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half-naked girl, just as expected from the sketch they had seen at Geraldine’s house. A robe across
one shoulder, trailing across her stomach and finally curling in her lap. Hever Castle in the
background, looking like a child’s image of a castle. A look of sadness on the girl’s face and – here
was the surprise – she was holding something in her arms.
A baby.
“Madonna and child,” Trevor said quietly, and then he began to wobble a bit on his feet, and
wondered if, despite the open door, the paint fumes were beginning to affect his senses.
“Not just that,” Rayley said. “It would appear that Anne’s jealousy was well founded.” He lifted his
own fading torch a little higher and a dim light fell across the top part of the painting.
The Madonna’s face was certainly not that of Anne Arborton. But nor was it that of Dorinda Spencer,
at least not to Trevor’s mind. The woman in the portrait resembled Dorinda, so Trevor could see why
Anne had reacted so strongly, but there was something wrong in the image, something Trevor felt but
could not name. Portrait artists, he thought, are like detectives. They must train themselves to look
very closely at the human face, to note the small differences that distinguish one person from
another. And an artist of LaRusse’s skill would not make this sort of mistake.
“It’s Dorinda,” Rayley said.
“I don’t think so,” Trevor answered. “If you look here, here at the eyes –“
But just then a gust of wind slammed the door, extinguishing their torches and leaving them in total
darkness.
****
Later, back in London, they would take great care in how they described the next few moments. In
relating the story to their fellow members of the Murder Games Club, in how they recalled them to
each other, and even how each man remembered the events in his own mind. They would edit out the
fact they both screamed. The sharp panic, that moment of confusion, how they bumped squarely into
each other in the dark, Trevor very nearly knocking Rayley off his feet. How they finally managed to
find the door and stumble out into the moonlight, their smoldering torches still in their hands, for the
one thing they both had the presence of mind to do is to hang onto their burning sticks in this room full
of toxins. They would recall instead, that they calmly exited the gatehouse and that they were merely
startled, not terrified, by what happened next.
For Trevor and Rayley were barely out of the gatehouse and back in the sheep-strewn field when they
saw the figure. She was female, most certainly, for she moved with an airy grace, the folds of her
cloak swinging rhythmically as she ran. And she furthermore moved swiftly, gliding over one of the
rises and descending across the meadow, almost seeming to melt from their sight.
The two men remained frozen in shock, neither fleeing the image nor chasing it. Just keeping watch,
and finally Rayley drew a shaky hand across his brow. The night had done nothing but grow colder
and yet he was covered in sweat. “Please tell me that you saw that.”
“I saw it,” Trevor said. “And if you ever quote what I am about to say next, I shall roundly deny it