Chapter One
Daniel Cavanagh sat daydreaming out of a stone mullioned window, looking across the village green. The casement was wide open, allowing the intermittent breeze to flow into the room. The summer heatwave was making it difficult to concentrate on his artwork and a dull ache throbbed at his left temple. Rubbing the side of his head in small circles to ease the discomfort, he squinted through the heat haze that shimmered in the air above the stone ledge of his window. Absent-mindedly, he watched half a dozen red ants scuttling in circles, each one resembling an indecisive ink dot.
At the far end of the green he could see The Royal Oak, decorated with hanging baskets and their wooden benches slowly filling with customers. Daniel’s stomach rumbled. He glanced at his watch and scratched a dried paint spot off the number six. It was five o’clock and he’d missed lunch, which would explain his hunger.
Standing up, he whisked red paint from his brush in a jar of fresh water, causing the clear liquid to blush. Then, tapping the brush three times on the rim, he laid it on the table. As he left his studio, he reached for an old paint-stained towel and wiped his hands as he made his way down the enormous carpeted staircase. It curved in a wide semi-circle as if embracing the large crystal chandelier that hung from the double height ceiling. After crossing the hall’s parquet flooring, he pushed open the kitchen door.
His kitchen was large but homely, with cupboards of oak. An Aga took pride of place in a brick alcove and his mother’s paintings hung on pale pistachio coloured walls. To one side of the room stood a large wooden table with eight chairs. Daniel threw the towel onto an old church pew, disturbing his two spaniels, Goya and Gogh. They had been curled nose to tail, but were now stretching and yawning.
‘Sorry, girls, I lost track of time again,’ said Daniel.
He walked towards the fridge and opened it. Both dogs padded over to him and sat at his feet, looking hopeful. They cocked their heads to one side.
‘That look won’t swing it.’ He laughed. ‘Walk first. Then food.’
He rubbed a tomato against his T-shirt and was buttering a slice of bread when the telephone interrupted him. Putting the knife down, he nestled the receiver into his shoulder and tilted his head to secure it there before continuing to make his sandwich.
‘Hello.’
‘Hiya, it’s me.’
Daniel immediately recognised the familiar voice of his twin sister, Denise. ‘Hi, Den. How are you?’
‘Could be better. This morning I was sitting in casualty waiting for a raisin to be removed from up Sam’s nose. And don’t you dare laugh.’
‘I’m not. Is asking how it got there a silly question?’
‘Apparently, to a four-year-old it made perfect sense to see how far up it could go.’
‘Is he okay? Did they get it out?’
‘That’s where it got embarrassing. We were assessed by a triage nurse and asked to wait to see a doctor. No sooner had she left than Sam sneezed and the raisin flew out of his nose and onto my lap. Before I knew what he was doing, he’d picked it up and eaten it. I dragged him out of there pretty damn quickly. I had to escape before the doctor turned up to see a giggling child chewing on the dangerous obstruction.’
Daniel laughed as he placed two slices of ham on the buttered bread. ‘I suppose you could call that Sam’s raison d’être.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible.’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’
‘Anyway, I was ringing to find out if you’d thought of a date for your exhibition yet? I need to give my workaholic husband plenty of notice to book the time off.’
Daniel sighed. ‘I don’t know, Den. It’ll be some months yet. I’m still at the making lists stage. I’ve got some canvasses to finish and I haven’t found a caterer. Then I’ve got the invitations to design and get to the printers. It’s looking like November, I’m afraid. Trouble is it’ll be winter and I don’t really want a hundred or more people trudging mud inside.’
‘Why don’t you hire a marquee?’
‘A glorified tent? You’ve got to be kidding. People will freeze to death.’
‘No they won’t. A marquee has more than one layer to it and is incredibly weatherproof and insulated. We went to a ball in one a couple of years ago for Simon’s company Christmas do, and they had huge heaters. There was snow outside and we were all as warm as toast wearing strappy ball gowns inside.’
‘You didn’t tell me my brother-in-law was a cross-dresser.’
Denise giggled. ‘The women, you idiot.’
Daniel took a few moments to mull this over while he cut his sandwich in half. He sat down at the table and his dogs curled themselves around his feet. ‘It sounds like it could be an option. I could whitewash the back dining room, the one with the patio doors leading out into the garden. That room could be the gallery, and the marquee could be just outside the doors for the food and drink.’
‘And dancing.’
‘At an art exhibition?’
‘Do you want the guests to look at your work, have a bite to eat and disappear somewhere else to party? You should hire a DJ and install a dance floor inside the marquee. Honestly, it’ll make all the difference. In fact, why don’t you combine our birthday in December with your exhibition? You can decorate the house all Christmassy and make it a party as well as an art exhibition. Friends and family will be coming anyway, so why not make it a birthday to remember?’
Daniel raised his eyebrows as he sat in front of his untouched sandwich. ‘For a sister, you come up with some pretty good ideas, you know? Okay that’s the date solved, the seventh of December it is. Thanks, Den. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a personal assistant’s post, are you? I could do with you to help me with the rest of my list. In fact, the rest of my life!’
‘Sorry, Picasso, my hours are full of two small boys. Why don’t you ask in The Royal Oak for some catering advice? Anyway, I’ll let you get on. Think about the marquee.’
‘I will. Great to hear from you. Say hello to Simon and the boys for me. Bye.’
Daniel lived alone at The Rookery, a large, impressive building adorned with turrets, mullioned arched windows and built in ten acres of manicured grounds. Six years previously, the papers had reported on the tragic motorway accident that killed his parents. His father, Robert Cavanagh, had been a renowned architect and his death alongside that of his wife, Helen, had made front-page news.
At the time of the accident, Daniel had been travelling the world; or running away from his guilt, depending on whose viewpoint you listened to. He was struggling to settle somewhere permanently because he blamed himself for a firework accident that resulted in his best friend’s loss of sight in one eye. His incessant travelling assuaged his anxiety and eased his fitful nights, so that eventually what was meant to have been a few months travelling had turned into three years away from home as he’d tried to outrun his demons.
His sketchbook had been his treasured possession. He was passionate about capturing the essence of each country and the spirit of the people on paper. He painted whenever he stayed long enough in one place, encapsulating a look of wonderment, a fearful frown or a euphoric grin with swift movements of his well-chewed pencil. These pictorial memories were then wrapped and shipped back home to be stored at The Rookery by his parents.