Page 30 of A Summer of Castles
A light breeze had shooed away the last of the rain clouds. The weather forecast was for a heat wave over the coming days. In the blue skies of my thoughts, I pondered the stranger, the man whom I had trailed from Bamburgh to Barnard. But who exactly was following whom? Could this artist really be working on a similar mission to mine? Was David in on it too, and Medici? My patron clearly loved theatrical secrecy.
I fiddled with the barrel of a zoom lens. There were images to sort through and another list to compile. I couldn’t figure out why my motivation was close to rock bottom once again, although this time it wasn’t anything to do with my lack of professionalism. Something else was wrong. I inhaled deeply. The air was sweet with the scent of green foliage, freshly awoken by rain, and I had no sense of anything else on the wind. I was unaffected by my surroundings, as to be expected; this was entirely the wrong place to free my mind.
The pub had a beer garden, and I chose a table away from the pollen-laden rose bushes and a swarm of tiny flies. I expected him to be late. Perhaps if he had sense, he wouldn’t come at all. My questions were likely to make him uncomfortable as I was justifiably inclined to be inquisitorial. However, he arrived promptly at six o’clock, carrying a pint of beer in one steady hand and a packet of crisps in the other. There was none of the trappings of easel or paint box.
‘Hello,’ he said, and pulled up a metal garden chair to the table.
With the benefit of evening sunshine, I assessed Joseph’s face. He obviously wasn’t vain about his appearance: hollowed eyes, dusty black stubble and a sheaf of uncombed hair. The collarless plain shirt was daubed with paint flecks, and his hands were speckled too. I liked the grubbiness on him because it wasn’t pretentious and spoke of his commitment to his art above anything else. Having wiped the beer froth off his lips, he scratched his chin and gave a small shrug, as if to hand the reins of the conversation over to me.
I launched myself forward onto the front legs of the chair. ‘Do you know David Carmichael?’
His perplexed expression was best described as bemused and wary in equal measure. And genuine. ‘I had hoped we could have a chat, not an interrogation.’
I adjusted my stance and the back legs of the chair sank into the grass. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just very confused by what’s being going on recently. I’m photographing castles for a client and David is my contact.’
‘Ah.’ He took a mouthful of beer and swallowed. ‘He’s not mine. I have an agent who throws work at me from time to time. Camilla Brooke.’
I stared at a smudge of white paint on his sleeve. ‘An agent?’
‘I’m also a part-time teacher. I work in a private school in London. Camilla usually handles book illustrations, which I don’t do, but now and again, something advantageous crops up. I’ve been using her for a couple of years. She came highly recommended.’ He tore open the crisp packet and held it out.
I shook my head. ‘By whom?’
‘A friend. Friends like to keep me occupied.’
‘You’re working on a commission?’
‘Yeah. Don’t know much about it. Don’t really care to be honest. It’s a job that gets me out of London—’
‘London.’ That explained his accent.
‘And you? You’re not from these parts.’
I cleared my throat. ‘The Midlands. I love castles. I want to see as many as possible, but this project is specific to those in the north of England. I’ve a list of castles to photograph.’ I paused while he ate the crisps in a constant stream of munching. There was no point selling him the postcard excuse. ‘I don’t know why I’m photographing them.’ If the heat of sunshine hadn’t been on my face, I would have been sure that it was the blush that was warned my cheeks.
He stilled, his hand halfway toward the packet. ‘You don’t know? Interesting.’ He shrugged off the lack of information. ‘Camilla has commissioned me to do a portfolio of paintings for a gift. I don’t know whose. I’ve free reign to paint what I like, as long as I stick to—’
‘A list of castles?’ The knot below my ribs tightened. I was glad I hadn’t eaten.
‘Yes.’ His brow furrowed. ‘You too?’
Finally, I caught his attention properly. Now, he might understand why I was questioning him. ‘Yes. All in Northumberland and Yorkshire. Starting with Bamburgh—’
‘I went there at Easter.’
Joseph’s timings didn’t fit entirely with mine. He had started way ahead of me, probably before I had even signed a contract. Our schedules were supposed to match perfectly if my assumption was correct.
He continued. ‘During the spring break: Alnwick and Dunstanburgh. Weather wasn’t great, so I stopped there. May was a washout.’
‘You were contacted before Easter?’ I thought back to the exhibition at the Curzon. There was no hint from David that anyone else was involved in the project.
‘I got the commission earlier in the year, but they’re supposed to be summer paintings.’ He shrugged. ‘Foliage, pretty flowers. I prefer realism, not impressionistic styles.’
I felt bad for calling him a stalker. It was quite the contrary. ‘I suppose if you started before me, you’re not following me.’
‘Well, I was supposed to do it all in the summer break, then I looked at the schedule I’d been given, the time it would take to paint all these castles, and realised I couldn’t deliver all the paintings by the end of August.’
‘Why not?’ From what I knew of watercolour paintings, they were quick to do.