Lee Wilkinson - The Padova Pearls

‘He’s going home tomorrow,’ Sophia said flatly.

‘That’s a shame. One date might have been all that was needed to start a transatlantic courtship. An old-fashioned word, but a nice one, don’t you think?’

Before Sophia could answer, she went on, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t ask him to have supper with us.’

‘I only thought about it after he’d gone. Of course he might not have accepted.’

‘I rather fancy he would. When I heard the front door close, I looked out. He didn’t just walk away, you know. He stood under that tree for several minutes watching your window. In fact he’d only just disappeared when you came over.’

Sophia was filled with disappointment. If only she’d looked out and seen him there, she might have plucked up the courage to go and issue an invitation.

But it seemed it wasn’t to be.

PERHAPS Mrs Caldwell picked up that disappointment because she changed the subject by asking, ‘Are you showing your father’s miniatures?’

‘Yes. There’s plenty of space for them, and they’re some of Dad’s best work.’

‘My favourite is the one of the dark-haired girl in that beautiful blue silk ball gown. She’s wearing such exquisite pearls and holding what looks like a carnival mask…It always reminds me a little of you…’

Sophia knew the one she meant. It was another of her father’s portraits that particularly appealed to her. Judging by the gown and the hairstyle, it had been copied from a much older painting.

But when she had asked him where he’d first seen the original, he had replied that it was so long ago he’d quite forgotten.

‘When I mentioned to Peter how much I liked it,’ the old lady went on, ‘he told me that it was his favourite too…

‘I miss him, you know,’ she added abruptly. ‘I enjoyed the games of cribbage we sometimes used to play in an afternoon.’

‘I know he enjoyed them too.’

Her eyes suspiciously bright, Mrs Caldwell sat up straighter and demanded, ‘So how is the exhibition coming along?’

‘We’re all set to open tomorrow morning.’

While the paella finished cooking they talked companionably about the exhibition in particular and painting in general.

When the meal was ready, Mrs Caldwell suggested frivolously, ‘Let’s have a bottle of wine. There’s several in the rack. Make it a Rioja and we’ll pretend we’re in Spain.’

After they had toasted each other, they tucked into the paella, which the old lady declared to be the best she had ever tasted.

Warmed by her pleasure, Sophia put aside her low spirits and made a real effort to be cheerful. She succeeded so well that, after she had cleared away and stacked the dishwasher, they talked and laughed and played cribbage until almost eleven o’clock.

Suddenly catching sight of the time, she cried, ‘Good gracious, I’d better get off home and let you go to bed.’

With Mrs Caldwell’s thanks still ringing in her ears, she hurried back across the hall and unlocking her door, went inside and switched on the light.

The first thing she noticed were her keys lying just under the edge of the coffee table. She must have knocked them on to the floor when she’d moved the bag of shopping.

She had closed the door behind her and stooped to pick them up when a sudden strange, unprecedented feeling of unease made her stiffen and glance around.

Nothing seemed out of place and her handbag was where she’d left it, but a sixth sense insisted that something was wrong. Not as it had been.

But what?

Still puzzling, she dropped one set of keys into her handbag and put the spare ones back into the sideboard drawer, while she continued to look around.

Yes, that was it! At both the front window and the kitchen window at the side of the house, the curtains, which had been open, were now closed.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose and her skin goosefleshed as though a cool breeze had blown over it, while her thoughts flew backwards and forwards.

Someone must have been in the flat after she had gone across to Mrs Caldwell’s.

Impossible. There was only the old lady and herself in the house.

However, the fact remained that curtains didn’t draw themselves. And they must have been drawn for some specific reason.

It seemed to point to a burglar, or someone with nefarious intentions who hadn’t wanted to be seen by anyone passing.

But the back door was always kept locked and bolted and no one could come in the front way who didn’t ring one of the flats or have a key.

Yet someone had been in.

And perhaps still was.

Chilled by the thought, she shivered.

Then, nerving herself, she went to look, switching on lights as she went.

The bathroom door was ajar and it only took a moment to satisfy herself that no one was in there.

Then she opened the door of her father’s studio and, her nostrils full of the familiar smell of paints and turpentine that lingered even now, looked around.

Apart from his easel, his unused canvases propped against a wall and, on the racks, his paints and brushes, his pallet and pallet knife, his cleaning fluids and soft rags, it was empty.

His bedroom too was free of intruders.

It was still as he had left it.

One of these days she would have to go through his private papers, and give his clothes and belongings to charity, but the grief was still too new, too raw, to be able to do it yet.

The only thing she had moved had been his last gift to her, which she had discovered hidden in his bureau, along with some letters.

Though only about the size of a small shoebox, it had been quite heavy. Wrapped in gold paper, it bore a printed tag which had read simply:

For Sophia, with all my love. Have a very happy twenty-fifth birthday.

Finding it like that had made her tears flow.

When they were under control, she had stripped off the paper with unsteady fingers to reveal the exquisite ebony jewellery box that the stranger had commented on.

It was like a miniature chest, the thick, arched lid beautifully carved with what appeared to be one of the signs of the zodiac. A moment or two later, though it wasn’t the conventional portrayal, she recognized it as Pisces, her own birth sign.

Caught in a curling wave were two tiny sea horses, one obviously frolicking, the other melancholy. It perfectly captured the dual personality, the moods and emotional depths, attributed to Pisceans.

Fresh tears had trickled down her cheeks while she wondered where her father—who had been housebound for quite some time—had managed to find such a lovely and appropriate birthday gift.

Her heart overflowing with love and gratitude, she had put it on her dressing table where she could see it the moment she woke up.

Suppose it had gone?

Almost more concerned about losing her gift than the possibility of finding an intruder, she took a deep breath and, flinging open her bedroom door, switched on the light.

To her immense relief the box was where she’d left it and the room appeared to be empty, but—sensitive to atmosphere—to Sophia it didn’t feel empty.

Her divan bed was only an inch or two from the floor, so the only place anyone could possibly hide was the walk-in wardrobe.

Though she told herself she was being a fool, she slid aside the doors and peered in.

It occurred to her with wry amusement that if she did find anyone hiding in there, she would probably die of fright.

In the event, it was innocent of anything but clothes and accessories.

As she caught sight of the box once more, the thought struck her that it was the right shape and size to be the package brought by the mysterious visitor Mrs Caldwell had let in.