Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (10 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Davina McIntyre’s home was everything Dylan had expected. He’d spent most of yesterday digging into the lives of McIntyre’s family and friends, and had won himself an appointment with Martin Collins, son of McIntyre’s agent, and with Mrs. McIntyre herself. He’d checked out estate agents on the internet and knew that houses in this area came with price tags in the region of eight to ten million pounds. The off-street parking alone would be worth a million pounds. Mrs. McIntyre’s home was painted a clean white and boasted a gated front garden.

He climbed steep steps to the front door and prodded a brass bellpush. The woman who answered his ring was late twenties or early thirties, too young to be Jack McIntyre’s widow.

“You’ll be Mr. Scott?” she guessed.

“That’s right. Is Mrs. McIntyre here?”

“She isn’t, I’m afraid. Sorry. She phoned to say she’d been stuck in traffic, but she shouldn’t be too long. Would you like to wait for her?”

“If I could. It will save me another journey.”

“Come in.” She held the door open fully for him to pass and he stepped into a wide hallway.

“What a lovely home,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” She looked wistful. “I come to clean three mornings a week and even that’s a joy. It’s beautiful.”

“A nice area, too, especially with the open spaces of Holland Park on the doorstep.”

Smiling, she nodded. “Everything about it is perfect. I tell Davina she’s got more bathrooms than I’ve had hot dinners. She just laughs.”

“You get on well with her?”

“Oh, yes. She’s very good to me and, like I say, I enjoy coming here.” She stood still, seemed to have an inner debate with herself, and then said, “Come and have a look at the games room. She won’t mind.”

She led the way to the back of the house and into the games room. “My two boys would kill for this,” she said.

It was vast and boasted a snooker table, easy chairs and card tables as well as its own shower room and kitchenette.

Dylan whistled. “How the other half live.”

“I know. It’s like something from another planet, isn’t it?”

As far as Dylan knew, Davina McIntyre lived alone. It seemed a huge house for a single person to rattle around in. “Is she a keen snooker player?”

The cleaner laughed. “No. She has three sisters and a brother, though, and all their kids enjoy it. She had twelve people staying for Christmas, and the young ones spent all their time in here.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She gave him a mini-tour of the ground floor rooms—cosy sitting room, formal sitting room, huge dining room and vast kitchen—and was about to show him the garden when the front door opened and in walked Davina McIntyre.

“You’ll be Mr. Scott,” she said, walking forward with a slender hand outstretched. “I’m so sorry I’m late but the traffic’s been a nightmare today. Has Shelley looked after you?”

He shook that slender hand. “She has. Thank you. And thank you for agreeing to see me, Mrs. McIntyre.”

“Davina, please.”

“Dylan.”

“How could I not see you?” she said, smiling. “You have me intrigued, Dylan. Your call was very mysterious.”

She was tall, slim and composed. Auburn hair framed a carefully made-up face. Long fingernails had been painted pink. According to the internet, not that anything on there could be taken as gospel, she was fifty-four. She appeared much younger until you looked more closely and saw tiny lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Everything about her and her movements was serene and calm. He couldn’t imagine her ever being ruffled.

“I showed him the games room,” Shelley said. “That was okay, wasn’t it?”

“Of course.” Davina laughed softly, explaining to Dylan, “Shelley is obsessed with my games room. I often wish I could dismantle it and carry it brick by brick to her garden.”

“Like it would fit in my garden,” Shelley scoffed in a good-natured way.

“Is it warm in there?” Davina asked.

“It is,” Shelley said. “Shall I bring you some coffee or something through there?”

“Coffee would be perfect. What about you, Dylan? Coffee? Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?”

Dylan had left his car at home and taken the tube to Kensington High Street, but polite circles would claim it was too early for anything stronger than coffee. “Coffee sounds good, thank you.”

They walked on to the games room where she offered him a comfy armchair by a small table and took the one opposite. She was wearing a soft blue sweater and black trousers. Black shoes with tiny heels were slipped off and she curled her feet beneath her on the chair.

“So,” she said, “now that your phone call has me so intrigued, you’d better tell me what I can do for you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound mysterious. I’m a private investigator and I’m working for a woman whose sister was killed recently. Does the name Prue Murphy mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“It’s possible, probable even, that Prue paid the price for disturbing a chance burglar. However, her sister isn’t convinced. You see, Prue phoned her sister the night she died. She sounded worried. Frightened.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, “but what does it have to do with me?”

“When clearing her house, we found a painting, a miniature.”

“One of Jack’s?”

“Yes.”

She unfolded her legs and stood up. “Excuse me a moment, Dylan.”

She left the room, and returned a minute later with two miniatures in her hand. “Like these?”

Dylan took them from her and realised that once you’d seen one McIntyre painting, you’d recognise others. These were just like the one that had hung on Prue’s wall. Hers had shown an old black phone and an airmail envelope whereas one of these was of a train and a plane and the other showed a dinner plate and cutlery.

“It’s odd,” he said, “but I haven’t been able to find much information about his miniatures. Few people seem to know about them.”

“That’s not odd at all because Jack didn’t take them seriously. I don’t know how many he did, but it wasn’t many. They were just a bit of fun. They were like messages. This one—” she pointed to the dinner plate, “—was a dinner invite. We’d had a quarrel about something, I can’t remember what, and this was Jack’s way of worming his way back into my good books. He wanted to have dinner with me. The other told me it was time we took a holiday.” She smiled at his surprise. “Haven’t you heard that a picture paints a thousand words, Dylan?”

“Yes, but I’ve never thought of paintings as messages. Wouldn’t words get the message across more quickly?”

“Of course they would, but they wouldn’t be as much fun, would they?” She took the miniatures from him and placed them on the table, then sat on the chair again with her feet tucked beneath her.

“The miniature we found in Prue Murphy’s home was of an old black phone and an airmail envelope,” he said. “What could that mean?”

She shrugged. “Only the person it was given to would know that.”

“Something like ‘Keep in touch’ perhaps? Or maybe ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you’?”

“It could be. Who knows?”

Not Dylan.

“Prue Murphy couldn’t afford one of your late husband’s paintings, Davina, and she was an honest person. I was wondering if perhaps she was known to Mr. McIntyre, or to his friends. You’re sure her name means nothing to you?”

“Positive.”

She smiled as Shelley came into the room bearing coffee, biscuits and muffins. “Thanks, Shelley. You’re a gem.” She helped herself to a chocolate muffin and said for Dylan’s benefit, “My biggest vice—I’m a cake fiend. Try one of Shelley’s muffins. They’re wonderful.”

Dylan did so, and had to admit they were good.

“A friend of mine has a small shop,” Davina said, “and she’s going to sell them. Delicious, aren’t they?”

“They are indeed.”

It was a full five minutes before he was able to bring the subject back to Prue. “Is it possible your husband could have known her, do you think?” he asked.

“It’s possible, I suppose. Was she young and pretty?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s possible she once modelled for Jack,” she said. “Or she may have been one of his fans. Young aspiring artists, especially female ones, adored him. Jack had charm, talent and money, and young people are attracted to such things. He adored them too. He appreciated beautiful things.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Jack was a wonderful man, Dylan. Everyone loved him. I fell in love with him when I was twenty-one and I never fell out of love.”

She spoke slowly. Each word was thought about before being carefully delivered.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan said. “His death must have been very difficult for you.”

“Yes.” She took a sip of her coffee and, again, flicked that strand of hair behind her ear. “I was a twenty-one-year-old art student when a friend and I decided to take a holiday in Paris. We thought we were so sophisticated and clever, and were so envious of the artists living there. We spent every minute we could with them.” She was smiling as she spoke and looked years younger. “Jack had been living there for a year. He was twenty-nine then and unknown, but I knew he’d make it. I knew that, one day, people the world over would be appreciating his work.”

“Love at first sight then,” Dylan said with a smile.

“We married on my twenty-second birthday.” She seemed to hug the memories close. “I thought I was the luckiest girl alive. I
knew
I was the happiest.”

She’d probably forgotten Prue’s name, but she was eager to talk about Jack McIntyre and Dylan was more than willing to listen.

“So—forgive me asking—the rumours about a forthcoming divorce are inaccurate?” Several respectable newspapers had speculated that the McIntyres were heading for the divorce courts.

“Totally. We’d been living apart for a while and, of course, journalists want a story, don’t they? I had my life in London but Jack wanted to live the life of a beachcomber in France. I’m afraid I’m not the type to live in a two-room cottage.”

“It would be a culture shock after this.” He waved his arms to take in the room, the house and the select area of London.

“Yes. We certainly never talked about divorce though. We were happy with things as they were. Jack was making a point, that’s all. He was trying to tell the world that he was starting a new life, the life
he
wanted. He was tired of painting and of being in the public eye. He had phases like that but they never lasted long. More than anything, he hated being ignored. He craved the adoration. If he’d thought people were forgetting him, he would soon have come running back to us.” She sighed. “If he’d known what the future held—”

Once again, she left the room and returned with half a dozen photos and a newspaper clipping. “This is where he was living.” She shook her head at such stupidity. “I mean, just look at it.”

The cottage—Overlander—on the north coast of France looked idyllic. It was the sort of place for couples to enjoy a weekend away from the real world. It was too small to be classed a home but it would make the perfect weekend bolthole.

Davina lifted her cup and took a sip of coffee. “When I heard the news, I couldn’t believe it. He was an expert sailor and a strong swimmer, you see, so I believed he’d turn up. I know they found the boat pretty quickly, but I felt sure he could have swum to shore. They said that the chances of the bodies being washed up were slim and, when they only found Jeremy’s, I was convinced that Jack must still be alive. I expected to hear his voice every time I answered the phone. Or I thought he might be standing on the step when I opened the door.”

Dylan nodded his understanding, but really, it was only in films that people survived weeks at sea by clinging to a convenient piece of driftwood, or were rescued by nuns having stumbled around a desert island with amnesia.

“I knew Jeremy was visiting him that day,” she said. “I was hopeful that he’d be successful where we’d all failed. I thought a word from him might bring Jack back to the real world. I was waiting for good news. I certainly wasn’t expecting the news I got. One minute I was waiting to hear that Jack had seen sense and was coming home, the next I was helping to organise a memorial service.”

“A difficult task,” Dylan said. “It must have been well attended. Was it held in London?”

“Of course.”

“Did Jack’s friends from France attend?”

She shrugged. “A few did, yes.”

“Did you ever visit him in France?”

“No. I saw him when he came to England and, of course, we often spoke on the phone.”

“And you’re sure he never mentioned Prue Murphy?”

“Not that I recall. More coffee?”

“No. Thanks.” He stood up. “It’s time I was off, Davina. I’ve already taken up too much of your time.”

“Are you sure you won’t have another coffee?”

She wanted the company. She’d loved McIntyre and lost him and Dylan supposed that people willing to talk about the love of her life were few and far between. “Thanks, but I must go.”