Refuge (16 page)

Veva side-stepped out of the way and began to laugh. ‘I can’t believe that you won’t die,’ she said. ‘I am so incompetent!  Very well. It’s quite clear that I shouldn’t let you wander around like this. So, you have to come with me,’ she said. ‘And damn the lot of them.’ Veva had raised her hand and cracked Cassandra across the face. The newborn vampire blacked out; she awoke several hours later huddled in a disused barn some miles away. Veva had dragged her out to the ruined chapel, telling her she couldn’t leave her alone. Cassandra had seen Veva’s brother, seen what vampires could be capable of, and quite quickly embraced her new life. She wouldn’t have to answer to anyone anymore; well, apart from answering to Veva perhaps.

***

So the day that Cassandra wandered through the streets of London and found herself at the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square was not particularly unusual. She could sense a buzz about the place and decided to go inside. It had been a steep learning curve, but at least now she could move freely amongst people without wanting to rip their throats out. That pleasure, she reserved for night time and the people who nobody would miss, unless Veva had other plans. Cassandra tutted to herself. She would keep calling her Veva. It made it easier for them all round if she simply called her ‘Jenny’. Veva was too unpredictable; she was getting worse. Sometimes, she seemed to relish being called Veva. She said it reminded her of Will, and she would drift off into her own world and begin humming that silly little tune which Cassandra now detested.

                Cassandra knew the Impressionists had taken the art world by storm a few years ago. She and Veva had lived amongst them for a while; granted, the girls had been mostly un-noticed and routinely circled the very edge of the movement, but they were there. And it was during those years that Cassandra had discovered another love – that of the ballet. They had enjoyed that time. Veva had suddenly decided to take up art, and, as Veva had predicted all those years ago, Cassandra would slip away to haunt the opera and the theatre. She taught herself how to walk and move like a dancer and, in her head, she dreamed about a life devoted to that. Veva had dabbled with watercolours and pastels and drew the same thing over and over again; Will Hartley. Will in various attitudes: Will riding, Will laughing, Will lying dead on the floor... Her hands and mind worked ceaselessly, recreating him on canvas and staring for hours at the pictures. Living in Paris worked for a while, until the Bohemian lifestyle became too much for them. They found themselves drawn into it. Unable to restrain themselves, and with the body count mounting, they garnered suspicion and fled to England, where they lost themselves in London.

***

Cassandra filed into the National Gallery with the others, blending into the crowd with her perfect, s-shaped silhouette, white lace gown and wide-brimmed hat. The ribbon on her hat and the ribbon around her waist were almost the same azure-blue of her eyes. She also carried a parasol to shade her delicate skin, even though the rumours weren’t true at all. Vampires did sleep and they didn’t detest sunlight. They simply found it too stimulating at times, thanks to their heightened senses.

                ‘It’s such a find!’ said one woman leaving the Gallery, apparently with her husband. ‘Imagine discovering all that work in an attic! I wonder who he was.’ Cassandra was immediately alert.

                ‘They think it dates from the true Impressionist period,’ said another visitor, a young man this time – possibly a student. He was with a group of male friends. ‘They said it’s too old-fashioned to be post-Impressionism. The owner is set to make his fortune with that work.’

                ‘Excuse me,’ said Cassandra, placing her hand on the student’s forearm, subtly restraining him. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m visiting the town today and I heard there was something exciting happening here?’

                ‘Well, hello Miss!’ blustered the boy as his friends sniggered behind him. ‘Yes, it’s definitely exciting. A new exhibition – it’s called “
Found
”. Some chap in Paris has discovered a collection of art in the attic rooms of his house, neatly hidden away behind fake walls! Incredible. They don’t know who the artist was, but they say there is such passion in the portraiture that they wouldn’t be surprised if it was a female, rather like Morisot. Allegedly, Cassat has denied it, but the Impressionist influences are stupendous. Truly amazing work.’

                ‘I see. And what, pray tell, is the subject?’ asked Cassandra lightly.

                ‘That’s just the thing – nobody knows. It’s a man – it seems to be a series of paintings focussing on him. There is nothing to tell us who he is though. It’s a major mystery. The owner is there today – he’s very willing to speak to the public about it.’

                ‘Thank you,’ smiled Cassandra. ‘I may just do that.’ She released his arm and continued through the doorway, aware of his eyes following her. He was sweet and very young; rather harmless. She didn’t mind him at all. She walked through the main vestibule and followed the stream of people. Most of the visitors were heading in one direction – she had a good idea where they were going.

                Cassandra nodded as a curator held a door open for her and she stepped inside the exhibition room. Her eyes widened as she scanned the room and saw twenty five paintings of Will Hartley staring back at her.

***

Cassandra’s emotions had long since stopped bothering her. Most of the time, she just switched them off and wasn’t conscious of anything other than the task at hand. But this time, she was taken unawares. The hatred and anger bubbled up inside of her and she simply stood, staring at the paintings, unable to move. The memories of the last few days of her human existence bombarded her as she stood eye to eye with the man who had effectively ended her life.

                ‘Are you quite well, my dear?’ asked a voice. Cassandra dragged her gaze away from a picture which showed Will half-naked in what she assumed to be a summer house. His dark eyes looked back at her, mockingly.
Look at me
, he seemed to be saying.
Who wouldn’t want to be with me? Are you envious?

                ‘It’s very crowded in here,’ she heard herself say. ‘I did not expect the exhibition to be so popular.’ She was looking at a man who was in perhaps his mid-forties. He had that arrogant look about him that she so despised in a man, yet she forced herself to smile at him. ‘Are you the lucky gentleman who discovered these treasures?’

                ‘I am indeed, my dear,’ replied the man. He had a horrible, sweaty odour about his expensive clothing.

Cassandra compelled herself not to move away from him but smiled even wider. ‘I would be very interested to hear the history behind them,’ she said.

                ‘There is nothing I would like more,’ said the man, ‘than to discuss it with you. It is very simple. I bought an old house in the middle of Paris and decided to do some renovations. Whilst my workmen were in the attics, they removed a false wall. All of these,’ he swept his arm around the room, ‘were hidden behind it. Along with some art equipment and a few unfinished sketches. Someone left in a hurry. I often wonder why they didn’t take the paintings with them.’

                ‘Did you perhaps do any research into previous occupants?’ asked Cassandra. The man’s body odour was distinctly unappealing and getting worse. She could smell his excitement at being so close to her.

                ‘Oh, not really,’ said the man dismissively. ‘It was a very transient area of the city, very close to the Bohemian quarter. My sources think that it was a woman artist, but there is no trace of any female artist living there.’

                ‘Well, Sir, I would imagine that she hid the portraits for a reason. Perhaps she never wanted them exhibited,’ said Cassandra. ‘Perhaps she didn’t want people making money out of her.’ She looked him in the eye and his gaze never wavered.

                ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law,’ he replied smoothly. ‘There are a few more I decided not to display. These ones here are the, shall we say, less
risqué
poses. If this is a success, I shall certainly bring the other ones out. They will cause ripples in the art world.’ He laughed complacently. ‘We live in interesting times. And I shall make quite a fortune out of this collection.’

                Cassandra turned back to the pictures. She scanned the walls, suppressing an urge to drag her nails through each and every one of the portraits. She fought back the urge to drag her nails across the owner’s throat as well. ‘My sister would be very interested to see these,’ she said. ‘I must tell her to come along. She is quite interested in art. She knows a lot about that era of painting. I would not even be surprised if she could shed some light onto the subject matter. She has travelled quite extensively.’

                ‘Is your sister anything like you?’ the man asked.

                ‘Very much so,’ smiled Cassandra.

                ‘Then I should be honoured to welcome both of you to my London residence. I have the rest of the collection there. You might like a rather more...
private
viewing?’ The implication in his words was not lost on Cassandra.

She widened her eyes innocently. ‘Really, Sir? How marvellous. When would be a suitable time to visit?’

                ‘Tonight?’ said the man. He picked up Cassandra’s hand and kissed it. His mouth felt repulsively soft and wet on Cassandra’s skin. ‘This is my address.’  He slipped a card into Cassandra’s hand and she looked at it. It was one of the better streets in London – in Mayfair, no less. Albemarle Street.

 The man poked the card with a podgy forefinger. ‘I am renting at the moment, but I do intend to buy when I sell some of the artwork,’ he said. ‘May I suggest seven p.m.?’

                ‘We shall look forward to it, Mr...?’

                ‘Worthing. Mr Francis Worthing.’

                ‘Wonderful.’ Cassandra curtsied slightly. ‘Until later.
Adieu
, Mr Worthing.’

 The man laughed. ‘You speak French!’ he said.

                ‘We lived there for a while,’ smiled Cassandra. ‘As I said, we have travelled extensively.’ She turned her back on him, careful not to look at any more of Veva’s paintings.
Interesting times
, he had said. Well. Tonight would be
very
interesting.

***

                ‘Tell me again why we need to be here?’ asked Veva. A flutter of confusion passed across her face. Cassandra had noticed these little episodes were becoming more frequent.

                ‘This gentleman has found something and I think you might want to see it,’ Cassandra replied. ‘You like art, don’t you? He has some paintings you might like. You might have an idea what to do with them. He wants to display them but I don’t think that’s the right thing to do. It needs an expert opinion.’

                ‘I love art,’ smiled Veva. ‘Paris was wonderful, wasn’t it? We should go back. You could dance, if you wanted to.’

                ‘Perhaps,’ said Cassandra. ‘Look, this must be his house here.’ They had walked, keeping to the dark streets as they always did now when they went out at night. They had learned in Paris, that the less people who saw them, the less chance there was of discovery.

                ‘I still don’t understand why you think I need to be here,’ said Veva. ‘You’ve worked well all these years. I’m sure you are more than capable of making the decision yourself.’ Cassandra knew exactly what she meant by “decision”.

                ‘It’s just that you need to see him as well. To be honest, I think it’s rather more important that you see the paintings. I can deal with him.’

Veva shrugged her shoulders. ‘As you wish,’ she said.

                Cassandra reached up and knocked on the door. A gentleman who wasn’t Mr Francis Worthing opened it.

                ‘Ah. You must be the guests,’ he said.

Cassandra frowned. ‘I’m sorry, do we know you?’ she asked. ‘We came to see Mr Worthing. Or, more exactly, we came to see his newly-acquired paintings.’

                ‘Well, Mr Worthing and I come as a package,’ smiled the man. ‘As I believe you and your sister do.’ He stepped to one side and beckoned them in. Cassandra glided past him, and Veva followed, staring at him oddly. The girls waited in the reception area until the man shut the door and he took them upstairs.