Boomerang. Sydney J. Bounds
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She felt a sense of relief that, at least, Wilfred wasn’t chasing this girl. Sometimes she imagined he had a roving eye.
“Have you seen Wilfred?”
Parry glanced up from the sketch.
“Not yet, Mrs. Keller. It takes time to get around to everyone. Do you have any idea of the subject he was going for this afternoon?”
Hilda shook her head and turned back to where the gypsy-looking woman was drawing a view of some cottages.
Wilfred wasn’t with her and she hadn’t seen him since lunchtime.
She couldn’t see that nice Australian, either. Perhaps he and Wilfred were together.
Hilda kept looking.
* * * *
After dinner, they met in the studio. Keith Parry had arranged a large sketchpad on an easel, and held a handful of brushes. He had paints already squeezed onto a palette.
The group sat on stools in a semi-circle about him.
“Everyone comfortable? Good. I shan’t spend long over this demonstration, just long enough to give you a few ideas. I hope. I’ve noticed during the last few days that some of you are stuck doing the same kind of thing over and over again. And it really is a good idea to experiment a bit.”
“For this demo, I’m using acrylic paints. These are quick drying, and useful for outdoor work. So, a few sketches in different styles, which you can try for yourselves later. It can help you get out of the rut, like this....”
He propped a colour print of Porthcove harbour on a second easel.
“This is something I did a few years ago. Now, as Cézanne might have seen it.”
Parry sketched in a few cubes and cylinders in warm and cool tones, tore off the sheet and began again.
“This time, van Gogh.”
The harbour reappeared, now constructed of vigorous swirling brushstrokes.
“Or Paul Klee.”
Another sheet, an abstract with lines like hieroglyphs.
“Matisse.”
The harbour appeared as a design in one plane with pure colours and arabesque lines.
Parry washed out his brushes.
“Do you see? It’s the same scene all the time—but looked at in a different way. Tomorrow, I’d like each of you to look at your subject with a fresh eye. Experiment. If you tackle an old theme in a new way, I’m sure you’ll find it exciting. And you’ll go back with some fresh ideas to develop at home.”
Parry looked at his class. Linda appeared doubtful. Margo was flushed.
“Nothing to say, George?”
For once, George Bullard kept quiet. He looked thoughtfully from the different sketches, to Keith Parry, and smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
* * * *
Linda heard Duke’s bike revving up and hurried through the common room to the hall carrying a crash helmet. Val Courtney was locking the door of the art shop, and Linda said:
“We’re having an evening out. Duke says there’s a roadhouse on the way to Penzance, so we’re going for a drink and dance.”
“That’s fine,” Val said, smiling. “It’s your holiday—enjoy yourselves.”
Duke Dickson appeared in the doorway in black leathers.
“Yeah, I’ve been exploring while Linda was painting. We might be late back, okay?”
“Of course. We don’t lock the front door—there’s no need to around here. Just don’t make too much noise as you come in. Remember, other people are sleeping. And turn off the lights, please.”
“You bet,” Duke said, and grinned. “We’ll be like a couple of mice.”
* * * *
Bullard watched Duke and Linda leave on the Kawasaki, and Val Courtney go upstairs. Fletcher had gone down to the inn. Parry was still cleaning up in the studio, and Sammy and Margo were in the common room; the door was shut but he could hear their voices.
He waited in the hall, jingling coins in his pocket.
When Parry came out of the studio, Bullard stopped him.
“I’d like to have a chat with you sometime. In private.”
“Yes, all right.” The tutor forced a smile. “Any time. That’s what I’m here for—to help with any problems you have.”
George Bullard smiled.
“Oh, it’s not my problem,” he said lightly. “Shall we say, in an hour’s time? It’s a pleasant evening. We might even take a gentle stroll while we chat....”
* * * *
Miss Eaton drove towards Porthcove.
After leaving Exeter, she took the A30 to Penzance, and then a local road that resembled a switchback. It dropped into a series of small bays and then climbed steeply up again. The road was narrow and bordered by greystone walls.
The morning sky remained clear and bright with sunlight and there was little traffic, except for a tractor that delayed her until it turned into a field.
A farmer’s dog ran alongside the Fiat, barking furiously until Sherry sat up and spat at it. This really was a delightful piece of rural England, Miss Eaton thought with approval.
Presently she came to a sign that read: Porthcove Studios. She slowed to turn into the driveway, and was forced to use her brakes.
There was a chain across the entrance and a uniformed constable standing beside it.
“Sorry, miss,” the constable said, “but you can’t come in here.”
Miss Eaton put on her Sam Pike voice. “Is that so? Waal, let me tell you I’m expected by Mrs. Courtney.”
“The Inspector’s orders, miss. No one in, no one out.”
“Inspector? Say, what’s going on here?”
“This,” the constable said officiously, “is the murder scene. An artist named Bullard has got himself killed.”
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