Landscape with Corpse Read online

  Landscape with Corpse

  Roger Ormerod

  Copyright © Roger Ormerod 1996.

  The right of Roger Ormerod to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by his in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the UK by Constable & Company Ltd 1996.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

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  Extract from Face Value by Roger Ormerod

  1

  On the Thursday before our special week, the secretary phoned from the college. At once I experienced a fall in spirits, believing that there had been a mistake, and our room was not to be available. But no—it was not that.

  ‘Is that Mrs Simpson?’ she asked.

  ‘Well…yes.’ I was still getting used to it, still thinking of myself as Philipa Lowe. But Oliver and I were now married.

  She went on to say, ‘I’ve been looking at a map, and you’re the only ones who wouldn’t have to make too much of a detour.’

  By this time Oliver was at my right shoulder, and I was holding the phone away from my ear in order to save having to repeat it all, afterwards.

  ‘A detour for what?’ I asked.

  ‘Well…it’s like this. We have a young lady—one of our regulars on your course—who lives at Leominster, and whose car has broken down. Or rather, she’s crashed it, so it’s going to be off the road quite a while. And it would be very difficult for her to get here with all her painting stuff. You know how it is—cross-country—and on a Sunday, too.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I assured her. ‘Of course we can pick her up, if that’s what you mean. If you’ll just give me her phone number, I’ll contact her.’

  This she did. ‘Her name’s Jennifer Crane. I can’t tell you how pleased I am. We’d miss her if she couldn’t come.’

  I hung up. Oliver and I had a careful look at our map, and it would be more than a small detour from our planned route. But we could leave at what time we wished, and return to Hawthorne Cottage at the end of the week—and that would be it. No trouble at all, really.

  I dialled the number, and was somewhat surprised to get a short, impatient ‘Yes?’ from the woman at the other end.

  ‘I understand’, I said placidly, ‘that you’re in need of a lift to Bryngowan Manor, on Sunday.’

  ‘Oh yes…yes.’ What a change in tone! I wondered what she had been expecting, but she went on brightly, ‘I really am stuck. If you would be good enough…I hope you’ll have room. I’ve got a great load of stuff.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll cope.’ The boot of my BMW is huge. ‘And there’ll be only the two of us. But I don’t know Leominster. Where can we pick you up?’

  There was a pause as she thought about it. Then, ‘The car park’s the best, and as it’ll be a Sunday it will be almost empty. I’ll be there, with my things at…what time would suit you?’

  ‘How far is it from Leominster to Bryngowan?’

  ‘Oh…around a hundred miles. A hundred and fifteen, to be more exact. I’ve driven it so often that I know it inside out, and I usually do it in a little under two hours.’

  ‘Hmm!’ I said. ‘Yes.’

  Between Leominster and the Welsh coast there would be a tricky barrier of mountains and winding roads to negotiate. If she’d done that run in ‘a little under two hours’, and she normally drove like that, it was no wonder she had crashed her car. I didn’t say so.

  ‘Shall we give ourselves two and a half hours?’ I suggested. ‘The car park at three. How’s that?’

  ‘That’ll be just great,’ she told me. ‘What direction will you be coming from?’

  ‘What…oh, I see. From the north.’

  ‘That’s fine. The car park’s that side of town. Next to the fire station. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ I assured her. ‘Three o’clock, then, at the car park. But…if you’ve got a load of stuff…how’ll you get it there?’

  ‘Oh—I expect I can get Paul to give me a lift that far.’ And strangely she gave what sounded like a short and bitter laugh. ‘See you there. And thank you. Bye for now.’

  She rang off. I stood looking at Oliver as I replaced the phone. He raised one eyebrow. This was his questioning expression. ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. I could tell he wasn’t happy about it.

  I said, ‘I forgot to tell her how she’ll recognise us.’

  ‘No problem there, surely.’

  ‘All the same…’

  I dialled the number again. The phone was snatched up at the first ting. ‘For Chrissake, Paul—’

  ‘It’s me again,’ I cut in calmly. ‘I forgot to tell you the car’s a BMW 525. Blue.’

  She was flustered. ‘Oh…yes…thank you. Silly of me not to ask. But it’ll be almost deserted in the car park. ‘Bye. See you there.’

  The phone clicked dead. Slowly, I replaced it. ‘I hope she’s on time.’

  ‘Phil,’ he said. ‘If you were the one asking for a lift, would you be late?’

  ‘Of course not. But there seemed to be some uncertainty about this Paul person.’

  ‘All the same…’ He shrugged.

  Two more days to get through, then away, and hopefully to return to a changed approach lane to our cottage. That had been the promise. My solicitor and friend, Harvey Remington, had untangled a number of legal knots, and pulled a few of the resulting strings, in order to get the problem cleared up during our week of absence. He had arranged everything, even, you could say, our wedding.

  About three months before, Harvey had asked us to call on him, and then indulged in one of his benevolent lectures. Why, he asked, were we not married? Then he answered it himself. ‘Because of Oliver’s out-dated scruples about living on your money, Philipa, when he’s got only a paltry police disability pension.’

  He was not aware that Oliver’s hesitation was really based on his fear that, in due course, he was going to lose the use of his right arm. Simply, he was reluctant to become a liability. Ridiculous!

  ‘Go on, Harvey,’ I said.

  He then explained, mainly aiming his remarks at Oliver, how much more stable and secure we would feel as man and wife, unaware that we were both, already, feeling very comfortably stable.

  Nevertheless, we allowed ourselves to be persuaded, and we were married. Register Office. Harvey gave me away, as he had every right to do, having shared with my father my upbringing, my mother having died when I was very young.

  But my father had retired as Chief Superintendent Lowe, and had hoped that I would become a policewoman, whereas Harvey would have liked to see me as a barrister. At the age of ten I could have given arrest warnings and taken statements, and I knew the meaning of sine die and sub judice long before I tackled Latin at my boarding school. Yes—Harvey had every right to give me away. I never for one moment forget the multitude of debts that I owe to Harvey.

  It was on the subject of the approach lane to Hawthorne Cottage that he surpassed himself. The cottage is three quarters of a mile along a side lane off the main road from Penley, the rest of the lane being decrepit, and never used because it goes nowhere. Our three quarters of a mile was, however, becoming almost impossible to negotiate in wet weather.

  Yet, the cost of resurfacing such a length of lane was way beyond our reso
urces.

  It was here that Harvey demonstrated his abilities. He gave lunch (half a dozen times, I understand) at his club to the Borough Surveyor, and managed to persuade him that the complete lane needed clearing and resurfacing, in fact that there was a legal requirement for that to be done, because it still appeared on the official map. And then—sweetening the pill—he suggested that the sole residents in that lane (Oliver and I) might agree to no more than the first three quarters of a mile being resurfaced. He offered this as a concession, and as such it was eventually agreed.

  Thus, we were going to get a new lane (and might then describe it as our drive) without having to trouble my bank manager at all.

  Yet there was one snag. There always has to be a snag. This was that the contractors needed a clear run at the job for a full week. We would therefore be firmly shut in, or shut out, for that period.

  ‘Go away for a week,’ suggested Harvey, as though that wasn’t what he’d been planning all along. A week in June—and the details laid on, too.

  It was Oliver’s right arm that provided the answer. My own left shoulder, though having been somewhat peppered by shotgun pellets, now hardly gave me any pain. But Oliver’s right arm had been much more severely treated, in that it had taken the full blast of a shotgun. Even now—three years after that event—he was often in pain, and though he could drive the BMW, there being an auto gearbox and power-assisted steering, I had to watch his face for signs of strain, and then persuade him to swap seats.

  But Harvey had background plans for this aspect, too, fixing up an appointment with our physiotherapist, Lionel Parradine, who had been advising both of us. My arm could be left to sort itself out, but Parradine had ideas for Oliver’s right arm.

  ‘Manipulative muscles,’ he said. ‘Dexterity.’

  There were, it seemed, muscles that Oliver had not been using often enough. His fingers, hand and wrist.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ I asked him. We were willing to try anything, Oliver and I.

  ‘What about embroidery?’ Parradine suggested to Oliver, with a gentle smile.

  ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘Tapestry?’

  Oliver hesitated. Then he shook his head. ‘Not for me.’

  ‘Painting?’

  ‘The cottage has only recently been done over,’ I told him.

  ‘No, not that. Art. That sort of painting.’

  ‘What!’ Oliver glanced at me. ‘I couldn’t even draw a straight line.’

  Harvey beamed. He was not to be thwarted. It was his scheme, and he was determined to carry it through. ‘Not many people can,’ he said encouragingly. ‘And in any event, you just paint what you see, and if it finishes up as something unrecognisable, you call it an abstract.’

  So this was why we were taking a week’s break at Bryngowan Manor Adult Residential College. Landscape painting. Although Harvey denied it, I knew he had arranged this long before, otherwise it would have been strange that a double room should have been available at such short notice—and for the very same week during which our portion of the lane was to be resurfaced. Such a coincidence! And Harvey showed no sign of shame at his crafty manipulation.

  ‘Painting!’ grumbled Oliver, though he could make no complaint that it was a woman’s pursuit, there being many more famous male artists than female. Strange, really, that fact, as I understand that there are many more colour-blind men than women—something like six per cent men to one half per cent women.

  So…all we needed now was painting equipment. For myself watercolours. I would have to try to recall the tricks I had once known at school. I might need a little practice, though, before we ventured into the company of no doubt experienced, if amateur, painters. But…What for Oliver? Watercolours, I felt, would hardly do anything to help his dexterity and manipulation, as there’s not much effort required to run a brush across a sheet of paper. The same applied to acrylics and oils.

  It was obvious that professional advice should be sought, and accordingly we visited Tom Carter’s little shop in Penley. Here, he sold everything you could possibly need in the art line, would mount and frame anything you thought you had done well, and he had experience in every conceivable method of producing a result that could reasonably be designated as art, from etchings to sculpture. And I had been at junior school with Tom.

  So that was where we went.

  I hadn’t spoken to him for years, but he knew me at once. ‘Phillie! How splendid to see you. How can I help you?’

  He took us into his workroom at the back, where he was engaged in cutting a mask. Not as easy as it sounds. I explained our difficulty, in that I was rather out of touch with available art materials. As to my personal requirements—that question was soon covered. Half a dozen brushes, from a one inch flat to a round number two, a dozen or so tubes of watercolour paint (two blues, two reds, two yellows, a Payne’s grey and black, two browns, and two greens) and an earthenware palette in which to do the mixing. And (important, this was) three sheets of Bockingford 250 watercolour paper. This is thick enough not to buckle when it’s wet, and would be enough for twelve paintings, ten by fourteen inches, the ideal shape. Now, with memories of my past youth flooding back, I could barely wait to begin covering that pristine surface with colour. I had to drag my mind from this aspect of it, and recall the most important reason for this expedition, Oliver’s disability. I explained to Tom that we were going away for a week’s landscape painting course, and what had brought it about, and asked him to suggest something for Oliver.

  He beamed, having been a little ahead of me. ‘Pastels,’ he said. ‘No question about it. They’re like soft chalks, and you can use different pressures for different effects. And there’s a certain amount of drag. But no messing about with having to mix the colours before you start. They are the colours, but you can’t mix ‘em too easily, so you have to have a different pastel for each different colour, and all the shades of it. And it’s a bit messy. Your fingers get covered with powder. But it’s so direct. You see what you’re getting straight away.’

  Oliver gave me a weak grin. ‘I’d better have one of each, then.’

  Tom laughed. ‘There’s over a hundred and eighty in the complete set, and they’re a bit pricey. It’d come to around £170. But you don’t need all those. Tell you what. You go and have a coffee at Pattie’s Caff, and I’ll make up a set of around forty. And you’d better have a few hard pastels. They come in pencil form. Those’re for fine lines. And I’ll throw in a can of fixative spray.’

  ‘What’s that for?’ Oliver was suspicious. He was beginning to wonder whether he’d committed himself to something way beyond his capabilities.

  Tom explained. ‘They’re only refined chalks, and you do the paintings on special paper—but it smudges easily. So you spray it, when the picture’s finished, with a light, clear varnish—to fix it. I’ll have some paper ready when you get back, and you have a go—and see how you fancy pastels. Now…you pop along to Pattie’s while I get all your stuff together.’

  So we went along to Pattie’s place, where I was known, and, business being slack at that time of day, she sat with us, to catch up on our news. Pattie was Tom’s sister, and she’d been one class ahead of me in junior school. I introduced Oliver.

  ‘My husband, Oliver.’

  ‘Ooh! Lucky you…’

  Oliver grinned. He’d encountered this before. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I count myself as lucky.’ Very diplomatic, is Oliver.

  ‘I’m Mrs Simpson now,’ I told her.

  ‘Simpson? Oliver Simpson? I remember that name. You’re a copper.’

  ‘Not now.’ Oliver doesn’t like to be reminded of that shotgun episode.

  ‘We’re going on a week’s painting course,’ I told her, changing the subject. ‘Your brother’s fixing us up with the necessary equipment.’

  ‘Ha! You want to watch our Tom. He’ll cheat you blind,’ she said affectionately.

  ‘We’ll watch out for it,’ I assured her.


  We went for a walk around the little patch of Parkland that Penley boasts, then back to the art shop. Tom had got it all ready for us, my brushes and tubes of colours and the palette, and my sheets of Bockingford 250, which he’d cut into ten by fourteens for me. And Oliver’s pastel equipment. There was a flat box, partitioned for the pastels. ‘To save ‘em nudging each other,’ Tom explained. There was a spray-can of fixative and two pads of paper, one dark shades, one lighter, and offering half a dozen tints each. As these pads were backed with heavy cardboard, they could be used on a lap, from a low stool.

  Tom had found a cut-off of pastel paper, and handed Oliver a red and a blue pastel. ‘Just scribble,’ he said, and Oliver did. ‘That’s it,’ said Tom.

  Oliver stared morosely at the result, then grinned at me.

  ‘Wear an old pair of trousers,’ Tom advised, ‘because you’ll get ‘em all covered with pastel powder.’

  ‘Humph!’ said Oliver.

  We thanked him. I was sure he charged us wholesale prices, and thus made no profit from it, but I wasn’t going to argue. You can lose friends like that. Then we walked back to the car, each carrying our own equipment. There had been no need to worry about easels and stools, our information being that these would be supplied by the college.

  It now being lunch time, we ate a quick meal and I said we ought to get the feel of our respective media. So why not spend the afternoon having a go with our colours? Oliver’s need was greater than mine, as I had at least painted in watercolours, if quite a while back, whereas Oliver’s experience ended with his ball-point pen.

  I sat him down by the garden hedge, his back to the lane, and said, ‘Paint that.’

  ‘Paint what?’

  ‘The cottage.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Of course you can. You just put on to paper what you see.’

  ‘Hmph!’ he said.

  But he tried. His verticals were sloping and his horizontals wandered all over the place. What resulted was a representation of a broken-down garden shed. He got to his feet and we stood and looked at it, face up now on his stool. Then we fell into each other’s arms and laughed our heads off.