The Darkest Hour Read Online Free

stood back and beckoned her to follow him into the shadowy hallway. ‘Please follow me. What did you say your name was?’
    Repeating her name, Lucy followed him into a long low living room. With windows back and front open onto the garden the whole place smelled of newly cut grass and roses. She stared round in delight. ‘This is lovely.’
    ‘Indeed. She adored this place. She could never be persuaded to move once she found Rosebank Cottage.’
    ‘She painted this room, didn’t she? As a backdrop to some of her best portraits.’
    He nodded. ‘And got slated by the critics for it. Too chocolate box like some of her wartime pictures, but as you probably know, that wasn’t really her style.’ He made his way between an easy chair and a sofa, placed on either side of an open fireplace, heading towards the French doors which led out into the back garden. Lucy glanced at the hearth. It was empty now save for an arrangement of dried flowers.
    He led the way outside and up some narrow mossy steps into the upper garden and towards the building which Lucy had already guessed was the studio. Built of timber framing, infilled with dark red brick, it was single storey but with a high-pitched roof, tiled like the house but with skylights on the north-facing pitch to add to the light from the large windows. The walls were curtained with wisteria and roses.
    Groping in his pocket Michael Marston produced a key-ring and inserted one of the keys into the door. He moved aside and waved her in ahead of him. She stepped over the threshold with bated breath instantly forgetting him as she took in the large high-ceilinged room in which she found herself. Though Evelyn had been dead for many years it was as if she had just walked out for a few minutes. Her brushes and palette knives were lying on the table near her easel with a selection of squeezed tubes of oil paint. As Lucy took a step or two closer she saw that they were dried up and split, but she could still smell the linseed oil, the turpentine. She squinted at the painting on the easel and realised with sudden disappointment that it was a print of one of Evelyn’s best-known works, the one which currently hung in Tate Britain. Slowly she began to walk round the room. On the large paint-stained wooden table several sketchbooks lay open. She went closer to look. Two of the walls were lined with shelves still laden with tins and boxes and rolls of paper. Several canvasses were stacked against one wall and more paintings hung on the other walls.
    ‘None of them are originals, I’m afraid.’ Michael Marston’s voice came from the doorway. She had actually forgotten he was there.
    She turned towards him. ‘It is wonderful. It still retains so much atmosphere. As if she had just this minute left.’
    He gave a faint smile. He had loosened his tie, she noticed, and undone the top button of his shirt. It made him look marginally more relaxed. ‘She was like that. She had a powerful personality.’
    ‘Do you remember her?’
    He nodded. ‘Very well!’
    ‘You must miss her.’
    ‘It would be strange if I didn’t. She was my grandmother.’ He folded his arms. ‘If you’ve seen enough –’ He was clearly impatient for her to go.
    She felt a pang of dismay. Not already. She hadn’t seen nearly enough. She gave him a faint smile. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.’ She paused for a moment, wondering if she dare ask if she could take some photos or even if she could come again. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she hesitated again. ‘I don’t suppose I could come back some other time when it is more convenient?’
    He was heading for the door. She had a fraction of a second to make up her mind, to tell him now honestly why she was there. She had to tell him something if she wanted his co-operation but was now, when he was tired and impatient, the time to speak to him? He had turned back and was watching her, she realised, a spark of interest in his gaze for the first