The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

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      Friday 28th June

      The cottage where Evelyn Lucas had spent the last years of her life stood on a bank above a narrow lane. The hedges were thick and verdant, hazel and dogwoods threaded through with honeysuckle and wild roses. Lucy stood for a moment looking up at the front of the cottage. It was like a painting by Helen Allingham. The ancient peg-tiled roof was furred with moss and lichen above flint walls and windows with small diamond-shaped leaded panes; the wooden porch was covered with clematis. Pushing open the gate Lucy climbed the steps to the front door and reached for the bell pull. She heard a chime somewhere deep in the house.

      Carrying on her shoulder a bag containing a notebook, a camera, and a small digital audio recorder, she had left her car in a lay-by just outside the village and walked down the lane, timing her arrival perfectly for four o’clock. It had taken quite a bit of detective work to find the location of the cottage and even more to trace a contact number but she had in the end managed to speak to Evelyn’s former housekeeper. The cottage was to her delight still owned by a member of the family.

      As she stood waiting for a response a thrush burst into song somewhere in the garden behind a lavender hedge to her right. To the left a sloping lawn led up towards a hedge of myrtle behind which she saw the roof of the building she was pretty certain must be the studio. Beyond the studio the Downs sloped up towards the intense blue of the sky. She could see the swallows darting and swooping over the fields.

      At last she heard footsteps approaching. As the door opened she found herself momentarily thrown by the appearance not of the elderly woman she had been expecting, but of a tall man in his mid-thirties. His hair was a dark blond, severely brushed back from a deep forehead, his eyes a clear dusky blue, full of suspicion now, though they betrayed laughter lines at the outer corners. Most unexpectedly of all, given the rural location, he was formally dressed in a dark blue suit and a tie.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She took a step back. ‘Have I come to the wrong address? I was looking for Evelyn Lucas’s cottage.’ She knew it was the right address and now she guessed who this was.

      ‘No, this is the right place.’ He waited. ‘How can I help you?’ His tone was not encouraging.

      ‘I spoke to a lady. Mrs Davis? She was expecting me.’

      ‘Ah.’ He gave her an austere smile. ‘My housekeeper. She has gone home I’m afraid.’

      Lucy could feel an overwhelming sense of disappointment beginning to drown her excitement. It had taken a lot of persuasion to get Mrs Davis to agree to let her come over and see the house. ‘We are not open to the public, you know,’ she had said down the phone, her soft Sussex accent gentle but nevertheless determined. ‘The owner, he doesn’t like people coming any more. I’m sorry.’

      Sensing it was not the moment to talk about detailed research or the production of a book Lucy had merely described herself as an art student, deeply involved in studying Evelyn’s work. ‘I would so love to see where she painted,’ she had said. ‘I am sorry. I had understood you allowed people access to her studio.’

      On the phone her conversation with Mrs Davis had ground to a halt at that point. And there had been a few moments silence. ‘That was before Mr Michael moved in,’ Dolly Davis had said at last. ‘He doesn’t want people poking around here. This is his home now, you see.’

      ‘Mr Michael?’ Lucy had felt at a sudden disadvantage. Should she know who he was?

      Mrs Davis had provided the information without the need of further questioning. ‘He is Evie Lucas’s grandson. He inherited the cottage when his father died. Before that they did allow study groups here from time to time, you’re right, but Mr Michael, he likes his privacy.’

      ‘But surely, this is a place of national importance. He can’t just refuse to let people see it,’ Lucy said, with some indignation, perhaps betraying more vehemence than she realised.

      They had talked for several minutes before at last Mrs Davis had agreed to allow her to visit the studio the following Friday afternoon. ‘Only a quick peep, you understand,’ she had said as they hung up. ‘I wouldn’t want Mr Michael to be upset.’

      Mr Michael, it appeared, was only using the place at weekends. He lived and worked in London and should have returned there, but now here he was standing in front of her and he showed every sign of being if not upset then at least angry and intransigent.

      She became aware suddenly that he was waiting for her to say something. This might be her last chance. On the other hand, she didn’t want to antagonise him, or to get Mrs Davis into trouble. Playing for time she held out her hand. ‘How do you do. I am Lucy Standish.’

      Taken aback he hesitated for a moment before he took her hand and shook it. ‘Michael Marston,’ he said gravely. He had a strong handshake; he did not smile. Again he waited.

      She found herself suddenly wishing she had taken more care with her appearance before leaving home. Her hair was scraped back as usual, held in an unsophisticated ponytail by a rubber band, she was wearing no make-up and she was dressed in a shirt and jeans. She gave a small audible sigh. ‘OK, I give up. I am so sorry. I don’t want to get your housekeeper into trouble. It’s all my fault. I somehow managed to persuade her to let me have a quick look at Evelyn’s, that is, your grandmother’s, studio. I have been studying her work and it would mean so much to me. She, that is your housekeeper, explained that it is no longer open to the public and I can quite understand that. I am truly sorry.’ She was rattling on and she knew it. Shaking her head she turned away. ‘I am sorry. I will go. Of course, I will go. Please don’t be angry with her. She is so proud of Evelyn and she understood how I felt. I didn’t mean to intrude.’

      ‘Stop!’

      Michael Marston had folded his arms during her anguished soliloquy. He shook his head slowly. ‘Do you ever let anyone else get a word in edgeways? No wonder you talked your way under Dolly’s guard.’

      Lucy bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’ He was making her feel like a small child.

      ‘Stop apologising.’ He smiled at last. It lit his face but it also betrayed how exhausted he looked. ‘I am sure that just this once I could make an exception and allow you to come in as you’ve come all this way. I wasn’t expecting I would be here this afternoon, and obviously neither was Dolly. No wonder she was so reluctant to leave me here and take the time off.’ He stood back and beckoned her to follow him into the shadowy hallway. ‘Please follow me. What did you say your name was?’

      Repeating her name, Lucy followed him into a long low living room. With windows back and front open onto the garden the whole place smelled of newly cut grass and roses. She stared round in delight. ‘This is lovely.’

      ‘Indeed. She adored this place. She could never be persuaded to move once she found Rosebank Cottage.’

      ‘She painted this room, didn’t she? As a backdrop to some of her best portraits.’

      He nodded. ‘And got slated by the critics for it. Too chocolate box like some of her wartime pictures, but as you probably know, that wasn’t really her style.’ He made his way between an easy chair and a sofa, placed on either side of an open fireplace, heading towards the French doors which led out into the back garden. Lucy glanced at the hearth. It was empty now save for an arrangement of dried flowers.

      He led the way outside and up some narrow mossy steps into the upper garden and towards the building which Lucy had already guessed was СКАЧАТЬ