Authors: Rachel Green
“You must have been mistaken.” Harold opened the box and tilted it. “There’s nothing in here at all.”
“Isn’t there?” Felicia frowned. “I’m sure I saw one. It had a big snout and everything.”
“Nope.” Harold smiled and sat again. “You should take more water with it.”
“I don’t have a hangover, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Sorry.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Doesn’t your gallery open at nine? You’ll have a queue of people waiting to get in and buy all the art for sale so that you can retire.”
Felicia laughed. “Fat chance.” She drained her coffee and slammed the mug onto the table. “I’ll see you at five then.”
* * * *
Harold watched her almost run down the passage and through the door to the gallery. He turned to the creature in the sink. “That was odd. She saw you.”
“She thought I was a rat.” Devious climbed out onto the counter top, his hooves clattering on the marble work surface. “How stupid is that? Anyone can see I’m an imp.”
“Not anyone,” Harold said, tapping his chin in thought. “Only people with the Sight.”
“You think she’s one of the Changed?” Devious sniffed and picked his nose. “She never was before.”
“She wasn’t yesterday.” Harold turned to avoid seeing Devious eat the freshly mined contents of his snout. “The question is, what happened to her last night, and how Changed is she?”
“And–” Devious paused to wipe his fingers on his stomach. “–are we going to have to put her down?”
* * * *
Felicia unlocked the gallery doors and picked up the mail from the mat. A bill and two small packets of speculative exhibition queries–one in traditional slide format and the other a CD loaded with a complete presentation. She would look at those later.
Despite Harold’s optimism, no queue waited but she propped the door open in the hope it would attract passing trade and put the advertizing board on the pavement.
In the office, she picked up the card from yesterday’s buyer, definitely the same man who had visited her mother. What was he up to? After talking to her mother about Julie it was unlikely he wanted to buy Gillian du Point’s paintings at all.
She sat at her desk and pulled up a search engine, typed
Raffles
into the box and pressed go.
A list of possible sites scrolled down the screen. All seemed to deal with either hotels, a series of stories about a gentleman thief or the television series based on the stories. She didn't feel they had anything to do with her query.
She scrolled to the bottom of the page where an alternative search was displayed.
Did you mean Raphael?
Felicia followed the link which led her to several pages of the sixteenth-century artist which she knew well from her degree in art history, and a page about an archangel.
She read further.
Raphael appears disguised in human form as the traveling companion of the younger Tobias, calling himself “Azarias, the son of the great Ananias”. During the journey the angel’s protective influence is shown in many ways, including the binding of the demon in the desert of Upper Egypt. After the healing of the blindness of the elder Tobias, Azarias makes himself known as “the angel Raphael, one of the seven, who stand before the Lord” cf Tobit, xii, 15.
Felicia laughed at herself. There was no such thing as an angel.
She checked whether anyone was in the gallery and went back upstairs. Harold was in the shop, selling a binder of old comics to a customer.
“I can’t believe it,” the man said. “These are my comics from when I was a child.” He flipped through the pages. “Look! I colored that page in. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon at my gran’s. I would have been about nine.”
Harold smiled and nodded as the man flicked through the pages. Only Felicia noticed him look at his watch. After several minutes he took the book from the customer. “Would you like to make the purchase or not, sir?”
“By George, yes.” The man took out his wallet. “I never thought I’d see these again. How much? Ten pounds? Twenty?”
“Four hundred, sir.” Harold gave him a special smile, one Felicia recognized meant he’d got the customer over a barrel.
“Four hundred? You’re pulling my leg.”
“I wish I was, sir.” Harold put the binder on the re-shelving cart. “I’m rather fond of the sound of bells.”
“That’s daylight robbery. The comics aren’t even in perfect condition.”
“What price can you put on childhood?” Harold asked. “It is not beyond value?”
“I bet it was a lot cheaper before I told you they were the very ones I used to own as a child.”
“You paint me unfairly, sir.” Harold picked up the folder again and showed him the sticker on the back. Four hundred pounds was clearly labeled.
“Oh.” The man’s bluster deflated. “I still can’t afford it.”
“Never mind, sir.” Harold walked him to the door. “Perhaps you could find facsimiles online.”
He turned to Felicia. “Two visits in one day? I’m honored.”
“That did seem to be a lot for old sixpenny comics.”
“He’ll be back. I can feel it.” Harold led the way into the kitchen.
“It was incredible that you had his own comics. What are the chances of that?”
Harold raised his eyebrows. “You’d be surprised. What can I do for you this time?”
“Does the name Raffles mean anything to you?”
Harold shrugged. “My mum used to watch the television program. She was rather fond of Bunny, his sidekick. I think she wanted to mother him, which is more than she ever did for me.”
Felicia laughed. “I meant in real life.” She showed him the card Raffles had left.
Harold looked at it, flipped it over and passed it back.
“Sorry, it means nothing to me. Why?”
“He bought some paintings off me yesterday but today I found out he’s been round to my mum’s to ask about my sister.”
“You have a mother?”
Felicia gave him a mock punch.
“Of course. Dad died five years ago, so she’s on her own now. My sister’s been in hospital since she was sixteen.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s blind.”
Harold raised his eyebrows. “She shouldn’t have to be in a hospital for that.”
“And she hears voices. She’s a regular Joan of Arc.”
“Oh.” Harold nodded. “Pity’s psychiatric ward?”
“That’s right. So why is this Raffles asking about her? She’s been there for years.”
They reached the kitchen and Harold picked up a mug. “You’ll have to ask him when he picks up those paintings. Dratted customer! My tea went cold.” He emptied the drink down the sink. “Which ones did you sell?”
“The Gillian du Points.”
“Gillian’s? Really? She will be pleased.”
“You know her?”
“She’s my partner.” Harold took out his wallet and showed her a picture. Curiously, it was a photograph of a painting of the woman rather than of the artist herself. “I never told you because I wanted you to hang the paintings on their own merits, not because she’s the landlord’s...companion.”
Felicia shook her head. “There was no nepotism involved. They’re beautiful paintings. Can I meet her?”
“I don’t think that’s advisable.” Harold placed his hand on the small of her back and began to usher her out. “She’s a very busy woman.”
Felicia glanced at the kettle and spotted the pointed face of the rat peering out at her. “There’s that rat again, on the counter.” She thought of all the things it might have touched and tasted and felt the bile rising from her stomach. “Oh! I feel sick.”
Harold guided her to a chair where she leaned forward, her head near her knees. She looked toward the cupboards again and the rat scampered along it on two legs. The pointed snout and scaly tail were the only similarity to a rat. What she was actually seeing was more like a two-legged, pointy-faced little man “My mistake.” Her voice was muffled by her position. “It’s not a rat at all. It’s a tiny goblin.”
She saw nothing more–only the floor rising to meet her.
Chapter 7
Felicia opened her eyes to a close-up of Harold’s nostril hair, which was better than any smelling salts. “What happened?” She blinked several times. Her vision was more blurred than usual and her head pounded with the onset of a migraine.
“You said you could see a goblin and passed out.” Harold handed over her glasses. “I took them off in case you broke them.”
“Where is it?” She fumbled them on and scanned the immediate vicinity it case it was trying to run up her back. “It was there, next to the sink.”
Harold looked where she pointed. “It must have been a trick of the light. You’ve got a nasty wound on your neck, you know. Perhaps it’s infected.”
Felicia probed the spot which was still tender to the touch but didn’t hurt any longer. There were more buttons undone that she remembered. “I don’t think so. Did you open my blouse?”
“One should when a lady faints. You take the rest of the day off. Have a fresh start on Monday.”
“I don’t open the gallery on Mondays.”
“Tuesday then.” Harold patted her hand. “I’m sure Jasfoup would take you home.”
“Sure, just as soon as I finish eating.”
Felicia turned at the sonorous voice. “Mr. Jasfoup. When did you get here?”
“Just a few minutes ago.” He held up a kebab. “I’ll take you in a minute.”
Felicia nodded. “Thank you. I keep feeling dizzy. You don’t have something for a headache, do you? I think I’ve got a migraine coming on.”
“Not really, no.” Harold patted her knee. “I’ll lock up your gallery. You just get off home.”
“My purse.” Felicia looked around. “Where’s my purse?”
“You didn’t have one when you came up here. You must have left it downstairs.”
“Would you get it for me?”
“We’ll get it on the way out. It was a brown one, wasn’t it? With buckles?”
“Black with a zip.”
“You should go to the hospital.” Jasfoup spoke around a mouthful of shredded cabbage. “That’s a nasty dog bite you’ve got.”
Felicia laughed. “It wasn’t a dog. It was a...a person, last night.”
“Nevertheless. They might have had something and passed it on to you. Rabies, or Aids or fleas.”
“Fleas?” Felicia stared at him. “What are you on?”
“What an odd question.” Jasfoup looked down. “The floor, obviously.”
Harold laughed. “Honestly, Felicia, you’ve been seeing things all day. I really think you should go and get yourself checked over. I’d hate for you to have something serious and not know it.”
Felicia sighed and nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
Harold paused in the doorway. “You’re very sensible to have it looked over.”
Jasfoup winked and popped the last morsel of kebab into his mouth. “Let’s go then. St. Pity’s accident and emergency?”
“I suppose. This is good of you, Mr. Jasfoup.”
* * * *
“I’m really not that bad.” Felicia looked at the man driving her car with too little attention to what gear he was in. She rubbed her temples and made an effort to unclench her jaw. “I could drive if you like.”
“No need.” Jasfoup grinned “I haven’t driven in years. Harold never lets me drive. Not since the pile-up on the M-twenty-five.”
“Pile-up?” Felicia braced herself surreptitiously. “What happened?”
“It was nothing to do with me. It was Henry’s fault.”
“Henry? Who’s that?”
“
Tch
.” Jasfoup zipped past a child on a bicycle. “Don’t you know your history? King Henry the Eighth. He was so opposed to the Catholic Church that he made everyone drive on the left. If he hadn’t done that all the other drivers would have been on the right side of the motorway.”