COPYRIGHT INFO
Copyright © 2008 by the Estate of Sydney J. Bounds
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
To the memory of John Birchby
CHAPTER ONE
UNPLEASANTNESS AT PORTHCOVE
George Bullard breezed into Porthcove, whistling an old-fashioned tune. He was starting two weeks’ holiday and intended to enjoy every minute of it. Even if some other people didn’t.
He swung his Volvo across the road and into the driveway under a sign that read Porthcove Studios and braked in front of a large house built of grey stone. The house was old with a new extension added at the seaward end and a broad expanse of lawn. There was a pond in the centre of the lawn.
Three people stood in the shade of the front porch. The welcoming committee, Bullard thought as he got out. A late afternoon sun still blazed over the clifftops and he could smell the sea below.
A small man with plain features stepped into the sunlight. “I’ll help with your luggage and park your car.”
Bullard tossed him the keys. “Fine. I’ve always wanted a slave.”
The woman holding a clipboard frowned slightly. “I’m Val Courtney. And you are—?”
“George Bullard. The one and only.”
“Welcome, Mr. Bullard, and I hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us. You’re in room number two. My husband, Reggie, will show you the way.”
“The accommodation is first class, I hope? And the food too—I warn you, I’m first class at complaining.”
Bullard dumped a large suitcase on the ground and followed that with a folding easel, a box of paints and an assortment of primed canvases.
“If you damage anything,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll sue.”
The third person moved leisurely out of the porch. He was slender with blond hair and a silk scarf at his throat and moved like a dancer.
“I’d like to introduce your tutor for the course.” Val said. “Keith Parry.”
“Never heard of him. Not an R.A., are you?”
Parry said calmly, “You’re right, I’m not.”
Bullard turned to Reg Courtney and snapped his fingers. “All right, let’s get organized. Forward march!”
Reggie picked up the heavy suitcase and led the way and Bullard followed with his painting gear. Beyond the front door was a hall with a pay-phone and stairs leading to the upper part of the house.
Reggie went through a doorway on the right. “This is the common room.”
There were armchairs grouped about a large television set and a pile of art magazines on a table.
Reggie opened the far door leading to the new annexe and struggled down a passage with the suitcase. Bullard strolled along behind, smiling to himself.
The door of the first room stood open and another holiday painter was sorting through his equipment.
Bullard paused in the doorway and glared at a man with swarthy skin and a hooked nose.
“Don’t tell me,” he said loudly. “I’ve been put next to a ruddy jewboy!” His voice held a cutting edge of contempt. “What are you selling, Ikey? Never mind the cut, feel the quality—I’ll complain to the management.”
The man turned to face Bullard.
“Schmuck!” he exclaimed, and slammed the door.
George Bullard chuckled.
Reggie said, without expression, “You’ll have to see Val if you want another room.”
“Don’t bother. I’m going to have some fun with our sheeny friend.”
Reggie carried the suitcase into room number two.
Bullard paused in the doorway, sniffing the air. “What, no air conditioning?” He put down his gear, opened the window and looked out at the garden.
“Bathroom at the end of the passage,” Reggie said. “Dinner’s at seven. To reach the dining room, go back to the hall and turn right—it’s the first door on the left.”
After Reggie had gone, Bullard soaked in the bath and changed into casual clothes. He took his time arriving at the dining room; he’d found, on similar occasions, that he could upset staff and disrupt service by being deliberately late.
He heard a cheerful chatter as the other painters in the party introduced themselves. When he strolled in, he saw there were two tables; a long one for the students and a second, smaller table placed close to the kitchen door for Val, her husband, and the tutor.
The Jewish man sat next to a tall man with cropped greying hair. There was a young and pretty blonde in jeans and teeshirt with a surly youth wearing a leather jacket. And a middle-aged woman with long black hair, brass earrings and a gaudy dress.
Bullard said, “Hello, hello, hello. What’s for dinner?” He wrinkled his nose. “Not fish?”
“Local fish,” Val Courtney said. “Fresh today.”
“I’ve heard that one before.” Bullard said loudly. “Fresh from the fridge!”
“And the salad is grown in our own garden.”
“Salad? Rabbit food—never touch it.”
“If you’ll state your requirements,” Val said coldly, “I’ll arrange it. We try to please everyone.”
“Steak. With jacket potatoes.”
“Very well, Mr. Bullard. It would help if you could be on time for meals as we’ve only a small staff.”
She went into the kitchen to speak to the cook.
After dinner, Keith Parry stood up. “We’ll all meet in the studio—it’s opposite, just across the passage—for an introductory chat.”
As they left the dining room, Bullard spoke to the tall man. “I’d recognise that accent anywhere. Australian, aren’t you?”
“Right on, mate. Fletcher’s the name.”
“Bullard. I imagine your grandparents were convicts then? Botany Bay, and all that. Do they still flog prisoners down under?”
Fletcher said, “Up yours, Jack,” and walked away.
“George, not Jack, old boy.”
Grinning, George Bullard entered the studio. It was a long room containing easels and stools, each with a rest for a drawing board. In one corner was an electric kiln, and an unfinished mosaic lay spread out on a table.
Keith Parry said, “Please leave the kiln alone, Mr. Bullard, I’m firing clay tesserae as an experiment.”
Gradually, the holiday painters gathered. Val Courtney brought in coffee on a tray and went out again.
Parry said, briskly: “Everyone settled? Good. First of all, I’m Keith. I hope we’ll all be on first name terms—it’s so much friendlier, I feel.”
Bullard leered. “Especially with the ladies.”
“I want each of you to enjoy these two weeks, to leave here having made new friends and learnt something. Now I’d like you to introduce yourselves and tell me what medium you’re using.”
Bullard got in first.
“I’m George, and I paint in oils—the only possible medium for any serious painter. I’m good. If you’re busy, Keith, I can help out.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary...and ladies first, please.”
The pretty blonde girl said eagerly, “Linda. I’ve brought watercolours, but I’m