Holy Terrors by D M Greenwood

Author:D M Greenwood [Greenwood, D M]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Ostara Publishing
Published: 2010-09-13T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

Holy Images

Early afternoon light touched the heads of twenty-five of the pupils of St Veep’s, bent, with religious concentration, over attempts to render the different textures of bread, wine flagon, candle-stick and linen cloth of the still life arranged on the table in the middle of the studio. Theodora took in the space with pleasure. Three walls were bare and white, the fourth was covered with the colours of pupils’ work. The slight smell of turpentine, the orderly circle of easels, the white walls and light from a central overhead window, reminded her of Nonconformist chapels. Had Jessica known and enjoyed its peculiar atmosphere, she wondered? Of Cromwell there was no sign.

She edged cautiously round the periphery of the room, unwilling to disturb the pupils’ silent concentration, and made for a door set in the fourth wall and leading, she surmised, to Cromwell’s sanctum. Before she reached it, the door opened towards her, and through it came Clarissa Bennet. There was a moment’s hesitation on both their parts. Clarissa eyed Theodora in much the same way as she had done over the banisters two days ago on Theodora’s first arrival at the school. Only this time, Theodora noticed, Clarissa was less composed.Then, with a quick, almost petulant movement, Clarissa turned and made for the door by which Theodora had entered.

Cromwell’s room was the opposite of the studio; the vestry, Theodora thought, to the main church. It was smaller, darker, and cluttered with the detritus used for running the main show. There were objects which could have no meaning in themselves – gourds, a colander, a piece of satin cloth – and some such as a mask and a skull which were macabre, which would perhaps take on significance, even beauty, when combined into a still life. Out of nothing, Cromwell’s eye, his expertise, would connect and disconnect objects to create a small universe.

Theodora took in Cromwell seated at his table, a wooden board in front of him, a strong smell of cedar oil surrounding him like a halo of incense. Is he priest, magician or craftsman? Theodora wondered. Certainly she was aware of his power.

Cromwell was embarrassed. He got to his feet and sought in vain for a seat for Theodora. None offered. At a loss for a moment, he finally lifted up a pile of blank canvases and disclosed a stool beneath.

‘Ah, the she-deacon. Or is it priestess?’ Theodora hated this sort of thing and hadn’t yet found a way of dealing with it.

‘Is Clarissa Bennet artistic?’ she asked by way of revenge. She knew the term ‘artistic’ would grate on him.

Cromwell thawed a little. It seemed, if she gave as good as she got, he might come round. ‘She has an excellent critical eye. Her actual execution tends to be derivative.’

‘She parodies?’

‘In life as well as art, I suspect.’

‘Did she know Jessica Stephanopoulos?’ Theodora got down to brass tacks. ‘I mean, was she a friend?’

‘Jessica didn’t have friends. She was a solitary, not a conventual.’

‘But Jessica was one of your group?’

‘She came along to our club meetings, yes.

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