The Secret by Marie Sever - for a week of crime writing from Hightown Writers

It sounds like a member of the household is downstairs. Or is it the rather strange Russian guest, a vacant looking, floppy-haired woman who needs to eat more often.  Her clothes hang off her like a dress on a broomstick. She appears not to speak English, so I haven’t had a discussion with her.

Mrs Major rarely has guests, particularly since her husband, the major, died almost six months ago. I don’t think they ever cottoned onto the hilarity of those around them when he introduced himself as Major Major. It sounded as if he were stuttering.

I keep my eyes and ears open as I descend the staircase, pausing halfway on the 20^th step, to concentrate on where the sounds are coming from. At 2.30 in the morning everyone would normally be in bed. Aah, the drawing room, that’s where the throat-clearing is coming from.

Having been housekeeper here for almost thirty years, before the Major married Cynthia Doolittle, a then pole dancer from Leeds, I have seen lots of strange things, and have never divulged any. Perhaps, if when the actors in this strange long-running scene have all exited the stage door, never to return, I could write my memoirs, and maybe boost my meagre works pension, although my knowledge over the years has reaped benefits, which the taxman hasn’t touched. Knowing my luck, Cynthia will outlive me.

The door to the drawing room is well-oiled, so I soundlessly turn the handle, and open the door a crack, allowing me to peer around it to see that Russian fully-dressed in what I now realise is an artist’s smock, working with her back to me at an enormous canvas on an easel. She appears to be roughing out the outline of the Canaletto – the Entrance to the Grand Canal, Venice, which was painted in 1730, the original being worth millions.

To be so clandestine infers that Lady Cynthia, a self-chosen title as she never earned it from the Queen or inherited it, must be unaware of this woman’s actions.

I decide not to challenge the artist now, and return to bed, pondering on how best to mention it to her ladyship.

After breakfast, which the artist failed to grace us with her presence, presumably because she’d been up all night, I coughed gently to inform my employer of my intention to speak.

‘Your ladyship, forgive me for my boldness in mentioning this, however you may be unaware that your guest was copying one of the Canalettos during the night.’

Her flush didn’t surprise me at first, however I then realised that it wasn’t as the result of annoyance at the nefarious activity of her guest, but more due to embarrassment.

‘Hawkins, you have caught me out. I suppose I’ll have to confess all. I’m constantly short of money, and the Major’s family trust refuse to either advance me on my monthly allowance, or raise my income. I will pay you well to turn a blind eye to the fact that I’m having the painting copied so I can sell it, and still have the copy hanging on the wall when the trust’s appraiser comes for his annual check next month. The artist has been sent over by the seller, who is happy to pay for her services so that he can take possession of the original.’

I nodded sagely, and we agree a remuneration of £25,000 to seal our deal. Gladys then entered to stoke up the fire, so I retreated to my quarters.

Having some extra to add to my nest-egg will be welcome, however the Russian will soon discover he has been duped as the Major had already paid me handsomely, just before his unexpected death, when I discovered another artist copying that very same painting. Four Canalettos hanging drearily around this virtual mausoleum and my Lady Major has chosen to sell the only one, to my knowledge, that is already a counterfeit. I’m surprised that the Russian didn’t notice the paint wasn’t fully dry, or maybe it has hardened since then.

I am sure the appraiser from the trust would have spotted it was not the original, so a huge fuss would happen anyway.

The best course of action for me is to maintain ignorance of both. As I said, I am discrete.