Lisette Rivers & the Crumbling Mansion Affair
by
Brian Sands
Chapter Six: A Visit to the Artist
Ivoire,Distressed Crimefighteress Page, European Wing
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Lisette lay on her side and pretended to be stunned and breathless, unable to resist as her wrists were laced tightly crossed together. The artist used a long piece of cord of some sort and tied it with multiple twists and turns. In a surprisingly short time Lisette was bound above the knees as well with a separate piece of cord. It was just as efficient as if her legs had been tied at the ankles in the more usual way.
Ivoire,Distressed Crimefighteress Page, European Wing
She could hear the artist moving around in the room. There was the faint click of a camera’s shutter followed by two more clicks. Lissete thought that once she caught the flash faintly from the bottom edge of the blindfold but she could not be sure. The man grunted. “Close-up of bound wrists and full length can be very evocative. Something like that was on the front page of an old Agatha Christie novel. Are you all right?”
“Y-yes, I think so,” replied Lisette who was already becoming disorientated and a little claustrophobic from the blindfold. That was one thing she had never liked in her adventures, being blindfolded or locked in a dark space, and she was fighting down an irrational panic. After all, this was business: he the artist, she the artist’s model. It was not as though she was being kidnapped or held against her will.
“Good,” said Serge Easel. “The next thing I want you to do is to struggle. Try to free your hands.”
Lisette tested the bonds carefully, as she would in a real capture, straining at the cords, her fingers fluttering.
“No, I want to you fight them,” said the artist.
“I- I can’t,” replied Lisette breathlessly. “The knots are so tight!”
“I made them tight purposely. The camera is unforgiving, a fake will show, but so will the real thing. Roll from side to side, try to sit up.”
“I- I’ll try …”
Ivoire,Distressed Crimefighteress Page, European Wing
Lisette did a creditable job of trying. She rolled from side to side and pulled and strained mightily at her bonds. The silk hissed around her. She could feel the hem of her skirt and the lacy slip tangling around her legs. She even managed to sit upright for a time before her repeated struggles toppled her over onto her side again.
When Lisette was out of breath she lay still and rested, her bosom heaving. Her struggles had made the knots tighter, as she expected. She flinched as the man adjusted the blindfold. “More struggling,” he ordered. “I’m getting very good studies.”
“I’m glad you are,” cried Lisette spiritedly, and she set to with a will, wondering whether Sunny Virtue was listening in and what the girl would make of the scene in her imagination.
Now Lisette was truly exhausted. Sweat beaded her brow and her throat. It trickled down to be lost in her cleavage. At last she lay still on her side, panting. In this round of struggles her blindfold had not slipped once.
After another minute or two, during which she thought she could hear the whirr of the shutter, Lisette’s back was supported and she was propped upright again where she sat swaying slightly.
“There’s one more study to be done, then your work will be over,” the artist announced.
“To tell you the truth, I shan’t be sorry,” said Lisette. “This modelling is hard work. I … ngggk.”
Lisette’s voice was abruptly cut off as a thick silk cloth was tied between her jaws. It felt like a scarf. Although it was of silk, it cut painfully into her cheeks and the corners of her mouth. The silken bit strangled every substantial sound she attempted. Would Sunny, listening in, understand what was happening? Lisette did not fight it. Her captor wanted her silent, no, posed rather, for the next shots and she had no choice but to oblige.
“I want you to struggle once more,” the man asked, a little unreasonably Lisette thought. “Try to get the gag out of your mouth. Try to call for help.”
Lisette obliged but could make no headway. Every sound she attempted was reduced to a faint mewing. She thought she could hear the shutter again clicking furiously, but her exhaustion and the blindfold that covered her ears as well as her eyes made this uncertain. I’m completely helpless! If this man is the murderer he has me in his power. How easy it would be for him to hide me away before Sunny or the police could act! There was no indication that this might happen and Lisette lay still and tried not to feel too frightened. But being restrained and unable to speak or call for help, unable to see what the man was doing, was very unsettling. She fought back tears. Don’t be a baby! But it was very difficult to follow that self-administered advice.
A very long pause ensued during which Lisette could not hear a sound. Perhaps he’s fiddling with the camera, or the lights. She lay still and listened. Surely he hasn’t gone somewhere and left me here like this, bound, blindfolded and gagged? She raised her head and made a faint, plaintive sound through her gag: “Hmmm?” There was no response. Was she alone in the room? Lisette redoubled her efforts: “Hmmmm gnnnn!” With her attempts to call out, she struggled anew, but the bonds continued to hold her, tighter than before it seemed.
The next thing Lisette heard were the artist’s soft footfalls as he walked back across the floor to her. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I had to go into the computer room to upload the shots from this digital camera. I trust you are not apprehensive.”
“Hmm gnnk,” was all Lisette could make by way of a reply.
There was another pause. “Your struggles have rearranged the skirt of that gown very nicely. It calls for some more shots.”
There followed a faint series of clicks as the man carried out a second shoot. Lisette let her head fall back to the floor where she lay still and almost apathetic. All she could do was to wait until he was finished, when he would think to untie her.
There was a muttered exclamation of pleasure: “Per-fect. Your eyes can’t be seen but your body conveys just the right hint of resignation. Now … one of those might do very nicely … Uh, I’d better look at them on the monitor. Won’t be long.”
Lisette was left alone once again. But this time she knew what Serge easel was doing and the incipient panic in her breast had faded. She wanted to be untied and knew that would happen when the man was satisfied with the photographs he had taken. The experience was a little like the one shared with Sunny Virtue in Jeremy Buddington’s cottage. They had been uncomfortable – and completely helpless – but no harm had come to them. It was only a matter of waiting. Lisette expected that it would be the same now. If he were going to abduct me he would have done it already. But he’s made no move. All I have to do is to sit tight and wait to be untied. Lisette was fully aware of the irony in that thought. What this adventure meant, however, was that she could score the artist Serge Easel off her list of suspects.
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“Here, drink this.” Serge Easel handed Lisette a mug of creamy chicken soup.
The young woman took it in both hands and sipped the hot liquid gingerly. Her hands still shook slightly from the experience of having posed bound and gagged for more than two hours and the flood of adrenaline that came when she was at last freed of her bonds. The nourishing liquid spread its warmth through her body and after a few more minutes, in which she drank in silence, she began to feel a lot better. She was now wearing her own clothes, the luscious silk gown neatly hung in the props wardrobe that was built-in to one wall of the room. She examined her wrists. They were a little reddened from the tight cords, but they had been bound over the cuffs of the silk sleeves and her skin was not cut or otherwise damaged.
“You did well, very well,” Easel continued. “I had a model once who was posed very like you, except she was sitting in a chair and was not blindfolded. After ten minutes she started to panic. In another five minutes she was in tears. I had to untie her bonds and the gag and abort the shoot. You’re made of stronger stuff. You’ve been tied up before haven’t you, if all the newspaper reports about you are true?”
Lisette nodded in affirmation. “How did you recognise me?”
“I didn’t at first. When the late lamented Spencer Fforbes spilled the beans on you, I remembered reading about your exploits some months ago. The tabloid photograph didn’t give you justice. You are an exquisitely beautiful little woman.”
“Thank you.”
“I won’t reveal your secret, but tell me: are you on a case or on holiday, as your new-found friend Sunny Virtue says?”
“It began as a holiday but it seems to have turned into a police case.”
“Yes. Fforbes’s death could have been no accident, and certainly not suicide. That is the word from the police investigators.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted Spencer Fforbes dead?”
“Well, he had a reputation as something of a loan shark. I imagine a lot of people would not be sorry he’s gone. But I can’t think of anyone, especially in our small circle of writers and artists, who would go as far as to shoot him.”
“And try to make it look like suicide!”
“Yes. Funny it happened like that. The story from Brick Simenov is that you stumbled onto the scene just after the shooting. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Lisette shivered at the memory. “I spent one of the most uncomfortable nights I’ve ever endured!”
“Hmm. Past experience didn’t help?”
“No ... Look, I’d better be going. It will be getting dark in another hour and I’d like to get back to my little cottage.”
“Of course. But first a token of my appreciation for your help this afternoon.” Serge Easel handed a narrow buff envelope across the table to Lisette. “There are some great studies and I think I have just the scene that will please Miss Woodgreen, Lily, enormously. Those large eyes of the pretty heiress staring up at her captor, a lot better than her face almost completely obscured with a blindfold.”
Lisette opened the envelope and read the amount on the cheque it contained. “Oh but I can’t - ,” she began.
“No, I insist. I always pay my models at the end of each session. You did good work for me, and at considerable discomfort, not to say indignity. Think of it as a payment for professional services if you like … Are you going to investigate Fforbes’s murder?”
“No,” replied Lisette shaking her head firmly. “I’ll leave that up to the police.” She slipped the envelope with its cheque into her handbag and got to her feet. Serge Easel escorted her to the front door. On the porch she turned and gave the man her hand. “Thank you for an interesting afternoon.”
Serge Easel nodded and for a moment Lisette thought that he might bend and kiss her fingers. But he squeezed her hand briefly and released it. “If Lily Woodgreen asks for another cover illustration might you be willing to model for me again? As I said, it helps pay the rent, although the work is not commensurate with my genius.”
“I don’t think so, Mr Easel,” replied Lisette politely. “Being tied up and gagged for one afternoon is quite enough. Thank you all the same.”
The man sighed, bowed and withdrew. The door closed behind Lisette and she stepped down from the porch and almost ran along the short path to the gate. I must get back to that place on the road and compare notes with Sunny.
She had attempted to phone Sunny Virtue on her mobile when she was reapplying her makeup in Easel’s bathroom, but there had been no response. The answering service told her that Sunny’s mobile was either unattended or switched off. As she walked quickly down the narrow lane, Lisette tried to phone Sunny once again. The recorded voice on the message bank, coming to her ears as she rounded a bend and came in sight of the birdwatcher’s blind, carried the same unhelpful message.
Pocketing the useless mobile, Lisette approached the low hut, her heart pounding. She stooped and peered inside. It was dark but she could make out a shape of some sort at the back of the enclosure. She took a small keyhole torch from her bag and shone the thin light around the narrow space. The dark bulk was nothing more than a low wooden bench, placed there by someone to make bird watching marginally more comfortable. The little hideaway was empty.
Lisette examined the dirt floor and thought that she could identify the imprint of Sunny’s sensible walking boots. So she’s been here. But where on earth could she have gone? There was no sign of a struggle. Sunny Virtue either had left of her own accord or gone willingly with someone, even if menaced and forced to go. The only thing wrong with the theory was that Lisette could see no other footprints. She had to conclude that for some reason Sunny had given up her surveillance.
Has she gone home? Perhaps the mobile was low on charge? But why then didn’t Sunny stay near Serge Easel’s house to meet me when I came out? Maybe it’s best if I get home and try to phone Sunny from there, allow time for her to recharge her mobile if that’s the cause of the difficulty.
With these thoughts crowding her mind, Lisette walked at a brisk pace to Swallowtail Cottage where she was greeted with an enquiring “Miowrr?” from the caretaker cat, who quite reasonably was concerned about his next dinner.
When she had fed Rasputin his milk and Kitty Niblets, Lisette punched out the numbers of Sunny Virtue’s mobile, but with no more success than she had had previously. The recorded message told her again that either the recipient was unavailable or the mobile had been switched off.
There’s nothing for it. I shan’t sleep comfortably before I know that Sunny’s all right. I’ll have to walk round to her cottage. Or would she be at Weatherstone Hall?
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