Hush Now, Don't You Cry(87)

“You certainly aren’t up to taking a train yet,” I said. “An automobile would be even worse. No, I’m afraid you’ll just have to do what the doctor says and rest and eat good food to get your strength back.”

He sighed. “With my mother forcing food down my throat.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll tell her what the doctor says you are allowed. And as to that, he’s said oxtail soup and calf’s-foot jelly. So as soon as you’re comfortable, I’d better walk back into town to buy the ingredients and to have your prescription filled.”

He gave me a tired smile. “Nobody can say I don’t have an energetic wife,” he said. “I hate to put you through all this.”

“For better or worse, remember?” I said. “I’m glad to have something to occupy me.”

“An excuse to leave the house, you mean.”

“That too.” We smiled into each other’s eyes.

I went down to the kitchen. “Oh, Mrs. Sullivan, don’t go to too much trouble,” I said. “The doctor wants Daniel to have oxtail soup and calf’s-foot jelly. I’m off to town to buy a calf’s foot and an oxtail.”

“If you say so,” she said stiffly. “It’s a pity I didn’t think of it. I’ve a jar of calf’s-foot jelly at home. But that’s no problem. I won’t mind making another one.”

I found Sid and Gus sitting on the bench outside the front door. “I have to go into town again,” I said. “Do you want to join me?”

“Shouldn’t one of us stay with Daniel?” Gus asked.

“His mother is there, and Martha too. And we won’t be long.”

“Then a walk sounds delightful.” Gus got up and slipped her arm through mine. “Poor Daniel. I hope he can cope with a mother and pneumonia at the same time.”

“I left him reading the paper,” I said. “I’m sure we can walk to town and back before he finishes.”

We had a pleasant walk into town, carried out our commissions, and then I took Sid and Gus to the waterfront. The scene looked especially charming in the slanted fall light and Gus immediately wished she had brought her paint box.

“There’s a young man painting over in the dock,” Sid pointed out. “I wonder if he’s any good?” I saw where she was indicating. He was not unlike Daniel—broad, healthy looking with a mop of unruly dark hair. I plucked up courage and went over to him.

“You wouldn’t be Ned Turnbull, would you?” I asked.

“The one and same. What can I do for you ladies?” He gave us a charming smile. “I’ve a variety of paintings of the harbor to sell. Reasonable prices.”

“I wanted to ask you about another painting,” I said. “The little girl with the lamb that had been hanging in the gallery on Farewell street until a few days ago. The man at the gallery said the artist had taken it back so I wondered if you’d found your own buyer for it.”

“Were you wanting to buy it yourself?” he asked.

“It was very charming,” I said noncommittally. “Has someone just bought it?”

“No, I took it back,” he said. “I decided to keep it after all. Sorry, if you were thinking of buying it.”

“Actually I was more interested in the child who is the subject of the painting. Colleen Van Horn, wasn’t it?” I waited for him to say something. The smile had faded and he was staring at me almost belligerently now. I continued, “I was thinking: it must have been painted just before she died. So I wondered if you were commissioned to paint that picture.”

“Not exactly. I saw a likely subject and painted it. She was a natural.”

“So you know the family personally?”

“Used to,” he said. “How about yourself? Are you a friend of the family?”

“In a way,” I said.

“That’s me too. A friend of the family, in a way. And I’m sorry, but the picture is not for sale. Now I must get back to work before I lose the light.”

He went back to his painting, ignoring us completely.





Thirty

We arrived back at the Hannan estate to find chaos. Police were guarding the gate, keeping out men in derby hats and ill-fitting jackets whom I identified instantly as newspaper reporters. Obviously the news of Brian Hannan’s death had now reached New York.

They fell upon us as we approached the gate. “Are you family members? Did you know Brian Hannan well? Is it true that they are calling his death foul play?” The questions flew from all sides, while they stood, pad and pencils ready.

“We’re just visitors,” I said. “No close connection with the family so I’m afraid we can’t answer any questions.”