The Perfect Retreat

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE




Ivo settled into Middlemist House nicely. He was used to big houses with their draughts and peculiarities. While Merritt stayed outside in the gardens, Ivo explored and read the journals and the letters of Clementina and George.

‘She was quite a fiery one,’ said Ivo one rainy day to Merritt, who was absorbed in his seed catalogue.

‘Who?’ asked Merritt, looking up.

‘Your great-great-great-grandmother, Clementina,’ said Ivo. ‘When George left, she says she destroyed all his paintings in this letter.’

‘That must be why there are none around,’ said Merritt, returning to his catalogue. ‘It was the bane of my father’s existence, especially when the prices for George’s work went up,’ he said. ‘All that’s left is Clementina’s work, which I wouldn’t get more than a few hundred pounds for. It’s awful stuff,’ said Merritt, shaking his head.

‘I’d love to see it,’ said Ivo excitedly.

‘You’re welcome to it. Top of the stairs, open the small door and then keep going. Wonderful view though. The studio looks out over the entire county, almost.’

Ivo jumped up and took the stairs to the attic. Upwards he climbed, thankful he had stopped smoking since he met Kitty, as the ascent was hard work.

At the top of the stairs, he found the studio.

As predicted by Merritt, the paintings were hideous. Angry works of men being castrated, crucified and stoned by Roman women, being burnt at the stake and lost at sea; the themes of revenge went on, and Ivo reminded himself never to cross a Middlemist woman again. Holding one of the smaller pieces, he walked to the window and held it to the light.

Putting it down, he picked up another larger canvas and held this one up too. He went through each piece, and then taking a few he walked downstairs again, his face puzzled.

‘Don’t tell me you want to put them up on the walls, I couldn’t bear it,’ said Merritt when he saw the works in Ivo’s hands.

‘No, I think I’ve found something. Would you mind if I take these to a mate of mine in London who works at Christie’s? I promise I’ll return them,’ said Ivo.

‘Sure,’ said Merritt easily. ‘Take as many as you like. I hate to disappoint you but they’re not worth anything,’ he said, laughing at Ivo’s enthusiasm.

Ivo said nothing. Instead he asked to borrow Merritt’s car, which he agreed to. Merritt liked Ivo the more he spent time with him. He was funny, self-deprecating, wicked and clearly in love with Kitty. He knew little about him as he spoke in circles when he mentioned his family, except to mention he was a huge disappointment to his father. Merritt understood that, remembering his own father’s anger at his divorce from Eliza.

Ivo was well read and well bred, thought Merritt, but he didn’t wear it like a badge of honour. He genuinely liked learning new things and he was clever, Merritt noticed. He had a gift for languages; he spoke three apart from English: French, Italian and a smattering of Russian.

‘It’s how I used to order my hookers,’ he explained to Merritt when he asked why he learned Russian.

‘What about Italian?’ asked Merritt, shocked.

‘I use it for the ladies only; and I like to order in French just to piss the waiters off in Paris,’ he said, and Merritt laughed. There was so much about Ivo he didn’t know, but he figured it was none of his business. At least not while he was the dumped boyfriend of his sister.

Ivo piled up the car with as many paintings as he could fit into the back seat and the boot, and he drove off towards London with a toot of Merritt’s car’s horn.

Dialling his phone, he pressed it up to his ear as he drove.

‘Henry? Ivo. No I don’t want to stay, relax mate. Listen, you sitting down? I think I’ve found a ghost. I’ve found the ghost of George Middlemist.’