The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ she opened the envelope, adjusted her sunglasses and removed the letter it contained.

      ‘Swanky,’ she said, admiring the quality embossed notepaper. There was a stylish letterhead depicting a slender woman in an evening gown, with an Airedale dog at her side, a biplane in the sky, a yacht on the sea in the distance, and the words Scribbled from the desk, dashboard, cabin or cockpit of Sylvia de Lacy.

      ‘Cop a load of this,’ Cherry began, and she read the letter aloud.

       Whitby, 1932

       Dear future darlings,

       I’ve had to relocate this troublesome packet from a hidey-hole in the kitchen wall, where it looks like it had been stashed for simply yonks, and inter it under the hearth here. Some oikish bluenose has been making a pill of himself in regard to it, but Holly and I saw him off. I hope it’ll be safe in the new sanctuary, until you find it – or it finds you!

       Bags of affection,

       SdL

      ‘Who is Sylvia de Lacy?’ Verne asked.

      ‘Keep up, Columbo,’ Cherry said, handing the letter across. ‘She’s one of my predecessors and this changes everything.’

      ‘A Whitby witch?’ Lil asked.

      ‘You betcha, and quite a gal by all accounts. A genuine adventuress, the type they don’t make no more – and hardly ever did back then. If she vouches for this, whatever it is, that’s good enough for me.’

      Verne gazed at the confident handwriting, which looked as fresh as the day it had flowed from an expensive fountain pen, and he wondered if the drawing was in any way a good representation of Sylvia de Lacy. If it was, then she was exceedingly glamorous.

      ‘So who was the “bluenose”?’ he asked. ‘And Holly? Was that the dog in the letterhead?’

      ‘No idea,’ Cherry said, starting to unwrap the bundle that was now on her knee. ‘Holly might have been her cook or parlourmaid. Sylvia was seriously loaded. This cottage was her idea of a beach hut. Apparently her Rolls Royce was always blocking Church Street. Only rich witch I ever heard of and that’s because she was born into it. Now what’s this?’

      She had removed two layers and only one remained, but sandwiched between the second and third was another note. This was a folded scrap of torn paper and had been there long before Sylvia had written hers.

      ‘It’s like pass the parcel,’ chuckled Lil.

      Cherry gave the message her attention, which was written in thick black pencil.

      ‘You better read it,’ she said to Lil.

      Puzzled, Lil took the tattered note and let out a cry of disbelief.

      ‘What is it?’ Verne demanded. ‘What does it say?’

      His friend passed it to him and, though his mouth opened and closed, he was too stunned to speak.

       Lil Wilson, this is for you!

      ‘Got to be a coincidence,’ Lil said. ‘It can’t mean me me.’

      ‘Don’t be daft!’ Verne said, giving it back. ‘Course it’s you. Check out the handwriting!’

      Lil took another look and gasped even louder. ‘It’s not possible,’ she breathed. ‘But . . . but – it looks like mine.’

      Cherry slumped back in the wicker chair and whistled through her teeth.

      ‘Dip me in glitter and throw me to a mob of roller-skating pixies!’ she declared. ‘This is turning out to be one head-fry of a day and it’s still not lunchtime. Here, Lil, this is undeniably yours, kiddo. A present out of the past to you, from you.’

      Lil took the bundle almost fearfully, questions exploding in her head like fireworks. Carefully she unwrapped the last layer of protective cloth and gazed at the uncovered object.

      It was a plain and shallow wooden box, with tarnished brass hinges and a simple clasp locking the two halves together.

      ‘P’raps there’s magic wands inside?’ Verne suggested. ‘You might’ve sent yourself a witch kit.’

      ‘We’ve got enough of those in the shop already,’ Lil reminded him. ‘Besides, Cherry says real witches don’t use them.’

      ‘A set of magic knitting needles then?’ he said. ‘Hurry up and open it!’

      ‘Yes,’ Jack Potts joined in. ‘I too am curious.’

      ‘Curious, my eye!’ Cherry cried. ‘I’m so stoked, I’m gonna need fresh underwear! Put me and my gusset out of our misery, for crying out loud!’

      Lil fumbled with the clasp. It was stiff and took several moments of fiddly struggle before she could lift the lid.

      Gazing inside, she gave a delighted laugh and angled the box around for everyone to see.

      ‘It’s paints!’ she exclaimed. ‘An antique box of . . . watercolours, I think. No wonder you thought your colours were being reflected back at you.’

      The lower half was divided into seven compartments for the blocks of pigment and a narrow channel for the brush.

      Verne couldn’t conceal his disappointment. He’d expected something far more dramatic and otherworldly.

      ‘Maybe they paint the future or something?’ he said.

      ‘They’ve never been used,’ Cherry observed. ‘Not so much as a spot of spit ever touched them.’

      Lil prised out an ochre-coloured brick and examined it closely. It was slightly larger than a piece of Lego. Stamped on to the surface was a relief of a camel and, on the reverse, the pigment’s name – Sahara Sand.

      ‘They’ve all got little images on them,’ she said. ‘The white one has a cup and saucer; the red has a beetle; the yellow is a bit weird, looks like a starved cow – you can see the ribs.’

      ‘Might be Indian Yellow,’ Cherry suggested. ‘The way they used to make that was gross. They fed cattle nothing but mango leaves, which did them no good whatsoever, then they boiled down the urine to a stinky powder.’

      ‘Says Scourge Yellow,’ said Lil, reading the back.

      ‘Never heard of that one.’

      ‘What’s there, in the middle?’ Verne asked.

      The brick in the centre space was wrapped in creamy linen, embroidered at the edges.

      ‘Looks like a hanky,’ Lil said, carefully peeling away the fabric.

      ‘Perhaps that colour is Bogey Green,’ Verne said, grinning.

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