Restless Nights

‘How are things?’ asked Laura Brett later, during their nightly phone call.

‘Dad’s looking good, but—’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I had a word with the ward sister on my way out. If Dad does come home next week it’s vital he has complete rest.’

‘And we both know that the moment he’s back at the ranch he’ll be out in that barn, getting up to all kinds of mischief instead of behaving like a sensible invalid.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Let me think about it for a while. Maybe I can help.’

‘Don’t offer money, Mother!’

‘As if I would,’ said Laura, laughing. ‘Besides, Harry’s not that broke, surely?’

Gabriel hoped not. ‘His restoration work certainly doesn’t come cheap.’

‘So what are you labouring on right now?’

‘I’m restoring a portrait for Adam Dysart.’

Her mother whistled inelegantly. ‘Are we talking about the Adam Dysart?’

‘The one and only. Dad’s blue-eyed boy.’

‘So you’ve met him again at long last. What’s he like?’

‘Tall, dark, and full of the self-confidence you’d expect from the man who has everything.’

‘You don’t like him, obviously. But then, your father’s been singing his praises to you for so many years you’re bound to be prejudiced against him.’

‘Adam was there in the ward when I visited tonight. Took Dad an enormous basket of fruit and a brand-new thriller,’ said Gabriel, depressed.

‘Is he married?’ asked Laura.

‘What’s that got to do with anything? But as it happens he isn’t. He’s just broken off a relationship with someone.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘He told me.’

‘Then you must have had some conversation with him.’

‘He came round last night to ask after Dad. And this morning to bring the picture. And he’ll be back tomorrow, and every other tomorrow until I’ve finished, to check on the work in progress.’

‘In that case, darling, make sure you charge the earth for your services. It sounds as though you’ll earn it!’

CHAPTER THREE

BY LATE afternoon next day Gabriel’s efforts had removed much of the grime from the painting. A check on the back of the canvas in the first stages had confirmed that there was no serious cracking, and she had completed a second round of cleaning by the time Adam Dysart appeared, just as her henchmen were clearing up for the night.

This time Gabriel was so weary she greeted Adam without hostility or emotion of any kind. She took off her baseball cap to thrust a hand through her hair, conscious that she must reek of white spirit as she beckoned Adam across to the painting lying tilted slightly on its stand.

‘I’m sure you know that at this stage our mystery lady looks rather worse than when I started, because the spirit leaves white patches as it dries,’ she began, and he nodded, unconcerned.

‘But she’s waking up,’ he said with relish, his eyes drawn in fascination to the face now more visible in the painting. The girl’s violet eyes shone out from the murky background, something in her expression rousing such a discernible response in the man looking at her that Gabriel eyed him curiously, wondering if Adam Dysart always felt this way during the restoration process. He dragged his eyes away from the painted face with effort, and glanced down at the sea of cotton wool swabs surrounding Gabriel’s bench. ‘There was obviously a lot to clean off.’

She nodded, eyeing the canvas speculatively. ‘But oddly enough not what I’ve come to expect. A painting of this age—and it is old—has usually suffered from the effects of coal fires, candles, soot, tobacco—sometimes even grease from cooking. But not this one. You mentioned attics, and I bet that’s where our lady’s been hiding, accumulating layers of dust and cobwebs in the process ever since she was painted. I’m beginning to think that she’s never seen the light of day—or any other kind of light—until the house clearance.’

Adam’s eyes, bright with speculation, met hers. ‘Do you think the subject hid it in the attic herself?’

‘Or someone else did, maybe out of malice.’ They turned to gaze down at the face in the painting as though expecting an answer from it.

‘I’ve discovered where she came from—a small manor house in Herefordshire,’ said Adam, his shoulder in contact with Gabriel’s as they leaned over the portrait. ‘It was sold recently to start a new life as a retirement home. An elderly lady lived alone in it the last few years.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Gabriel with feeling.

Adam eyed her sharply. ‘Is living alone here getting to you?’

‘A little, yes.’ She shrugged. ‘Thank goodness it’s summer, and the evenings are long.’

‘Does Harry know you feel like this?’

‘Certainly not!’ She speared him with a cold blue look. ‘And please don’t tell him.’

‘Of course I won’t tell him,’ he snapped. ‘Adding to any worry for your father is the last thing I’d do. I’m very fond of him.’

‘He’s fond of you, too,’ she said, resigned.

‘And you take exception to that.’

Gabriel was saved from lying by the reappearance of Wayne and Eddie with the safe keys.

‘Shall we take the portrait now?’ asked Wayne.

Gabriel looked at her watch in remorse. ‘No. I’ll see to it. You two get off. I didn’t realise it was so late.’

‘I’ll help Miss Brett lock up,’ said Adam. ‘I trust that meets with your approval, too?’ he added belatedly as the motorcycle went roaring off down the lane.

‘Of course,’ said Gabriel carelessly. ‘It’s your property we’re stowing away. At least you’ll be sure your lady is safe for the night.’ And as long as someone went down with her to the cellar she didn’t care who it was. Even Adam Dysart.

Adam not only accompanied Gabriel down into the cellar, but helped her clear up and went the rounds of the barn afterwards to check that all was secure for the night before he left.

‘Would you like to come in for some tea—or a drink?’ asked Gabriel afterwards, with an awkwardness that would have surprised the other men in her life.

His lips twitched. ‘Yes, I would. But I’m not going to in case I wear out my never very warm welcome. Besides, I know you want to get off to see Harry.’

Gabriel smiled politely. ‘Thank you for lending a hand.’

Adam shrugged. ‘My pleasure. I’m off to London tomorrow, but I’ll be round the following day, if that’s convenient.’

Gabriel told him he could come whenever he liked. It was of no interest to her if he was off to patch things up with the promiscuous Della, she assured herself, and shut the door behind him and locked it, then went round the house switching on all the lights. Which, she told herself acidly, for an adult female of her age was utterly stupid at just after six on a sunny June evening.

Looking as good as she could in the time allotted for a shower and a lot of effort with a hot brush, Gabriel reported on her progress later to her father, voluble with the details to hide her dismay. Harry Brett looked exhausted, despite his efforts to reassure his daughter that nothing was wrong.

‘I had a word with Sister afterwards,’ Gabriel told her mother during their nightly call. ‘Apparently he’s been on his feet a lot today, and stayed too long in the day room, watching the cricket on television. But she assured me that he was doing well otherwise, and there’s no reason why he can’t come home next week. Though how I’m going to make him behave sensibly when he does, I haven’t a clue.’

‘Actually,’ said Laura casually, ‘I’ve had some thoughts about that. Julia’s holiday cottage on the Gower coast is free for a couple of weeks. I thought I’d skive off and take your father there to recuperate. Unless, of course, you think the mere idea would give him another heart attack.’

By the time she got to bed later, Gabriel was still marvelling at this strange new turn of events. Julia Griffiths had been Laura Brett’s business partner since shortly after the divorce. At the time her doting grandparents had been a great consolation to the young Gabriel while her mother and Julia had been getting their employment agency off the ground. But Gabriel had missed her father sorely, and her schoolfriends in Pennington almost as much, and every school holiday had gone back there like a homing bird. By that time her father had sold the family home in Pennington, moved into Haywards Farm with his aunt, Charlotte Hayward, and converted the long-unused barns into one large workshop for his restoration business. On his aunt’s death he had inherited the property outright. Which surely meant that now his debt for the roof was repaid to Adam there was no need for him to work so hard, thought Gabriel impatiently. But hiring extra help in this line of business was no easy task. Harry Brett was hard to please when it came to the skills of his employees. Alison Taylor, his most experienced assistant, had recently left to produce her first child, leaving Harry, who hated to say no to anyone, with a workload which had increased to the extent that the heart attack had come as no surprise to anyone except the invalid himself.

And now, astonishingly, Laura Brett proposed taking her ex-husband away to convalesce. Gabriel wasn’t looking forward to broaching the subject. Though if her father turned the idea down flat, when he came home she would have her work cut out to make him behave himself and at the same time carry out the restoration work piling up while she worked on Adam Dysart’s mystery lady.

Gabriel’s heart lurched when the phone rang later that night. Terrified it was bad news from the hospital, she snatched up the receiver with a shaking hand.

‘Adam Dysart here, Miss Brett. Sorry to ring you so late. How was Harry tonight?’

‘Not so good,’ said Gabriel breathlessly, slumping down at the table as her heartbeat slowed. ‘An overdose of televised cricket, according to Sister.’

‘Enough to prevent his return home?’

‘Apparently not. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.’

There was a pause.

‘Gabriel,’ he said at last, ‘this probably sounds presumptuous, but I can’t help worrying about you.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Why on earth should you?’

‘Because you’re alone out there at night, with a fair amount of valuables in the cellar. Would you let me help out with that?’

‘How?’ she said blankly.

‘Dysart’s have a safety depository in Pennington. I could transfer your stuff there every night, if you like. I can guarantee security.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m not worried about the pictures.’ It was the creaks and groans, like the soundtrack of a horror film, that kept her awake, not responsibility for the artwork.

‘Couldn’t Wayne or Eddie sleep in the house while Harry’s away?’

‘I don’t need them,’ said Gabriel firmly. ‘It’s very good of you to be so concerned, but I’m fine. Truly.’

‘If you say so. But you’ve got my phone number. Ring me if you need me. Any time—day or night.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, taken off guard. ‘Thank you.’

‘No thanks necessary. I meant what I said. Goodnight, Gabriel. Sleep well.’

Whether it was Adam’s phone call, or the simple fact that she’d slept badly ever since her father had been rushed into hospital, Gabriel enjoyed a good night’s sleep for once, and woke only when her alarm went off, instead of hours beforehand. Consequently she felt rested and full of enthusiasm for the task in hand, and by the time Wayne and Eddie arrived she was already at work, making tests in different small areas at the edges of the painting to determine which type of solvent to use to tackle the overpaint. Eventually she opted for her favourite acetone diluted with white spirit, with a stopping pad of spirit-soaked cotton wool to halt the solvent if it acted too quickly.

She set to work in earnest, but, as usual, her progress was painfully slow. After several hours only a small area of canvas had been cleared, but this was enough to cause great excitement in Gabriel’s acolytes when they came to look on during their coffee break.

‘There’s someone under there, all right,’ said Eddie in triumph. ‘That pink bit—is it skin?’

Gabriel shook her head, accepting her coffee gratefully. ‘Part of a dress—satin, by the look of it.’ She sighed. ‘I just wish Dad was here. He’d love this.’

‘Wouldn’t he just?’ said Wayne with sympathy. ‘Is Adam coming round today?’

‘Not until tomorrow. By which time we may have another face to show him.’

Now that she was actually removing the dark, brownish overpaint Gabriel became so absorbed she had to be reminded to eat something at lunchtime. She took grudging time off for a sandwich, then got straight back to work, only breaking off from time to time for the various drinks that one or other of her assistants brought her. And it was they, at five-thirty, who reminded her that if she was going to the hospital that night it was time to knock off.

Later in the hospital, much reassured by her father’s look of wellbeing, Gabriel described her day’s work with such enthusiasm he smiled at her slyly.

‘No more objections because you’re working for Adam, then!’

Gabriel raised a limpid blue gaze to his. ‘I’m doing it for you, Dad, not for Adam Dysart.’

‘Not to mention the kick it’s giving you to reveal the secrets hiding under the overpaint.’ He patted her hand. ‘What solvents are you using?’

They were immediately plunged into a technical discussion, with Harry giving his daughter very valuable advice on how to proceed once the subject was fully revealed and she was down to the actual varnish. It was only when other visitors were beginning to leave the ward that Gabriel remembered she had a proposition to make on her mother’s behalf.

‘Dad,’ she began, ‘have you given any thought about what happens when they discharge you?’

He looked surprised. ‘I come home, of course.’

‘Sister says you must have complete rest,’ Gabriel warned.

‘I’ll be as good as gold,’ he promised, then gave her a worried frown. ‘Or am I asking too much of you? You’ve done enough already, taking over the business, and holding things together for me. I can’t expect you to stay away from your job much longer.’

‘That’s no problem at all. In fact, Dad, I’ve been meaning to tell you this before. I’ve resigned.’

He looked startled. ‘Is this because of me?’

‘No. I’ve been planning a move for some time. So I’m yours for as long as you need me.’ Gabriel hesitated. ‘But the thing is, Dad, you need to convalesce before coming back to Haywards. A nice little break with sea air and plenty of peace and quiet.’

‘Why do I have the feeling you’ve got this all arranged?’ he said, wagging a finger at her. ‘Go on. Get it off your chest. Exactly what plan have you hatched up for me?’

‘It’s not me. It’s Mother. She—she suggests you spend a couple of weeks with her at Julia’s cottage on the Gower,’ said Gabriel in a rush.

Harry Brett’s sleepy blue eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘Laura said that? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Gabriel smiled coaxingly. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s a long time since your mother and I spent even one night under the same roof,’ he said dryly. ‘And yet she’s casually suggesting we spend a fortnight together?’

Gabriel looked up to see a nurse stationed in the doorway, obviously about to suggest she leave. She stood up. ‘Mother rings up every night to see how you are. So what shall I say to her tonight? Yes, or no?’

Harry gazed up at his daughter in appeal. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘Whatever you want to do,’ said Gabriel promptly. ‘Think it over—ponder a bit. Tell me what you decide when I come tomorrow.’

Laura Brett was rather amused to hear about her ex-husband’s astonishment. ‘I’ll ring him myself in the morning, and assure him that my offer was made with the best of intentions. And if it’s the prospect of my company that’s bothering him he can take someone else down to the cottage, free of charge, if he prefers. Is there someone else?’ she added.

‘No, Mother. At least, not as far as I know. Ask him yourself when you ring.’

By late the following afternoon, after working area by small area with agonising slowness, Gabriel had removed enough overpaint to reveal most of a second face. Like the first it was obscured by cracked, discoloured varnish, but the features were visible enough to show that the likeness between the two beauties was unmistakable.

‘Sisters?’ said Wayne in excitement.

‘Must be,’ said Gabriel, rotating her head on her neck in weariness. ‘We’ll see more tomorrow after I get the rest of this brown stuff off, maybe even find a signature.’ She glanced at her watch, hoping Adam would come soon, because she’d had enough for one day. While Wayne and Eddie went off with the drawings they were working on Gabriel took the headband off and looked down at the picture on the stand. Already there was a luminous quality to the faces, even through age-darkened varnish. This was very definitely no jobbing painter’s work. Which pointed to a wealthy background for the girls in the portrait. Who are you? she asked them silently, then started violently at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

‘Sorry to startle you,’ said Adam Dysart.

Gabriel turned quickly. ‘I was miles away.’

‘We were right,’ he breathed, gazing down at the painting as though he’d found the Holy Grail. ‘There was someone hiding under there.’

‘You were right,’ corrected Gabriel. ‘A brace of sisters, do you think?’

‘Definitely. And I’m pretty certain who they are.’ He turned to look at her, his eyes bright with triumph. ‘Fancy a trip into Herefordshire on Sunday for some research?’

Gabriel thought about it, surprised by how much she fancied the idea. ‘You mean you don’t expect me to work over the weekend?’ she said in mock amazement.

‘Certainly not,’ he said virtuously. ‘I’m no slave-driver.’

Gabriel laughed, then waved at Wayne and Eddie hovering in the doorway. ‘Thanks, you two. You can call it a day. I’ll lock up.’

After the Harley-Davidson had zoomed off down the lane Adam, in ancient jeans and sweatshirt, helped Gabriel gather up the cotton swabs and tidy up, carried the canvas down to the vault with reverent hands, then accompanied Gabriel on a round of locking up, and this time accepted her offer of tea.

‘I’m dry as a bone,’ he confessed, as they strolled up to the house together. ‘I’ve just got back from London.’

After a grand reconciliation with Della?

‘I went to an auction in the West End yesterday,’ he went on, ‘stayed the night with Leo, then on to one of those huge open air sales on the way back today.’

‘Dressed like that?’ said Gabriel, wondering about Leo.

‘Not at the auction. But this is my usual camouflage for general sales. A pair of sunnies and a scruffy old hat and I could be anybody. I don’t go bargain-hunting in my best bespoke suiting, Miss Brett.’

‘Were you successful?’ she asked, preceding him into the kitchen, which was miraculously tidy, due to one of the twice weekly visits of Miss Edith Prince, who had ‘obliged’ for Lottie Hayward in the past, and still continued to do so for Harry Brett, to Gabriel’s everlasting gratitude.

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