The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine

more. I’m sorry.’

      Sensing it was not the moment to talk about detailed research or the production of a book Lucy had merely described herself as an art student, deeply involved in studying Evelyn’s work. ‘I would so love to see where she painted,’ she had said. ‘I am sorry. I had understood you allowed people access to her studio.’

      On the phone her conversation with Mrs Davis had ground to a halt at that point. And there had been a few moments silence. ‘That was before Mr Michael moved in,’ Dolly Davis had said at last. ‘He doesn’t want people poking around here. This is his home now, you see.’

      ‘Mr Michael?’ Lucy had felt at a sudden disadvantage. Should she know who he was?

      Mrs Davis had provided the information without the need of further questioning. ‘He is Evie Lucas’s grandson. He inherited the cottage when his father died. Before that they did allow study groups here from time to time, you’re right, but Mr Michael, he likes his privacy.’

      ‘But surely, this is a place of national importance. He can’t just refuse to let people see it,’ Lucy said, with some indignation, perhaps betraying more vehemence than she realised.

      They had talked for several minutes before at last Mrs Davis had agreed to allow her to visit the studio the following Friday afternoon. ‘Only a quick peep, you understand,’ she had said as they hung up. ‘I wouldn’t want Mr Michael to be upset.’

      Mr Michael, it appeared, was only using the place at weekends. He lived and worked in London and should have returned there, but now here he was standing in front of her and he showed every sign of being if not upset then at least angry and intransigent.

      She became aware suddenly that he was waiting for her to say something. This might be her last chance. On the other hand, she didn’t want to antagonise him, or to get Mrs Davis into trouble. Playing for time she held out her hand. ‘How do you do. I am Lucy Standish.’

      Taken aback he hesitated for a moment before he took her hand and shook it. ‘Michael Marston,’ he said gravely. He had a strong handshake; he did not smile. Again he waited.

      She found herself suddenly wishing she had taken more care with her appearance before leaving home. Her hair was scraped back as usual, held in an unsophisticated ponytail by a rubber band, she was wearing no make-up and she was dressed in a shirt and jeans. She gave a small audible sigh. ‘OK, I give up. I am so sorry. I don’t want to get your housekeeper into trouble. It’s all my fault. I somehow managed to persuade her to let me have a quick look at Evelyn’s, that is, your grandmother’s, studio. I have been studying her work and it would mean so much to me. She, that is your housekeeper, explained that it is no longer open to the public and I can quite understand that. I am truly sorry.’ She was rattling on and she knew it. Shaking her head she turned away. ‘I am sorry. I will go. Of course, I will go. Please don’t be angry with her. She is so proud of Evelyn and she understood how I felt. I didn’t mean to intrude.’

      ‘Stop!’

      Michael Marston had folded his arms during her anguished soliloquy. He shook his head slowly. ‘Do you ever let anyone else get a word in edgeways? No wonder you talked your way under Dolly’s guard.’

      Lucy bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’ He was making her feel like a small child.

      ‘Stop apologising.’ He smiled at last. It lit his face but it also betrayed how exhausted he looked. ‘I am sure that just this once I could make an exception and allow you to come in as you’ve come all this way. I wasn’t expecting I would be here this afternoon, and obviously neither was Dolly. No wonder she was so reluctant to leave me here and take the time off.’ He stood back and beckoned her to follow him into the shadowy hallway. ‘Please follow me. What did you say your name was?’

      Repeating her name, Lucy followed him into a long low living room. With windows back and front open onto the garden the whole place smelled of newly cut grass and roses. She stared round in delight. ‘This is lovely.’

      ‘Indeed. She adored this place. She could never be persuaded to move once she found Rosebank Cottage.’

      ‘She painted this room, didn’t she? As a backdrop to some of her best portraits.’

      He nodded. ‘And got slated by the critics for it. Too chocolate box like some of her wartime pictures, but as you probably know, that wasn’t really her style.’ He made his way between an easy chair and a sofa, placed on either side of an open fireplace, heading towards the French doors which led out into the back garden. Lucy glanced at the hearth. It was empty now save for an arrangement of dried flowers.

      He led the way outside and up some narrow mossy steps into the upper garden and towards the building which Lucy had already guessed was the studio. Built of timber framing, infilled with dark red brick, it was single storey but with a high-pitched roof, tiled like the house but with skylights on the north-facing pitch to add to the light from the large windows. The walls were curtained with wisteria and roses.

      Groping in his pocket Michael Marston produced a key-ring and inserted one of the keys into the door. He moved aside and waved her in ahead of him. She stepped over the threshold with bated breath instantly forgetting him as she took in the large high-ceilinged room in which she found herself. Though Evelyn had been dead for many years it was as if she had just walked out for a few minutes. Her brushes and palette knives were lying on the table near her easel with a selection of squeezed tubes of oil paint. As Lucy took a step or two closer she saw that they were dried up and split, but she could still smell the linseed oil, the turpentine. She squinted at the painting on the easel and realised with sudden disappointment that it was a print of one of Evelyn’s best-known works, the one which currently hung in Tate Britain. Slowly she began to walk round the room. On the large paint-stained wooden table several sketchbooks lay open. She went closer to look. Two of the walls were lined with shelves still laden with tins and boxes and rolls of paper. Several canvasses were stacked against one wall and more paintings hung on the other walls.

      ‘None of them are originals, I’m afraid.’ Michael Marston’s voice came from the doorway. She had actually forgotten he was there.

      She turned towards him. ‘It is wonderful. It still retains so much atmosphere. As if she had just this minute left.’

      He gave a faint smile. He had loosened his tie, she noticed, and undone the top button of his shirt. It made him look marginally more relaxed. ‘She was like that. She had a powerful personality.’

      ‘Do you remember her?’

      He nodded. ‘Very well!’

      ‘You must miss her.’

      ‘It would be strange if I didn’t. She was my grandmother.’ He folded his arms. ‘If you’ve seen enough –’ He was clearly impatient for her to go.

      She felt a pang of dismay. Not already. She hadn’t seen nearly enough. She gave him a faint smile. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.’ She paused for a moment, wondering if she dare ask if she could take some photos or even if she could come again. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she hesitated again. ‘I don’t suppose I could come back some other time when it is more convenient?’

      He was heading for the door. She had a fraction of a second to make up her mind, to tell him now honestly why she was there. She had to tell him something if she wanted his co-operation but was now, when he was tired and impatient, the time to speak to him? He had turned back and was watching her, she realised, a spark of interest in his gaze for the first time.

      ‘Could I explain why I’m here?’ she said at last. ‘There is a specific reason for my interest. I know you want me out of your hair. It will only take a minute, I promise.’ She hoped she didn’t sound as though she was wheedling.

      He leaned against the doorframe, his arms still folded. ‘Go on.’

      ‘I am an art historian by training. I am particularly interested in women war artists. People like Dame Laura Knight, Dorothy Coke, Mary Kessell and, of course, Evelyn Lucas. She was special because