The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters [42]
“Maybe.”
“It’s the only thing worth looking at in the whole house. The rest is tacky as hell…including Nathaniel’s paintings.”
It was a compliment but Jess didn’t take it as one. “It looks nothing like Madeleine,” she said crossly. “I only did it to make Lily happy. She needed to believe that something good had come from the Wrights. If it was an honest photograph her bitch of a daughter would look like the portrait of Dorian Gray—ugly as sin.”
“Your mother’s pretty,” I said, in an effort to distract her.
Jess ignored me. “You know, I sometimes wonder if that’s what Madeleine’s at. As long as Nathaniel puts her viciousness into his paintings, she can pass herself off as sweet.”
It was a strange analogy. “Except his paintings aren’t vicious, they’re just not very good. If he had any talent, he’d have sold them and they wouldn’t be gathering dust in Barton House.”
“Then it’s a vicious destruction of talent,” she said flatly. “He used to be good before he married Madeleine. Peter has one of his early paintings. You should look at it.” She opened a door at the end of the corridor. “Did you get this far?”
“No.”
“This is the best room.”
I thought she meant it was best in terms of decor and size, or “best” as in reserved for visitors, so I wasn’t prepared for what I found. There wasn’t a stick of furniture inside. It was a huge shuttered room with a woodblock floor, white walls and a series of slim floor-to-ceiling panels set asymetrically down the centre with mini speakers attached to them. I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking at until Jess touched a series of buttons on a panel by the door and the room came alive with moving images and sound.
For a few sickening moments, as the farm appeared on the wall at the end, I thought I was about to see her family go through a series of repetitive loops on video. In that case I’d be agreeing with Lily. What could be more morbid and unhealthy than sitting in the dark, watching dead people perform bursts of activity at long-forgotten parties or school plays?
“It’s the life-cycle of the weasel,” said Jess as different footage played across the screens. “That female was nesting under the house for a season…she moved into Clambar Wood when the dogs sniffed out her entrance. Those are her kittens…she’s teaching them to hunt. It’s probably where the myth of weasel gangs comes from. In fact they’re incredibly territorial and only come together for mating. Look at that. Do you see how beautiful they are? Farmers should encourage them instead of killing them. They’ll go for eggs and chicks if they can get them but their favourite prey is mice and voles.”
“It’s amazing,” I said. “Who took it?”
“I did.”
“Did you set up the room as well?”
She nodded. “I made the panels light enough to move to produce different effects. Some films are more effective if the screens form a continuous arc…like birds in flight. I’ve some great footage of crows leaving their roost in the morning, and it’s stunning to watch them wheel around the arc. The weasels work better in a staggered formation because it shows how territorial they are.”
“Can I see the crows?”
She glanced at her watch. “It’ll take too long to set up. I’d have to realign the projectors as well.” She touched the buttons and plunged the room into darkness before easing me out and closing the door. “I’m working on the soundtrack for the weasels at the moment, but maybe I’ll set up the crows when that’s finished.”
I allowed myself to be shepherded back towards the kitchen. “But what are the films for? Are they for schools? What do you do with them?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
She took some sandwiches, wrapped in clingfilm, from the worktop and tucked them in her pocket. “It’s just a hobby,” she said.
I looked at her in disbelief. “You’re crazy! What’s the point of making films that no one sees? You should be showing them…finding yourself an audience.” I paused. “It would be like