in the works of the
contributors, but it was one thing perhaps thinking these in private and
quite another in expressing them in semi-public form, ie in a letter. He
was only thankful that he himself was the person to whom the objectionable
missive was addressed.

That was until the phone started ringing.

The first one had him worried as he thought it might be from a deep-throat,
handkerchief-in-front-of-the-mouth whisperer who would further disparage
the Art Show, but it was in fact Jane.

"I've just had a letter," she said.

They compared notes and found the two were identical except for the
addressee.

"Do you think we should do something about it?" asked Preston. "Phone the
police?"

"A crank," said Jane. "Chuck them in the bin."

"There was one odd thing," said Preston.

"No mention of Susan Crownhatch."

"Exactly. Can we draw some sort of inference from that?"

"If she had written them," said Jane, "she'd hardly be likely to leave
herself out. It would make her the obvious suspect."

"Exactly."

"Could it be some local artist who feels himself slighted by not being
invited to contribute?"

"Someone who's envious of not being asked?"

There was a moment's silence while they both incredulously considered the
possibility, then both said together, "No."

"I'll chuck it in the bin," said Preston. Which was the advice he gave all
the other contributors as, one after the other, they either phoned him or
called round.

Only Susan was noticeably silent.

"It must be her," said Yvette. "She thinks she's a cut above us."

"On the contrary, when I asked her, she wondered whether she was up to your
standard. Anyway it's too obvious. I'll have a word with her but the bin's
the best place for rubbish like this."

"The Show's only next weekend," said Yvette. "I don't want anything to go
wrong after we've put so much work into it."

Preston nearly mentioned that she had put almost nothing into the project,
that he, and Jane, had done most of the work, that Yvette's financial
contribution still hadn't appeared - but he left it. An upset with Mrs
Fletcher-Bell was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

"Take my word for it," he said. "That's the last we'll hear of this
silliness." As he said it, Preston wondered whether he was tempting fate
but nothing further was heard over the remainder of the week. Instead other
problems arose like the hanging which had to be done overnight on the
Thursday as the hall was in use during the day, and the lighting which had
to be artificial as the natural light was almost non-existent. At least
that meant there wasn't the quarrelling as to which wall was the most
well-favored.

Preston had had a word with Susan. She said she hadn't received a letter
and he was inclined to believe her. No one mentioned the letters on hanging
day, or rather hanging night, though there were occasional glances at her
as she hung her pictures. Preston had engaged a local electrician who was
surprisingly good at his job and indeed sympathetic to the way the pictures
should be lit to their best advantage.

Rick and Fred treated the whole thing as a glorified party. They had
brought some cans of beer and they were generous. Preston was a little
concerned at the sight of some of the 'male nudes'. Admittedly there
weren't any 'interesting' duos but some of the individual's private parts
seemed a little too 'aroused' for the sake of propriety.

Hubert was seen on one occasion chuckling at one such picture before Mrs
Fletcher-Bell angrily found him a job sweeping the floor. Preston hadn't
seen Mrs Wynde's and Mrs Fletcher-Bell's pictures close up before and they
were indeed rather dreadful. The fact that they were hung side by side only
added to the comparison. Much better were Susan's rural scenes on the other
side safely bulwarked by Rachel's dogs and Jane's black and white
contadini.

Just after midnight they finished.

Even Mrs Fletcher-Bell couldn't find anything more to suggest. "We open
tomorrow," she announced, even though everyone was profoundly aware of this
fact. "Peter, would you be on the door tomorrow morning and sell the
tickets? We need someone responsible for that job. No doubt all the artists
will be here to answer questions from our public. Good luck to everyone."

Preston felt aggrieved. He had rather hoped that his job would now be
over. Of course he would have come along to see how things were going but
to sit at the door as a sort of glorified ticket seller wasn't really his
idea of a fun time. There was also the question of expenses.

"I'd like a chat, Yvette," he said, "about finances."

"Oh not now, darling," she said, stifling what looked like an artificial
yawn. "We've been so busy and worked so hard. We'll have your 'chat'
later."

And with this Preston had to be satisfied.

* * * * * *

Preston did not have a good night's rest. His sleep was troubled by dreams
of some mysterious entities, dark, shrouded, menacing, which kept flying
over his head and dropping spots of blood over him. Then the cat jumped on
the bed and batted him with her paw until he realised that she wanted some
food so he padded downstairs followed by the cat who decided that all she
wanted was a drink of water. When he got back to bed, Jess' snoring kept
him awake until eventually he dropped off, only to be troubled by the
worrying dreams again.

He awoke eventually, tired and somewhat irritable. He had slept through the
alarm and now was late. Shower, shave, breakfast, walk the dog. He'd
scarcely get to the Hall in time to open by nine o'clock. He rang Yvette
who wasn't at all pleased when he told her the news. He realised, from the
length of time before the phone was answered that she had probably been in
bed herself and no doubt Hubert was still snoring away in his
post-alcoholic slumber.

"Oh really, Peter," she said, her voice a bit slurred with sleep. "I can't
rely on anybody. Can't you give the dog walk a miss?"

Preston was cross. He'd done, he felt, most of the work without
complaint. Admittedly he'd fallen down on this last assignment, and he was
sorry, but it couldn't be helped.

"No, Yvette," he said firmly, "I have to take Jess for her walk, especially
as she'll be on her own for the rest of the day. You'll have to take the
first hour on the door. I'll be along by ten without fail."

Mrs Fletcher-Bell made a strange sound indicative of disappointment,
exasperation and eventual resignation and then put the receiver down. It
was, Preston realised, the first time he had stood up to her and he felt
quite pleased with himself. Swiftly he put on Jess' lead and set out over
the countryside determined that he would at least give the dog a good
walk. He whistled as he went and the sunshine was warm, the gentle breeze
cool. God's in his heaven, All's right with the world.

At three minutes to ten he arrived at the Hall. To his amazement there was
a sizeable crowd around the door and, even more astonishing a police car,
its blue lamp on top flashing though the siren had been switched off. Had
there been a riot, he wondered. Iconoclastic crowds worked up to
fever-pitch by Fred's ithyphallic fantasies?

"What's happened?" he asked.

One woman looked at him, her eyes wide with relish. "It's awful," she
said. "There's been a murder, blood everywhere."

Preston made his way to the front entrance where a constable stood, like
Horatio on the bridge, keeping back the crowd.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "No one's allowed in at the moment."

"I'm on the committee," said Preston. "What's happened."

At that moment there was a scream from inside the hall. The crowd murmured
with a frisson of satisfaction. This was real entertainment. Another
murder? But it was Mrs Fletcher-Bell who, from inside the Hall had seen
Preston arrive and was calling to him hysterically.

"Peter, Peter, come here. It's terrible. Look at this."

Preston glanced at the constable. "OK, sir," said the law. "You'd better go
in and speak to the Sergeant."

Preston went in cautiously, not sure what he might find. After the bright
sunlight outside, the hall was dark; the special lights put up yesterday
not being switched on. He glanced round the room. All the pictures, though
they were difficult to make out in the subdued light, seemed as they had
been.

Then he was caught in a bear-grasp as Mrs Fletcher-Bell grabbed him round
the waist. "Isn't it awful," she cried.

"What?" said Preston, bewildered. "What's happened?"

Suddenly the lights were switched on illuminating the room, lighting up the
pictures, showing him the worst. Down the walls dripped what looked like
cascades of blood, red gouts and splashes covering the pictures, streams
running down the wall, drops and pools on the floor.

"Oh my God," said Preston. "Who could have done that?"

Wordlessly Mrs Fletcher-Bell pointed at the wall on his left, the wall on
which hung Rachel's, Susan's and Jane's pictures. As if they had been
protected by a sheet, not one drop of the red had touched any of Susan's
pictures which stood out clear and bright in the spotlights.

"I don't believe it," said Preston. "It's like the letters. They missed out
Susan. It's too obvious."

"What letters are these, sir?" asked a voice from somewhere behind the
lights. A man wearing a police sergeant's uniform stepped into view. "And
who are you, sir?"

"My name is Peter Preston. I helped organise the show for Mrs
Fletcher-Bell."

There was a short pause as if the details were being written down in some
mental notebook. "And you mentioned 'letters'?"

"Yes, we all got one, last Monday it was, complaining about the show. A
silly letter. We paid no attention to them."

"All except Susan," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell with a quantity of meaning in
her tone. "She didn't get one."

"And you have these letters?" asked the sergeant.

"Well, no," said Preston. "We all decided that the best thing was to bin
them. The rubbish would have been collected on Wednesday so they'll be long
gone now."

"Pity," said the sergeant. "We might have for some clues from them."

"Fingerprints, DNA," suggested Mrs Fletcher-Bell.

"Well, I don't know that we'd have been able to go that far. DNA analysis
is expensive."

"But look at what's happened. The pictures ruined." Suddenly she fixed her
gaze on Preston. "Did you insure them?"

Something snapped in Preston. "Of course I didn't. I had enough to do with
all the other jobs you gave me."

"Insurance should have been your first consideration," she said. "Think of
the value."

Preston caught the sergeant's eye at this. Clearly he, like Preston, didn't
think the value of the pictures was all that high. "What is this stuff?"
asked Preston, touching one of the runs of red liquid. It was still wet and
his finger came away incarnadine (ensanguined).

"It seems to be a water soluble paint," said the sergeant.

"So it'll wash off?"

All except the water-colours," said Mrs Fletcher-Bell. Was there a touch of
relish in her tone?

"Luckily," said Preston. "Mrs Wynde has put her paintings in frames with
glass. You remember what a trouble we had last night making sure that the
lights didn't reflect from them. The rest, if we get a move on, should, be
OK. And of course Susan's weren't touched. Is that all right if we start to
clean up, sergeant?"

"I suppose so. Mrs Fletcher-Bell can go ahead. There a bucket and some
cloths in the water closet. I'd like to have a few words with you, Mr
Preston."

Mrs Fletcher-Bell, relegated to the role of charwoman, looked furious, but
trudged off with a bucket and cloth.

"It seems that you have had most to do with this exhibition," said the
sergeant taking Preston into a corner. "So you must have noticed if there
were any tensions, quarrels between the 'artists'." His emphasis on the
last word suggested he didn't think much of their abilities. Although this
was Preston's view as well, he felt an instinctive loyalty to his little
group and he rushed to their defence.

"I expected there to be lots," he said, "but there weren't really. People
seemed to get on very well."

"No jealousies for instance?"

Preston shook his head and the sergeant looked disappointed. "OK," he said,
"Tell me about these letters which everyone so conveniently threw away."

"We decided they were written by some crank. They arrived just after the
posters advertising the Art Show went up. So we decided to throw them
away."

"Were they hand-written, typed?"

"I think Jane Wilson said they were done on a printer."

"And who has a computer in the group?"

"Jane of course, I think Fred and Rick, Susan Crownhatch, Rachel
Lewellyn-Flint I suppose, Mrs Wynde. Most of them."

"Not you or Mrs Fletcher-Bell."

"That's right. I think I'd like one though I know Yvette hates them."
Preston watched Yvette, in her pearls and fur coat, rubbing away at a
recalcitrant stain. He guessed he ought to help her. And why weren't the
other artists here? Perhaps they were being held outside by Horatio.

"Can I get on with cleaning up?" he asked. "Could you let the others in to
help?"

"I'll need to interview them of course. First tell me about keys."

"Keys?" asked Preston vaguely.

"Yes. Who has keys to the Hall?"

"There's a caretaker who opens the door in the morning and locks up at
night."

"And he did this, this morning?" asked the sergeant.

Preston glanced across to where Yvette was furiously rubbing the
wall. "Yvette," he called. "Was the door open when you arrived this
morning?"

"Of course it was," she said. "That was the arrangement."

"You saw him then?"

"Mrs Fletcher-Bell looked a bit embarrassed. "Well, no. I was a little
late, I'm afraid."

"The arrangement was for me to meet him here at nine o'clock. What time did
you get here?"

Yvette shuffled her feet almost as if she was a little girl who had been
caught out doing wrong. "Er - probably about half past."

"And the caretaker had gone by then?"

"They don't have much responsibility," she said.

"So there could have been a full half hour when the hall was empty, ample
time for whoever did it, to splash the paint around."

"If you'd have got here when you said you would," said Yvette, trying to
shift the blame.

"I arranged for a substitute," said Preston blandly. "You." Suddenly he
felt sorry for her. She had got some red liquid on her coat and her hair
was in a mess. He turned to the sergeant. "Can we get the others in?" he
asked "To help clear up."

The sergeant nodded. "I'll need to speak to them but they can come in and
do some clearing up."

Preston went to the door. He could identify the little group chatting to
each other, Mrs Wynde, Fred, Jane Wilson, Rachel and Susan. The husbands,
Hubert Fletcher-Bell and Brian Wynde, didn't seem to have come.

Preston spoke to the constable. "Your sergeant says they can come in," he
said pointing to the group.

The constable glanced back into the hall at his sergeant who
nodded. Preston went out and explained the situation to the group, telling
them to come in and give Yvette a hand. Fred laughed when he learned Yvette
was doing the scrubbing. "Bet she hasn't started on any but her own," he
said.

"But who could have done it?"

This was the question raised, in different words, by all of them. They all
looked aghast at the walls and art works and Mrs Fletcher-Bell standing in
her furs and pearls, a dripping red cloth in her hand. She looked, Preston
thought, as if she were appearing in a modern dress 'Macbeth'. All the
artists were upset but the one who seemed most upset was Susan whose work
hung, untouched and pristine on that paint-free section of wall.

"Why not mine?" she asked, contralto. Mrs Fletcher-Bell gave her a
sharply-accusing look. Before she could say something, Preston stepped in.

"Perhaps whoever did it is trying to throw suspicion on you," he said.

"But why?" asked Susan, wringing her hands. "What have I done?"

Suddenly Preston realised exactly who the perpetrator was and why.

THE END

Postscript:

When the hall was cleaned and the sergeant had given permission for the
exhibition to be opened, Preston took Susan into a corner and asked a few
questions. He only had a short time for the public, alerted by strange
rumours of what had happened at the Art Show by that 'bush telegraph' which
is so prevalent in small communities and usually - and appropriately -
centres around the Post Mistress, flocked into the hall, willingly giving
up their £2 entry charge.

Perhaps they were a little disappointed by the lack of evidence of
violence, or indeed of any marks - the exhibitors had done an excellent
cleaning job - but they dutifully regarded the pictures on show, only a few
tutting over Rick's nudes. In fact sales were brisk and Mrs Fletcher-Bell,
inspite of her slightly dishevelled hair and coat, began to look pleased.

But Preston had another job to do. One other person had to be taken into
the corner and quizzed. That other was at first indignant, then denied the
charge hotly but Preston, quietly persistent, outlined the facts.

Susan's dog, Angel, in strict opposition to her name, wasn't always as
angelic as she should be. Susan had admitted it herself. Angel - BAD DOG -
had a habit of taking small lumps out of other dogs she didn't - for some
strange canine reason or other - like. Susan had tried to control her, had
taken her to training and she was getting better, but the damage had been
done.

Rachel Llewellyn-Flint admitted it. Poor Zabik, that snow-white Samoyard,
made neurotic by Lady Ashdown's absence, feeling deserted perhaps and then
set upon by an, admittedly smaller, black Labrador, had become very
depressed.

Rachel, dog-lover - and painter - extraordinaire had conceived a dislike of
what she felt was the author of Zabik's misery, and of course the owner,
who was ultimately responsible. She had seen the opportunity of causing
grief to Susan by the writing of the letters and then, when she had arrived
at the Hall, finding it empty, had splashed the walls and exhibits with
some watered down paint, a tube of which she had found in her pocket,
knowing that it wouldn't actually cause any lasting damage and could be
cleaned off comparatively easily.

She was sorry. She realised what she had done was wrong. She would of
course never do anything like that again. She looked downcast, defeated,
and Preston felt sorry for her.

He wouldn't say anything. The Elmcombe Art Show desecration would always
remain a mystery. Thanks to Rachel's activity perhaps it was more of a
success than it would have been without.

He sighed. All he had to do now was get a cheque out of Mrs Fletcher-Bell -
dammit, Yvette.


Date started:	20, Thursday May, 2004
Words:		10.276
Page number:
Today's date:


Dramatis Personnae:

Mr and Mrs Fletcher-Bell (related to the whisky people)
Colonel and Mrs Wynde (Retired Army/witch and artist)
Rachel Lewellyn-Flint (artists in residence at the Castle)
Hurvik von Rook (Dutch traveller - the Flying Dutchman)
Professor and Mrs Murgatroyd
Woglinde (Lyn) Kronkheit (The Valkyre who owns the cottage next door)
Paula Clamphill (Labrador owner 1)
Susan Crownhatch (Labrador owner 2)
Jane Wilson (Photographer)
Fred and Rick (Gay couple at Beesmoor House)
Peter Preston (unfortunate recipient of neighbours' plans)
Mr Jenkins (printer)
Police Sergeanr