The Haunt Read Online Free Page A

to worry about the dog. Nina did not like dogs, he could rely on her prejudice.
    The drive forked: to the left an archway gave on to a stable yard, to the right topiary, corkscrew hedges and privet peacocks. Beyond was the house.
    Recalling Nina’s rhapsodies – ‘a heavenly, darling place’ – he was struck, not for the first time, by shortfalls between her vision and his. To him this was strait-laced country Georgian, conceding a pediment and floral swags over the second-floor windows. Cedars there were, but the daisies had gone from the lawn. A ride-on mower was even now shaving off the last of them.
    Charlie drove up to the front door. The knocker, an iron teething-ring, made a lot of noise but no one came in answer. He knocked again. A bird flew, cursing, from the eaves.
    The rider on the mower called out, ‘We don’t want double glazing,’ and made fending-off gestures.
    Charlie crossed the grass. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Crawford.’
    ‘She’s not here.’
    ‘Where is she?’
    ‘Away.’
    ‘What about Mr Crawford?’
    ‘I am he.’
    ‘J.T.?’
    The man on the mower pouted. Being completely bald, he looked more like a punished baby than Oscar Wilde.
    ‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Charlie. ‘In my car. Shall I fetch it?’
    J.T. Crawford shrugged and remained seated on the mower. Charlie went to his car and brought the portrait, the full frontal view hidden against his chest. ‘You and I aren’t complete strangers. Your wife used to be mine, we have what you could call a shared interest.’ Charlie smiled friendlily. ‘What does the J.T. stand for?’
    ‘Jeremy Tyrone.’
    ‘I’m Charlie Olssen.’
    ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
    ‘Our shared interest.’ Charlie turned the picture. Looking at it upside down he thought it really rather good. Even in bright sunlight the morbidezza was rich and bloomy. Bedbloomy. Nina could be voluptuous when she chose, and she had chosen while he captured her pose. In the curve of her hip and upstanding breasts he saw a definite affinity with Alma-Tadema’s Tepidarium. In place of the coy ostrich feather, affectionate treatment had been given to her pubic hair, of which she had a riotous triangle. All the salient points had been made with no loss of mystery.
    Crawford took one look at the picture, ducked, and fumbled the switches on the mower.
    ‘I want you to have it,’ said Charlie. ‘I painted it but it’s yours by conjugal rights.’ He added soothingly, ‘Only you and I have seen it.’
    Crawford kept fidgeting with the mower. His pate was the colour of port wine. ‘It’s suggestive.’
    ‘I was her husband at the time.’
    ‘People might think I did it.’
    ‘Isn’t it good enough? As a work of art?’
    ‘Nothing personal.’
    ‘As a picture it may not be your taste. I don’t know your taste. Gothic, is it? Baroque? Landscape? Still lives – dead rabbit with oysters?’
    ‘I’ve nothing against your work.’ Crawford swallowed. ‘It’s really quite – what will you do with it?’
    ‘I’d like you to have it. You’re the one entitled now. But if you relinquish your claim I’ll be free to offer it for the Academy Summer Exhibition.’
    The blood rushed into Crawford’s ears. ‘How much do you want for it?’
    ‘I’m giving it to you.’
    Crawford climbed off the mower and went across the lawn. He disappeared through the arch into the stable yard.
    Charlie followed. In the yard, paved with professionally distressed stone flags, were fibreglass urns planted with pink hydrangeas, a 1920s lamppost and a horse-trough brimfull of geraniums. In a corner stood a wagonette painted bright blue with yellow wheels.
    Charlie sighed. Uncertain whether to wait or go, he perched on the footplate of the wagonette and gave himself up to thoughts of Nina.
    Painting her in the nude had been a shared experience, surprising them both. He had done it at a time when theywere still enveloped in each other. She had overcome her inhibitions