Read Online The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries by Daphne Coleridge - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daphne Coleridge
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She let her eyes sweep over the displays of dried flowers, embroidered purses, exotic silk screen prints, woven baskets and polished carved wooden bowls. She could see Samantha chatting to members of the Claresby Art Club and wondered what they would make of the ferocious and blunt spoken art critic. She had deliberately chosen Conran Hawkes to judge the art because he was less likely than Samantha to say anything downright offensive in his critique. It had seemed fairly safe to put Samantha in charge of judging the flower arranging – after all, flowers were nice, what could she find to be scathing about? Nonetheless, Laura decided it was prudent to move Samantha away from the mild-mannered but sensitive amateur artists.
“It is so lovely to see some plain, honest good painting,” Samantha was saying in strong tones to Bill Smith, the top of whose head barely reached her shoulders. “One wonders who the real artists are – the likes of Sebastian Fullmarks and Floyd Bailey or the worthy members of your club. It is just a case of showmanship and cheap celebrity that makes them their money if you ask me. I’m not saying that Floyd can’t paint, but I would happily say that Sebastian can’t – or if he can, he never does.”
“And yet,” intervened Laura with a light smile, “he is currently working away at a painting of Claresby Manor. I have not seen it yet, but I’m sure it will be a work I can display with pride.”
“Let’s hope so,” replied Samantha, scepticism in every syllable.
“I was just going to ask you if you would help me at the entrance? We are due to open in five minutes.”
“Of course,” replied Samantha, and the two women made their way towards the sweep of the drive and the recently erected wrought iron gates at the main entrance of the manor. The next hour was a swirl of greetings and payments and despite growing heat and a pain starting to blossom behind her eyes, Laura experienced a swell of satisfaction at seeing how popular Claresby Fair was turning out to be. She also spared a grateful thought for Samantha, who worked hard beside her without complaint. Fortunately, come one o’clock two of the villagers Laura knew well came and took over and she and Samantha were able to repair to the beer tent for a glass of Pimms with a whole fruit salad floating in it. Then they made their way over to the hog roast and were gifted rolls with a mere smidgen of salad and a hunk of crispy meat. Laura felt herself perk up and even the immaculately groomed Samantha was tucking into the ungainly fare with enthusiasm. Then the two ladies drifted around the stalls and Laura made some courtesy purchases of handmade cards and a paperweight with an arrangement of rosebuds in it.
“Well,” said Laura as they thanked the woman who had made the cards, “perhaps we should venture up and see if Sebastian is making headway with his painting. I must confess to being curious as to how he will pull off a conventional landscape with building. I sometimes think he is more of an inventor at heart than an artist.”
“A charlatan, more like,” sniffed Samantha. “But I must confess that I was impressed that he was prepared to expose his talent to public view by painting alla prima in such a populous venue.”
They could both see his easel now, top heavy with its enormous canvas. A small group of people were looking and Frank Bowler, organist at Claresby church, moved away and caught sight of them.
“Nice painting,” he said with a wink. “I wonder where he spent his holiday!”
Bemused, Laura hastened up the slope and turned to look at the canvas. The painting that met her eyes depicted a turbulent sky of moody blues and purple. Below, emitting a sense of heat and menace, was the Sphinx.
“Well!” exclaimed Samantha. “I’m astounded. With art I cannot lie, and this is a wonderful work: strength, energy, brooding, ominous – brilliant! And I’m going to have to admit as much to
“It is so lovely to see some plain, honest good painting,” Samantha was saying in strong tones to Bill Smith, the top of whose head barely reached her shoulders. “One wonders who the real artists are – the likes of Sebastian Fullmarks and Floyd Bailey or the worthy members of your club. It is just a case of showmanship and cheap celebrity that makes them their money if you ask me. I’m not saying that Floyd can’t paint, but I would happily say that Sebastian can’t – or if he can, he never does.”
“And yet,” intervened Laura with a light smile, “he is currently working away at a painting of Claresby Manor. I have not seen it yet, but I’m sure it will be a work I can display with pride.”
“Let’s hope so,” replied Samantha, scepticism in every syllable.
“I was just going to ask you if you would help me at the entrance? We are due to open in five minutes.”
“Of course,” replied Samantha, and the two women made their way towards the sweep of the drive and the recently erected wrought iron gates at the main entrance of the manor. The next hour was a swirl of greetings and payments and despite growing heat and a pain starting to blossom behind her eyes, Laura experienced a swell of satisfaction at seeing how popular Claresby Fair was turning out to be. She also spared a grateful thought for Samantha, who worked hard beside her without complaint. Fortunately, come one o’clock two of the villagers Laura knew well came and took over and she and Samantha were able to repair to the beer tent for a glass of Pimms with a whole fruit salad floating in it. Then they made their way over to the hog roast and were gifted rolls with a mere smidgen of salad and a hunk of crispy meat. Laura felt herself perk up and even the immaculately groomed Samantha was tucking into the ungainly fare with enthusiasm. Then the two ladies drifted around the stalls and Laura made some courtesy purchases of handmade cards and a paperweight with an arrangement of rosebuds in it.
“Well,” said Laura as they thanked the woman who had made the cards, “perhaps we should venture up and see if Sebastian is making headway with his painting. I must confess to being curious as to how he will pull off a conventional landscape with building. I sometimes think he is more of an inventor at heart than an artist.”
“A charlatan, more like,” sniffed Samantha. “But I must confess that I was impressed that he was prepared to expose his talent to public view by painting alla prima in such a populous venue.”
They could both see his easel now, top heavy with its enormous canvas. A small group of people were looking and Frank Bowler, organist at Claresby church, moved away and caught sight of them.
“Nice painting,” he said with a wink. “I wonder where he spent his holiday!”
Bemused, Laura hastened up the slope and turned to look at the canvas. The painting that met her eyes depicted a turbulent sky of moody blues and purple. Below, emitting a sense of heat and menace, was the Sphinx.
“Well!” exclaimed Samantha. “I’m astounded. With art I cannot lie, and this is a wonderful work: strength, energy, brooding, ominous – brilliant! And I’m going to have to admit as much to
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