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At the fourth meeting of the Tuesday Night Club, the painter Joyce Lemprière presents her mystery. During a holiday in which she was working on one of his paintings, she accidentally painted drops of blood on the pavement. Within a few minutes, the blood was gone. Joyce later learned that a woman had drowned after suffering a severe blow to the head. The group must discover if the blood was just was just a trick of Joyce's imagination and if the death was accidental or premeditated.
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Seitenzahl: 18
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Chapter 1
‘It’s curious,’ said Joyce Lemprie`re, ‘but I hardly like telling you my story. It happened a long time ago – five years ago to be exact – but it’s sort of haunted me ever since. The smiling, bright, top part of it – and the hidden gruesomeness underneath. And the queer thing is that the sketch I painted at the time has become tinged with the same atmosphere. When you look at it first it is just a rough sketch of a little steep Cornish street with the sunlight on it. But if you look long enough at it something sinister creeps in. I have never sold it but I never look at it. It lives in the studio in a corner with its face to the wall. ‘The name of the place was Rathole. It is a queer little Cornish fishing village, very picturesque – too picturesque perhaps. There is rather too much of the atmosphere of “Ye Olde Cornish Tea House” about it. It has shops with bobbed-headed girls in smocks doing hand-illuminated mottoes on parchment. It is pretty and it is quaint, but it is very self-consciously so.’
‘Don’t I know,’ said Raymond West, groaning. ‘The curse of the charabanc, I suppose. No matter how narrow the lanes leading down to them no picturesque village is safe.’
Joyce nodded.
‘They are narrow lanes that lead down to Rathole and very steep, like the side of a house. Well, to get on with my story. I had come down to Cornwall for a fortnight, to sketch. There is an old inn in Rathole, The Polharwith Arms. It was supposed to be the only house left standing by the Spaniards when they shelled the place in fifteen hundred and something.’
‘Not shelled,’ said Raymond West, frowning. ‘Do try to be historically accurate, Joyce.’
