Framed Read online

  Framed

  By Shaun Baines

  A Holly Fleet Short Mystery

  Based on the characters from his novel Black Rock Manor

  Copyright © 2020 Shaun Baines

  The right of Shaun Baines to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.

  Framed

  The room was small, made smaller by the murky shadows crouching in its corners. There were no lights. The sun fought its way through grimy windows, illuminating ribbons of dust twisting in the air. They worked in silence, as silent as the remainder of Black Rock Manor, an abandoned home in the rugged landscape of Northumberland.

  Holly sneezed, rubbing the itch from her nose. She was in her early forties. Overwrought nerves kept her thin. She wore a second-hand trouser suit two sizes too big for her.

  "How many more rooms do we have to clear?" she asked.

  Despite the arduous work, Callum continued to wear the wax jacket of his gamekeeping duties. He was in his twenties with a mop of dark hair. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to muscles working like pistons. He wrestled a leather armchair to the doorway, slamming it against the frame, unprepared to admit it wouldn't fit.

  "There are fourteen more rooms in this wing," he said, gasping for breath, "but some of them are already empty."

  Black Rock Manor was the jewel in the wonky tiara of Little Belton village. It had been deserted by its previous owner, Sir Charles Wentworth. His family had lived there for generations. When the mining industry suffered under the Conservative government in the eighties, his business was forced to close and he fled to the south of England.

  "And you're expecting me to carry all this stuff to the cellar?" Holly asked, throwing open her arms. "I have a newspaper to print."

  When Holly wasn't a removal man, she edited the Little Belton Herald, a provincial newspaper with a tiny circulation. She was also its only journalist, its advertising executive and the woman who swept the floors.

  Helping Callum was supposed to be a distraction from what Holly realised was a terrible career.

  The list of items to remove included the armchair refusing to leave, a writing bureau covered in cobwebs, a hat stand, a collection of books and a stuffed otter. If only half of the rooms in this wing had a similar amount of furniture, it would mean – Holly paused to make the calculations on her fingers before giving up – a lot of trips to the cellar.

  Callum stared at the armchair, scratching his head. "Anyone could walk in here and take what they fancy. I can't guard it twenty-four-seven. Not with everything else that's going on. When the owners finally show up, they'll want the furniture they paid for."

  "But why the cellar?" Holly asked.

  "It needs to be somewhere cool," Callum said, reaching behind the writing bureau. "For these."

  In his hands was a large oil painting set in the grounds of Black Rock Manor, back when they'd been tended to by a team of diligent gardeners. A peacock, painted in a rainbow of blues and greens, posed in the foreground, its tail in the shape of a lady's fan. It had the imperial air of an animal whose primary role was to be admired.

  In the background were two figures acting as its audience.

  "Plus it's too damp to store paintings like this here," Callum said. "The cellar is dry and the low temperature will prevent further damage."

  "What makes them so special?" Holly asked.

  "They're a part of Little Belton's history. This one's called The Faithful Ornament. It's over a hundred years old," Callum said, showing Holly the peacock.

  She peered at the signature in the corner. "Bartholomew Guteridge?"

  "He was a local artist. Very famous, actually."

  So famous Holly had never heard of him. The painting was nice enough, she supposed. Holly liked animals. Other than that, it was like every other painting she'd seen at Black Rock. Their purpose seemed not to amuse or entertain, but to show off their owner's wealth and it left a bitter taste in Holly's mouth.

  "How much is it worth?" she asked.

  Callum whistled. "One of Guteridge's paintings was recently at auction. It fetched over nine hundred pounds and this one is bigger."

  Not sure if that's how paintings are valued, Holly thought. Her eyes were drawn to the two figures behind the peacock. One was male, the other was female. The man was taller with wavy dark hair. He wore clothes typical of the time, namely a tweed jacket and moleskin trousers, but the woman…

  Holly blinked repeatedly. She marched to the grimy window and wiped away the dirt with her sleeve.

  "What are you doing?" Callum asked.

  "Turn the painting to the light," Holly said.

  Callum did as he was told.

  Leaning in, Holly studied the two figures. "I don't believe it."

  Callum perched his nose on the frame and looked downward. His eyebrows shot to the top of his brow. "Is that who I think it is?"

  "Were those figures always in the picture?" Holly asked.

  "Yeah, but…"

  Holly took the painting and propped it against a wall. Holly and Callum stood back, folding their arms. The peacock glared at them, but it was the man and woman drawing their interest.

  "And this painting is over a hundred years old?" Holly asked.

  Callum nodded slowly.

  Holly cleared her throat. "So can you tell me how those two figures in the background look exactly like us?"

  The male figure was a match for Callum, down to his watchful eyes and rigid stance. The woman had the same unruly haircut as Holly and wore a trouser suit; the same trouser suit Holly had bought six weeks previously and was currently wearing.

  ***

  After they locked up the manor and climbed into Callum's Defender jeep, they drove through the winding roads of Little Belton. The countryside flew by in a patchwork of green. Holly pressed her head against the passenger side window, watching the fields blur into one. The blackthorn hedgerows were filled with flowers, promising bitter fruit later in the year.

  St. Jerome's was the only religious building in Little Belton. It had been built as a Catholic bastion in the sixteenth century. In the seventeenth century, it was razed to the ground by Protestants and rebuilt in their image. Eight years later, the Catholics returned the favour, followed by a further favour from the Protestants one year after that. The fight for the hearts and souls of Little Belton continued for two hundred and forty-nine years, including a brief interlude from a Jewish sect and a small band of Muslim brothers. The Little Belton residents attended church regardless of who was in charge and in nineteen-thirty-five, it was decreed it should be of no denomination, thus avoiding further arson attempts. It retained the name of St. Jerome's on the basis that the signage had already been paid for, but its patronage was open to anyone willing to give it a go.

  Holly picked her way through crumbling gravestones pitted with moss. Their inscriptions had been washed away by the torturous Northumberland winters. Wind and hail blasted the engravings so only a trace memory of the occupants remained.

  They scrambled through memorials choked with weeds and brambles until they reached one of the oldest plots in the cemetery.

  "This is the only other thing I know about Guteridge," Callum said, pointing at a headstone.

  Although it had fallen, lying on its back, the head
stone was clear of moss. The grave itself had been tended regularly and there were no weeds. The inscription was faded, but Holly managed to read it.

  Bartholomew Guteridge. Son of Little Belton. Taken too soon.

  5/3/1861 – 25/3/1951

  "Taken too soon?" Holly asked. "He was ninety years old."

  Callum clasped his hands in front of him, lowering his head. "I don't know much, but apparently he painted until the end."

  "What did he die of?" Holly asked.

  "Exhaustion, probably."

  Holly glanced over the churchyard. Guteridge's grave appeared to be the only one receiving visitors, or at least receiving the kind of visitors who brought their gardening gloves. The rest had been forgotten. In creating his paintings, Guteridge had created a legacy his mouldering neighbours would never have. It made Holly feel sad and happy at the same time.

  Resting at the foot of the headstone was a bouquet of flowers wrapped in pink paper.

  "Don't you think it's odd?" Holly asked, picking them up.

  Callum gave her a look telling her he wasn't thinking at all.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  The bouquet was filled with roses, freesias, gerberas and a host of other flowers Holly couldn't name. She brought them to her nose, taking in their scent.

  "I don't mean to be cruel," she said, "but this guy has been dead for about seventy years. Who's keeping his grave tidy? The rest of them are being swallowed by a jungle."

  "A relative?" Callum offered.

  Holly shook her head. "His immediate family would have to be really, really old. Chances are they're in here with him. And these flowers? They're fresh and they look pretty expensive. I don't get flowers like these and I'm still alive so who's taking this much interest?"

  "A fan of his work then?"

  "Maybe," Holly said, "but I like lots of artists. I wouldn't necessarily commit to tending their grave. Nevermind buying them flowers."

  Holly swung the bouquet by her side while she thought. A pink card fell from the wrapping, landing on Guteridge's headstone. Standing over it, Holly saw the image of a heart had been stamped in the centre. There was space for a personalised message. It had been left blank, but beneath it was the florist's logo, that of two intertwining W's.

  Holly smiled. "Ha! I should have known."

  ***

  The Winnows' Convenience store was the only one of its kind in Little Belton, making it unique for a lot of reasons. The two main ones were the owners, Mr and Mrs Winnow.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder behind the counter. Mr Winnow was balding with a paunch. Mrs Winnow piled her dyed blonde hair onto her head and held it there with something industrial. They both wore hand-knitted jumpers created from the same ball of purple wool.

  They smiled as Holly and Callum entered the store.

  "If it isn't Little Belton's answer to Holmes and Watson," Mr Winnow said. "What can we get you today? A new deerstalker? Strings for your violin?"

  Holly had no doubt both items were in their shop somewhere. Where most convenience stores sold items that were convenient, Mr and Mrs Winnow sold everything else. Yes, there was a small section of the shop for bread and milk, but there was a larger section of books on local history, space-hoppers and skateboards for the kids, umbrellas, parasols, flat-pack furniture and shaving kits suitable for both men and women, or so the Winnows claimed.

  Holly strode to the counter where a new display had emerged.

  "I see you're selling flowers now," she said.

  Several buckets stuffed with bouquets were arranged in a line.

  "You have to diversify in this game," Mr Winnow said. "Those out-of-town supermarkets sell everything under the sun. We have to compete somehow."

  Holly presented the flowers she'd found on Guteridge's grave, feeling slightly guilty for taking them.

  "I made that bouquet last week," Mr Winnow said. "Where did you get it from?"

  Holly pulled at her collar as her face flushed. "A friend gave it to me."

  Mrs Winnow elbowed her husband in the ribs. "You see? Some women get flowers. The last thing I got was an umbrella and that was only because they weren't selling."

  "I'd like to know who bought them," Holly said.

  Mr Winnow raised an eyebrow. "A friend bought them for you and you want to know their name?"

  "Was it a secret admirer, dear?" Mrs Winnow asked, staring directly at Callum.

  Callum backed away, shaking his head.

  "Yes," Holly said, clearing her throat. "Not Callum, obviously, but a secret admirer."

  Mrs Winnow looked disappointed and tugged on a stray lock of her hair. "Well, I'm afraid we can't tell you their name."

  "Why not?" Callum asked.

  "It breaches confidentiality, dear," Mrs Winnow said. "It's against the law."

  Mr Winnow tapped a finger against his chin. "But we do take the sender's address so we can keep in touch. We could give you that."

  "That's still against the law," Mrs Winnow said, her jaw contracting.

  "I'm a romantic. I can't stand in the way of true love," her husband said. "Besides, I'm sure our friends will show their gratitude in some way. Perhaps they could buy an umbrella or two?"

  "It's the middle of summer," Callum said.

  "But this is Northumberland," Mr Winnow said. "You know what they say? If it's not raining, it soon will be."

  Holly swallowed. Breaking the law didn't sit comfortably with her. As a child, she'd welcomed the rulebook. It gave her guidance and good girls never broke the rules. It was a mantra she repeated in her head whenever her fellow classmates had beaten her up for snitching to the teacher.

  She jumped to one side as Callum slapped three umbrellas on the counter.

  "Give us that address," he said, fishing in his pocket for his wallet.

  Mr Winnow was too cheap to invest in a computer and searched through a battered notebook. "The flowers were for a Mr Bartholomew Guthrie." His finger paused over his spidery writing and he glanced at Holly. "Let me guess. That's their pet name for you?"

  Holly's head appeared to nod of its own accord and Mr Winnow resumed his search.

  "They were delivered to Cobalt Cottage, off the B786a. Does that sound familiar to you?"

  "That is definitely my friend's address," Holly said, tripping over her words.

  Mr Winnow didn't look convinced. "I hear it's going to rain in the next five minutes. Maybe you should buy more umbrellas."

  Holly rolled her eyes and spent more money.

  Loaded down with their purchases, she carried three umbrellas to the jeep.

  Callum carried the other four, staring at a cloudless blue sky. "My wallet weeps every time I see that man."

  They stowed the umbrellas in the Defender and jumped into the front seats.

  "At least we're closer to solving this thing," Holly said.

  ***

  Cobalt Cottage was situated down a farm track that had seen its fair share of tractors. Ridges of wet mud had been pressed like cheese through the wide tyre treads. They had dried when the sun appeared, making for a bumpy ride.

  Holly held onto her seat.

  Grim faced, Callum brought them to the cottage and its garden of tangled hydrangeas and crumbling drystone walls. The cottage was two storeys high labouring under a web of ivy. On either side of the front door were bay windows rotting in wooden frames. The pitched roof was comprised of slate tiles, several of which lay broken on the ground.

  "I've never heard of any artist called Guteridge," said their owner.

  Mrs Tweddle's skin was pink and ruddy, hanging like badly fitted curtains from her bones. The corners of her mouth were turned down and her fuzzy chin had a tremor. She wore a woolly hat and gloves, as if planning a trip to the Arctic.

  She watched Holly carefully while intermittently glancing into her home.

  "He's a famous artist," Holly said. "Are you sure you don't know of him?"

/>   "I'm positive, dear," Mrs Tweddle said, shuffling from one arthritic foot to another. "Perhaps you have the wrong place. You'd be better off going elsewhere."

  Holly looked at the empty fields and barren marshes surrounding the house. "There's no-one else here, but you."

  "That's how I like it," Mrs Tweddle said. "I never leave this house and I've no business entertaining gentleman guests, no matter what their chosen career path. Now I must ask you to leave, dear. You're letting the cold in."

  There was the sound of breaking glass from somewhere in the house and Mrs Tweddle jumped.

  Holly peered over the top of her head and into the hallway beyond. The short corridor was packed with a lifetime of souvenirs. The walls were a cavalcade of framed photographs. There were battered side tables supporting vases, figurines and lace doilies. Underneath were stacks of books and piles of newspapers.

  And it was all covered in a layer of dirt and neglect.

  As Holly moved forward to get a better look, Mrs Tweddle pulled the door close, narrowing the gap.

  "Is there someone in there with you?" Holly asked. "I heard something."

  "I live alone."

  Holly brushed her fringe from her eyes. "Do you have a cat? Or a dog?"

  Mrs Tweddle worried at her lip. "Perhaps it was my goldfish."

  "Breaking out of its bowl?"

  "Please, dear, this is no place for you," Mrs Tweddle said. "There are two things in this house. Myself and my memories, but if there were someone else here, he would say, quite sharply, that he doesn't like strangers on his doorstep."

  Mrs Tweddle slammed the door shut, leaving Holly open-mouthed and staring at Callum.

  "I'm confused," he said. "Is there someone else in there or not?"

  There was something about Mrs Tweddle that didn't sit right. Holly was certain she was lying, but why? To scare Holly and Callum away? It didn't make sense.

  "Mrs Tweddle doesn't seem the type to send flowers, whether it was to a dead man or not." Holly turned to leave, picking her way over a garden path coiling like a snake. "Why don't we try and pick up some gossip from the village? Someone must know Mrs Tweddle there."

  As Callum was about to speak, the cottage door opened again. Standing in the doorway was a willowy man in his forties. His skin was grey. His nose was sharp and he wore a uniform similar to that of a nurse. It was deftly ironed, sporting creases down the front.