Lovesey, Phil - [SS] The Gift [v1.0].htm

THE GIFT

by Phil Lovesey

* * * *

Art by Allen Davis

* * * *

PhilLovesey studied art and took a degree in film and television studies beforefinding work as a freelance advertising copywriter and, later, as a teacher. Hemanaged to find time, in intervals between copywriting and teaching jobs, towrite four crime novels: Death Duties (1998); Ploughing PottersField (1999); When the Ashes Burn (2000); and The Scream-ingTree(2002). Hes also a short-story writer of note, and as hes back to writingfull time, well have more of his stories for you soon.

* * * *

Everyonealways told Mary she had the gift; family, friends, even astonishedstrangers. And in the face of such relentless, overwhelming pressure, who wasshe to doubt it? Right from the start, in those first few moments when shedpicked up crayons and pencils and began scribbling on just about any surfacethat would take an infantile image, the shocked praise and quiet admiration hadbegun. But only infantile in terms of Marys agethe pictures themselves,whether rendered on paper, walls, old envelopes, even white householdappliances, were really quite something; special, accomplished, far in advanceof her tender years.

Marysparents, quick to recognise such an early blossoming talent, encouraged theirdaughter as best they could, making frequent trips to the local art shop to buypaint sets, felt-tip pens, pads, and boards for the youngster to use. As anonly child, they could afford to spend a little extra on her, and besides, asMarys father often said, the art materials were an investment. Who knew howfamous she might be in the future? Paintings sold for thousands of pounds. IfMary continued to excel artistically, she could keep all of them very nicelyindeed. Already they were saving a fortune on Christmas and birthday cards,Marys handmade efforts easily better than the shop-bought options.

Plus,word was getting round. One or two neighbours already had framed Mary Collinspictures in their houses, and her art teacher was quick to recognise andencourage Marys talent in secondary school, resulting in a series of firstprizes in local and regional art competitions.

Artcollege followed, togetherunfortunatelywith Marys first re-jection. TheSlade and the RCA didnt want to know. This was the mid nineties, and popstars, East End barrow boys, and drunks from seaside towns were being proppedup and supported by the media as the blossoming new face of Brit Art. MaryCollins just didnt fit the bill, didnt have the necessary depressingchildhood, the wild and experimental adolescence deemed necessary at the time.Mary Collins, it was decided, although a talented artist in herself, was justtoo boring, dull, and suburban for a world increasingly peopled by the bizarre,ridiculous, and outrageous.

Attwenty, Mary met Steve, a decorator from Slough, and a little over a yearlater, the two of them moved into a small starter-home they could just aboutafford, with his decorating work and her job as a sales assistant in a localart shop. She still painted, but as Steve was sometimes a little too quick topoint out, he made far more rolling vinyl-silk onto walls than she ever didpainting poxy little flowers on canvas.

Asthe credit-card debts grew, Steve helpfully suggested Mary get anotherpart-time job. Hed seen an ad in one of the local newspapers, something about themwanting arty people to help prisoners.

Thatword arty. Mary shuddered at it, with its connotations of all things vapidand sensational that shed come to despise about her talent.

However,a few days later, intrigued and more than a little bored with simply sellingwatercolour sets to pensioners, Mary sought out the ad and began thinking thatmaybe this really was one area in which she could use her skill and earn someextra money, too. The following day, she applied for the post, was accepted,underwent six months paid training, and becameas her lapel badge now proudlydeclaredMary CollinsVisiting Art Therapist at the nearby prison.

Eventhough HMP Berryfield was a womens open prison, housing mainly low-risk,category C prisoners at the end of their sentences, for Mary this was a dangerous,yet strangely fascinating new world. Often teased by Steve for her wide-eyed,bloody naivet, Mary looked upon the new job as much as an education for heras it was to provide therapeutic help for the inmates. Indeed, Marys onlyprevious encounter with anything remotely unlawful had been when shedshoplifted a sable brush as a shamefaced teenager. The shopkeeper at the time,confronted with the crying girl, had let Mary off with a stern warning, makingher promise never to break the law again, or the police and her parents wouldbe informed. It was enough for Mary, and ever since shed led the perfectlaw-abiding existence.

Butnow, approaching her mid twenties, with little sign of Steve ever going to popthe question, marry her, have kids, and settle down, Mary Collins was gettingincreasingly restless, as her suppressed adolescence pushed its way through theconstraining veneer of respectability that had held her prisoner for so long.Now was the time to experiment a little, live a bit, pull the blinkers away,search and use new experiences, andwho knows?maybe even kick-start her artagain after so many years.

Thosefirst few sessions at HMP Berryfield couldnt be counted as an instant success,by any means. Mary had more yawning prison wardens in her class than inmates,as she struggled to combine the elements of comfortable conversation withartistic expression.

Thepoint, her training instructor had told her, isnt to create some kind ofexhibition of the prisoners work. No, its to gently lead them to exploretheir own feelings, emotions, and fears through a combination of experientialtherapies and artistic interpretation.

Butwhat if, Mary had countered, they simply want to paint?

Imsorry?

Imean, shed continued, feeling slightly stupid, suppose theyre really goodartists, and they simply want to paint again? Just for the joy of it?

Theinstructor had given Mary the same look Steve so often did, usually as sheasked him to explain a particularly disturbing news item to her. My dear, shewas slowly informed, its vital that you always remember that these peoplebroke the law. Theyre inside to pay a debt to society, not to be indulged withwhatever creative whims they have.

Thenext session, however, proved more fruitful. Whether word had simply got roundthe female prisoners that doing art on a Wednesday afternoon was a good dossaway from the otherwise mundane prison routines that merged one dull day into thenextor that Annie Morgan was going to attendis up for debate. The result,however, wasnt. When Mary arrived in the brightly lit recreation room thatparticular afternoon, there were eleven new classmates smiling expectantly.Most sat in pairs behind the uninspiring tabletops, either with friends orwardens; all except Annie Morgan herself, a solitary, glowering, imposingfigure who sat by herself in the far corner of the room.

Imposingmostly because of the sheer physical size and condition of the woman. Close ontwenty stone, Mary reckoned, lank grey hair hanging like a pair of mustyplastic shower curtains on either side of her face. A formidable pair of coldblue stay well away from me eyes seemed to stare right through Mary as sheintroduced herself and the aims of the classes to the others. For the rest ofthe afternoon, however, as Mary got to know the other inmates, gently guidingthem through the rudiments of pencil sketching a tabletop still-life of someseashells, Annie Morgan simply busied herself with her own painting, using herown paints in the far corner of the room. Whenever Mary approached, thosesteely eyes warned her well away.

Well,the chief warden asked her as she helped put tables and chairs away after thesession finished, what did you make of our Annie, then?

Marypaused, then said, Shes quite scary, isnt she?

Thewarden smiled. What, our Annie? Harmless, she is. Keeps herself to herself,mostly. Wont talk to the others. Just stays in her cell. Paints most of thetime. Guess that was what made it so special this afternoon, having her herewith the others. Quite a big step for our Annie, was that.

Maryrecalled the woman, the scowling glare, and wondered just how harmless shewas. Whats she . . . ?

Infor? the warden replied. Double murder.

Maryalmost dropped the chair she was carrying. Murder?

Adouble. Two of them. Her old man and her sister.

Hersister?

Thewarden nodded. Annie came back from work and caught the two of them at it inbed. Her bed. Caved their heads in, then covered them in petrol and burnt thebodies right there. House went up in flames.

MyGod.

Thenshe went straight to the police and confessed. Famous case at the time. Earlyseventies, it was.

Beforemy time, Mary apologised, feeling slightly nauseous. The room felt too hotnow, the thought of that monster woman sitting in the corner, just silentlypainting, the revelation of what shed done . . . just dreadful.

Gottwo life sentences, she did, the warden continued. Served the first fifteenyears in a maximum-security psychiatric unit. Then another ten years asCategory A in Hull, before finally, they sent her down here to us. Didnt thinkshe was a risk anymore. They wanted to let her serve out the last of her timein a more productive environment.

Whatdo you mean, not a risk anymore? Mary asked.

Theshrinks in Hull assessed her, took her previous conduct into accountshes beenthe model prisoner, has Annie. Never caused any trouble, just likes to paint,thats all. The warden walked to the door, then stopped, turned, paused. Onlyweird thing about Annie, she said, is that bloody picture of hers.

Whatabout it? She wouldnt let me get close enough to even see it.

Sheneeds to trust you, the warden explained. Shes nearly seventy, spent thelast twenty-five years inside. Shes not going to suddenly let you see herclosest possession. They reckon shes had that painting with her ever since shewas on remand awaiting trial. Part of Annie, it is now. But give it time, MissCollins, and who knows, maybe one day shell let you see it.

** * *

Stevewas watching the match on Sky when Mary got home. She cooked, and over supper,told him about Annie Morgan. To her surprise, he didnt go and watch the finishof the game afterwards, instead booting up the computer and spending up to anhour on the Internet as Mary dutifully tidied the small house.

Gotcha!he finally exclaimed, as she set down a cup of tea beside the keyboard. AnnieMorgan.

Marylooked at the screen, saw the news article from the archive Web site, ayounger, slimmer Annie Morgan being led in handcuffs from the Old Bailey into awaiting police car after sentencing. A crowd of photographers and jeeringpassersby filled the background of the grainy news photo. Thats her, yeah?Steve asked. Your murdering pyromaniac?

Ithink so, Mary replied. I mean, shes much younger. But, sure, I think thatsher.

Stevewas scrolling down, busy reading the text. He gave a low whistle, then turnedto Mary. Oh my love, he said, smiling. We could have really hit gold here.Big-time.

Marypulled up a chair, sat beside him.

Sayshere, he went on enthusiastically, that Annie Morgan was one of thecoldest-hearted killers the judge had ever met. Says that in all the people hetried, hed never come across a defendant who was so calculating or vicious.Steve pointed to a paragraph. Seems that she had this job cleaning up at thisbig country house in Derbyshire somewhere. Been doing it for years. Wellthought of, she was. The owner of the place couldnt praise her highly enough.

Onlywhen she was up there . . .

Stevesniggered. Her husband was doing a bit of French polishing of his own.

Withher own sister, Mary quietly added.

Heturned to her, gave her the look again. What, you feel sorry for this woman?Gods sake, Mary, thousands, millions of folk have affairs. Point is, mostpeople dont murder them and burn the bloody house down, do they? Womans anutcase. Says here she bludgeoned them both to death with a hammer, then setfire to the place. Psycho, she is.

Notanymore. She just paints, Mary replied, lost as to why she felt it evenremotely necessary to defend the woman. After all, Annie Morgan had hardly beenthe perfect student with her hostile attitude, and no one could deny that sheddone the most heinous thing. Maybe Mary did it simply to annoy Steve, hiscocksure bloody know-it-all attitude, the way he was practically salivatingover the monitor screen. Shed seen him like this before, most often when hehad another one of his schemes in mind.

Shewatched as he scrolled down further.

Butheres the kicker, Mary, he said. Seems her old man was a right mean type.Known for it in the area. And guess where he kept all his money?

Underthe bed?

Yougot it, love. In an old suitcase, apparently. Like a bloody clich, isnt it?But yeah, he stashed his cash under the bloody bed. Thousands of it. Yourdemented friend Annie Morgan even admitted as much in court. He read on. Now,according to her confession, she comes back from the cleaning job early,catches her old man and her sister in the bedroom, does the deed, then calmlywalks away from the blaze and goes back to the big old country house to confessto some copper that was always hanging around up there. He turned to her. Sweird,isnt it?

Maybeshe knew shed get caught, Mary suggested, trying to picture the bizarrescene. Perhaps she wanted to make a clean break of it. Couldnt bear to go onthe run.

Butguess what the forensics people discovered when they went through the ruins ofthe fire?

Maryshrugged.

Underneaththe burnt-out bed, they found the charred remains of the suitcase. And insideand surrounding it? Newspaper. Little bits of neatly cut and bundled newspaper.The same size as the old ten-pound notes.

Idont follow you.

Steverubbed his forehead, exasperated. Gods sake, Mary, how dense are you? Thinkabout it. Annie Morgan comes home early, kills her husband and sister in an insanejealous ragethen gets the cash from under the bed and replaces it with cut-upnewspaper, hoping it would be destroyed in the blaze. But the fire brigade putthe fire out too early, so the suitcase and some of the newspaper stillremained. He turned to her, looked her intently in the eyes. She nicked themoney. Dont you see? Killed them, then up and offed to the manor house to hideit somewhere before turning herself in to this copper that used to hang roundthere. Its flamin obvious, isnt it?

Marytried to think. But in her trialthey must have mentioned the missing money? Imean you said she told everyone about it. She confessed to killing them,setting the fire. How did she explain the money turning to newspaper?

Stevescrolled back up, reread the relevant section. She told them that her husbandmust have found a new hiding place for it, worried someone would find it. Shetold the court he must have been giving a fair whack of it to her sister duringtheir affair.

Thatspossible, isnt it?

Stevegave up. God, Mary, youre just so . . . bloody naive, woman! Think about it!Why bother setting fire to the bodies if she was going to confess to killingthem anyway? The reason she torched the place was to try and burn the suitcase,make it look like the cash had gone up in flames, too. He took a large, loudslug of tea. I reckon she thought shed get ten years max by confessing,playing the spurned wife. Then when shes released, she nips back to the manorhouse and retrieves the loot. Simple as that.

Maryturned, walked away from the computer, muttering, Maybe its not me thats thenaive one round here.

Hewas up from the seat and on her in an instant, whirling her round to face him. Listen,love. Do you see how big this is? Just say Im right, and she stashed all thatcashwhat a story, eh? All you have to do is find out.

Shewas aghast. What?

Youknow, get the old girls confidence through that arty stuff you do. Get her totell you where she hid it.

If she hid it inthe first place.

Itsthe only explanation that makes sense, Steve insisted. Why go back to themanor house after setting the fire? I reckon she buried it in the grounds orsomething. Then she goes looking for this copper to turn herself in, thinkingthe evidence back at her house is destroyed. But the fire brigade get therequicker than she expected, so she makes up this cock-and-bull story about herhusband giving money to her sister. His grip tightened on her forearms. Butif hes really done that, why bother putting bits of cut-up newspaper in thesuitcase? From the sound of it, he was a right githe wouldnt have given astuff if his own wife had discovered there was money missing. See what Imsayingit had to be your Annie Morgan who switched the money.

Andyou want me to find out?

Makessense, doesnt it? Youre the womans therapist, for Gods sake.

Maryshead began to swim. The whole thing was bloody ridiculous! Steve, sheinsisted, Ive only met the woman once. And I really didnt think she tookthat much of a shine to me. Besides, its all wrong. Morally and professionallywrong. Cant you see that? Gods sake, I cant use my job to discover inmatessecrets. Its unethical. Id be fired.

Henodded. Perhaps. But say she tells you where she stashed it. I mean, weremade, arent we?

Marylaughed at this. Oh, I see. Annie Morgan tells me she buried the lotunderneath the bloody croquet lawn, and we pop round later that night and digit all up? Christs sake, Steve, this is really lame, even for you. That moneysgot to be nearly twenty-five years old. Even if it was there, the notes haveall changed. How the hell do you think wed spend it?

Hereleased his grip, smiled. Were not going to spend her money, love. Ohno. Were going to spend the money we get from selling the story to the papers.Just imagine, theyll pay thousands for the exclusive. TV cameras will be thereto film it being dug up. Christs sake, it could even be a bloody movieMorgansMissingMillions. He gave her a short hug. Like I say, love, I reckon wevehit pay-dirt here. You simply need to dig around a little bit, then we unearththe big one.

** * *

Regardlessof her own distaste and scepticism, Mary couldnt deny that Wednesdayafternoons took on a curious new significance from that point on. Annie Morgancontinued to attend, always sitting solo at the same corner table, alwayspainting the same picture.

Allher sentence shes been working on it, the warder quietly informed Mary. Paintsthe thing, then whites it all out and starts all over. Shes never used anothercanvas as far as I know. I think it goes back to her time in the psychiatricunit, the staff only permitting her the one canvas that she had to reuse. Sad,I guess. Just a sort of habitual behaviour, now, endlessly repetitive. Like oneof those big old bears you see in a zoo, always pacing over the same sorrycircuit.

Gradually,however, as weeks progressed, Mary found herself able to get a few steps closerto Annie before being halted by the familiar icy glare, as if the distance wasbeing controlled by the older woman, as if Marys progress into her territorywas a result of Annies tolerance, rather than any of the therapy Maryoffered other inmates.

Sheslearning to trust you, the warder observed one afternoon. Very few of us havegot as close as you have without Annie kicking off. Youve obviously got thegift, Miss Collins.

Itstrue that Mary felt empowered by these words, and also honoured to be allowedwithin six feet of the woman. For, repulsed as she was by the crime, Mary wasalso drawn to Annie Morganthe conundrum of her existence, the many unansweredquestions that surrounded this huge, unkempt, yet meticulously painting woman.For she did paint continuously, regardless of the noise and commotion in theroom. And by the look of it, had indeed been doing so for years, on the smallcanvas now layered nearly an inch thick with built-up paint. Picture afterpicture, Mary supposed, laboriously slaved over, then, the moment sheconsidered a piece finished, out would come the chalk-white oil paint, andAnnie Morgan would obliterate the work, allow it to dry, and begin again on thefresh surface.

Steve,of course, had his own theories about the painting. To him, the case of AnnieMorgan had become something of an obsession, so convinced was he that a fortunelay buried somewhere deep within it.

Justthink, he said one night as they lay in bed together. All those picturespainted on the same bloody canvas by some nut-job. I mean, its got to be somesort of confession. Like, maybe, clues as to where to find the money. Thatsall she does, is it, just paint?

Yeah,Mary answered, sick and tired of his speculation. Because she enjoys it.

Butover and overon the same bloody canvas? That has to be significant, doesntit? He rolled over, thought for a while, then said, I want you to get it,bring it home.

What?

Tellher you need it for a course or something. Shes nuts, she wont know thedifference. Get it, bring it back here. Then get the mad old crone a new one.Say the old one got spoilt or something. Just get the thing here. Im willingto bet everything we have that theres some kind of clue in it.

Noway! Mary protested. And besides, she takes it everywhere, even back to hercell.

Exactlywhichjust proves shes obviously got something to hide, eh? Just be a good girl,Mary, and get that bastard painting. We can sell it to the papers. Theyve gotthese infrared cameras that can see through paint layers. Itll make us afortune.

No.Its hers. Its private.

Yeah,and its our chance of a ticket to a better life, Mary. Just you remember that.

** * *

Thebreakthrough came after eleven weeks. Glorious Wednesday, Mary would later cometo call it, the day Annie Morgan finally spoke to her.

Youenjoy your work, Miss Collins? were those first six, unexpected words.

Maryreeled in shock, partly to even be addressed by the woman, but more so at thesoft, educated voice.

Yes,she cautiously replied. I think I do.

Andyou paint yourself?

WhenI have the time.

AnnieMorgan smiled at this. Time. Well, Ive had plenty of that, Miss Collins. Andwith that, she carefully packed up her paints, brushes, and precious, thicklyladen canvas and took herself back to her cell.

Gradually,over the following few weeks, to both inmates and prison staffs amazement, anuneasy friendship grew between the two artists, with Mary even allowed thehallowed privilege of having a cup of tea with Annie in her cell after theWednesday session had finished. It was, Mary realised, very one-sided, theolder woman ceaselessly asking questions about Marys childhood, her home life,her relationship with Steve. And although the cell door remained open, and awarden never too far away, it was, Mary felt, an intensely private experience.

OneWednesday the prison governor told her why she permitted these visits. Anniehas no one, she explained. No friends, no family. And although shestechnically up for parole later this year, theres severe doubts about herhealth.

Oh?Marysaid.

Shehad two massive heart attacks last year. Refuses to lose the weight, take careof herself. Really, Miss Collins, its just a matter of time for our Annie. Andwhilst your visits might be a little unorthodox, I think Annies earned theright to have tea with a friend every week, dont you?

Thenews came as a shock. Thank you, was all Mary could say.

Marybroke up with Steve just a few weeks later. His continual insistence, insaneschemes, and emotional bullying finally became too much, even for previouslymild-mannered Mary. After a huge row, he left, vowing to stay over with aproper girl I sometimes knock about with from time to time. The revelationdidnt come as much of a blow to Mary, more a relief that hed be out of herlife. Mostly, she pitied the proper girl.

Shethanked Annie when she next saw her, telling the old inmate that shed neverhave had the courage to cause the row in the first place if Annie hadntadvised her to do so.

Anniesmiled, nodded, yet seemed older, slower. Well, he sounded like a right rumlot to me, dear. Youre well shot of that sort, believe me.

Andthen, without prompting, Mary told Annie of her exs madcap ideas, the researchinto the crime hed done, the obsession with the missing money, the almostdaily insistence that she steal Annies precious canvas.

Anniegently laughed, looked over at the picture, its pride of place on her smalltable. Well, he was one idiot who added two and two and made fifty-five, MissCollins.

Fivehundred and fifty-five, Mary added.

Hereally thought Id buried my husbands money up at the manor house?Preposterous!

Marynodded. He wasnt the brightest colour on the palette. She paused, notknowing whether to ask the next question.

Anniesensed the hesitation. And now you have something to ask me?

Isit okay?

Fireaway, Miss Collins.

Whydid you go back there, to the house, after you . . . ?

Killedthem?

Marynodded.

Anniesmiled, seemed to drift back through time to a better place. To see theconstable, Miss Collins. The one who was always hanging around. I needed toconfess, after all. She looked over at the ageing canvas, heaped with years ofpaint, then back to Mary. Promise me this one thing. If you have the chance,then youll paint again, Miss Collins.

Idlove to, but . . .

Sheput a finger to her lips. No buts, Miss Collins. Too many of those. Ive liveda life of them. I did a truly terrible thing, and have paid the price eversince. Now, I simply want to hear that theres no buts from you.

Marytook a breath. If Ihad the chance, she slowly replied, then theresnothing more that Id like to do than paint.

Theold woman nodded, her eyes suddenly tired and heavy, yet also seeming toglimmer and shine with something that Mary hadnt seen in Annie Morganbeforecontentment.

AnnieMorgan passed away three days lateranother prison suicide. At the end, she haddecided to take final matters into her own hands and used a bedsheet andgravity to take her from this world into the next. On her bedside table was asealed, handwritten envelope addressed to Miss Collins, together with AnnieMorgans old canvas, both of which were given to Mary by the governor after thefuneral.

Sad,the governor observed, handing her both items. All there is to show for a lifeis a load of paint on an old canvas. Still, its yours. She wanted to leave ityou as a gift. Not quite sure what youll do with it, though.

Marytook the treasured canvas in her hands. The last picture Annie Morgan hadpainted before her death was a crude likeness of Mary herself, painting in avast studio, sunlight streaming through wide, imaginary windows. At the bottom,the titleThe Gift; for Mary, from Annie.

** * *

Backhome, Mary placed the picture gently on the mantelpiece and opened the letter:

DearMissCollins,

Well,dear, heres the picture your repulsive ex-boyfriend wanted so muchtogetherwith a few answers hed have craved even more.

Strangethough it is to admit, however, he did get a few things right. After disposingof my husband and sister, I did indeed take the money from underneath the bedand replace it with torn-up newspaper before setting the fire, then returningto the manorhouse.

Whydid I go there? Not to bury it, but instead to give it to the owner, a sweetand caring old woman who needed it far more than I. One of those classic cases,Miss Collins, a large house doesnt necessarily mean a massive income. Sheloved the place, couldnt bear to sell it, but was being forced to sell theantiques and old paintings simplyto meet the upkeep. I gladly gave her themoney after telling her what Id just done. Shocked though she was, shereluctantly took itour secret. Remember, at that time, I was convincedeverything would be destroyed in the fire. I had no idea those damned burntnewspaper fragments would be found.

Onremand, whilst awaiting trial, she came to visit me and gave me this small,white, unframed canvas, which I instantly recognised by its dimensions. It hadhung in the main hall, largely unnoticed, but was a favourite of mine eversince Id begun work in the house. Shed taken it down, removed it from itsframe, carefully painted over it in white, then passed it on to me as a gift,together with some paints. Seen as harmless by the authorities, I was allowedto keep it, and began a series of paintings from that very day, each onelayered over the next, until you see the final bizarre monstrosity that I leaveyou now.

Iassume she thought Id be shown mercy from the courts and receive a muchlighter sentence, and could therefore use the painting in the future. However,that was not to be. I got two life sentences, and she died long ago, but alwaysknew I treasured her gift, took it wherever I went, never let it leave mysight.

Andnow, Maryits yours. My time is done. Some will say I took the cowardlyoption, and maybe theyre right, but in our hearts dont we all have choices?Mine is to end my life as and when I see fit. Weve talked about yours, MissCollins. Given the choice, youd rather paint. Now you have that choice. Dowith this gift what you will. However, it might be rather rash to take yourex-boyfriends advice and sell my story and this picture to the papers. Trustme, there are no maps, there is no money to find. Any money was spent manyyears ago.

Although,it might interest you to know more about the policeman that hung around themanor house that I was so eager to see on the day of the murders. Like I said,he was a constable. A John Constablethe picture in the hallway, the one younow have, my gift to you.

Interesting,isnt it, what happens when we peel away the layers and reveal whatsunderneath? I suggest a very mild turpentine solution to start with. Good luck,Mary, and please: For me, my former employer, and even Constable himself, enjoyyour painting.

Inappreciation,

AnnieMorgan

Lovesey, Phil - [SS] The Gift [v1.0]_files/image001.jpg