Minette Walters - The Devil's Feather

“You don’t look very impressed.”

“Only because you crept up on me. Who took them? You?”

“Yes.” Her dark eyes roamed across the pictures. “Lily hated my gallery. She said it was unhealthy…kept telling me to let my memories go.”

Standard advice, I thought, but I couldn’t see that it applied to pictures. My mother had photographs of her dead parents on her bedside table, and I’d never felt they shouldn’t be there. “Why didn’t you put yourself into any of them?”

“I did. That one.” She pointed to a postcard-size shot at the beginning, showing her parents arm-in-arm with a girl whom I’d taken to be her sister.

I moved back to look at it. “I didn’t recognize you. When was it taken?”

“On my twelfth birthday. Mum and Dad gave me a camera and I let Rory use it to take that photograph.”

“How old was he?”

“Eight then…fifteen when he died. Sally was two years younger.”

“What about your parents?”

“Both in their late forties.” She pointed to a poster-size photograph halfway down the corridor. “That’s the last picture I took of them. It was about three weeks before the accident.”

I walked past her to stand in front of it. It was in colour, there was no sea in the background, but the composition and the way the sunlight lit the sides of the couple’s faces reminded me of the black-and-white image of Madeleine at Barton House. “Was it you who took the picture of Madeleine on my upstairs landing?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s the only thing worth looking at in the whole house. The rest is tacky as hell…including Nathaniel’s paintings.”

It was a compliment but Jess didn’t take it as one. “It looks nothing like Madeleine,” she said crossly. “I only did it to make Lily happy. She needed to believe that something good had come from the Wrights. If it was an honest photograph her bitch of a daughter would look like the portrait of Dorian Gray-ugly as sin.”

“Your mother’s pretty,” I said, in an effort to distract her.

Jess ignored me. “You know, I sometimes wonder if that’s what Madeleine’s at. As long as Nathaniel puts her viciousness into his paintings, she can pass herself off as sweet.”

It was a strange analogy. “Except his paintings aren’t vicious, they’re just not very good. If he had any talent, he’d have sold them and they wouldn’t be gathering dust in Barton House.”

“Then it’s a vicious destruction of talent,” she said flatly. “He used to be good before he married Madeleine. Peter has one of his early paintings. You should look at it.” She opened a door at the end of the corridor. “Did you get this far?”

“No.”

“This is the best room.”

I thought she meant it was best in terms of decor and size, or “best” as in reserved for visitors, so I wasn’t prepared for what I found. There wasn’t a stick of furniture inside. It was a huge shuttered room with a woodblock floor, white walls and a series of slim floor-to-ceiling panels set asymetrically down the centre with mini speakers attached to them. I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking at until Jess touched a series of buttons on a panel by the door and the room came alive with moving images and sound.

For a few sickening moments, as the farm appeared on the wall at the end, I thought I was about to see her family go through a series of repetitive loops on video. In that case I’d be agreeing with Lily. What could be more morbid and unhealthy than sitting in the dark, watching dead people perform bursts of activity at long-forgotten parties or school plays?

“It’s the life-cycle of the weasel,” said Jess as different footage played across the screens. “That female was nesting under the house for a season…she moved into Clambar Wood when the dogs sniffed out her entrance. Those are her kittens…she’s teaching them to hunt. It’s probably where the myth of weasel gangs comes from. In fact they’re incredibly territorial and only come together for mating. Look at that. Do you see how beautiful they are? Farmers should encourage them instead of killing them. They’ll go for eggs and chicks if they can get them but their favourite prey is mice and voles.”

“It’s amazing,” I said. “Who took it?”

“I did.”

“Did you set up the room as well?”

She nodded. “I made the panels light enough to move to produce different effects. Some films are more effective if the screens form a continuous arc…like birds in flight. I’ve some great footage of crows leaving their roost in the morning, and it’s stunning to watch them wheel around the arc. The weasels work better in a staggered formation because it shows how territorial they are.”

“Can I see the crows?”

She glanced at her watch. “It’ll take too long to set up. I’d have to realign the projectors as well.” She touched the buttons and plunged the room into darkness before easing me out and closing the door. “I’m working on the soundtrack for the weasels at the moment, but maybe I’ll set up the crows when that’s finished.”

I allowed myself to be shepherded back towards the kitchen. “But what are the films for? Are they for schools? What do you do with them?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

She took some sandwiches, wrapped in clingfilm, from the worktop and tucked them in her pocket. “It’s just a hobby,” she said.

I looked at her in disbelief. “You’re crazy! What’s the point of making films that no one sees? You should be showing them…finding yourself an audience.” I paused. “It would be like me writing columns that no one reads.”

“I’m not like you. I don’t have to be admired all the time.”

“That’s not fair.”

She gave an indifferent shrug.

“What’s wrong with showing you’ve got talent? You’re good, Jess.”

“I know,” she said bluntly, “but what makes you think I need you to tell me? How much do you know about filming? How much do you know about weasels? Anything?” She gave a dismissive laugh when I shook my head.

“I was only saying what I honestly felt.”

“No, you weren’t.” She opened the back door and ushered me out. “You were being patronising-probably because you feel guilty about listening to Madeleine. In future you’d do better to keep your mouth shut.”

It was like walking on eggshells. I couldn’t see what I’d done wrong except compliment her. “Would it have been better if I’d said it was crap?”

“Of course not.” She flicked me a scathing glance. “I hate liars even more than I hate arselickers.”

From: connie.burns@uknet.com

Sent:Wed 21/07/04 13:54

To: alan.collins@manchester-police.co.uk

Subject:contact details

Dear Alan,

Journalists are notoriously jealous of their stories. I don’t trust my boss not to cut me out of the O’Connell/MacKenzie loop and pass off all my research as his! I’ll let you know my address and phone number as soon as I’ve found somewhere permanent to stay. At the moment I’m living out of a suitcase.

It was ever thus!

Best wishes,

Connie

PS. I can’t believe how bad the mobile signals are in this country! I think I’ve signed up to the wrong server!

JESS AND I parted on superficially good terms but there was no invitation to return, and she gave a noncommittal nod when I said I hoped to see her at Barton House. It was all very confusing. Rather than go straight home, I drove to the village to see if Peter was home. When I spotted his car in the road, I pulled in behind it and rang his doorbell. I had second thoughts while I waited, mostly to do with rumour-mongering and disloyalty, but I was too curious to give in to them.