Black Valley Read Online Free PDF

us.’
    Her words hung in the air.
    ‘One of us?’
    ‘Yes. Me. Or Isobel.’ There it was again, that name without any explanation. ‘Or Blake, her husband. It’s a pretty small family, when you come down to it. And even
smaller now, without Ma.’ Elinor’s voice trembled slightly.
    She shifted her position on the couch, adjusting the cushion behind her head. Then she said, ‘I suppose you want to know all about the details of the murder? And then go into all the
problems of my childhood, my relationship with my mother, and all that?’
    There was a slight hostility to her tone.
    ‘I don’t want anything, Elinor.’ That wasn’t quite true. Jess was inquisitive by nature, and her curiosity was more than piqued by this dramatic story of murder and
robbery. She was also fascinated that the police had been continuing to ask questions, evidently not satisfied with the family’s account of events. But through long experience, she’d
learned to put such thoughts to one side, bracket them, for the time being. They got in the way of listening properly to her patient, which was the task at hand.
    ‘It’s for you to decide what you want to do here,’ Jess continued. ‘What kind of help you want.’
    ‘I was hoping you might have some suggestions.’ The hostility was still there.
    ‘If I did, would you follow them?’
    ‘Probably not.’ A smile played briefly on Elinor’s lips, but she repressed it.
    Once again, silence fell.
    ‘OK, then.’ Elinor paused for a moment. ‘This is what I want to talk about. I know it sounds awful, given that I’ve just lost my mother. But all I keep thinking about is
that painting. It was a Gwen John, rather an important one, actually.’
    Jess had seen Gwen John’s work in the National Museum. She was the sister of Augustus John, who in his day had been much more famous. She painted quiet, rather disturbing portraits of
unknown women sitting in darkened rooms with their hands neatly folded. They spoke of frustration, confinement, of a cloying, domestic sphere, yet there was an intensity to their muted tones that
was, in its way, more powerful and seductive than her brother’s flamboyant work.
    ‘It hung in my bedroom as a child, mine and Isobel’s, and I used to look at it when I woke up in the morning, before I got out of bed.’
    Jess guessed that Isobel must be Elinor’s sister.
    ‘It was of a young girl standing by a wall, her shadow behind her. She was wearing a thin blue dress, and although you couldn’t see the outline of her body beneath it, you could
sense the structure of it, by the way the light fell on it. Yet it seemed to have been painted quickly, without lingering on the detail. I used to lie there in my warm bed, not wanting to get up,
looking at the painting and wondering how she’d done it. It was very subtle, like all her work.’
    Elinor shifted her head again. As she did, her shoulders seemed to relax.
    ‘I suppose, looking back, it was a huge influence on me. Even as a child, I think I must have been trying to paint like that.’ She paused. ‘I’ve been trying ever
since.’
    There was a silence, but Jess didn’t try to fill it.
    ‘When I left home and went to art college,’ Elinor went on, ‘the painting stayed in the bedroom. I’d come back for the holidays and wake up to it in the morning. It
remained very much part of my life. My father noticed how much I loved it, so when I got my own studio, he insisted on giving it to me.’ Her voice softened. ‘He was a very sweet man.
Thoughtful. Sensitive. He noticed what was going on with us kids. Every detail. Not like . . .’ She hesitated for a moment.
    The mother, thought Jess. Not thoughtful. Not sensitive. Intrusive, perhaps? Cloying?
    ‘Well, anyway,’ Elinor continued. ‘To be honest, by that time I didn’t want it. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I took it.’
    There was a pause.
    ‘You say you loved the painting.’ Jess repeated Elinor’s words. ‘Yet